Making Your Mind Up by Jill Mansell

“Write inside it and address the envelope. Go off and do your fishing. I’ll have the card finished and in the mail by lunchtime.”
    â€œYeah, but how do we know you’ll send it?”
    This was a boy sorely in need of a slap. With a sweet smile Cressida said, “When you ring your grandmother tomorrow to wish her a happy birthday, you could ask her if she likes her card.”
    â€œDonny, behave yourself. I do apologize.” Having finished writing inside the card and addressing the envelope, the man pulled out his wallet. “This is very kind. And my mother will love it. Now, how much do I owe you?”
    * * *
    Cressida watched from the window as the two of them made their way down the High Street, climbed into their dark blue Volvo and drove off. The card Donny’s father had chosen sold for four pounds but, embarrassed at having practically hijacked him and frog-marched him into her house, she had asked for two pounds. And on top of that she had to supply the first class stamp and walk down to the mailbox herself.
    Let’s face it, she was never going to have to worry about becoming a tycoon and being forced to go live in tax exile.
    Still, he’d seemed like a nice man. Even if she hadn’t even found out his name. All she knew was that his mother was Mrs. E. Turner, that she lived in Sussex, and that tomorrow she would be seventy.
    Oh, and that her grandson was a sulky, spoiled brat.
    Glimpsing her own reflection in the window, Cressida saw that her hair was doing its scarecrow thing again. Locating a couple of tortoiseshell combs in her skirt pocket, she gathered it into a twist and fastened it away from her face. Then, pushing up the sleeves of her white shirt, she sat down to put together Mrs. E. Turner’s card. It wouldn’t do to miss the mail.

Chapter 7
    The doorbell rang at seven o’clock that evening. Halfway through a chicken Madras on a tray in front of the television, Cressida guessed it was Lottie popping in for a drink and a chat.
    â€œOh!” Horribly conscious that her breath must reek of curry, she took a surprised step back when she saw that it wasn’t Lottie at all.
    â€œYou undercharged me this morning. And I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself.” The son of Mrs. E. Turner was back on her doorstep, sunburned and smiling and wearing a clean blue shirt. He was also holding a wrapped bunch of freesias. “Tom Turner.”
    Ever since a traumatizing incident in her teens (“Oh, how lovely; are those for me?” “No, they’re to go on my nan’s grave.”) the sight of men bearing flowers had caused Cressida to fly into a mini panic. Flustered, she said, “Tom, how nice to see you again. I’m Cressida Forbes.”
    Tom Turner inclined his head. “I already know that.”
    â€œGod, of course you do; I’d forgotten. Um…I mailed your mother’s card.”
    He was smiling now. “I knew you’d do that too. You have an honest face.”
    Cressida didn’t know about honest. It was certainly red. Still trying desperately not to look at the freesias she said, “Maybe now isn’t the time to tell you I rob banks.”
    â€œHere.” At last he held the wrapped flowers toward her. “I thought you might like these. My way of saying thank-you for helping me out this morning.”
    â€œOh. Gosh!” Pretending to have just spotted them for the first time, Cressida took the freesias and enthusiastically inhaled their scent. “They’re beautiful. Thank you so much. You really didn’t have to do this.”
    â€œAs I said, you undercharged me. I saw the prices on your website.” Tom smiled. “I also wanted to apologize for Donny’s behavior. He wasn’t at his most charming, I’m afraid.”
    You could say that again . Peering over Tom’s shoulder, Cressida said, “Well, he’s at that age. Is he waiting in the