Finger Food by Helen Lederer Page B

heart sink a little. She hoped they would not start a long conversation. She needed to get Carmel’s attention.
    â€˜Miserable morning!’ Bella called out as the scones were set down. ‘Is that a new carrot cake?’ she added, to keep Carmel focussed on her.
    â€˜Course it is. Up at five I was. Done a coffee ’n’ walnut and all. Fancy a slice of each, do you?’
    â€˜I’ll go for the carrot if I may.’ Bella wanted to be very clear. Nothing worse than being given the wrong cake. Although she might try a slice of coffee and walnut before returning for seconds on the carrot.
    â€˜You sit down. I’ll bring it over when I’m done over here.’ Carmel’s firm tone suggested Bella should no longer hang around the counter, coughing over the cakes and dripping her wet umbrella everywhere.
    Bella stepped back from the counter with a sigh. She couldn’t control the timing of her order now and the annoying old lady with the scones might be wanting extras. Or she might take out a wallet of photos of grandchildren to show to Carmel. All of which would hold up the arrival of cake.
    Bella retreated into her familiar world of make-believe to cope with the fact she had no such family snapshots of her own to show off. Images of Bella with a husband, Bella with a family, Bella the centre of attention at happy family gatherings, played out like a Hollywood film in her mind. Though deep down she knew it was pointless. Forty-year-old women like her didn’t get two chances at life and she’d already messed up one. Pregnancy at sixteen had been an accident, but giving up the baby had been deliberate. Her mother had insisted on it. And since then it had just seemed easier to throw herself into the make-believe of daytime television than risk a real relationship. On TV, perfect families appeared on perfect sofas and talked about their perfect lives …
    Bella’s attention was caught by a bowl of gingerbread men biscuits on the counter, usually reserved for troublesome children who couldn’t wait for a glass of milk or Ribena.
    â€˜Can I just take one of these? For now?’ Bella raised her voice and shook a biscuit at Carmel.
    â€˜Help yourself.’
    Carrying the biscuit Bella swiftly plonked her umbrella across the window seat. She tapped it to make sure it left a damp patch to discourage any other users. Then she guiltily wiped the worst off with a napkin.
    As the comfort of the tangy dough soothed away her worries, Bella looked again at the bridal shop opposite. She needed to see The Dress. The book Making Sense of Being Sacked had indeed ‘made sense’. By finding a ‘vision of something nice’ (even if it wasn’t George Clooney) she had helped herself focus on the positive. Fantasies of a crystal-and-rose-themed wedding suddenly took over. There would be crystal and rose nameplates for the women guests and for the men she’d design … Well the men didn’t matter, did they? Men always disappointed in the end. But this dress would never do that. It could never be like a man, or worse, her stupid misguided mother. This was a dress that was a sparkling beacon of hope, of beauty and lasting happiness, and of everything that wasn’t horrible. She could even hear herself humming something like the wedding march. It must have been quite loud because she suddenly caught sight of the old lady staring at her. Bella shook herself. She must get a grip.
    She took out her glasses and put them on. Then she took out the local paper from her bag and settled down to read. She would do what other people did on their coffee breaks. Maybe there was a crossword puzzle?
    Front page first. A youth had been stabbed in a chip shop in the centre of town, but they had already arrested another youth so there wasn’t much more to report. Katie Boyle’s cousin had opened a dog beauty salon which took up a few more columns than the stabbing. On