Page 52 of One for the Road
“What do you know?”
She stopped eating, considering like I’d asked her a real question and not made some shitty sarcastic remark I’d known would go straight over her head.
“I learned about space at summer camp.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me.”
She slurped another mouthful, chocolatey milk staining the side of her mouth. “On Mars, the sunsets are blue instead of orange. That’s why I’m colouring them in blue.” She pointed to an open colouring book. I barely even glanced at the neatly coloured-in stars and planets, instead zeroing in on the stack of bills in the middle of the table.
“Very cool,” I said, leafing through them without picking up the pile. Gas and electric, car insurance, phone bill. Each one was stamped with a red “Finalnotice”.Fuck.The truth of Isla’s situation sank heavily in my gut. No wonder she was so desperate to win the Cairn & Crust. “How about this one: if you could fly an aeroplane into space, it would take over three years to reach Saturn.”
Her eyes bugged wide, and the now-soggy loops slipped from the spoon with a splat. “Three years? I wouldn’t get there until I was ten!”
“Wild, huh?” Despite the ugly feeling beginning to snakethrough my bloodstream, I couldn’t resist smiling as her face lit up.
Kids were way too fucking easy to impress.
“How old would you be when you got there, Ali?”
“Yeah, Ali. How old would you be?” The husky voice came from behind me.
Isla. Nudging the stack of bills aside with my elbow, I turned slowly in my seat. A show of casual disinterest.
She wore a floaty pink skirt, so bright it should have been illegal. A T-shirt that was ever-so-slightly cropped. Enough jewellery to set off a metal detector. Her hair was wet and braided. Skin bare and freckled.
Three things happened in quick succession, like they did every time I spent more than five minutes with her. Heat prickled down my spine. My stomach lurched. And I reminded myself that I wasn’t a good-enough man to care about this woman and her problems.
Isla clapped her hands together, turning her attention to Teddy. “Right, sunshine, time to get dressed. Daddy isn’t collecting you until this afternoon, so how about we play a game at the food market this morning? Whoever sells the most pastries gets ice cream?”
Teddy’s mouth twisted. Considering. “Is Ali playing?”
She included me so quickly.
A strange feeling curled in my chest. I pushed the chair, unable to say anything but, “Of course.”
13
Isla
“Are those twice-baked croissants I see there?”
“Hey, Mac.” Wiping my hands on my apron, I greeted the moustached owner of the nearby pizza stand. He rubbed his hands together, perusing the menu I’d taped to the counter of Brown’s compact food van. “All the croissants are twice baked, gives them a little extra crunch.”
“Chocolate?” He looked hopeful.
I started to reply, but was quickly shut down by Teddy, who stood on a stool to see over the high counter. At least a decade old, the cramped, paint-chipped van was warm no matter the weather. Just roomy enough to hold a small fridge, the coffee machine hissing in the corner and one person to comfortably work. Two at a push. Three made for averytight squeeze.
“I have pistachio,” Teddy told Mac. “But if you squint real hard, it kind of looks like chocolate.”
“If chocolate were having an identity crisis,” I cut in, apologetically. I hadn’t expected Teddy to take the game quite so seriously. She was like Leonardo DiCaprio inTheWolfof Wall Street. Ruthless. Taking no prisoners. Nothing more important than her next sale as she hollered at passersby on their way to the toilets, everyone a potential customer.
Mac laughed, dark eyes shining. “You’ve got quite the little saleswoman on your hands. Teddy could give Jessica Brown a run for her money. It’s adorable.”
“So adorable,” I replied, half wondering if I’d have to bail her out for money laundering one day. But even with the lack of sleep, I had to admit, I was having fun.
The food market ran monthly from April to October, and from my very first visit, I’d been desperate to have a little stand of my own. Out in the fresh air, my own creations on the counter.
I’d felt a little silly the first time I manned the van, but as I’d laid out endless croissants, tarts and buns I’d spent hours prepping in the sweaty little kitchen at Brown’s, I couldn’t help dreaming that this wasmylittle business. I felt it even more strongly today, with my own menu instead of just the usual offerings. Not that I didn’t love working for Jess, because I did; I owed hereverything. But there was an excitement at doing it for yourself.
