Best Women's Erotica(67)

I’m lucky: the sunshine doesn’t just win through, but rolls up the clouds and sends them packing. It turns into a lovely hot summer’s day and by late lunchtime I’m selling steadily. So I’m in a bright mood.

But it’s not just the sun and the trade; it’s how the day started. It’s ridiculous really, but Matt and Trev have really perked me up. Just the way they joked with me and looked at me, like it was more than a kindness they were doing and they were getting something out of my company; the spark in their eyes. Damn, but it’s a long time since anyone but chivalrous old men flirted with me. I’m not used to it from guys younger than I am, and it’s left me a little giddy. I have an extra smile for my customers today.

Oh, they were cute, both of them.

And, oh, I’m too old for this. They’re young enough to be… okay, not really young enough to be my kids, but certainly not even a decade older than Skye, and she’s still at university. I’m forty-two, for heaven’s sake. I’ve got crow’s-feet starting about my eyes, not to mention those horizontal creases across my throat that came out of nowhere, and my hands are starting to look lumpy around the knuckles of my skinny fingers. I’ve got a mortgage that is most of the way toward being paid off and my idea of a good evening is curling up in front of a CSI rerun on TV with a glass of port and a bag of low-sodium pretzels.

Yet when those two looked at me in my tie-dyed dress, they looked. I mean, with happy appreciation, like they were seeing right through the fabric. Or at least, I think they did. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it’s the first sign of early menopause and I’m going batty.

Goddamn. It’s been so long since any bloke fancied me. I’m letting this go to my head.

So I smile and sell ice cream and try hard not to think about them too often, though when I hear a siren going off somewhere I can’t help wondering if they’re on their way to the county hospital with some emergency. Heatstroke probably, in this weather. It’s got to the point that I’m quite grateful to be working over the open freezer.

Then maybe an hour later, while I’m taking the opportunity during a lull to swig bottled water, I see an ambulance nosing through the crowd. The sirens are quiet this time. My stall is on the main avenue between the first aid point and the main arena, so I guess they are on their way down to do their demo. Matt is driving; I spot him through the windscreen as I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, and I feel a kick of shameful pleasure inside me. Suddenly the passenger door opens and Trev drops out, hustling through the crowd, heading straight for me. His dark eyes seize mine. Before I can think what to say, he snatches the big bottle of water from my hand and plants a hard peck on my cheek.

“Need this. Thanks, love,” he says, hurrying back to the ambulance.

My face burns.





Elderflower: nature’s champagne. It works well on the light, clean base of the sheep’s milk, I think, though sometimes I make elderflower sorbet too. The tiny white flowers have to be plucked from the stalks of the flower head with a fork, and they go everywhere. I always end up with them in my hair, like tiny stars against my burning red, hennaed locks. I love elder, this humble everyday shrubby little tree with its sudden extravagant gift of perfumed blossom. I keep a careful watch on the best of the elder trees in the hedgerow down the lane behind my house, and make sure I pick at the perfect time. Get the wrong tree and you end up with the reek of cat pee. Get it right and you’ve got a fragrant note like pure joy.





I don’t see the ambulance head back, but I might have missed it when I went off for my brief loo break, or I might just have been too busy with the queues. It’s a hugely successful day; every one of my tubs is down to empty by the time the fête winds down. Well, nearly—I make sure I save enough for a couple of cones. As we hit the official closing time I take down the signs and clear up, padlocking the cashbox inside one of the freezers, stripping off the last set of plastic gloves and then washing and moisturizing my hands. It’s the same routine as always, but this time I’m more on edge. I keep an eye out as I wipe down and pack up.

They don’t show.

I don’t let myself be disappointed; that would be an admission of something deeply foolish. Instead I make up two sugar cones with generous scoops of ice cream—one chocolate-and-chili, one honey-and-saffron—and I pop them in the plastic rack for holding cones and head up to the first aid point on foot. All around me stalls are being dismantled and vans loaded. I consider letting my hair down from its thick plait—I know my features are on the sharp side and loose hair softens them—but that’s one step too far toward undignified.