Twisting on the spot until our eyes connect, I pause before speaking.
Thank you? I say, my voice trailing off questioningly.
Paolo, he responds, his Italian accent stronger than ever. My name is Paolo.
I push the swing door open just a fraction, peeping cautiously through the gap. I dont want to make a fool of myself yet again, but cant resist sneaking one last look at Paolo and his son. Theyre sat at the same table as the attractive young man with the pierced lip and dimples. I wonder how they know each other: they seem an unlikely friendship. Maybe its nothing more than both working in the park.
The little boy is scooping the buttercream from the top of his cupcake with his index finger before deliberately licking it off, whilst Paolo is cupping his glass of juice as he talks. They are proper mans hands, big and protective, but even from here I can see it, the tell-tale gold band on the third finger of his left hand. Its thick and glistening and screams married.
I close the door, disheartened. I refuse to allow myself to so much as daydream about a married man; it doesnt feel right. Those trollops who had affairs with Clint all the while knowing I was sat at home looking after Josh and Kelly, well, I dont want to be like them. What little froth of excitement Id allowed myself to feel at this crush (or whatever it is) is starting to dissipate already. Even thinking about him is wrong if hes not available, and the ring, not to mention Pepe, show that available is something he most definitely is not.
Fern appears from nowhere, making me jump.
What are you doing? Fern asks curiously, her brow furrowing as she examines my face.
Nothing! I hiss, my heart still racing from being unexpectedly disturbed. And stop sneaking up on me!
I wasnt sneaking. She looks put out at the suggestion. I came to see if there was any more gingerbread in the kitchen, thats all. Its selling fast today.
In the red tin in the cupboard. I made a double batch.
And how was the cake? Fern asks innocently. Her large brown eyes are wider than ever with exaggerated virtue but theres a knowing look on her face. Not quite a smirk Fern isnt the sort to smirk but almost. You were in such a rush to get away, I hope you got to it before it burnt.
All right, all right, I say, throwing my hands up. I know when Ive been rumbled. There was no cake. I wanted the ground to swallow me up and escaping into the kitchen was the closest I could get to disappearing.
Thought as much, Fern answers with a quiet triumph.
But dont you go getting any ideas, I say sternly, waggling my index finger in warning, and dont you dare breathe a word either. Hes a married man. That in itself means I wouldnt go near him with a bargepole, and you know how people around here love to gossip. Ive been part of enough rumours to last a life time, so dont go fuelling any more.
Hmmm, Fern replies noncommittally. But what if he wasnt married? You must admit youre attracted to him.
Thats neither here nor there: hes a married man so theres nothing to discuss. And thats an end to it.
Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath to prepare myself before walking into the café. Stealing one quick, stealthy glance at the Italians table, I see the little boy high-fiving the young man with the sweeping blonde hair and pierced lip before stepping out on to the terrace area, following his stunningly attractive father like an obedient puppy.
Pearl
Stop pulling, Mitzi!
I should get that put on loop on a tape so I can play it whenever I need to. It seems to be all Im saying at the moment.
I knew a puppy would be hard work, especially as Im not exactly a spring chicken any more. Its eighteen years since Alf and I bought Bluey, our darling little Westie. Hed been a bundle of ruffled white fur, scruffy and cuddly and revelling in attention. Even as a pup hed played on his cuteness, pricking his ears up and peering longingly at us with his head jauntily angled until wed give him just one more titbit or allow him to sit up on the sofa with us. Hed been the baby wed never had, although not for want of trying. Heck, wed tried morning, noon and night for years. But it wasnt meant to be, and in the end we decided enough was enough. Bluey might not have been a child, but he was a dog with real personality and charm, one that everyone would fuss over when we walked him in the park. Even when he was older and his fur turned a more silvery tone hed had this perfect mix of cheekiness and elegance that drew park-goers to him. And hed had a lovely temperament, always eager to please. Hed been the apple of our eyes.
Mitzi, on the other hand, is an absolute minx. Shes only six months old so has the excuse of still being a puppy, but shes a total tearaway. Whod have thought a miniature dachshund would be able to do so much damage? My poor slippers look like theyve been mauled by a wild animal. She might only stand an inch or so off the ground but shes a demanding little thing and hasnt yet learned how to take no for an answer. And thats not to mention the constant straining against the lead every time were out on a walk. For such a small creature, Mitzis surprisingly strong-willed.
She turns to look at me, all dark, wide eyes and open mouth, tongue hanging out like a strip of uncooked bacon.
You can give me that look all you like, I say sternly. Youre a terror, and well you know it.
Its a warm afternoon. The sunshine reflecting off the lake causes me to squint and the ducks are dipping their heads under the water to keep cool. Mitzis probably in need of a drink too. After weve done the lap of the lake well pop past the café, Maggies got a bowl of water outside ready for any thirsty pooches who happen to be passing. Shes thought of the lot, that one, which probably explains why the cafés so popular.
Mitzis still dragging me around, pulling the lead taut as her little legs scurry along the winding pathway. A young boy on one of those bikes without pedals comes zooming past and her head whips around in a flash. Shes nosey like that, desperate to know whats going on.
The little boys feet are pushing him along, first the right foot and then the left. Hes going at quite a pace. Hes like Fred Flintstone in his Stone Age car, feet whirring until he picks up speed, and his parents smile on proudly at his achievements.
Theres an older girl too, probably around eight, but Im terrible at estimating the ages of children. Shes bouncing a tennis ball as she walks, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump getting ever nearer.
The tug on the lead is more determined now, Mitzis long, lean body straining to play with the ball.
Mitzi! I chide. For goodness sake. Behave!
But my words are too little and too late, because the round black handle of the lead is already out of my hand, trailing along the floor behind my bouncy pup.
I give chase as best as I can, but for a dog with such short legs Mitzi is deceptively fast. It must be that boundless youthful vivacity, something I myself am rapidly losing.
Shes already sniffing around the little girls ankles, hoping to get a chance to play with the fuzzy yellow ball, although the girl is holding it above her head at arms length. Mitzi thinks its all a game. Of course she does, everythings a game to her, but I can see the girls nervous. Her body is rigid, her eyes large.
Shes already sniffing around the little girls ankles, hoping to get a chance to play with the fuzzy yellow ball, although the girl is holding it above her head at arms length. Mitzi thinks its all a game. Of course she does, everythings a game to her, but I can see the girls nervous. Her body is rigid, her eyes large.
When I finally reach her, flustered and out of puff, I apologise profusely to the girl and her parents for Mitzis exuberance. She doesnt mean to scare you though, she just wants to play. In dog years shes still a child, like you.
The girl looks at me thoughtfully. So she wants to be my friend?
Thats right, I say. Shes not really used to being near children, so she gets excited when she thinks shes found someone new to play with. I smile. Especially someone with a ball.
Dont you have any children? The girls face crinkles up, as though thats almost inconceivable.
No, I reply sadly. Theres only me and Mitzi.
I swallow down the lump of grief that lodges in my throat. Its still so very raw, being alone.
I cant believe Im a widow. When I was young I thought widows were old women with walking sticks and purple rinses, people who lived in rest homes. Id laughed at that, thinking retirement would be a rest compared to the endless slog of first school, and then, in later years, work. I never thought Alf would die on me aged fifty-nine, when we were still wearing jeans and trainers and had all our proverbial marbles. My hairs not even grey yet, let alone purple. The box of dye I buy from the chemist each month sees to that and does a reasonable job, although being blonde helps too. The greys are less obvious; they blend in.
Shes cute, says the girl, crouching down and tentatively reaching forward to stroke Mitzis smooth, brown coat. Mitzis tail wags happily from side to side at the attention. Id like to be friends with her.
Well, maybe well see you in the park again. Were here a lot, me and Mitzi. We only live over there.
I gesture in the general direction of my back garden, the same house Alf and I bought soon after getting married. Wed never be able to afford it now, prices have gone silly. It was a stretch even then, but we were both working so wed decided to take it. The three-storey villa had a curb appeal that was too hard to resist. Everything about it was attractive, from the pointed gable that crowned the building to the climbing peace roses around the front door that reminded me of dreamy summer sunsets. The bay windows had been the clincher though, huge glass panes that flooded the front room with light.
The houses proximity to the park had been a draw too, back when wed envisaged having a family of our own. Wed imagined lazy days in the sunshine with a picnic of jam sandwiches and savoury eggs. Alf and our children kicking a ball about. Hunting for squirrels as we walked through the wooded area at the far side of the park. As it turned out, children were never meant to be for us, but the park remained a blessing. It was perfect for dog walking for starters, a real community hub where Id bump into people I knew, and on the rare occasions I cover a shift at the café its only a five-minute walk back home. I like having the greenery to look at too. Its nice to be close to nature.
See you, the girl calls, waving as she chases after her brother.
I wrap Mitzis lead tightly around my hand, winding it twice so theres no chance of her running free again. Shes a little Houdini, escape artist extraordinaire.
Im thankful for the shade of the tall firs that line the pathway; its slap-bang in the middle of the day and exceptionally warm. Its a little tricky with Mitzi pulling at the lead in my hand, but I manage to shuffle the sleeves of my blouse up so my forearms are exposed. Im instantly convinced I can feel the heat prickling against my skin, despite the branches overhead offering protection from the scorching rays.
Pearl!
The voice rings out from the other side of the hedge in front of me and I spy the familiar face peeping out from over the dark green leaves.
Oh. Hello, Carrick.
Hes better prepared for the weather than I am, a floppy brown sun hat perched on top of his head. His skins already looking tan, as though hes been away on his holiday already, but hes always that shade. It comes from working outside, I suppose.
Hows the tearaway? he asks with a wink, nodding in Mitzis direction.
The tearaway is desperate to keep walking rather than stop to chat, but I dont want to be rude.
Oh, shes fine. Already managed to give me the slip once this morning though, I admit, lowering myself to scoop her silky body up in my arms.
He throws back his head and laughs. Shes not like your Bluey, is she? A real rascal, this one. I think she likes keeping you on your toes.
She does that all right, I smile, as a wet doggy tongue laps at my cheek. Even though shes a pain I cant imagine not having her. The house was too quiet with just me rattling around in it.
It must be strange, he ponders. Being on your lonesome after all those years.
Its taking some adjusting to, I admit. And its harder still without Bluey. But Im keeping myself busy, you know how it is.
He probably didnt. Carricks the perpetual bachelor boy, and hes not had a lady friend for years.
Alf had spent more time with Carrick than I had over recent years. Theyd both been in the skittles team and had shared games of darts at the pub of an evening. They werent as close as theyd been in their youth, when theyd both represented the local cricket club, but theyd still enjoyed a chat over a pint. Alf said Carrick would fob off anyone who asked why he didnt have a woman by his side. He had wondered if Carrick might secretly be gay. I knew that wasnt the case.
Well, if youre ever after a bit of company, I can always pop in for a cuppa after my shift?
Theres something in his eyes, a look thats hopeful. Maybe hes as lonely as I am. He doesnt even have a canine companion, as far as I know, and his nieces are all grown up now with lives of their own. Id heard on the grapevine that the oldest one, Dina, was getting married soon.
Thatd be nice, I say as I pop a wriggly Mitzi down on the pavement, and I realise I mean it. Since Alf died Ive done very little in the way of entertaining, but its the kind of house that needs people in it. Maybe if Carrick came over I could get the good china out of the cupboards; its been stashed away unused for far too long. Ill check my diary. He neednt know I had nothing more exciting than dog walking scheduled.
Carrick beams as he readjusts his sunhat. Let me know when best suits. Ill look forward to it.
Mitzi tugs impatiently at the lead, the cord rubbing uncomfortably against my hand as she does so. Im going to have to go. Madam here doesnt want to stand around chatting.
See you soon, Carrick says with a courteous nod.
I have just enough time to hold up my free hand in a wave as Mitzi takes me on a walk towards The Lake House Café, probably longing to lap at the water thats in a shiny silver bowl near the doorway. Carricks right back to work, secateurs in hand to deadhead the gorgeous dusky pink rosebush.
Were having a guest come and visit us soon, I say breathily to Mitzi, whos charging on ahead. So youll need to be on your best behaviour.