Margot doesn’t know how to respond. She has never thought of her love for her aunt as anything other than a natural function of existing. Yet to him it is noble, rare.
She knows enough about him now to take him at his word.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘No, Margot – thankyou. For spending time with me. For being here today.’ He picks up one of the cakes. ‘Now – let us eat our afternoon tea, shall we?’
They spend an hour or so drinking tea, eating cake, watching the promenading, and Margot wishes it would never end.
Even when it does, though, she knows there will be more. Knows that being with him, perhaps, is where she begins again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It isn’t until she’s been crotchety with the third customer in a row that Daphne considers she may need to stop and take stock of herself. It wasn’t the lady’s fault – or the first two ladies’ faults either. Daphne is simply out of sorts and was uncharacteristically short with them.
The third customer was a regular, Bernice, who handed over cash for her purchase then said, ‘Wrong side of the bed?’
‘Hm?’ Daphne glanced up from the counter.
‘Did you get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’ Bernice’s nostrils flare.
‘What do you mean?’ Daphne snapped, then realised she’d snapped and dropped her gaze, abashed.
‘You’re being a little abrupt, Daphne.’ Bernice picked up her purchase. ‘For the first time ever. I thought it was worth saying something.’
‘Sorry, Bernice,’ she mumbled.
‘Forgiven. Toodle-oo.’
Once Bernice was gone, Daphne put her elbows on the counter and sighed loudly.
She’s still there when Christina walks in, all sunshine and moonbeams. The girl’s been a lot happier lately, which is nice. That whole business with that awful man in Hollywood seemsto be behind her and she’s seeing that Duncan fellow. It’s good for her to have someone grounded. Not that Daphne knows he’s grounded, but he sounds like it.
‘Morning, love,’ Daphne says, patting Christina’s arm as she passes on her way to the back room to stash her handbag.
‘Hi, Daphne!’ Christina says, and kisses her on the cheek when she returns. Daphne likes how she does that, as if they’re friends rather than colleagues.
Today Christina has her hair up in a bun, she’s wearing a loose-fitting white shirt and soft pink pants and barely a skerrick of make-up – some mascara and lippy – and she still looks like a movie star. There has to be some special magic to it, Daphne thinks. Maybe becoming a movie star changes something in your cells.
‘You’re chirpy today,’ Daphne says, and she can hear the edge in her voice. She doesn’t know why she’d be like this with Christina. She’s very fond of her.
Christina’s eyebrows go up. ‘Am I?’
‘Sorry, love.’ Daphne takes a breath. ‘I’m not feeling like myself.’
‘You haven’t been for a little while.’
‘Oh?’ Daphne knows she hasn’t but didn’t realise it was so obvious.
‘The other day you told that gentleman that orange would never be his colour no matter how hard he tried.’ Christina looks amused.
Daphne feels guilt and intensifying shame. ‘Did I?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I have a lot on my mind.’ She puts a hand over her eyes, whether to hide from herself or the world, she’s not sure.
She feels a hand on her arm.