Page 57 of And Then There Was You

Forty-Nine Merryn

Ruthie has been like a warrior queen since she arrived this morning.

I don’t know what’s behind it, but I’m too nervous to ask.

Better to let her stomp around like St Ives’ answer to Boudicca than to attract her ire.

When it comes to my assistant, the path of least resistance is definitely the preferable route.

Even still, it’s a welcome distraction for me today. Luke’s visit last night unsettled everything. My head doesn’t believe a word of what he said, but my battered heart is vulnerable to doubt.

If Grant knew I was looking for him, and chose to leave the place he knew he’d be found – money or no money as part of that decision – it should tell me everything I need to know.

I just can’t quite let go of his ghost, of the memory of the kind-hearted man who always found time for me.

Until I can, I’m always going to wonder what might have been.

‘Table 14 wants more tea,’ Ruthie says, leaving the counter with two toasted paninis.

‘On it,’ Murph says, leaping out of her way. Over by the hot water urn, I see him pause for a steadying breath.

‘I can take those over,’ I gently offer.

He shakes his head. ‘No fear, boss. I have my orders.’

‘You can say no, you know.’

‘And risk losin’ my head? Not likely! Mood she’s in today, if she yells jump , I’m bleddy well jumpin’!’

I welcome a family as they arrive, holding open the door for the suntanned mother to manoeuvre a huge pushchair inside.

‘Cheers,’ she pants. ‘I swear this thing’ll be the death of me.’

‘There’s space beside the counter if you want to leave it there, once you and your little one are settled?’ I offer, waving at the bright-eyed toddler observing me.

‘Could I? That’d be amazing!’

I look over to Murph, but he’s way ahead of me, fetching a wooden high chair from the stack beside the chained-off stairs to my flat and following the customers over to their chosen table.

Ruthie appears the other side, with a pot of colouring pencils and a small stack of paper, blessing a startled Murph with an approving glance.

‘There are baby change facilities in the toilet out in the courtyard and if you need any food or bottles warming we can do that for you,’ I say, aware that we’re now crowding the table. Murph takes the hint and slopes back to the counter, Ruthie turning towards the courtyard, order pad in hand.

‘You’re angels, the lot of you,’ the woman breathes, flopping down onto her seat. ‘You wouldn’t believe the hassle we’ve had, lugging that pushchair everywhere. Anyone would think we’d brought a sherpa tank with us. And pushing it over all those cobbles.’

‘I can imagine. Now, relax, take a look at the menu and give us a wave when you’re ready to order. No rush.’

I love the calm that settles over customers once they’re seated in Sweet Reverie.

Over the last three years, I’ve learned to recognise the change when people feel comfortable.

When this place was just a dream and a seemingly impossible to-do list to get it off the ground, I hoped I could create a sanctuary in the heart of St Ives.

Somewhere people would associate with calm and fun, a place to consider theirs, wherever they had travelled here from.

It doesn’t work for everyone, of course, especially in the summer months, when people are stressed and frustrated and paying far too much for their holiday homes.

But most of our visitors seem happy here.

Today, at least, the nicer kind of customers are prevalent.

Which is probably for the best, considering Ruthie appears ready for a fight.

I wait until all the seated orders are done before broaching the topic with her. ‘You look like you need a cuppa,’ I say, guiding her behind the counter. ‘Come and keep me company for five minutes.’

She accepts, joining me at the urn. I nod at Murph, who quickly plates an empire ocean biscuit and slides it cautiously along the worktop towards her.

‘I saved you this,’ he mutters. ‘Because you deserve it.’ Treat delivered, he hurries back out.

Ruthie watches him through narrowed eyes. ‘Weird.’

‘Kind,’ I argue. ‘He’s been scared of you all morning.’

‘Me? Why?’

I hand her a large mug of tea. ‘Because you’ve been like a Valkyrie.’

‘Like the Amy Winehouse song?’ Her smile cracks almost immediately. ‘I’m messin’ with you, Mer. Your face!’

She’s proud of the joke, so I’m happy to let her have it. ‘It’s a bit hard to tell today.’

She takes a large bite of her empire ocean biscuit, wiping crumbs from her lips. ‘That scary?’

‘ That scary. Are you okay?’

‘I’m good. Not as good as these biscuits, though. What’s different with them?’

‘Murph baked them.’

‘Get out of town!’

‘He did. Decorated them, too.’ I glance at what remains of her biscuit. ‘That one had a smiley face iced on it, to try to cheer you up.’

‘Did it?’ She stops chewing, eyes growing wide. ‘ Did it?’

‘It did. Which you might have noticed if you hadn’t been ripping the place up.’

She winces at that. ‘I didn’t mean to. It’s just that I sorted somethin’ today, before I came in. I’m still fired up about it. And before you ask, no, I’m not tellin’. But it’s been on my mind.’

‘I’m sure whatever it was needed to be dealt with.’

She observes me as she drinks tea. ‘Yeah, I reckon it did. Sorry, Mer. I’ll cool it now . . .’

Over her shoulder, I see Zanna Venn in the open doorway.

‘Take a moment, okay? Enjoy your tea.’

Leaving Ruthie, I hurry over to the reporter. ‘Hey, good to see you. Did your editor let you out of the newsroom for good behaviour?’

‘Something like that.’ Her smile is fleeting, gone too soon, her usual joviality dulled. ‘Can we have a chat?’

Instantly, I’m tense, my body on alert. This isn’t a social call. It’s something urgent that demands delivery in person. ‘There’s a table free by the piano.’

Zanna accepts and I follow her through the café to the courtyard. We sit, and I watch her hands writhing and twisting on the mosaic table top. Eventually, they become still as she looks at me.

‘Frank’s cancelling the assignment,’ she says, my worst fears confirmed. ‘Numbers are falling online and there just isn’t the interest to keep it going. He’s moving me on to the community pages desk, so it’s WI groups and rotary functions for the foreseeable.’

‘Can you appeal? Ask him to reconsider?’

‘Not if I want to keep my job.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Merryn. I’ve tried keeping stuff going under his radar, but he’s cottoned on.’

‘Or someone made him stop you,’ I say, remembering the open threats Graham Jacobs threw at Zanna when we went to see him.

‘Or that.’

‘Why don’t they want me to find him? What is it to them, anyway?’

Zanna shrugs. ‘I wish I knew. But this is as far as I can go. I shouldn’t even be here. I made up some bollocks about interviewing a knit’n’natter group just so I could get out of the office.’

It’s funny and heartbreaking at the same time, the release of the joke tempered by the finality of our position.

‘Well, thank you. For everything.’

‘I just wish it was more.’

So do I. But I won’t tell her that.

I see her out, exchanging vague promises to stay in touch that I recognise as the escape routes they really are. It’s unlikely we’ll speak again. But I won’t regret asking for her help, or making the public appeal.

It’s the final glimmer of hope, extinguished. The last roll of the dice. I can’t fight it, or demand a different outcome.

It’s time to face facts: I won’t find Grant Henderson.

Heart shattered, I force a smile into place and return to my customers.