A Winter Flame by Milly Johnson Page B

Effin was wondering what she was doing out at work when it was such a good drying day for the washing.
    ‘What stage is the restaurant at?’ asked Eve, trying to sound super-efficient and super-in-control and not super-pissed-off.
    ‘Wiring – check, plastered – check, painted – check, floorin’– check,’ said Effin, using his short, fat finger to cross off an imaginary checklist in
the air. ‘Kitchen equipment being delivered’ – he looked at his clipboard – ‘Thursday this week for fitting.’
    ‘The caterers are on stand-by. They’re a very good firm. Friends of mine actually,’ put in Jacques. ‘I recommended them to your aunt.’
    Eve’s head whirled suspiciously around. ‘Oh, did you really? I thought you didn’t know about this place before she died.’ Ha. He’d tripped himself up there good and
proper.
    ‘I didn’t,’ said Jacques. ‘She asked me one day if I knew of a catering firm who could run “a friend’s café” as she told me. I put her in touch
with the people I know. I hadn’t a clue she meant this place.’
    Did Eve believe him? Not really. It was all a bit too convenient for her liking.
    ‘Can you let me know if there’s any hold up with anything. We’re on a very tight schedule,’ Jacques said to the squat little foreman.
    ‘No hold ups at all, Captain,’ said Effin.
    Eve huffed. Captain? That was rather close to Major.
    ‘I know some very good caterers myself,’ said Eve. ‘I had in mind to ring them—’
    ‘Evelyn booked them already,’ said Jacques. ‘I sometimes wonder if she knew she was near the end. She must have worked like a demon to arrange all the things she
did.’
    Eve tried not to look as drowned with information as she felt. What the hell was her aunt thinking of, taking on a project of this size at her age? Gutsy old bird as she was, even Eve felt
totally overwhelmed with the amount of work there was to do and oversee. In truth, she felt uncharacteristically drained. Physically as well as mentally.
    ‘I reckon,’ said Effin, slurping noisily on the last of his coffee – a huge pot mug bearing the wording
Welsh men are the best lovers, isn’t it? –
‘we’ll just about do it for a couple of weeks before Christmas. Everything will be signed off and perfect. I’ve drafted a load of Poles in. Work like bloody ’ell they
do.’ He turned purposefully to Eve. ‘Then it’s just down to you to pick the curtains for the cabins.’
    Eve felt herself rearing. Just because she had boobs he was presuming that her major role was to choose the bloody soft furnishings. And the ironic thing was that his boobs were probably bigger
than hers. She heard a weird short squeak and realized it was Jacques trying to hold in a laugh. Boy, was she going to show effin Effin Williams and effin Jacques Glace what she was capable of.
They’d be eating those cushions along with their own words shortly.
    When Effin had left, Jacques watched Eve stomp around the office a few times between boxes.
    ‘So, do you want to pick the curtains for the cabins or shall I?’
    He held up his palms in surrender as Eve whizzed around and tried to burn him with her eyes.
    ‘Joke,’ he said. ‘Evelyn arranged for a team of interior designers as well. As you’ll know if you read the files.’
    ‘Yes, I knew that,’ said Eve, scratching her side. The itching pain there was driving her mental and making her very snappy.
    Outside they heard the Carmarthenshire tones of Effin ring across the yard and drown out even the noise from the digger engine.
    ‘Brysiwch y jiawled diog. Siapwch hi!
And for you non-Welsh bastards who didn’t understand that, I’m not telling you it’s bloody tea-break time. I’m telling
you to hurry up you lazy gits and shape up.’
    Jacques half winced, half laughed. In a past life, Effin would have been beating galley slaves. He was only glad the little gaffer didn’t get PMT weeks.
    ‘Oh, and as far as the stocking of the gift shop goes,