Read Online Just the Way You Are by Lynsey James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynsey James
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of delicate china I was afraid of breaking. A ball of frustration built up inside me and all I wanted to do was scream as loud as I could. How could someone who wrote so beautifully be so hesitant to reveal himself? He wrote about wanting us to be together and to show me how much he loved me yet
he
was the only one stopping that from happening. I gave a heavy sigh, stuffed the letter in my handbag then dashed out the door after realising how late I was running.
I got to Starbucks around ten minutes later than planned. Luckily, the person I was meeting hadn’t arrived yet. I went inside and ordered myself a medium mocha and a piece of lemon drizzle cake.
‘That’s £4.85,’ the scary-looking barista informed me.
I opened my mouth to protest at the ridiculously high price but thought better of it when her bushy eyebrows lowered even further. Instead, I shoved a £5 note in her hand, muttered something about keeping the change and took my tray to a table by the window. The chocolate-coloured tub chairs were so comfortable and I had a great vantage point for looking onto the High Street.
However, it was inside that really caught my interest. While I waited for my lunch companion to turn up, I sat round in my chair and gazed at the other diners. They were all so different; some were young, some were old, some were alone and others were with a partner or friend. Coffee shops really were the best places to people-watch. I scanned the room, looking at each person for no more than a few seconds. It fascinated me to think that there were so many stories in one room. For the next five minutes, I amused myself by making up little backstories for some of my fellow diners. One lady who looked like a librarian was confiding in her friend about a torrid affair she was having to escape her boring marriage, a smart, business-like woman wanted to tell her impossibly hunky best friend she had feelings for him and two mothers with buggies were thinking about each other’s husbands…
Just as I wondered whether to make an old man sitting in the corner someone who’d been stood up for a blind date or a widower who came to his wife’s favourite coffee place every day, in she walked. She looked as splendid as ever, wearing a crisp white blouse and fitted black trousers. Her silver hair was neatly styled and the trademark sparkle in her eyes burned brightly. All the diners stopped to look at her; Ivy St Clair knew how to make an entrance.
I waved so she could see me, and a smile illuminated her beautiful face when she did. She walked over to my table and took a seat opposite me.
‘Why hello there sugar! Nice to see you again, you look divine if I may say so.’ Her Deep South accent was a joy to hear and such a contrast to the Mancunian brogue I was used to hearing.
‘Thanks Ivy, so do you,’ I replied with a smile. ‘And thanks for agreeing to meet me today; the weather’s not the best is it?’
I gestured to the drab, grey morning we’d been greeted with. Dark clouds were gathering overhead and it looked like the heavens would open any minute.
‘No but that’s good ol’ England for you, huh? Still, back in New Orleans there were hurricanes like you’ve never seen before, so this is an improvement!’
‘Do you want a drink and something to eat?’ I asked.
‘No thank you honey, I just ate breakfast.’ Ivy patted her stomach and unwound the teal scarf from round her neck. ‘Got to watch the ol’ figure as well, especially at my age.’
I chuckled. Ivy couldn’t be any more than seventy and looked fantastic for her age; she definitely didn’t need to watch her weight.
‘Shall we just start the interview then?’ I rummaged in my bag for my tape recorder and accidentally pulled Mr Writer’s latest letter out. Flustered, I stuffed it back in as quickly as I could. Not quickly enough, however, judging by the smile forming on Ivy’s lips.
‘Something important?’ she asked with a knowing look.
‘G-gas bill.’ I
he
was the only one stopping that from happening. I gave a heavy sigh, stuffed the letter in my handbag then dashed out the door after realising how late I was running.
I got to Starbucks around ten minutes later than planned. Luckily, the person I was meeting hadn’t arrived yet. I went inside and ordered myself a medium mocha and a piece of lemon drizzle cake.
‘That’s £4.85,’ the scary-looking barista informed me.
I opened my mouth to protest at the ridiculously high price but thought better of it when her bushy eyebrows lowered even further. Instead, I shoved a £5 note in her hand, muttered something about keeping the change and took my tray to a table by the window. The chocolate-coloured tub chairs were so comfortable and I had a great vantage point for looking onto the High Street.
However, it was inside that really caught my interest. While I waited for my lunch companion to turn up, I sat round in my chair and gazed at the other diners. They were all so different; some were young, some were old, some were alone and others were with a partner or friend. Coffee shops really were the best places to people-watch. I scanned the room, looking at each person for no more than a few seconds. It fascinated me to think that there were so many stories in one room. For the next five minutes, I amused myself by making up little backstories for some of my fellow diners. One lady who looked like a librarian was confiding in her friend about a torrid affair she was having to escape her boring marriage, a smart, business-like woman wanted to tell her impossibly hunky best friend she had feelings for him and two mothers with buggies were thinking about each other’s husbands…
Just as I wondered whether to make an old man sitting in the corner someone who’d been stood up for a blind date or a widower who came to his wife’s favourite coffee place every day, in she walked. She looked as splendid as ever, wearing a crisp white blouse and fitted black trousers. Her silver hair was neatly styled and the trademark sparkle in her eyes burned brightly. All the diners stopped to look at her; Ivy St Clair knew how to make an entrance.
I waved so she could see me, and a smile illuminated her beautiful face when she did. She walked over to my table and took a seat opposite me.
‘Why hello there sugar! Nice to see you again, you look divine if I may say so.’ Her Deep South accent was a joy to hear and such a contrast to the Mancunian brogue I was used to hearing.
‘Thanks Ivy, so do you,’ I replied with a smile. ‘And thanks for agreeing to meet me today; the weather’s not the best is it?’
I gestured to the drab, grey morning we’d been greeted with. Dark clouds were gathering overhead and it looked like the heavens would open any minute.
‘No but that’s good ol’ England for you, huh? Still, back in New Orleans there were hurricanes like you’ve never seen before, so this is an improvement!’
‘Do you want a drink and something to eat?’ I asked.
‘No thank you honey, I just ate breakfast.’ Ivy patted her stomach and unwound the teal scarf from round her neck. ‘Got to watch the ol’ figure as well, especially at my age.’
I chuckled. Ivy couldn’t be any more than seventy and looked fantastic for her age; she definitely didn’t need to watch her weight.
‘Shall we just start the interview then?’ I rummaged in my bag for my tape recorder and accidentally pulled Mr Writer’s latest letter out. Flustered, I stuffed it back in as quickly as I could. Not quickly enough, however, judging by the smile forming on Ivy’s lips.
‘Something important?’ she asked with a knowing look.
‘G-gas bill.’ I
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