Chapter 7: Cake Stall

"Don't read the comments," Nic said, coming through my door without knocking.

I'd already read them.

Half of North Street thought I was a hero.

The other half thought I'd been sleeping with a footballer while my poor husband stood by.

Someone had written, No smoke without fire.

Someone else had written, She did look very calm for a woman in shock.

"I'm going to kill Sandra," Nic said.

"No, you're not."

"I'm going to dye her hair green while she sleeps."

"Nic."

"Fine. What are you going to do?"

I looked at the date on my laptop.

The North Street summer fair was on Saturday.

Sandra Seddon had run the cake stall outside the church hall for eleven years.

"I'm going to buy a cake," I said.

Saturday was hot and bright.

North Street was shut to cars from end to end.

There was bunting, a bouncy castle, a man selling paella out of a pan the size of a paddling pool.

Nic had her salon table outside, doing plaits for a pound.

Nathan was carrying her trestle tables for her, because she'd rung him on Thursday and told him to.

He'd come in a baseball cap. It didn't help. People stopped him every ten yards.

"Oi, Coombes! Where's the Duck?"

"Retired," he called back. "Like my knee."

The cake stall was outside the church hall under a white gazebo.

Victoria sponges. Flapjacks. A lemon drizzle in a tin I recognised.

Sandra stood behind the table in a floral apron, taking pound coins and smiling at everyone.

The queue was eight deep.

I joined the end of it.

Behind me, people went quiet one at a time.

By the time I reached the front, the whole stretch of pavement was listening.

Sandra saw me and her smile slipped.

"Natasha."

"A slice of the lemon drizzle, please."

She cut it with a shaking hand and put it on a paper plate.

"That's two pounds."

I gave her a five.

"Keep the change," I said. "Put it toward your phone bill. You must have run it up, with all that posting."