Page 9 of Summer at the Cornish Garden Café

‘Hold on.’ He turned around and grabbed his rucksack then pulled out the clean socks he’d thrown in there just in case he needed them. ‘These are clean.’

He unrolled them then slid the one onto her foot and pulled it up over the hem of her spandex leggings. He slid the other one onto her right foot then sat back on his heels.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘That was so kind of you. My foot tensed up so tight I could barely catch my breath.’

‘It’s no problem,’ he said, trying not to notice how her yoga gear clung to her curves and how some of her hair had fallen out of the bun. The red waves now brushed against her slender neck where her pulse throbbed under creamy skin. ‘Make sure you stay warm enough,’ he said gruffly.

He turned away from her and made a point of stretching his neck, his arms and of closing his eyes for a moment. Thomas knew this woman was a journalist and he had his reasons to hate them, but he’d found himself helping her when she’d been in pain. It seemed that despite his misgivings about her, Thomas couldn’t help but be kind, and nothing, not even his past was going to change that about him.

When the session was over, he helped tidy the yoga mats away into the storage shed that was tucked against the hedge then joined Bligh who was talking to Pearl.

‘I was just saying to Pearl that I’ve worked up an appetite,’ Bligh said.

‘I could eat.’ Thomas nodded.

‘I have plenty of fresh eggs from the chickens so come on inside and let me whip up some breakfast.’ Pearl led the way across the gardens to the café.

While Pearl went through to the kitchen, Thomas and Bligh sat at a table near the counter. Other people from the class filed inside and sat at tables, chatting to friends, keen to enjoy a delicious breakfast. The low murmur of conversation soon filled the café, along with the frothing of the coffee machine and the hum of the fridges.

Bligh showed Thomas several videos on his phone that he found amusing, as well as some images of tattoos he was considering having done. Thomas nodded while wondering where Bligh would find the space on his skin.

‘You know, Thomas, you could consider having a tattoo done.’

‘Me?’ Thomas hadn’t ever really thought about having a tattoo. He didn’t like needles and had encountered his fair share of them when he’d been in hospital.

‘Yeah, you could have one done on your leg. Something large to go over the scar.’ Thomas met Bligh’s eyes. ‘I think the scar looks pretty cool, Thomas, but I know you don’t like it.’ Bligh didn’t look away, his gaze was filled with concern and sincerity.

‘I hate it,’ Thomas replied truthfully.

‘So why not turn it into something you do like? People do that. Some women who’ve had breast cancer and mastectomies have tattoos done on their chests. It makes them feel that they’re taking back control over their bodies. Perhaps it would do the same for you.’

Thomas frowned as he thought about Bligh’s point. ‘That’s a good idea, actually. I’ll think about it.’

‘No pressure from me, you know that. But I’d love to create a design for you if you decide to go for it.’

‘Thanks Bligh.’

‘No problem. OK, what do you want to eat because I’ll go and order?’

Once Thomas had decided, Bligh went to the counter and Thomas sat back and pulled his phone from his bag then browsed the screen. In days gone by, his phone would have been red hot from the moment he woke until he fell into bed, but now, things were different. He’d changed his number for starters, so he’d get some peace and so he couldn’t be traced.

‘Hello.’

He looked up to find the journalist standing near the table. She worried at her bottom lip and held her bag against her body like a shield. Was she frightened of him?

‘Oh, hi.’

‘I wanted to say thanks again for helping me get rid of the cramp. I’m very grateful. Could I get you a coffee or something to eat to say thank you?’

Thomas gestured at the counter. ‘My brother-in-law is ordering for us, but thanks. There’s no need anyway. I just did what anyone else would have done.’

‘Not everyone would be so kind, believe me. What about your socks? I mean, how do I get them back to you?’ She looked down and he followed her gaze to the white sports socks and her linedgreen Crocs. Something about the Crocs made his chest squeeze because it made her seem human, vulnerable, real. Surely there was nothing hard or pretentious about a woman who wore green lined Crocs?

‘Keep them.’ He shrugged.

‘I can’t do that. I have to return them to you or replace them.’ She held his gaze, and he found himself captivated by her soft grey eyes, by what he thought was sincerity within them.

‘Honestly, it’s no problem. I have loads of socks.’ And he did, because as a footballer he’d been given lots of freebies from sportswear companies and had more socks than he’d need for a lifetime.

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