Falling for you

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.’

It never 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?’

‘Well, I didn’t have my lenses in, but I think so.’ Maddy grinned and reached for the cool-boxes once more as a couple of tourists wandered into the shop. ‘I’ll know for sure when I see him again.’

Juliet, her eyes sparkling, said, ‘Just don’t forget to come back.’

One of the best things about seven-year-olds, Maddy had discovered, was that when something was irretrievably lost, you could offer them fifty pence each to spend on sweets if they found it and they wouldn’t give up until they did. On Sunday morning Tiff and Sophie had gone through the bathroom with all the attention to detail of a pair of forensic pathologists, finally locating the missing gas-permeable lens stuck to the side of a pack of make-up remover pads.

Solemnly presenting it to Maddy, Sophie had said, ‘I think probably that might be worth a pound each.’

Delving back into her purse, Maddy shook her head sorrowfully. ‘You are your father’s daughter.’

Sophie looked at her as if she was mad. ‘Of course I’m my father’s daughter. Otherwise he wouldn’t be my dad.’

Anyway, two pounds had been a complete bargain, her lenses were back where they belonged, in her eyes, and the dreaded glasses had been relegated once more to her bedside drawer. Poor old glasses, they weren’t really that bad, they certainly didn’t deserve to be regarded with such loathing and contempt. For a moment, as she headed into Bath, Maddy almost felt sorry for them. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. She had a deep psychological aversion to her glasses, hated them with a passion. When you’d spent your entire time at school being taunted and called Speccy Four-eyes –

unoriginal but cruelly effective – it was hard not to. Just the thought of that first pair of hideous pink plastic NHS specs was enough to bring all those old feelings of inadequacy flooding back. She was nine again, not only short-sighted but distressingly plain, the archetypal ugly duckling with her badly cut hair, wonky teeth, pale eyelashes and matchstick legs. Basically, not a pretty sight. No wonder everyone had spent the best part of twelve years making fun of her.

Oh well, at least it had been character-forming. And, thank goodness, she had blossomed since then.

The traffic in Bath had slowed to its habitual morning standstill. While the engine was idling, Maddy checked her face in the rear-view mirror, making sure she didn’t have cornflake bits stuck to her teeth (teeth that were no longer crooked, thanks to three years of intensive brace-wearing – oh yes, her other nickname had been Metal Mickey. She’d been an absolute stunner at school).