Casting Samson by Melinda Hammond Page B

vegetables and set off to walk back to the Yew Tree Restaurant. She glanced up at the clock on the church. Ten-thirty. Plenty of time to get home before Dad opened up. Her heart swelled at the thought of her father. He’d been so good since she’d come home, no questions, no I told you so . Mum had been understanding too, of course, but since her heart attack she’d shut herself off more, and Deborah didn’t like to worry her now with her problems. Deborah had merely told her parents that she and Bernard had split up. Her mother had accepted this without comment but her father, when they were alone, had said, “Other women?”
    Deborah had nodded, fighting back the tears. Stan Kemerton had looked stern but said nothing else and she’d been glad of his forbearance. She’d thrown herself into life at the restaurant in an effort to forget, to blot out the pain.
    When Deborah had walked to the market that morning there’d been a slight breeze and a chill in the air, so she’d pulled on an old red jumper. She’d never worn it in London—Bernard only liked her in neutral colours. Now the June sun was beating down and she felt unbearably hot. She stopped. Putting down the box, she dragged the heavy jumper over her head, blinking as she emerged from its thick folds to find a large shadowy figure looming over her.
    “Oh, it’s you.”
    Josh was standing very close, blocking out the sun. Her face flamed as she remembered their previous meeting. He gave her that lopsided grin and stooped to pick up her box.
    “Oh, please—I can manage—”
    “No, it’s okay. I’ll carry it home for you.” He started to walk on and Deborah realised that, without making a scene, she could do little to take the box from him.
    She fell into step beside him. “I—um—I thought you would be gone by now.”
    “The others have. I decided to hang around for a bit.” He shifted the box to the other side. “I’m not really one of them, you know.”
    “One of what?”
    “Four Front. I’m not a stripper.”
    “Oh. I don’t think there’s anything wrong…” Deborah felt she should reassure him. “I mean, Kylie said it was all very tasteful…”
    “Kylie. She’s the bird at the pub, right? I was talking to her last night when we got back from the show. No, what I mean is, this is only my second gig. Ryan, the fourth member of the group, came down with chicken pox and couldn’t go on. Well, no one wants to pay to see a spotty, scabby body, do they?
    “No, I suppose not.”
    “Spike asked me if I’d step in for the last two shows. With a name like Four Front he didn’t think they could manage with three.”
    “Of course not. So what do you do? Your proper job?”
    “I’m a chef. I was working at a place in Reading until a few months ago. Then it closed. Spike knew I was out of a job, thought I might like to earn a few quid and asked me if I wanted to join them.”
    “And you’ve enjoyed it, being in the group?”
    He grinned at her. “Having all those women lusting after my body? You bet! No, seriously, it was fun, but I wouldn’t want to make a living from it. What about you—how long have you been in the catering business?”
    “Me? Oh, I’m just helping Dad out for a while. Mum had a heart attack a few months ago and Dad can’t manage on his own, so I came back to give him a hand.”
    “Where were you before that?”
    “London.”
    “You gave up a job in London to come here? That was good of you.”
    “Dad needed me,” she said simply. “Besides, I’d had enough of the job anyway.”
    Or at least the people. There was no way she could stay once she had decided to leave Bernard. Better a quick, complete break than a slow, painful death…
    “Hey, wake up.”
    Deborah flushed. “Sorry—daydreaming.” She risked a quick glance at him. “About the other night. I was a bit, um…”
    “Don’t worry, it’s forgotten.” He met her eyes, his gaze warm with sympathy. “You’re trying to forget some guy,