Page 57 of A Perfect Devon Pub
In the bay window was a table covered in a white linen cloth. There was a single red rose in a bud vase, and resting on one chair was a package wrapped in tissue paper and secured with a pink ribbon. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ he asked, pointing at the parcel.
She grinned. ‘For me?’
He nodded.
She bounced over and prodded the parcel, which felt squidgy, like a cushion. She tugged at the ribbon, unfurled the paper and released a lavender coloured coat.
He was standing behind her, close enough for her to smell the musky shower gel he used, sending a shudder of pleasure through her body. ‘It’s too cold wandering round Brambleton in that raincoat,’ he murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, then relaxed, willing him to stroke her neck or better still, to kiss it. Instead, he gave her a gentle pat, like an owner would a faithful dog, then returned to the kitchen area.
‘This is so thoughtful,’ she said. Fiona recalled the novelty pen he’d given Rose – so like Ru. He didn’t know she was heading to London tomorrow; he had no clue she’d be bringing her own winter coat back to Devon. The gift wasn’t some calculated move – it was just Ru being Ru.
‘Sit down.’ He slipped a plate in front of her – a gutsy mixture of scrambled egg, sautéed onions, green peppers and tomatoes, seasoned with chilli flakes and cumin. Crumbled feta, black olives and a drizzle of olive oil garnished the top. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Sure,’ she answered, smiling.
‘The investors are huge gin fans. They want me to offer some interesting varieties. Who should I call for honest advice?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. Let me jot down a couple of my contacts. Got a piece of paper?’
He passed over a stack of Post-it notes and Fiona scribbled down two names, adding the details of the wine merchant each worked for and their phone numbers.
‘How’s life at Ivy’s?’ he asked.
‘Busy; I’m spending all my free time studying.’
‘How’s that going?’
She grunted,chewing at her lip. Should she tell him where she was going tomorrow? His thoughtful present, coupled with asking her advice, persuaded her to trust him with her secret. ‘I’m off to London tomorrow to retake my exam.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Why? You don’t need any more certificates. You’re good enough already.’
It was kind of him, but she knew better. The world of wine was cutthroat. To get ahead, she needed credentials.Had she been a CMS member three months earlier, the investors would have backed her. Would she have felt confident enough to accept Ru’s marriage proposal if she hadn’t failed that exam? Then again, perhaps he wouldn’t have proposed if she had passed; perhaps that had been a sop to her hurt pride, a cack-handed attempt to keep his own plans for the restaurant –hisrestaurant – on track. ‘Ineed certificates. Everyone needs qualifications.’
He sat down opposite, picking up his fork and pointing it at her. ‘I never did. I learned on the job.’
‘But that’s your raw talent shining through.’ She didn’t have any raw talent. She succeeded through hard work and passing exams. But tomorrow she would be back in London, and soon she would belong to the CMS. Finally, Fiona would be qualified. She would repay her debts and become someone!
She beamed at him, waiting, watching for his admiration, but his face was inscrutable. Eventually he put down his fork and spoke. ‘What will you do if you fail again?’
Suddenly, the flat felt claustrophobic, an eery silence punctuated by the soft scrape of Ru’s cutlery. Perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, her fingers twisting the hem of her jumper, Fiona couldn’t eat another bite.
‘You don’t actually need this qualification,’ Ru said quietly. ‘Think about it rationally.’
Her head snapped up. ‘How dare you!’
‘I’m trying to help,’ he insisted, his voice soft, but there was nothing reassuring about it.
‘Help?’ Fiona’s laugh was brutal. ‘You mean like youhelpedwhen you forewarned the investors you thought I wouldn’t pass the first time?’
Ru’s jaw tightened. ‘If you fail again—’
‘Which I won’t,’ she snapped.
‘What’s your actual plan?’ he finished, a hint of genuine concern breaking through.
‘My plan,’ she hissed, ‘is to pass, so I can prove to every single person who’s ever doubted me that I am worth something. Starting with you.’
It was the kind of silence that filled every corner of the room, as if the air itself were replaying their words, which lingered – charged and unforgivable – exposing the raw, jagged edges of their broken history. ‘I’m leaving,’ declared Fiona.
