Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018

On the journey home, she said the first thing she was going to do when she got back was telephone her client and apologise for her outburst.

That’s when I knew Paloma was going to be all right …

Chapter 4 (#u3a0aea97-22d2-55bd-b3c8-fd5390bd5788)

‘Use the pulley! Go on, please. For old times’ sake.’

It’s the following day – a sunny morning in early May – and we’re in the garden of Honey Cottage, Paloma beaming down at me from the open window of the treehouse.

She lowers the basket on a string, a remnant from when we were kids, and I plonk the box of freshly baked cookies inside, along with the two portable coffees I’ve made. Then I stand back, arms folded, grinning as she makes a big ceremony of hauling up the goodies.

‘Double chocolate chip?’ she calls, rescuing the coffees then pulling off the cookie box lid. ‘Gorgeous. You can charge a fortune for these in your café.’ She waves one around and starts munching.

‘I’ll be charging what they’re worth, no more,’ I call back, climbing Dad’s home-made ladder. ‘Otherwise the customers won’t return. If they come at all.’

‘If you build it, they will come,’ she quotes from the movie Field of Dreams.

‘I don’t have to build it. It’s already there,’ I call up to her. ‘And I’m not sure my café will be in the same league as a magic baseball stadium and a delicious Kevin Costner in his much younger days.’

She laughs. ‘Well, maybe. But I bet he didn’t sell the best strawberry and dark chocolate shortcake this side of the English Channel. Which yours will be, of course.’

Smiling, I clamber up onto the treehouse platform. Paloma has always been the biggest fan of my baking, ever since we were kids and I discovered how to make tray bakes based on melted Mars Bars. She and Dad are both convinced this café venture of mine can’t fail.

I walk round to the door on the other side of the platform, feeling the usual heady rush of being high off the ground, among the rustling treetops.

Dad built the structure out of green oak because it rarely rots and the timbers it produces are really strong. The result is that it’s weathered the storms perfectly, the exposed wood on the outside turning a lovely silvery grey over the years, which only adds to its charms. The wooden ladder was made to look rustic but actually it’s incredibly solid, leading up to the broad platform, which appears to be magically suspended among the trees. If you look closer, you can see that the structure of the house is held firmly in place by three solid oak trees, one of them rising right up through the centre of the space.

You enter the house by a small but perfectly formed door, with three carved hearts fixed to the front. Dad used cherry wood for these. The door, which has a cute, fairy-tale quality about it, was the perfect height for a ten-year-old, but now, as adults, we have to duck a little to get in.

Paloma comes out and joins me on the wooden verandah and we lean on the sturdy rail and look down towards Dad’s old country store, visible over the fence at the bottom of the garden. It’s the building I’m crossing my fingers will soon house a busy and successful café.

Dad built his business premises on a plot of land adjacent to ours and people came from miles around to buy their farm supplies, pet paraphernalia and waxed jackets. On dry days, he’d have all sorts of interesting objects for sale, laid out on benches and racks outside the store like a colourful market, enticing people to come and browse.

The building lies stark and empty now.

Every time I catch sight of it – just a characterless box, the front doors bolted and padlocked – my heart twists. It’s a constant reminder that Dad’s no longer there, whistling cheerfully as he unpacks deliveries, arranging the displays and going out to greet customers, most of whom he’d known for years.

‘I don’t know,’ I murmur, full of doubt. ‘Do you really think I can turn that uninspiring building into a thriving coffee stop for locals and tourists?’

‘Yes, of course you can. With my creative help, of course.’

I turn and smile at her. ‘I’m counting on it.’

Paloma is a graphic designer. She’s self-employed and works from her home in a block of modern flats on the edge of the village. The fact that she can work hours to suit herself is a big plus, and she will often still be up at three in the morning, finishing a project. I don’t think Paloma would last a month if she had to be at an office every weekday for nine a.m. sharp.

‘We can source tables, chairs and lovely old china from car boot sales and charity shops,’ she’s saying. ‘And lots of rugs and wall hangings to make it look cheerful and cosy. It’s a perfect size – not too cavernous, but still big enough for about fifteen tables. It’s going to look great by the time we’ve finished!’

‘I hope so.’

‘We could get Theo to crochet some placemats,’ she adds, giving me an arch look.

‘Oh, ha ha!’ I blush stupidly once again. Why on earth did I even mention the guy?

We bring out some big patchwork cushions and sit on the verandah with our coffee and cookies, the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves around us, dappling our faces.

‘I’ve missed this.’ I set down my cup and stretch luxuriously. ‘Gossiping with my best mate in the treehouse. I think we solved all our teenage problems up here.’

She laughs. ‘And plotted revenge on a certain Lucy Slater that we never, ever carried out. We were wimps in those days.’

My insides shift uneasily. Lucy Slater. It’s strange how just the mention of those times is enough to cast a shadow over the day.

Paloma sees my face. ‘Hey, you’re not worrying about her, are you? She’s just someone from the past who can have no effect whatsoever on you in the here and now.’

I shrug it off. ‘I know.’

‘And anyway, she’s changed. When I bumped into her a couple of months ago, she actually asked after you.’

‘Really?’

Paloma nods. ‘And when I told her you were coming back to turn your dad’s shop into a café, she couldn’t have been more pleased for you.’

I stare at her in horror. ‘You told Lucy Slater my plans?’

Paloma looks crestfallen. ‘Oh, God, sorry, me and my big mouth. I should have kept it to myself, shouldn’t I? It’s just I thought it was common knowledge, what with your mum talking about it in the village and at the WI …’

‘No, it’s fine, honestly,’ I rush to reassure her. ‘It’s my problem, not yours. I shouldn’t be so touchy about Lucy.’

‘Well, I still shouldn’t have told her. But she has changed quite a lot. Actually, she’s become quite the pillar of society.’

‘Yeah, right.’ I can’t keep the scorn from my voice.

Paloma grins. ‘Well, okay, I probably wouldn’t go that far. But at least she’s a bitch with a heart now.’

I swallow. ‘What about her and Jason?’

‘They seem … okay.’ She frowns and I can tell she’s choosing her words carefully, not wanting to upset me. Not that I would be. Jason and I are history.

I grin. ‘Are they still the Posh and Becks of Hart’s End, then?’

‘Oh, yes. They live in a huge house by the river now.’ Her mouth quirks humorously. ‘Thanks to rich Daddy’s desire to spoil his darling daughter. And they both drive top-of-the-range Jaguars.’

‘Courtesy of Lucy’s dad again, no doubt.’

‘Yeah, Jason certainly fell on his feet joining the Slater dynasty. He’s director of IT now, apparently. A real rising star in Lucy’s dad’s business.’

‘I don’t suppose Lucy has to work, then.’

Paloma shakes her head. ‘She did try to set up an on-line fashion retail business, but it didn’t take off.’ She grins. ‘Her designs were ridiculous. Far too whacky for us common folk to wear.’