Christmas at Hope Cottage: A Magical Feel-Good Romance Novel(27)

Chapter Nine





It was the first week of November and Emma was sitting on the bench in the greenhouse, with her broken leg propped up on a cushion and a blanket over her.

Outside the rain lashed against the glass, the sky a pale grey hanging over the horizon like old cotton wool.

Her eyes raked across the seedling trays; even now, she knew what Evie had planted more out of memory than anything else, as her sight was still wont to play tricks on her. This time of year there would be marjoram and coriander, French tarragon and sage. When she was younger she would rub the leaves between her fingers and breathe in their scent, imagining just what she’d make with each. Her fingers twitched to do that now, but she stopped herself. What would be the point? She still couldn’t smell.

Evie had helped her set up a makeshift office in here, among the pots and gardening implements, away from the busy thrum of the cottage. Her laptop was on the potting bench. On an old paint-splattered stool there was a fat blue kettle and a tin of Yorkshire Tea, next to which was a plate piled with freshly baked spiced biscuits. If she closed her eyes she could picture the taste – warm, with the snap of ginger, nutmeg and allspice. She didn’t need to try one to know that all she’d get was the texture of warm sand on her tongue.

There was a knock on the clear glass door and Sandro came inside, dripping and shivering, giving her his wide, warm smile, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

‘Hola, Pajarita.’ Then, stamping his feet theatrically, ‘It’s freezing,’ he said, rubbing his hands and switching on the heater that had been placed nearby. He shook his curly head like a dog, so that she laughed, replacing the awkward smile she’d given him at first.

‘Sorry you got caught in the rain. Um. You don’t have to do this if you’re busy or anything – I can make another arrangement.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, taking a seat next to her laptop.

‘Have a biscuit.’

He did. Then he sat and stared at her, making her feel suddenly silly and nervous.

‘I feel a bit like Barbara Cartland.’

He gave her a puzzled look as he fired up the machine. ‘Who?’ he asked, then clapped his hands together and said, ‘Tea?’

She nodded, and he got up to boil the kettle.

‘She was a romance novelist, pretty prolific, she used to dictate her novels,’ Emma explained.

He popped tea bags into two yellow mugs, and cocked his head to the side with a frown as he considered. ‘I think, maybe, I do know her – lots of pink, right? And wasn’t there a poodle?’ He mimed a little ball shape.

Emma laughed. ‘Yes! Pity I can’t really do pink. Although when I was younger, I did try.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why can’t you wear pink?’

‘Clashes with the hair. Red.’ She pointed to it, for emphasis.

He shrugged. ‘Does everything have to match?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe not.’

He took a seat, folding his rangy body onto the small chair, his dark hair an unruly mop falling over his forehead, then opened the laptop and grinned, showing his even white teeth. ‘Okay, shoot,’ he said.

She nodded.

He stared at her.

She swallowed. ‘Could you perhaps not stare at me – that might make it a little easier.’

His lips twitched, but he looked away.

She breathed slightly easier. ‘So, the topic of the column is lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ he said, snapping back to look at her again, an eyebrow raised.

‘The history of lunch.’

‘O-kay, sounds fascinating, Pajarita,’ he said.

She gave him an eye-roll.

He looked surprised but began to type as she spoke. ‘The history of lunch as we know it is a fairly modern invention; one might say it’s yet to arrive in Yorkshire, as in the county where I grew up, saying “lunch” will brand you as a foreigner faster than you can eat your dinner. Where the word “lunch” came from is often in dispute. Some say that it hails from the word “nuch”, a word that prior to the seventeenth century was used to mean a piece of bread, and later, “nuncheon” which was having a quick snack between meals, later it was the Earl of Sandwich who revolutionised—’

Sandro laughed, interrupting: ‘I wondered about this, eh? Didn’t realise it wasn’t just me, because when I first got here, a few people asked, “Sandro, do you want to come for tea?” and I’m like, great, eh? Saying yes to everyone for the same day, thinking I’ll just pop in for a drink… but next thing you know, I’m having to eat three dinners.’

Emma laughed. ‘You didn’t!’

‘I did – you try telling your Aunt Dot you’re full. And you know what’s really confusing?’ he went on, dark eyes amused.

‘What?’

‘Every time I’m invited for tea, I’m never given any.’

Emma laughed. ‘Well, when we mean tea, as in the drink, we say, “Fancy a cuppa?” And we don’t ask what type you’d like – here, tea only comes in one form, the best – Yorkshire Tea.’

‘Ah.’ He grinned, and the dimple in his cheek showed. ‘Mystery solved.’

‘When we say “tea” we actually mean the last meal of the day, and dinner is served sometime past noon.’