Page 8 of A Wish for Jinnie
‘Jinnie!’ her unexpected companion shrieked, slapping his forehead with a bangle-strewn arm.
Wait, wasn’t thatherline? ‘You’re a … genie, right?’ she stammered. ‘I mean, the lamp’s a bit of a clue, now I think about it. Oh, hang on, you just called me by my name, didn’t you?’
With a sweeping bow, he moved closer. Jinnie stood and faced him. Up close, he had finely-chiselled features, accentuated by a wispy goatee beard. His eyes were the colour of amber, and his full-lipped mouth curled somewhere between a smirk and a scowl.
‘Darling girl, that term issooutdated. I prefer personal wish-fulfilment assistant, although it is rather a mouthful. Probably easier if you call me by my name: Dhassim. It means “the idolised”, by the way.’
Hmm, thought Jinnie. Judging by his widening smirk, Dhassim hadn’t been at the front of the queue when modesty was dished out. Which wasn’t really relevant right now. How was this evenpossible,and how did he know her name?
Before Jinnie could speak again, a loud gurgling sound emanated from Dhassim’s stomach. ‘Before we get into all the wish-fulfilling nitty-gritty, would you be an angel and rustle up a little snack? Being cooped up in a lamp for centuries plays havoc with the digestion!’
And so Jinnie found herself rummaging in the bathroom cabinet for some muscle-soothing gel, then preparing a cheese and pickle sandwich, all the time wondering justwherethis was going to lead…
Chapter 11
Jo pulleda tray of freshly-baked pasties from the oven, cursing as yet again she burned herself in the process. She’d invested in longer oven gloves, but still managed to add to her collection of scars on a regular basis. She adjusted her glasses, and scrutinised the angry red mark.
‘Maybe I need a suit of armour,’ Jo grumbled under her breath. Certainly not a chastity belt, as it had been a very long time since anyone had tried to get her into bed. OK, therehadbeen one occasion two years ago. She’d taken herself off for a much-needed mini break in the Scottish Highlands, and got chatting to a handsome stranger over a glass of single malt. With a log fire roaring in the hearth, enough tartan to kit out the cast ofBraveheart,and the Proclaimers singing about walking ridiculous lengths to be with a loved one, Jo had felt all squidgy and desirable. Well, by her third glass of whisky, at least.
Her handsome stranger — ‘The name’s Pete’ — seemed like the perfect gentleman. Until he’d opened his overnight bag to reveal his ‘n’ hers latex suits and a couple of feather dusters. ‘Are you up for a bit of slap and tickle?’ he’d asked. Jo was torn between slapping him, bursting into tears, or ordering another whisky. She’d opted for another drink which she took to her room, its peaty (excruciating pun alert) scent mingling with toothpaste and mouthwash. No, you weren’t supposed to drinkafterbrushing your teeth, but Jo had felt the need to sip the comforting liquid as she sat in bed and pondered her disastrous love life.
She’d come close to marriage once, in her early thirties, but as the wedding day approached Jo had got cold feet. In fact, make that toe-numbing frostbite. Her fiancé, Graham, was kind, but a complete marshmallow when it came to life and people. He never stood up for himself, even when his bosses at work treated him like something unpleasant stuck to their shoe, and as for his mother, Felicia… Jo shuddered at the memory of the woman who had never cut the apron-strings. More like traded them for industrial-strength rope to secure her compliant son. Graham was always at her beck and call, and they chatted on the phone at least four times a day. She wasn’t ill or frail in any way: simply a control freak who’d made it clear from day one that Jo wasn’t goodenough. While Graham had been devastated when Jo broke off the engagement, Felicia had probably ordered champagne and balloons to celebrate.
Running her burn under the cold tap, Jo reflected on all that was good in her life. She’d bought A Bit of Crumpet five years ago, as a fortieth birthday present to herself. Over two decades of working in hospitality and catering had earned her both a wealth of experience and a decent pot of money, which she’d invested in a solid range of stocks and shares. Although originally from the west coast — by the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond — Jo had always had a soft spot for the east and Edinburgh. When the premises came on the market, she hadn’t hesitated. Cost-wise, they were a fraction of anything in or near the city, already packed with similar businesses. Cranley was sleepy — downright soporific at times — but it had charm and individuality. So Jo had focused on making A Bit of Crumpet a home-from-home kind of place, serving traditional fare with an emphasis on quality. No skinny lattes or weird herbal brews here, just plain old teas, coffees, cakes and savouries.
‘Morning!’ Her first customer of the day, Ken McCroarty, slumped into a chair, tiredness etched on his face. Jo liked Ken, whose occasional gruffness masked a kind heart. Dealing with his wife Mags’s decline was taking its toll, and Ken had admitted to her the other week that he was struggling to sleep. Mags had started wandering in the night, and once Ken had found her at 3am, shivering and confused in the beer garden.
‘Morning, my lovely,’ Jo replied, drying her hands and switching on the coffee machine. ‘How strong d’you want it? Strong, eye-popping or waking the dead?’
‘The last one, Jo,’ said Ken, placing his wallet and phone on the table. ‘Ed surprised us yesterday, so he’s holding the fort while I visit my suppliers and get a few bits in the city.’ He sighed. ‘Mags was thrilled to see him, then she asked him four times in twenty minutes how long it had taken him to drive over. And the other day she ran herself a bath, then completely forgot about it. Luckily I got there before it brought the ceiling down.’
Jo poured Ken’s coffee and placed it in front of him, along with a still-hot pasty. Ken regarded her with bloodshot eyes and a weary smile. ‘Just what the doctor ordered. What would we do without the baking queen of Cranley?’
Before Jo could reply, the door opened and Sam strode in.Two of Cranley’s finest gents in the space of a few minutes, Jo thought to herself. One most definitely and devotedly married, the other … well, who knew? Sam was very easy on the eye, but he kept a low profile. Only she and Ken knew about his writer alter-ego, for instance. Although perhaps he’d confided in Jinnie too? She was a sweet girl — well, woman — who’d clearly escaped to Cranley after a disastrous relationship. Jo was keen to get to know her better, but didn’t want to seem pushy or interfering.
‘Hi, Sam. Is it takeaway for two, or are you flying solo today?’ Jo saw Sam gaze hungrily at the pasty Ken had virtually demolished.
‘Just one of those,’ he answered. ‘Jinnie’s not in again until tomorrow. We agreed she’d work Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Speaking of which, did she come and see you, Ken?’
Ken looked puzzled, and Jo concentrated on sliding a pasty into a paper bag.
‘Erm, no, she didn’t. Why would she come and see me? I get the impression she doesn’t like me very much. Not that I likemyselfthat much, these days. Ed says I’m a grumpy old git, and he’s not wrong.’ Ken licked a finger and dabbed at the remaining crumbs of his pasty. Without a word being exchanged, Jo took his plate and added a second helping.
‘Sorry, shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.’ Sam counted out some coins and handed them to Jo. ‘Jinnie’s looking for extra money, and I thought you might need a part-time barmaid. She’s a hard worker, I can vouch for that, and —’
Ken swallowed his bite of pasty. ‘Aye, that would be a big help right now. When you see the lass, tell her I said so. Right then. Jobs to be done, people to be argued with. Later, folks.’ He got up to leave just as customer number three entered the building.
‘Jeez Louise, do I need cake,’ announced Janette Cameron, shaking out an umbrella. ‘It’s pissing doon out there now, and my blood sugar levels are cryin’ out for assistance. That’ll do, Jo,’ she said, pointing a pudgy finger at a chocolate fudge cake under a glass dome.
Jo cut a generous slab and passed it over the counter.
‘And a pot of tea too, there’s a dear. I’ve the morning off, so I’m treating mysel’ before I catch the train into town. Need some new bras — these puppies have worn out the old yins!’ Janette jiggled her ample bosom with both hands, while Ken and Sam watched in amused horror.
Jo carried the tea over to the table where Janette had plonked herself, winking at the two men.
‘I’d give you a lift, Janette,’ said Ken, ‘but I’m visiting my suppliers before I head to Edinburgh.’ He didn’t quite succeed in hiding his look of relief. A car journey spent discussing bra sizes and styles probably wasn’t his idea of a fun-filled outing.
‘Nae worries, Ken,’ said Janette. ‘I’ll just take my time here and keep Jo and Sam entertained.’ She gave her chest another Les Dawson-like waggle. 'So, I cannae decide between balcony or cleavage-enhancing. Mind yae, my cleavage disnae so much need enhancing as scaffolding!’
