Making Your Mind Up by Jill Mansell Page A

car?”
    â€œNo. I’ve left him at the cottage, hunched over his Game Boy.”
    There was a pause. Tom was still standing there, making no move to leave. Conscious that she might have curry breath but keen to cover the awkward silence, Cressida said brightly, “So, did you catch anything?”
    Tom looked startled. “Excuse me?”
    Oh, marvelous. Now he thought she was quizzing him about sexually transmitted diseases. “You were going fishing,” Cressida said hurriedly. “I meant did you catch any fish?”
    â€œOh, right, sorry. Yes, yes, we managed to—”
    â€œCome in for a drink!” Out of the corner of her eye, Cressida had glimpsed Ted from the village shop ambling down the High Street toward them on his way to the Flying Pheasant for his customary six pints of Guinness and a good old moan about the state of the country, bloody supermarkets taking over the world, and that damn fool gaggle of amateurs calling themselves the England cricket team.
    Cressida was startled to realize that without even thinking about it she had reached out, unceremoniously yanked Tom Turner into her hallway and slammed the front door shut behind him.
    But something told her he really didn’t mind too much.
    Amused, he said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
    â€œSorry. Ted, from the shop. Come on through.” Flinging open windows in the kitchen and chucking away the plastic container her microwavable Madras had come in—at least she’d bothered to tip the food onto a plate after heating it—Cressida said, “Sorry about the smell of curry. Now, let me just put these in something. Tea, coffee, or a glass of wine?”
    Tom looked at the freesias she was busy unwrapping. “I think they’d probably prefer water.”
    â€œOK.” Cressida nodded, realizing she’d been gabbling again. “Water for the flowers. And we’ll have the wine. It’s only cheap, I’m afraid.”
    Tom smiled. “Stop apologizing.”
    They sat outside on the patio and Cressida learned that Tom and his son were from Newcastle, staying down here in one of Freddie’s vacation cottages. They were three days into a fortnight’s vacation and plenty more fishing was planned. This afternoon they had caught six trout and five perch.
    â€œWhich cheered Donny up no end,” said Tom. “That was another reason I wanted to see you again, I suppose. To let you know that Donny isn’t always as touchy as he was this morning. He’s a good lad really. The last couple of years have been tough for him.”
    â€œYou got divorced?” It was an educated guess; father and son vacationing alone together. No wedding ring in sight.
    Tom nodded. “My wife ran off with another man.”
    â€œOh God. I’m so sorry.”
    He acknowledged this with a shrug. “It hit Donny hard. We hadn’t any idea. She just walked out one morning and that was that. Left a note, didn’t even say good-bye. She’s living in Norfolk now with her new chap. Poor Donny; it’s just the two of us now. I do my best and we muddle through. But it’s not the same, is it?”
    â€œIt’s not the same.” Cressida nodded sympathetically, feeling terrible for having decided earlier that Donny would benefit from a slap. Her heart went out to the man sitting opposite her. “But it must have been awful for you too.”
    â€œWhat can I say?” Tom shook his head. “You just have to carry on, pick up the pieces. I’m forty-two years old and a single parent. Never imagined that happening, but it has. God, listen to me.” He grimaced, then broke into a smile. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. Talk about cheerful! Let’s turn this conversation around, shall we? Tell me about you instead.”
    Something fluttered in the depths of Cressida’s stomach. He was a nice man with a friendly open face and an easy