Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli: A laugh out loud feel-good romance perfect for summer. Portia MacIntosh
of a SkinnyKwick Club meeting, but we’re a deli and we want people to buy food.
‘Lily,’ I hear Mike calling as he heads back in. ‘I’m on with a plumber, he says he can do it, but he wants his travel expenses covering. He’s coming pretty far.’
‘OK, sure,’ I say reluctantly. Well, it’s not exactly my own money I’m throwing around, is it? My bosses have given me an impossible job to do, and I’m doing the best I can. ‘The sooner he can come, the better.’
‘He says he’ll be right over,’ Mike replies.
‘Great,’ I reply, semi-sarcastically. Well, it’s not great that we have to fork out for plumbers from afar, but it will be a lot easier to get some work done here once the smell is gone.
‘I’m going to go outside and scope out the area,’ I say.
‘OK, sure. You get some fresh air,’ Mike laughs. I think he’s onto me, but I can’t think straight around this smell.
I step out of the main door and onto the paved area out front where I finally take in the view for the first time. We might not be on the seafront, but we’re right at the top of the main street that leads down to it, which means that, for the customers who sit outside the deli to eat their lunch, they’ll be able to see the sea. It’s still quite warm and sunny for early September, so I take my oversized sunglasses from my bag and put them on to get a better view.
Before moving here, I knew that there was an island just off the coast but I had no idea just how close it was, or how big. It’s a bizarre and beautiful sight that makes the islands we’re used to seeing on the Thames pale in comparison. I really should take Frankie sometime, maybe at the weekend to celebrate his first week at school.
I set off down the cobbled main street, extra carefully in my heels. While I may be blonde, I’m not ditzy…that said, I’m not sure why it never crossed my mind to swap out my stylish heels for some more sensible ones. I supposed I assumed the north was paved.
The main street is not only cobbled, it’s steep too. If I were to fall, which is something I’m prone to doing from time to time, it would not be one of my more graceful tumbles. Not on this hill, in these shoes, wearing this dress that doesn’t quite reach my knee.
My most graceful fall to date happened two years ago while Frankie and I were ice-skating at the Natural History Museum outdoor ice rink. Frankie was having a blast, zipping around on the ice whereas I carefully clung to the edge and moved just a few inches at a time.
‘Come on, Mum, it’s easy,’ he assured me. He was only six at the time and I figured, if a six-year-old can do it, then so can I. I was wrong. Holding Frankie’s hand, I left the comfort of the outside edge and skated into the middle of the rink, to get a closer look at the big Christmas tree that sits in the centre.
‘You did it, you did it,’ he chirped, bursting with pride, sort of like I did when he took his first steps.
The only problem was, Frankie figured I’d be fine after that, so he skated off on his own again. That’s when the fear kicked in. I think half my problem with ice-skating was a confidence thing, and without Frankie to hold on to, I was too scared to move. Kids and adults were zipping past me with ease so, after psyching myself up for a few minutes, I made my move, skating out, taking it a few inches at a time, and I was doing it, I was really doing it…and then I got too confident, I forgot to be careful, and I lost control. It felt like I was flailing around, completely out of control for a long time, but I don’t suppose it was more than a few seconds. By some miracle I managed to not only stay upright, but glide into the arms of a tall, blond, handsome man, and for someone who struggled to meet men – let alone introduce herself – this was almost too good to be true.
‘Hi,’ I blurted.
‘Hey,’ he replied.
‘Do women always fall at your feet or am I the first?’ I joked awkwardly, like I do.
‘Erm, just my wife,’ he replied, nodding to the leggy brunette to his left.
The flirting might not have been great, but the fall – and the recovery – were excellent.
My least graceful fall to date was six months ago, in Tesco, where I literally slipped on a banana skin and ploughed into a display of toilet rolls. The landing was soft, at least.
The main street has a real mixture of shops, from quirky little gift shops to a shop, hilariously called Fruitopia, that appears to sell nothing but jam.
There’s a shop that sells women’s clothing, but if the mannequins in the window are anything to go by, it’s probably not to my taste. The next shop along, though, is a cool gallery cum bookshop that looks like it might have some interesting stuff inside.
I step inside the large white room to the murmur of a classical music tune that I recognise, but couldn’t name. It feels lovely in here, with the cool air blowing down on me as I browse the photographs and paintings on the walls. It seems like most of them were taken or painted locally, which is cute. The books all seem to be similar in theme too – perhaps I could pick up something to give me an insight into the local area.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly to the man sitting behind a desk in the centre of the room.
‘Hello,’ he replies, taking off his glasses. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I was after a book about the local area.’
‘We have lots of them,’ he replies straight-faced.
‘Yeah.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘I was hoping you could maybe recommend a specific one. Whichever is your favourite.’
‘Oh, sure,’ he replies.
He casts an eye over a table of books before picking one up and handing it to me.
‘This one should do it. It’s all about the history of the area, places for tourists to visit, local customs, etcetera.’
‘Brilliant,’ I reply. ‘I’ll take it.’
The man, an awkward thirty-something who, for some bizarre reason, is wearing a beanie hat on a sunny day, scans the book.
‘Can I interest you in some postcards featuring stunning local scenes for the folks back home?’ he asks, loosening up a little, as he points to a rack of cards to his left.
I glance at them.
‘No thanks,’ I reply, my smile dropping.
I can’t help but think about the postcard in my bag, the one from someone back home, and if there’s one thing I don’t wish, it’s that he were here.
Standing in the playground, waiting for Frankie to finish school, I fantasise about taking my shoes off, and maybe soaking them in the bath for a couple of hours before dinner. It’s been a long day at the deli, making sure that everything is going to be ready in time, but at least the plumber turned up and fixed whatever problem was causing the smell. I damn near gave him one of my kidneys and he left, pound signs rolling in his eyes as he counted his money (which included his travel bonus). This only reminds me that I would never, ever, in a million years be able to afford to open my own deli, because even if I could gather some money together, you never know when you’re going to have to pay a big plumbing bill – if this really were my place, I probably would have had to give him a kidney. It’s all good though, because tomorrow when I turn up for work, it’s going to smell glorious, like fresh wooden counters, and it’s going to remind me that, even though we’re running into problems, I’m solving them.
I notice the gaggle of women from this morning, staring at me once again. They’re probably just curious, wondering who I am. If it were up to me I’d stay here, at the opposite side of the playground, hiding behind my sunglasses, but I know that I have a lot of work to do here, and it would probably be good for the business if I go over