The Beach Cafe (12 page)

‘Two go wild in Cornwall,’ Amber said, trotting off to the kitchen. ‘This is going to be
fun
.’

‘Definitely,’ I called after her, trying to sound enthusiastic. Inside my head a flood of images were appearing one after another, like a personal slide show: Matthew saying he wanted to break up, Ruth’s gloating face, Saul and I cuddled up reading the Moomins, my dusty, dirty café . . .

Oh, what had I done, leaving everything behind in Oxford for this? What had I DONE?

Chapter Twelve

By eleven o’clock that night we’d unpacked most of my stuff, cleaned up, emailed an ad for a new chef to the local press, ordered a cash-and-carry delivery online (arriving on Monday) and sunk almost two bottles of wine between us. Oh, and experimented with the dodgy liqueurs we’d discovered at the back of Jo’s drinks cabinet.

I’d been tempted to close the café until we’d got a chef and were fully stocked up again, but Amber persuaded me that we should open as normal the next day. ‘It
is
Saturday tomorrow, and the forecast is for amazing weather,’ she said, her head lolling on the sofa. ‘And hey, I’ve done a bit of cheffing in my time, haven’t I? I can muck in with that side of things.’

I had my doubts – especially because, as far as I could remember, Amber’s job at the Randolph had largely involved slicing vegetables rather than cooking very much (albeit slicing vegetables in that swift, impressive way that chefs have) – but the wine was making me agreeable and overconfident. ‘Oh, what the hell. We’ll manage,’ I said. ‘I’ll nip out first thing and stock up for what we need over the weekend. It’ll be a laugh.’

Unfortunately those words would come back to haunt me more than once the following day.

After a hot, drunken night of little sleep, I woke with a splitting hangover at eight o’clock and the realization that: Oh bollocks, I was meant to have gone out much earlier than this to buy the groceries we need for the next few days. And then I remembered everything that had happened all over again: Matthew and I breaking up, me moving out, the scarily big number of things I needed to do to get the café up and running . . .

These thoughts flashed into my head one by one at a sickening speed. It was like seeing a trailer for my life imploding – a trailer that I couldn’t turn off or blot out, however hard I tried. I let out a whimper and shut my eyes again. The sun was bright through the thin curtains and made my head ache. (Yeah. Because it was all the
sun’s
fault. Nothing whatsoever to do with the gallons of Pinot Grigio that Amber and I had necked, or that weird blue liqueur that made my eyeballs fizzle.)

I wondered what Matthew was doing this Saturday morning. He was probably up and about, already having breakfasted on something healthy and sensible like porridge. He’d set-off for a five-mile jog along the river, then would probably buy lots of wholesome vegetables from the farmers’ market, still with clods of earth on, in that just-dug-from-the-ground style. Then perhaps he’d treat himself to some more cleaning and tidying until every single last trace of me had been scrubbed away, until I was completely removed from his life, before settling down with his spreadsheets for the evening.

Meanwhile here
I
was, stinking and hungover, a business failure before I’d even crawled out of my pit.

I dragged myself into the shower and some clothes, made two coffees that were as strong and punchy as a pair of boxing gloves, and went to wake Amber. The forecast had been correct for once – the sky was a faultless blue, and the sea looked frisky with white frilly waves. If it stayed like that, the beach would be heaving within a few hours, and so too would the café, if we managed to get our arses into gear and open up, of course. Right now, the only thing that was heaving was my stomach.

Two hours later – consisting of several sessions of dry-retching over the toilet, a mammoth shopping run, two cups of tea, a fry-up and a double espresso – I was flipping the ‘Closed’ sign to ‘Open’.

‘Let’s do it, baby,’ Amber said, flourishing a spatula. ‘Beach Café Birds are GO.’

And we were off.

I’ll tell you something: working in the café was a whole different experience with Amber in the kitchen instead of Carl. Even during our busiest hours over lunchtime, she was quick, efficient and actually pleasant when Seb, Saffron and I put through order after order. She buttered and filled zillions of sandwiches, cooked fry-ups by the panful, heated every single pasty I’d bought without a mix-up and, even after all that, she was still cracking jokes and singing along to the radio. The day was – astonishingly – actually rather enjoyable. I even managed to overlook Seb spilling lemonade over two little boys, who burst into shocked, sticky sobs.

It wasn’t quite so easy to ignore Saffron’s usual atrocious customer service, though. She shuffled in late – surprise, surprise – with the squinty eyes and bed-hair of someone suffering a humongous hangover, and kept bunking off in the stock cupboard when she thought I wasn’t looking. I didn’t have a shred of sympathy for her, however, when I’d just battled on through my own wine-and-dodgy-liqueur nightmare. Talk about a lightweight, I thought scornfully. The girl had no idea about
real
suffering.

We were busy that day, with queues of people stretching out of the door at times. It would have freaked me out a fortnight ago, but by now I knew my way round the menu, and was working the coffee machine like a pro, making sure I sent Seb or Saffron out to clear and wipe the tables regularly, so that we could keep on top of everything. ‘We are rocking, guys,’ I found myself saying more than once, with a triumphant note in my voice. ‘We are doing this!’

It wasn’t until after lunch that I realized I hadn’t had a visit from Ed and his dog yet. Had I missed him, opening up so late? He’d come in early both times before. Surely he couldn’t be staying away, after that perfect bacon roll I’d made him last time?

Mid-afternoon Amber shouted through that she was off to have a cigarette break outside. ‘I’ll cover in the kitchen,’ I told Seb. It was reasonably quiet, now that the lunch rush was over. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to actually
cook
anything. ‘You and Saffron – wherever she’s got to – can take orders, and keep things tidy here, okay?’

He bit his lip. ‘I think Saffron’s gone out,’ he mumbled, not looking me in the eye.

I finished the cappuccino I was making and dusted it with chocolate powder. ‘There you are. That’s nine pounds seventy-five all together,’ I said to my customer, then turned back to Seb. ‘What do you mean, Saffron’s gone out?’ I asked, frowning. ‘Gone out where?’

He hung his head, scratching the bum-fluff on his chin and looking decidedly awkward. ‘I dunno. Forget I said anything,’ he muttered, then went to serve the harassed-looking woman who was next in line. ‘Hi. What would you like?’

‘Tuna-mayo baguette, two ham sandwiches on granary, two pots of tea and a strawberry smoothie,’ she rattled off, and I had to hurry into the kitchen to start making up the order, much as I wanted to press Seb as to what he meant. Why had he turned so shifty when I asked him about Saffron? Clearly something was going on – but what?

I found out thirty seconds later when I heard raised voices through the back kitchen window.

‘What the
hell
do you think you’re doing? Does Evie know you’ve got this stuff ?’ It was Amber’s voice, loud, shocked and accusing.

I stopped buttering. Stuff ? What stuff ?

Then came Saffron’s reply, lower and sneering: ‘Mind your own business. This has nothing to do with you.’

Amber again: ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, lady. It’s got everything to do with me. Go back inside right now. You’ve got some explaining to do.’

Seb bustled into the kitchen. ‘Tuna baguette, two ham on granary,’ he said, sticking the order sheet on the spike.

‘Yep, got it,’ I murmured, barely hearing. I stood there, frozen, the butter knife hovering over the baguette as footsteps approached from outside.

Then the back door burst open and in came Saffron, followed by Amber. Amber’s eyes were blazing, her mouth pulled taut in an angry line. ‘Evie, did you or did you not give this stuff to Saffron? I’ve just caught her flogging it to her mates round the back.’

She dumped a carrier bag on the counter, which bulged with goodies. There were cans of soft drink, cakes I’d bought that morning, loads of crisps, several pasties . . .

I stared from the bag to Saffron, who scowled back at me, seemingly unrepentant.

‘One bacon sandwich on white, one cheese salad on brown, two kids’ jam sandwiches, all to go,’ Seb announced, rushing in with another order.

‘I certainly
didn’t
give this stuff to Saffron,’ I said slowly, feeling a thump of anger inside. How dare she? How
dare
she steal from the café? All that time she’d been bunking off in the stock cupboard, she’d been secretly nicking bags of my food and drink. ‘How long’s this been going on for, then, your little racket?’

She scuffed her foot along the floor and shrugged as if she didn’t care.

‘Well, it ends right here,’ I said, my voice shaking with rage. ‘You’re sacked, Saffron, as of this minute. Go on – get out. I’ve enough to worry about, without my own staff pinching stock.’

‘Suits me,’ she muttered, pushing the bag off the counter so that it crashed to the floor. One of the crisp packets burst, spraying golden salty shards everywhere. ‘This place is a fucking dump anyway, and you’re not gonna last five minutes. I’m well shot of it.’

She flounced out, nose in the air. I felt like running after her and plunging the bread knife between her shoulder blades, the little madam.

‘Bloody hell,’ Amber said, picking up the cans of drink (now dented) and the food from the floor. ‘With staff like that, who needs enemies?’

‘Two cream teas, two rounds of white toast with jam,’ Seb said, pink-cheeked as he came in again. ‘And what’s happened to Saffron?’

I blinked. ‘I . . . um . . . seem to have fired her,’ I said, feeling light-headed with the aftershock. I’d never done anything quite so managerial before. Had I been too hasty? Too severe? It wasn’t as if I’d ever been Employee of the Year myself, throughout my crappy career history.

No, I thought, in the next moment. I hadn’t been too quick to fire her. As well as the stock-pinching, there had also been the permanent bad attitude, the lateness, the time I’d spotted her trying to nick that fiver. It was a wonder she’d lasted as long as she did.

I gave myself a shake. ‘Come on, we’ll have a chat about it later,’ I said briskly. ‘Let’s crack on with these orders before we get behind.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ Amber groaned at twenty past six, when we had closed up for the night. ‘Well, that was a day and a half.’

‘Seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred . . . It’s usually much worse,’ I said, pausing from cashing up. ‘Honestly, I know it was busy today and there was the horrible sacking incident, but apart from that, it actually felt like
fun
, having you in the kitchen instead of that pillock Carl.’ I took out a wedge of notes and pressed them into her hand. ‘Here, have some wages. You were ace today, chef. Thank you.’

She put the money back in the till. ‘Don’t be daft, you don’t have to pay me,’ she said. ‘I’m your mate, I’m just here to muck in.’

‘Yeah, but . . .’ I said, snatching the money and shoving it into her pocket. ‘Amber, really—’

‘No!’ she said, yanking it out again and replacing it in the till. Then she slammed the till drawer shut and leaned against it, arms folded. ‘Honestly. Just take me to the pub and buy me a beer. I’m cheap like that.’

‘It’ll be the same again tomorrow, though,’ I warned. ‘In fact, I think half-term must have started, so it’ll be packed for the next week, if this weather holds. And we’ll be short-staffed too, now that I’ve given Saffron the boot, so . . .’

‘So I’ll stay as long as I can,’ she said, ‘just until you’ve got your new chef in, or Carla starts screaming down the phone at me to come back to the shop. Or, of course, I get a call-back for this new play . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘We live in hope,’ she said. ‘Anyway. We did well today, didn’t we? Good teamwork.’

She held up a hand and I high-fived it. ‘Good teamwork,’ I agreed. ‘And now let me buy you dinner and a large drink in the pub.’

‘Done,’ she said.

I finished cashing up while she went to shower and change. The takings were pretty good – certainly the best of any day I’d ever worked there. It made me wonder how much Saffron had helped herself to in the past. According to Seb, it had been going on for some time. ‘I didn’t want to tell on her, though,’ he’d said, his neck turning red. ‘She’s the sort of person who . . .’

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. Carrawen was a small village and I could just imagine how miserable she’d have made his life if he
had
dobbed her in, and she’d found out. Still, he didn’t have to worry about her now. None of us had to worry about her now. She was out on her ear, and good riddance to her.

With that happy thought, I locked the till and went up to the flat, whistling tunelessly and feeling that everything might just have taken a turn for the better. The only tiny fly in the ointment was the fact that Ed hadn’t shown up. Could it really be
disappointment
I was feeling, that he hadn’t popped in that day?

Chapter Thirteen

The pub was full of sun-kissed holidaymakers, quite a few of whom I recognized. There was Mrs Egg-and-Cucumber-No-Crusts-Please telling off her boisterous kids, there was Ms Banana-Smoothie sipping a lurid cocktail with a gaggle of giggling mates, there was Mr Sausage-Sandwich supping a pint . . . It was nice, walking in and not feeling such a stranger all of a sudden. It gave me a flush of pleasure to imagine that people might recognize me as Evie-from-the-Café. It made me feel I belonged in some small way.

We ordered some food and took our drinks outside to the small pub garden, which had picnic benches and sunshades set up. It still felt warm, although the first cool evening breezes were starting to stroke inland from the sea. By the looks of some of the lobsteresque punters, it had been scorching out on the beach earlier.

‘So, what did you think?’ I asked Amber, taking a swig of my gin and tonic. It was so icy and refreshing and delicious, it was hard to stop myself gulping down the whole thing in one long swallow. ‘Of the café, I mean?’

‘I think it’s great,’ she replied. ‘Really fab. You could do so much with it. The menu’s a bit basic – I think I’d put some paninis or jacket potatoes on there, for starters, and maybe even some evening meals, if you were planning to branch out into opening later . . .’

I blinked. Opening later? Jo had never opened later.

‘And some kind of revamp,’ she went on. ‘I mean, it’s nice enough as it is, of course, but a lick of paint would freshen everything up, and maybe some new pictures on the walls.’

‘Right,’ I said, taken aback. I hadn’t thought about any of these things; it had been enough for me to get to grips with the coffee machine. ‘Remind me again why I’m doing this, and not you?’

She elbowed me. ‘Ah, it’s just because I’m coming in as an outsider,’ she said. ‘You’re used to it always having been the same for years and years, aren’t you? You’re looking at it as your aunt’s place that you’ve inherited, whereas I’m looking at it through a punter’s eyes.’

I nodded, realizing that she was right. ‘It does feel as if I’m walking in Jo’s footsteps,’ I admitted. ‘I keep forgetting it’s mine now, and that I can change things around.’ I drank more gin. It was even more delicious than the first glug.

‘You can totally change it around,’ she said. ‘You could turn it into a little bistro, serve yummy dinners – I bet there’s nowhere else to eat around here, is there, other than this place? People would love it, sitting out on that deck in the evening, candles on the table . . .’ She sipped her drink thoughtfully. ‘Seriously, you should do it. Get some nice tablecloths, write up a posher menu, you could be quids in.’

‘Since when did you become Jamie Oliver?’ I asked. ‘You’re forgetting one small problem: I can’t blooming cook.’

She winked. ‘
Janie
Oliver, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘And once you hire your fab new chef, you can leave all the cooking to them, durrr.’ She eyed my glass. ‘Blimey, that went down quick. Want another?’

‘I’ll get them,’ I told her. ‘You’re on freebies all night, remember. Back in a tick.’

I sauntered through to the bar, my mind freewheeling with possibilities. Amber was a genius! I loved the idea of opening the café up in the evenings, through the summer at least. Maybe just at weekends initially, I thought to myself, test the waters –

Then I froze in my tracks, all plans for a bistro forgotten. A familiar voice and then a familiar laugh seemed to go right through me, turning my blood to quick-setting cement. I stared into the depths of the pub, my heart thundering. Surely I’d got it wrong. Surely I’d imagined it.

But no. There at the bar, laughing with the barmaid about something, was none other than my long-lost teenage crush, Ryan Alexander. I was sure it was him. It was his laugh – his no-holds-barred, let-rip laugh.
Ryan Alexander!

I stood there staring for a moment, my brain almost unable to comprehend what my eyes and ears were telling it. His hair was shorter than it had been – it no longer tumbled in waves to his jawline – but yes, it was definitely his profile. Definitely.

I hurried back out to the beer garden, my cheeks turning scarlet. ‘Oh my God,’ I said to Amber, sitting down again and cupping my hand around my face in a pathetic attempt to hide myself.

‘That was quick,’ she said, staring at me in confusion. ‘Ah. You seem to have forgotten something. Like . . . drinks?’

I couldn’t talk about drinks. There was only one subject on my mind. ‘Do you remember me telling you, ages back, about the surfer hunk I had a mad fling with?’

‘The shagging-in-sand-dunes one?’ Amber said. ‘Course I do. You bent my ear about him for at least a year. I was sick of hearing about him after –’ She broke off and clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Why are you bringing this up now?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’

‘Yes,’ I said, feeling dazed and giggly. ‘YES. He’s here.’

‘No WAY!’ Her eyes were wide and round, like tawny marbles.

‘Way,’ I told her, excitement rising hysterically inside me. ‘Yes way. I’m sure it’s him I just clocked at the bar. He’s actually here, in the village, in this pub, RIGHT NOW.’

‘Oh. My. GOD.’ Amber leaned over the table and grabbed my hands. ‘This is too good to be true. Exit Matthew – and enter gorgeous surf-dude from the past, the one that got away. It’s like something from a film.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘In a minute Hugh Grant’s going to stroll in and Richard Curtis is going to shout “Cut” and . . .’

‘Wow.’ Amber shook her head. ‘This is great. This is serendipity to the power of a million. This is going to be
fun.
’

There was a familiar look on her face. A familiar trouble-making look that made me nervous all of a sudden.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ I told her quickly. ‘Uh-uh. Nose
out
, thank you very much. No interfering.’ I pulled a face at her. ‘Look, I only just split up with Matthew five minutes ago, remember. I am grieving and mourning, and need time to lick my wounds, and—’

‘Licking
wounds
? There are way better things to lick,’ she said with a snort. ‘And besides, all this grieving and mourning and anguish – you know what the best solution to that is, don’t you?’

‘Yes, large amounts of wine and crying,’ I replied smartly. ‘And chocolate, and support from sympathetic best friends, who don’t try to manipulate you emotionally and—’

‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘No, no, no, no. The best solution is a rebound shag, or seven. Preferably with a hot ex-boyfriend who has made a surprising reappearance after many years. Result!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Now we just have to hope he has a few hot surf-dude mates for me, and Bob’s your avuncular relative.’

I groaned. ‘Amber, no . . . I’m so not up for any of this,’ I told her. ‘Really. Really and truly.’

She raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. ‘Best thing to do when you fall off a horse is get right back in the saddle,’ was all she said. ‘Or even, back in the sack.’

‘No,’ I said again, trying to sound as firm as was humanly possible. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Ri-i-ight,’ she drawled, as if she didn’t believe me for a second. ‘How did he look when you saw him, anyway? Still hot?’

I paused to think. In my haste to run away before he glimpsed me, I’d barely taken in the details. Hearing his deep, throaty chuckle and seeing his profile – the strong jawline, the slightly too-large nose, the beefy shoulders – had been enough to rocket me back to my lusty adolescent romance with him. Oh. My. God.

‘Maybe we should just head off to the flat,’ I said uncertainly. ‘I mean, I’m not exactly in a position for romance right now.’

‘Who said anything about
romance
?’ Amber snorted. ‘Go on, get in there, missus. This could be just the rebound shag you’ve been waiting for. “Memories . . .” ’ she began warbling theatrically.

A couple of women at the next table were turning their heads and looking over at us, with bemused expressions on their faces. ‘Shut up,’ I hissed. ‘For God’s sake, let’s just get out of here. I haven’t shaved my legs for ages, let alone . . . anything else.’

She gave a delighted-sounding laugh. ‘Aha! So you
have
been thinking about getting nekkid with the guy at least.’ She made little shooing movements with her hands. ‘What are you waiting for? Go and reintroduce yourself. And don’t come back until you have. I’m not dying of thirst or anything, there’s no rush.’

I hesitated, biting my lip as I weighed up the options. Ryan and I were both adults. Where was the harm in a smile and a hello, for old times’ sake? Chances were, he wouldn’t even recognize me. But on the other hand . . . Maybe he would remember that summer as fondly as I did.

‘No spying,’ I warned her. ‘And no stirring.’ I smoothed my skirt down self-consciously. I was wearing my favourite denim skirt and a black strappy vest-top. Not exactly top-of-the-range designer, but I’d brushed my hair at least and chucked on a string of shimmering blue beads. ‘Do I look okay?’

‘Sensational,’ she replied. It was an ego-boosting lie, of course, but it helped.

‘I’m still not sure this is a great idea,’ I said weakly.

‘Off you go,’ was all she said. ‘See you in a bit.’

I turned and began walking back to the bar, jittery and uncertain. Nothing was going to happen, of course. I was still getting over Matthew, who’d been a proper boyfriend, a long-term, live-with boyfriend, and not just a holiday fling who’d vanished into the surf one day like a mirage, never to be seen again. I’d just say a friendly hello, gosh-fancy-seeing-you-again kind of thing to Ryan as I ordered the drinks, and that would be all.

I went back inside, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dingier light in there. He was still at the bar. Oh, shit. I’d half been hoping he’d have left so that I didn’t have to go through with this. But there he was, still joking around with the barmaid. Okay . . .

I cleared my throat. I was only going to say hello, for goodness’ sake. And at least it would shut Amber up.

I stood behind him for a moment, pretending I was waiting to be served, but really sneaking the chance to look him over. The youth had turned into a man. He was wearing a blue shirt with white pin-stripes, and chinos. His surf-dude curls had been cut to a neat short back and sides, and his neck looked fat and red. In fact, it wasn’t just his neck that appeared fat; he seemed bulkier all over than he had done as a teenager. Hell, didn’t we all, though. It was unfair to compare someone with their nineteen-year-old self.

He was booming with laughter at something the barmaid had said. ‘You’re such a chav,’ he told her. ‘You and your bargain flip-flops and your tatty red nail varnish.’

I glanced down at my own feet, which were working their very own bargain flip-flops and tatty red nail varnish look. Oh. Did that make me a chav too?

‘Oi, don’t be cheeky,’ she told him. She gave him a bright smile and went off to serve someone else, but I had the feeling that her smile was fake and he’d actually hurt her. Hmm.

I took a deep breath. Right. Come on, Evie. Now or never.
Action!
Richard Curtis ordered in my head.

‘Ryan,’ I said tentatively, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘Is that you?’

He turned and squinted at me. His face was craggy and well worn, and had seen too much sun, judging by the slightly leathery texture of his skin, but it was definitely him.

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. ‘Hey, I remember you,’ he said slowly. ‘You worked at the café. Jo’s daughter.’

‘Niece,’ I corrected, a smile spreading across my face. ‘Evie.’

‘Evie, that’s it,’ he said, and slapped his thigh. ‘Holy shit! Talk about a blast from the past.’ He stared at me from top to bottom, his eyes lingering on my chest. Yuck, I hated it when men did that. It wasn’t even as if there was anything much to look at, in my case. ‘Well, fancy seeing you again,’ he said, his voice softer and smoother. ‘Where have you been hiding all these years, then?’

‘I –’ I began, slightly creeped-out by the way his gaze kept returning to my boobs. Was he addressing
them
or me? It was hard to tell. ‘I’ve been back in Oxford. How about you?’

‘Oh, here, there and everywhere,’ he said, with a casual wave of his hand. I took this to mean Hawaii and other surfing hot-spots, but then he said, ‘Kent for a while. Home Counties. Wherever I lay my hat . . .’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘So, what are you doing with yourself these days?’

‘Sales,’ he said grandly. ‘I’m an account manager for an engineering firm. Doing pretty well, although I say so myself, ha-ha.’ His fake laugh set my teeth on edge. ‘But where are my manners?’ he asked my breasts. ‘Let me buy you a drink. We can reminisce about the old times.’

I hesitated. He was
really
creeping me out now. Someone seemed to have changed his setting to Sleaze and turned it up to max. ‘Um . . .’ I began, but before I could say anything else, I felt someone barge past me.

‘Ryan, are you getting those drinks or what?’ came a shrill voice, as a blonde-haired woman shoved her way through. She glared at me and then at him, and I recognized her, with a sinking feeling, as the woman who’d had a go at me in the village shop that day. Not Betty the shopkeeper, but the other one. And now she seemed intent on laying claim to Ryan too. Ah. Perhaps it was time to step away from the ex.

‘Evie, this is my lovely wife, Marilyn,’ Ryan said, putting a meaty arm round her shoulders. ‘Marilyn, this is Evie. An old friend.’ He winked at me, and I felt nauseous.

Marilyn’s eyes scrunched into an even tighter glare, if that were possible. She seemed to be bristling with some pent-up rage as if she were longing to take a swing at me, and maybe one at her husband, for good measure. Oh God. I was totally regretting introducing myself now.

‘Yes, I know who she is,’ Marilyn said bitterly. The coldness of her eyes made me squirm. ‘She’s the one who just sacked our Saffron today – that’s who
she
is.’

There was a horrible lurching feeling inside me, as if the bottom of my stomach had fallen right away. ‘
Our
Saffron,’ she’d said. Which I guessed meant they were Saffron’s . . . parents. Oh shit.