carousel at full pelt, just imagining it. She had dreamed of having her own ice-cream parlour since she was a little girl, but it was only three years ago
that she had taken the bull by the horns, left the head-pastry-chef job she had in a Sheffield hotel and ventured out on her own. She had made her last place into a really successful little
business, but the building didn’t have a fraction of the charisma of Carousel.
‘I’ll probably be here a lot of the time when you work. In the kitchen. Making stocks of ice cream and getting things ready, or doing my books in the room upstairs,’ said
Violet. ‘I won’t be in your way, will I?’
‘No, no,’ said Pav. He took a tape measure out of his pocket and a notepad. ‘Excuse, please.’ He began to take the measurements of the walls and write them down with a
pencil so small it was lost in his hand.
Violet drank her coffee and realized she wasn’t just watching him, she was appraising him. He had such a calm air about him, so different from the hyper-ness that surrounded Glyn.
Pav’s eyes were darting around the space as he planned his masterpiece and scribbled down notes and ideas. She recognized the passion he had for his work because that’s what she felt
about her ice cream, wanting to make the best in the world and then market it across the globe – although it sounded a little silly to admit that to anyone so she never had. Well, she had
once – to the careers officer at school, who had laughed and told her to get her head out of the clouds and stop deluding herself. The echo of his words had rung loud and long in her head and
served to hold her back from her true potential. It had far outweighed any encouragement her family and friends had given her, even though she knew it shouldn’t be that way.
Violet snatched her attention away from Pav’s big frame and back to her coffee. She shouldn’t be eyeing up young men like that. He must be about ten years her junior. Cougar. Or,
worse: cradle-snatcher. She would be married in eleven weeks and the part of her heart that might thud for another was destined to die.
Chapter 10
Glyn’s parents, Joy and Norman Leach, were the sort of couple who finished off each other’s sentences and wore matching home-knits with native American grey wolf
heads on the front. They were joined at the hip, had the same dislikes and likes, and everything in their house, where possible, was labelled ‘his’ and ‘hers’. In a previous
life they would have been a Twix. Norman painted small models of soldiers when he wasn’t gardening and Joy did cross-stitch pictures, usually of owls, which Norman then framed and hung on the
walls for her. Joy thought she was being wanton if she had a glass of sherry at any time other than Christmas – and always Croft Original, never Harveys Bristol Cream. Norman reached the
heights of ecstasy looking through Caravan Monthly magazine or buying seeds. They were kind and gentle people, if incredibly dull. They made a wet weekend in Grimsby look like a
fortnight’s luxury cruise in the Bahamas.
They’d had Glyn – their only child – considerably late in life. Joy was forty-two and they had both given up hope of ever conceiving. As such, he was their precious jewel and
they worried about him constantly and still treated him as if he was five. When she was in town Joy was always buying him pants and socks.
Their house was a remarkably neat and twee bungalow in Pogley, backing onto a dribble of a stream known as the Stripe. Their garden was immaculate and would have made Alan Titchmarsh’s
head nod in approval. Everything about the Leachs was immaculate. Even Misty, their immaculately Persil-clean West Highland white terrier, always shat in the same spot in the garden – out of
sight behind the aloe vera plant.
They gushed out of the door when they saw Violet’s car draw up, waving and fussing. They were so pleased to see her that Violet felt more than a stab of guilt
that she had taken the bull by the horns, left the head-pastry-chef job she had in a Sheffield hotel and ventured out on her own. She had made her last place into a really successful little
business, but the building didn’t have a fraction of the charisma of Carousel.
‘I’ll probably be here a lot of the time when you work. In the kitchen. Making stocks of ice cream and getting things ready, or doing my books in the room upstairs,’ said
Violet. ‘I won’t be in your way, will I?’
‘No, no,’ said Pav. He took a tape measure out of his pocket and a notepad. ‘Excuse, please.’ He began to take the measurements of the walls and write them down with a
pencil so small it was lost in his hand.
Violet drank her coffee and realized she wasn’t just watching him, she was appraising him. He had such a calm air about him, so different from the hyper-ness that surrounded Glyn.
Pav’s eyes were darting around the space as he planned his masterpiece and scribbled down notes and ideas. She recognized the passion he had for his work because that’s what she felt
about her ice cream, wanting to make the best in the world and then market it across the globe – although it sounded a little silly to admit that to anyone so she never had. Well, she had
once – to the careers officer at school, who had laughed and told her to get her head out of the clouds and stop deluding herself. The echo of his words had rung loud and long in her head and
served to hold her back from her true potential. It had far outweighed any encouragement her family and friends had given her, even though she knew it shouldn’t be that way.
Violet snatched her attention away from Pav’s big frame and back to her coffee. She shouldn’t be eyeing up young men like that. He must be about ten years her junior. Cougar. Or,
worse: cradle-snatcher. She would be married in eleven weeks and the part of her heart that might thud for another was destined to die.
Chapter 10
Glyn’s parents, Joy and Norman Leach, were the sort of couple who finished off each other’s sentences and wore matching home-knits with native American grey wolf
heads on the front. They were joined at the hip, had the same dislikes and likes, and everything in their house, where possible, was labelled ‘his’ and ‘hers’. In a previous
life they would have been a Twix. Norman painted small models of soldiers when he wasn’t gardening and Joy did cross-stitch pictures, usually of owls, which Norman then framed and hung on the
walls for her. Joy thought she was being wanton if she had a glass of sherry at any time other than Christmas – and always Croft Original, never Harveys Bristol Cream. Norman reached the
heights of ecstasy looking through Caravan Monthly magazine or buying seeds. They were kind and gentle people, if incredibly dull. They made a wet weekend in Grimsby look like a
fortnight’s luxury cruise in the Bahamas.
They’d had Glyn – their only child – considerably late in life. Joy was forty-two and they had both given up hope of ever conceiving. As such, he was their precious jewel and
they worried about him constantly and still treated him as if he was five. When she was in town Joy was always buying him pants and socks.
Their house was a remarkably neat and twee bungalow in Pogley, backing onto a dribble of a stream known as the Stripe. Their garden was immaculate and would have made Alan Titchmarsh’s
head nod in approval. Everything about the Leachs was immaculate. Even Misty, their immaculately Persil-clean West Highland white terrier, always shat in the same spot in the garden – out of
sight behind the aloe vera plant.
They gushed out of the door when they saw Violet’s car draw up, waving and fussing. They were so pleased to see her that Violet felt more than a stab of guilt
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