Page 36 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Rumi,’ Omar said. ‘He’s describing how separation – losing someone – can deepen our capacity for love. Sharing that pain with the right person creates understanding.’
‘Ah.’ Fred nodded, though puzzlement lingered in his eyes.
Lost love – Ivy knew it well. She had given her heart and soul to divine love without regret, yet at times she wondered if she had chosen the right person to share her sorrow with.
‘More rice?’ Omar suggested.
‘Ivy should eat more,’ Fred said quickly. ‘She’s getting too thin.’
‘I agree,’ Omar nodded. ‘Someone should make sure she takes better care of herself.’
‘No one has ever accused me of being thin,’ Ivy protested, fighting a smile.
‘Maybe we could do this again?’ Fred suggested. ‘It’s my turn next time. Nothing as fancy as this, but I make a decent roast.’
‘Perfect,’ Omar said before Ivy could respond. ‘Ivy loves a traditional Sunday lunch, don’t you, Ivy?’
She opened her mouth to protest, but said instead, ‘That would be lovely.’
The smile Fred gave her made her heart do something completely inappropriate for a woman of her age and position.Stop it, she told herself firmly.Fred is just a friend, inviting his lonely neighbour for dinner.
But as she watched Fred help Omar clear the table, moving confidently around her kitchen, she wondered if perhaps she’d been wrong about quite a few things lately.
Twelve
Condensation streaked the windows of Prosecco & Prose, blurring the view of the grey November afternoon outside. Yesterday’s fairytale landscape had melted, replaced with grey slush and filthy puddles. Inside, the smells of fried eggs, damp wool and English Breakfast tea were battling the tang of disinfectant. Trish was doing her best on crutches, hopping between tables like an agitated heron.
Omar stretched and stood. ‘I am hungry.’
‘Well, sit back down,’ Ivy said, batting his hand away as he reached towards a platter. ‘That’s aporksausage, Omar.’
He froze mid-motion, eyeing the offending food with distaste. ‘Ah. Right.’
She frowned. ‘Would it count as the equivalent of a Catholic sin if a Muslim strayed and ate pork?’ They’d covered other faiths in vicar training – enough to avoid embarrassing mistakes at interfaith events – but if they’d covered this point, she couldn’t recall the answer.
‘A sinanda tragedy,’ he said gravely, withdrawing his hand.
‘So, whatcanyou eat?’ Trish piped up, eyes twinkling. ‘Eggs? Mushrooms? Good strong tea?’
‘Muslims can eat everything except pork, alcohol,’ he looked directly at Ivy then smiled and added, ‘and ill-mannered dogs.’
The door swung open and in breezed Helen, bringing a waft of expensive perfume and cold air. She wore a sleek faux fur-trimmed coat, an artfully draped scarf, and hair far too perfectlyarranged for someone who had presumably wrestled Year 4 that morning.
She slid onto a stool, glancing at Omar, her eyes lingering a second too long.
‘Helen,’ Ivy said. The smile on her lips felt brittle, like a thin layer of sugar about to crack. Omar was too fragile to cope with Helen’s changeable flirtations. ‘School closed already? What can I get you?’
‘It’s 3.30 p.m. – we shut at 3.15 p.m. Skinny latte, please. Can I get one for you too?’ she offered Omar.
Omar merely inclined his head towards his mug, still half full.
She didn’t push, but she flicked her hair over one shoulder before reaching for her purse. ‘In which case, make that to go, please,’ said Helen.
Across the café, Mabel and Margaret were watching like thrilled spectators at a village panto.
‘Anyway,’ Mabel declared, ‘theChristmas pudding raceis tomorrow night. Youmustcome and watch, Omar.’
‘No. He should take part,’ said Margaret.
