Page 22 of The Lucky Winners
The closest supermarket I can find on Google is called Booths. I’ve never heard of it before, but the neat white letters on the dark green sign look a bit more upmarket than I’m used to.
The car park is spotless, with perfectly painted lines, and it has those shallow, fancy trolleys that never have wobbly wheels. I park, feeling slightly out of place already, and head inside.
The sliding doors open smoothly with a soft hiss, and the first thing that hits me is the beautifully organized bright interior.
It’s like walking into a lifestyle magazine, all the fresh food gleaming and neatly arranged.
The wide aisles stretch ahead like runways, lined with pyramids of glossy apples and carefully stacked artisan bread.
The air smells faintly of freshly ground coffee and something floral, maybe lilies from the fancy bouquets by the entrance.
This is definitely a different experience from my local Aldi back in Nottingham.
I pick up a basket rather than a trolley, telling myself I’ll grab just a few items to tide us over. Milk, bread, just the basics. Until I set eyes on the beautiful pastries and fresh salads.
One look at the prices, and my heart lurches. Nearly four pounds for a sourdough loaf? Whipped butter that costs more than a cheap bottle of Pinot Grigio? They must be having a laugh.
I move quickly, pretending I’m not wincing at the price every time I pick something up. If we’re to have anything at all to eat today, I’ll have to suck it up.
I collect a block of mature Cheddar, ignoring the price tag. I tell myself we can afford it now. We can afford anything .
I’m on the deli aisle, eyeing up some olives stuffed with feta because why not , when I hear someone call me: ‘Merri, is that you?’
I spin around and see Tilda, pushing a trolley towards me. She looks as if she’s just stepped off a Pinterest fashion board: her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail and she’s wearing a soft beige coat that probably cost more than our old car.
‘I see you’ve already sniffed out where to buy the best food around here,’ she says, her smile bright. ‘I’m obsessed with this place. I like it even more than Waitrose.’
‘It’s amazing,’ I agree, having never set foot in Waitrose. ‘But so expensive! I’m used to shopping on a budget. Dev will do his nut when he sees the cost of a few bits to tide us over until I do a big online shop.’
Tilda rolls her eyes, waving a hand dismissively. ‘You’re too honest. Just don’t tell him – that’s always been my ploy. What they don’t know doesn’t hurt them, right?’
We laugh and, for a moment, it feels easy, like we’ve known each other longer than just a couple of short meetings. Tilda checks her watch. ‘Fancy a coffee after your shop, or are you in a rush? I know you just got here.’
I hesitate, glancing at my basket. It’s not like I have anywhere pressing to be and, honestly, the idea of sitting down with someone who seems nice and friendly in a brand new environment is tempting. ‘No rush, another hour won’t hurt. I’d love some coffee.’
Her face lights up. ‘Great. There’s a place a few doors down from here. The Bean Shack. They make the best caramel lattes.’
We agree to meet in the café in twenty minutes, and as I finish my shopping, I find myself smiling.
Moving here felt like leaping off a cliff, leaving everything and everyone behind.
Especially since my friendship with Paige was feeling a little off.
But now, with Tilda being so open and friendly, it feels like maybe – just maybe – I’ll find my footing.
I pack the bags into the boot and lock the car before heading down the street. Booths sits at the end of a neat row of shops, all with classy signs and colourful hanging baskets. The Bean Shack is tucked between a small boutique and a florist.
The bell jangles as I step inside. Mismatched but somehow stylish furniture – plush armchairs, worn wooden tables – fills the space and resembles someone’s cosy living room.
The smell of coffee beans and cinnamon wraps around me, comforting and familiar.
There’s a vintage vibe to the place, with old records propped up on shelves and hand-painted mugs hanging behind the counter.
Tilda is already at the front of the short queue, insisting on getting the drinks. ‘Caramel latte for you, too?’
I nod and she waves me towards a free corner table by the window.
When she joins me, setting down the cups with a flourish, her Gucci handbag lands on the table with a soft thud, the gold logo catching the light.
It’s hard not to notice the diamond rings on her fingers, each one glittering in its own spotlight.
‘So,’ she says, leaning forward, ‘tell me all about yourself. What you and Dev do, and where you lived before your big win.’
Normally, I’d be cautious about sharing too much, but something about Tilda’s openness makes it easy to be honest. Besides, if we’re going to be friends, I need to be prepared to trust her and open up a little.
‘We lived about four miles from Nottingham. I worked in healthcare, and Dev was in sales. We rented a tiny place and …’ I stir my latte, surprised to be smiling affectionately at the memory ‘… our car broke down a couple of days before we found out we’d won the house.
We were getting buses to and from work because we had to wait until payday to fix it. ’
Tilda laughs, shaking a headful of expensive highlights. ‘Wow! It was a timely win, then.’
‘Honestly, that was just the tip of the iceberg. We were behind with our bills and – Oh, listen to me. I don’t want to think about all that again.
Not now the money’s in the bank!’ I wave it off, feeling lighter as I say it.
‘Suffice to say, the lump sum will come in very handy as well as the house. What about you and Simon? What’s your story? ’
‘Well, quick potted history.’ Tilda blows out a long breath.
‘We lived in Newcastle and ran a loft-conversion company for ten years. We sold it three years ago.’ She taps her tall latte glass and looks towards the window.
‘We bought the barn, moved here, and now we’re enjoying the spoils of our years of hard work. ’
I find her account disappointingly brief. ‘You worked together in the business?’
‘Yeah. I mean, we did have a few staff for a while,’ her smile dims a touch, ‘but we wound it down and, in the end, it was just the two of us paying freelance contractors and labour as and when we needed them.’
‘So what made you move here from the north-east?’
She blinks. ‘We just wanted a change. Somewhere away from where we’d lived and worked for so long. We’d visited Windermere a few times over the years, holidayed here, and we thought, Why not? Best thing we did.’
I sip my drink. Her answers to my questions seem slightly subdued but I know how it feels to have reservations about your past.
Tilda brightens. ‘You and Dev should come to dinner at ours this coming weekend. Unless you’re already busy? I know you’ve literally just moved in.’
I don’t hesitate. ‘No, that would be great. Thanks, Tilda … If you’re sure, I’d love that. I know Dev would too. The unpacking can wait.’
As I drive back to Lakeview House, the sun dips a little lower, casting long shadows over the winding roads. Inside, I feel light, buoyant even.
I’ve let the shadows of the past define me for so long, but now I intend to grab this second chance with both hands.
It’s time to leave the ghosts behind.