Steeling herself, Emily stepped into the first one on the left—a boutique pet shop that offered, of all things, a doggy bakery, as well as grooming services and, heaven help her, pet massages.
“Hello?” she called and an elegant, silver-haired woman stepped from the back of the shop, perfectly arced eyebrows raised in query.
“May I help?”
This time Emily was able to go through her patter clearly, and the woman listened with interest, thank heavens. She took the paperwork Emily offered with thanks, assuring her that Wychwood Waggy Tails would take part in the fundraiser, and promising a full array of dog biscuits, birthday cakes, and other canine treats. As she left, Emily breathed a sigh of relief at having one successful outing—and then kept going.
Fortunately, every shop owner she talked to was far friendlier and less alarming than Owen Jones. There was Verity Bryant, a young woman with long, dark hair, a hippy vibe, and a cheerful manner who ran a rather funky knitting shop with lots of colourful wool and psychedelic patterns; Eric Woodley, a dapper-looking gentleman in his forties whose pride and joy was his vintage clothing store, with a selection of 1950s Chanel that Emily duly admired; Joss Thornton, a former carpenter who ran a high-end toy shop where everything was either wooden, organic, or both, and very expensive; and Scarlett Day, who was in charge of a high-end charity shop that specialised in evening gowns, wedding dresses, and hats worthy of Ascot.
Everyone seemed delighted to take part, and rhapsodised about Henry and Alice and their fairy-tale romance. Owen Jones of The Drowned Sailor seemed to be a blessed anomaly.
Halfway up the street Emily saw Tea on the Lea, a cute teashop, and decided to duck in for a few moments’ warmth and a cup of tea before asking the owner about participating in the fundraiser. She’d had more chitchat that morning than she usually had in a week or even in a month, and she needed some quiet.
A cluster of tiny, berry-like bells rang merrily on the door as Emily entered the warmth of the shop, and then she came to the counter to browse the offerings of freshly baked muffins.
“Hello, there.” A round-faced woman with frizzy hair came out of the back, smiling as she dusted flour from her hands. “What can I get you?”
“A cup of tea and a blueberry muffin, please.”
“Staying in?”
“Yes, please.”
“Take any seat you like.”
Emily murmured her thanks and chose a seat at a small table in the back. The shop was empty, which meant there would be no awkward eye contact or meaningless chitchat. She could just relax, sip her tea, and work up her strength to tackle the rest of the high street, which included the new deli and the garden centre that was somewhere on the road to Burford.
Of course, she knew it didn’t have to be as difficult as she was making it out to be. It probably wasn’t for most people. If she’d got the hang of small talk early on, instead of needing to keep herself to herself, perhaps she wouldn’t find this such a struggle.
But the fact was she did, and Emily didn’t think she’d ever change. She wasn’t sure she wanted to, even in Wychwood-on-Lea. She didn’t need people the way most others seemed to; she’d had her mum, and that had always been enough. It still was.
“Here you go.” The woman placed a teapot, cup, and a plate with a frilly doily and a muffin on Emily’s table.
“Thank you—”
“You’re not my new neighbour by any chance, are you?”
Emily, who had just reached for the teapot, put it down again. “Er…”
“Willoughby Close?”
So this was Olivia who lived in number four. Of course it was; Alice had said she ran a bakery. “I moved into number one, yes,” Emily said as she rallied a smile. “So I suppose I am.”
“Oh, how wonderful! I’ve been hoping to get some neighbours. They’re lovely little cottages, but it’s a bit lonely all on your own. You’re Henry’s new assistant?”
“Yes…”
“Welcome to Wychwood-on-Lea.” Olivia reached for her hand, which Emily gave after a second’s hesitation. “Sorry, your name…?”
“Emily. Emily David.”
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you. You must come over sometime for a meal or a glass of wine or whatever, really. Then I can welcome you properly.”
“That’s so kind…” Her standard response.
“You moved from London? How are you finding it?”
“Quiet,” Emily said, and Olivia laughed. “And beautiful,” she added quickly, not wanting to seem unappreciative of Wychwood-on-Lea’s many charms. “It’s all very…beautiful.” She’d tried to think of another word and failed.
“Yes, it is. And people are very friendly. You’ll have all sorts of invitations, I’m sure, don’t you worry.”
“That’s…” Words failed her again. She didn’t want people to be friendly. Invitations had always been something to dread. And yet, as she gazed at Olivia’s smiling face and saw the first flicker of confused doubt enter her eyes, Emily truly wished she wasn’t the way she was. Wouldn’t it have been nice to enthuse along with Olivia, to reciprocate an invitation, to joke about things? It was how other people acted. She saw them, overheard their easy banter, and yet she knew it was all utterly beyond her, and always had been.
“Well, do let me know if you need anything,” Olivia said, her smile faltering again, and Emily nodded.
“Yes, of course I will. Thank you so much.”
Olivia retreated to the back room, and Emily gazed down at her tea and muffin, her appetite and enjoyment both ebbing away. Another awkward conversation, another person who looked disappointed.
It hadn’t been like this in London. People didn’t try so much there. Emily had managed to live her life, quiet and small as it was, with few complications and even fewer interactions. And she’d liked it that way. No one asking her about her life, or discovering what it was actually like. She certainly hadn’t been as painfully aware of her own deficiencies as she
