Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

No Jam

"I've brought you a present," Anya said and pulled one loaf out of her bag. "It's sourdough. My signature recipe."

Rhys Holyoake's eyebrows jumped up, and he picked up the paper bag with his left hand.

"As a thank-you for giving me and Varya a lift that day," Anya added.

"Thank you," he said. "It was nothing. How are you settling in?" he asked, and then threw a quick look towards his office.

"You don't have to make small talk with me," Anya hurriedly said. "I know you're in a rush. You should go to your–" She wasn't sure how to continue.

"Date," Sam Holyoake cut in, with a mischievous grin. "He's going on a date with his ex-wife."

Anya gave both men shocked looks.

"You never learn, brother, do you?" Sam asked sardonically. "Thankfully, she has. I don't think flowers and dinners and jewellery are going to cut it this time."

"Sod off," Rhys grumbled good-naturedly. "Blaire, do you mind getting me my phone, please? And put the bread on my desk." He gave Anya a distracted smile. "Thank you again."

The receptionist nodded, took the bag, and darted to Rhys' office door. Anya started muttering her goodbyes and backing up towards the door, feeling out of place and disappointed. She wasn't sure what she'd hoped to achieve by this visit - but clearly more than this awkward conversation. Outside, she realised that she didn't know where the bakeries that James Whitlaw had mentioned, were. She considered going back to ask the Holyoakes, but then she just pushed Henry's pram ahead, hoping to find someone else to ask. They had no money, so a café or one of the cosy looking shops were out of the question, and suddenly Anya stopped, unsure what to do.

"Mum?" Varya asked.

"Just give me a moment." Anya took a long measured breath. "We just need to figure out where–"

At that moment Henry emitted a long shrill scream and flailed in his pram. He didn't have a proper sleeping routine, Anya had noticed, and tended to wake up sharply and in discomfort. Anya rushed to him and pulled him out, pressing him to herself. He sobbed and squashed his face into her neck, and snuffled, calming down quickly, rubbing his nose against her throat. He smelled nice - that warm cosy smell babies have, when they're clean and have just woken up - and suddenly Anya realised she couldn't just leave the farm, without finding someone to take over her care for the boy. Taking this childminder job had indeed been the daftest idea ever.

"Mum?" Varya sounded worried, and Anya swallowed the knot in her throat, ordering herself to take her hysterics under control.

"He must be hungry," Anya muttered and peeled Henry off herself. "Are you hungry, bubz?"

The boy scrunched his face in a displeased grimace, and Anya chuckled joylessly.

"You're such a grump, mister," she said and put him back in his pram. "Sally said she'd be in the Town Hall, helping out with the books fair. Let's see if she can give us a lift to the farm."

Varya's face lit up at the mention of a book fair. Anya remembered being Varya's age and reading book after book, and how their housekeeper would have to bring her tea to the reading nook in Anya's father's library. She'd been a different person then, specifically she'd been allowed to have tastes, and a reading habit slash obsession, and the privilege of education and leisure - but there was no point in dwelling on it now, was there?

"I see a garage right there, let's ask about the bakeries and the Town Hall," Anya said with a sigh, and buckled Henry in.

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