Jill Mansell: Falling for you

He tilted his head to one side. ‘Sandwiches. Good ones?’

‘Excuse me! Completely brilliant ones. We do baps, bagels, baguettes, cartons of rice and pasta and salady things, homemade cakes, everything you could want.’ Spotting an opportunity, Maddy said innocently, ‘And very cheerful service. Everyone says we’re the best.’

‘Do they now? And you’re reliable?’

‘If we weren’t reliable, everyone wouldn’t say we were the best. Who does yours?’ asked Maddy, although she already knew.

‘Blunkett’s, the place on Armitage Street.’ Her rescuer pulled a face. ‘They’re OK, but sometimes they get to us late and all the best stuff has gone.’

‘That must be so annoying. We make-to-order. One of our clients is pregnant and we take her chicken and banana baguettes with spring onions and Marmite. I just feel sorry for the baby.’ Maddy shivered as another gust of wind sliced through her; it might be June, but this was England and everyone with an ounce of sense was inside.

‘You’re cold,’ he observed. ‘I’d lend you my jacket if I was wearing one. Look, take this.’

Digging his wallet from his back pocket, he pulled out a business card.

‘It’s not going to keep me very warm.’

‘Come and see us on Monday morning. Maybe it’s time for a change.’

Yay, result. Maddy tucked the card in her pocket, delighted by the happy turn this evening had taken.

Not only a nice-sounding man but a potential addition to her client list.

‘Excellent.’ Rising to her feet, she felt a draught as the L-shaped tear at the back of her trousers flapped open. ‘Around eleven o’clock, is that OK? You’ll be there then?’

‘I’ll be there. Just go to the reception desk and ask for—’

‘I know.’ Maddy patted the pocket containing his business card and broke into a grin. ‘Ask for Superman.’

Kate was going home. Back to England, back to Ashcombe. Not because she wanted to, but because she didn’t have a lot of choice. New York was no longer her kind of town. Swish Park Avenue hotels weren’t interested in employing a receptionist with a scarred face; her appearance didn’t fit with the ambience. Basically, she was a bit of a turn-off. Kicking up an almighty fuss and threatening to sue them might have been an option, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. She was sick of being treated like a freak anyway. Every time she ventured out onto the streets there were another million or so New Yorkers ready to point and stare at her. After a while it really got you down.

Turning away from the window of her loft apartment in East Village, Kate caught sight of her reflection in the oval mirror on the wall opposite. Even now, almost a year later, an unexpected glimpse of herself – that can’t be me! Oh God, it is me – still had the power to give her a jolt.

There was no getting away from it, she was now officially ugly. Oh, how everyone in Ashcombe would laugh when they saw her. Not to her face, maybe, but certainly behind her back. She was under no illusions about that. It wasn’t a comfortable thing to have to admit, but if anyone truly deserved their comeuppance, it was her.

‘How’s it going with the packing?’ Mimi, her barely-there flatmate, poked her head round the bedroom door. Honestly, Mimi spent so little time at their apartment it was a wonder sometimes that Kate recognised her.

‘Slowly.’ Kate picked up a pair of Calvin Klein pink denims and half-heartedly folded them into one of the cases lying open on the bed.

‘We’re off to the movies, you’re welcome to come along if you want.’ Mimi flashed the kind of over bright smile that signalled: Look, I’m saying it but I don’t actually mean it.

‘No thanks. I’d better get on with this.’ Kate wondered what would happen to Mimi’s smile if she’d said, ‘Oh yes please, I’d love to!’

‘OK. Have a nice da-ay,’ Mimi sang out, and swiftly disappeared before Kate could change her mind.

The apartment door slammed shut and Kate slumped down on the edge of the queen-sized bed, angrily brushing away a tear. She was glad to be leaving New York, so why should she care?

Except she already knew the answer to that one: going back to Ashcombe would undoubtedly be worse.

Chapter 2

Anyone living in a city might visit Ashcombe and call it a village, but officially it was a small town, ravishingly pretty and prone to tourists, nestling in a valley of the Cotswolds in true Cider with Rosie fashion. Everyone knew everyone and in-corners, traditionally, were regarded with suspicion. The unwritten rule was that until you’d lived there for over fifty years, you were a begrudgingly tolerated outsider. After that, if you were very, very lucky, you might be accepted as a local.

Somehow, when Juliet Price had moved down from London five years ago and opened the Peach Tree Delicatessen, the rules had been magically broken.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ said Maddy, when ancient Cyrus Sharp had shuffled out of the shop in his wellies, the carrier containing his morning pain au chocolat and a loaf of walnut bread tucked under one arm. ‘You should have heard Cyrus in the pub five years ago when he found out the old ironmongers was being turned into a deli. Bloody yuppies and their fancy foreign food ... stinking the town out with herbs and garlic ... what’s wrong with Fray Bentos pies and a can of peas ... And just look at him now, practically your best customer! And he fancies you.’ Maddy smirked. ‘I’m telling you, you’ve definitely pulled.’

‘He’s a sweetheart.’ Smiling, Juliet reached for the broom and quickly swept up the dried mud — at least she hoped it was only dried mud — that had crumbled off Cyrus’s wellies. ‘If he was fifty years younger I’d take him up on it. Well, I might if he didn’t smell so much of farmyards.’

Itnever failed to impress Maddy, the way Juliet had mysteriously, effortlessly, managed to become a bona fide local within the space of, at most, a couple of months. Maybe it had something to do with her lustrous dark eyes, glossy black hair and gloriously old-fashioned hourglass figure.

Maybe it was her warm velvety voice and innate compassion, but whatever it was, it worked. Juliet was kind, wonderfully discreet and adored by everyone. A single parent, she had arrived in Ashcombe with two-year-old Tiff, who had inherited his mother’s winning smile and — presumably — his absent father’s blond hair. Now an entrancing, boisterous seven-year-old, Tiff — short for Christopher — was best friends with Maddy’s niece Sophie. The two of them, almost exactly the same age, were inseparable.

‘Anyway, look at you,’ said Juliet as Maddy emerged from the kitchen lugging four cool-boxes. ‘All done up on a Monday morning. Eyeshadow and mascara, I’m impressed.’

‘Oh God, too done up?’ Maddy pulled a face; normally she didn’t make too much of an effort for her delivery round. ‘I don’t look like a dog’s dinner, do I?’

‘Don’t be daft. The regulars are going to wonder what they’ve done to deserve it, that’s all.’

Juliet raised a playful eyebrow. ‘And I’m pretty curious myself.’

‘I’m touting for business.’ Maddy rested the cool-boxes on the floor.

‘Sweetheart, you’ll get it.’

‘Sandwich business, Miss Clever-drawers. I met someone at a party on Saturday night. Play my cards right and we’ll have ourselves a new customer. He’s with Callaghan and Fox;they’ve been using Blunkett’s until now.’ Maddy couldn’t help sounding a bit smug; winning clients from your rivals was always a thrill. Especially when that rival company was Blunkett’ s.

‘And would this happen to be a rather attractive new customer?’