The Windmill Café

‘I’m exhausted. I think we should call it a day,’ declared Mia. ‘Are you sure I can’t talk you into coming to stay with me?’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine here. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

After thanking Matt for the archery lesson, Rosie turned to encircle Mia in an appreciative hug. Her time in Willerby had taught her that there was no greater magic than the acceptance and support of friends. She couldn’t prevent herself from running her eyes over Matt’s retreating figure as he made his way back to his SUV in the Windmill Café car park. Every inch of his physique rippled with muscular strength and a surprise fizzle of interest shot through her veins, spreading into her fingertips like pins and needles.

‘Matt does ooze a certain rugged charisma, doesn’t he?’ mused Mia, standing next to Rosie on the terrace to swell the members of the Matt Wilson Appreciation Society.

‘Mmm, maybe.’

Rosie waved her friends off and went back inside, careful to lock the door behind her. She cast her eyes around the Windmill Café, a place that should, under happier circumstances, have reverberated with the clatter and chatter of culinary activity and animated conversation. Silence wrapped its insidious fingers around the room in a way that was somehow hypnotic and served to calm her anxieties. She cleared away their coffee mugs, washed them slowly in soapy water and put them back in their allocated places, then sprayed the benches with disinfectant.

She climbed the stairs to her circular studio, her bones weighed down with a heavy lethargy, and slumped onto the sofa. She couldn’t stop her brain from spinning with a merry-go-round of emotions and a migraine threatened, so she grabbed one of her favourite cookery books – The Great British Baking Bazaar – and began leafing through the glossy pages.

Both her parents had adored books, but their favoured genres occupied opposite ends of the reading spectrum. Rosie remembered the first time she was allowed to choose her own book from the local library in the Hampshire village where she grew up, and her mother had told her the story that every one of the precious tomes contained a tiny fragment of the author’s heart so Rosie had to treat them with respect and reverence, irrespective of her personal preference as to subject matter.

In the dark days after her father’s death, her mother’s love of Mills & Boon was one of the few things that had pulled her through. Rosie too had relied on the stories she read to transport her to another place, far away from the clutches of reality, but recently, with the little peppermint-and-white windmill in her life and Mia by her side, she had let her reading habit slip.

She decided to curl up in bed with one of her father’s old gardening books that accompanied her everywhere. Yet, despite her determination to sink into a good book, Rosie slipped into the oblivion of sleep within seconds of her head hitting her silk pillowcase.

Chapter 16 (#ulink_344957d7-4f5d-5b64-a03e-decefa675069)

Rosie awoke feeling refreshed and eager to attack the day ahead. As the early morning sun splashed its rays through the windows causing dust eddies to bounce across the room on beams of light, she felt her creative juices flowing. For once, it was not the usual tingle in her fingers to grab the nearest dishcloth and disinfectant spray, but an unscratchable urge to delve her hands into a bowl of flour. Food preparation – be it baking, roasting, poaching, scrambling or sautéing – had become her solace in the place of flower arranging and she loved every single stage of it, not just the cleaning up.

For some reason, her thoughts lingered briefly on Harry. Of course, things hadn’t always been so hostile between them. The initial blossoming of her love for Harry, and being allowed to work alongside him in the flower shop, had helped to chase away her past anxieties and she found she was able to rekindle her passion for plant-based activities once again. Over time, she had got used to the daily contact with dirty water, soil and mould and slowly but surely, she managed to suppress the hygiene beasts too. Okay, she knew they were lurking in the darkest, grimmest corners of her mind, but she had been determined not to feed them with tasty morsels of her emotional wellbeing. She had been happy, relaxed and content with her life, which was why discovering Harry with Heidi had been such a shock.

Georgina had reported visiting the little flower shop when she had been shopping for her birthday present in the capital in July, but there had been no sign of the woman who had replaced her in Harry’s affections. Maybe she could have come to terms with Harry’s infidelity sooner if he’d chosen a different person to share his bed with. The scandal had just been too much to bear at the time. However, if Heidi hadn’t decided to slot her size eights into Rosie’s bejewelled sandals, she knew she would never have relocated to Norfolk, which meant she would never have explored her flair for culinary enterprise, nor met Mia, Matt and Freddie.

Rosie’s fear of relationships had not completely evaporated, but her belief that she had lost her identity, her place in the world and everything she held dear, had diffused. She now possessed the burgeoning conviction that she would survive, and not only that, but that she could enjoy whatever the director of her destiny had mapped out for her. Instead of standing back and letting life happen around her, Mia had inspired her to take control, to move forward, to seek fulfilment in a different version of her dreams with the same passion, hope and expectation she’d had for her flower business until Harry had burst her bubble.

Over the last four months, her enthusiasm for creating new and exotic recipes, and to try them out on the customers of the little Windmill Café, had blasted forth with frequent regularity and she loved it. With the calm encouragement of Mia, and Georgina, she had been able to turn the page of her autobiography and start to write a new story for her future. She suddenly experienced an intense craving to speak to her sister, to hear her sensible words of advice.

‘Hi, Georgie. How’re things?’

‘Fabulous. I’ve just been offered a part in a historical drama that’s being filmed down here in Hampshire next month. It’s only a small role but it should be fun and I’ll get to meet Darcie Fowler who’s playing the lead! How’s that cute little café of yours? Any hunky guys on the horizon? Oh, how did the garden party go at the weekend? At least you had good weather for it!’

Rosie waited for her sister to draw breath. She had always been the more gossipy child as they grew up. Instead of the turmoil of their teenage years causing Georgina to retreat into her shell, Rosie thought it had made her fearless, unafraid of speaking out, of trying something new or putting herself in difficult situations. After all, as her sister repeatedly said, what was the worst that could happen? Georgina’s self-confidence had stood her in good stead as she made her way through drama school and onto the stage at the local theatre, and then into small TV roles. Rosie was certain that her sister’s star was in the ascendant and that it was only a matter of time before she got a lead actress role in a Hollywood blockbuster.

‘Well, if you count poisoning your guests as a successful outcome, then the garden party went swimmingly.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Rosie immediately regretted telling Georgina about the disastrous ending to what had been such a wonderful day. She decided to give her the sanitized version of events for fear of having her indignant sister rush to her side and stand guard against unwarranted accusations.

‘Oh, it was nothing really. Just one of the guests had a stomach upset and her boyfriend thought it was food poisoning and threatened to call in the food inspectors.’

‘Were any of the other guests affected?’

‘No, no one else.’

‘And you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

‘Didn’t her boyfriend realize that there is no way any malicious germ could survive after an encounter with Rosie Barnes and her faithful antibacterial spray?’ giggled Georgina.

‘Clearly not.’

Rosie prayed that her sister wouldn’t dwell on the issue as she had never been good at keeping the truth from her. She cast around in her tangled thoughts for a change of subject but Georgina beat her to it.

‘So, tell me more about the summer garden party. Have you emailed photographs to Graham like I suggested? Has he agreed to your suggestion to do an autumnal-themed party yet? What did the guests think of the raspberry and white chocolate cupcakes?’

Rosie spent the next ten minutes playing up the positives of the Windmill Café’s first summer party to her sister, almost convincing herself that it had been a total success. She asked for details of the historical drama she was rehearsing for and about the progress of the rock musical her husband Jack was working on. Her mood started to lift as it always did when she and Georgina spent time gossiping, until the inevitable question was asked.

‘And are you really expecting me to believe that there was not one hot-blooded male at the party? Or in the whole of Willerby for that matter?’

‘Well, I…’

‘Oooh, there is! Spill the details, Rose. Come on, please, Jack is about as romantic as a wet fish at the moment. It’s this damn musical he’s got himself involved in, it’s eating up every spare bit of his time and more. Actually, I was thinking of coming up to Norfolk and bunking up with you in that cute little windmill of yours for a few days until opening night or I think I might just go crazy.’

Panic spread across Rosie’s chest. The last thing she wanted was for Georgina to discover what was going on and put on her metaphorical deerstalker. She had to deflect her suggestion without upsetting her or raising her suspicions about the café, or indeed organizing her wedding to the first unattached guy she set her eyes on – suitable or otherwise.

‘Matt and I are just friends…’

‘Does he work at the café?’

‘No. He owns an outward-bound centre in the village…’

‘Ah, so he’s a real-life hunk? He must be if he spends his days scrambling over obstacle courses, riding quad bikes and flying along zip wires! Has he invited you to go yomping with him yet? Or skinny dipping?’

‘No, Georgie, he has not. As I said, we’re just friends.’

‘Friends can turn into lovers, you know, Rosie.’

Rosie managed to deflect her sister’s cross-examination to the subject of their mother and her recent penchant for synchronized swimming and they ended the conversation with promises to speak again at the weekend. After they had said their goodbyes, she craved a dose of friendly company, unable to admit to herself that what she really wanted to do was escape the arrival of one of the holiday site guests. She decided to make her second trip in two days to Ultimate Adventures, a place where she knew she would receive a warm welcome.

When she arrived at the outward-bounds centre, the car park was already full of gleaming 4X4’s and mud-splattered vans belonging to the people crowding the wooden reception area eager to make a start on that day’s schedule of activities. She grabbed a seat on one of the sofas and waited for Freddie to process everyone and send them in the right direction.

‘Why don’t you come through to the kitchen, Rosie, and I’ll make you a brew?’ said Freddie, dropping his Ultimate Adventures fleece on the kitchen table and adding to the mountain of chaos already there. She could feel the familiar craving for order rushing through her veins, moving ever upwards until, with huge effort, she forced it from her mind.

‘I don’t think you’ve ever made me a cup of tea before! I’m looking forward to this.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll taste it first and you can wait to see if I keel over and die before you risk taking a sip. I won’t be offended. And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving – want to take your life in your hands and share an omelette with me, too?’

‘You make the tea, Freddie and I’ll rustle up the omelettes,’ Rosie laughed.

Once again, the task of feeding others came to her rescue. She threw herself into making the fluffiest omelettes possible, whisking the eggs until her hands ached, hunching over the stove and the heavy cast iron frying pan, her eyes smarting from the fragrant steam. The aroma of fresh, herb-filled omelettes served to encourage Matt out of his office. She rummaged in the fridge and tossed together a salad; a combination of lettuce, tomatoes and carrot strips fashioned into broad ribbons, with a ‘secret recipe’ vinaigrette and they all dug in.

‘You make a mean omelette, you know, Rosie. But this salad is… well, different.’