3

3

Pips

I started handing out soup samples, using teeny little plastic cups that wouldn't feed a garden sparrow. But Tamara had insisted we weren't running a café. There was still a large amount left in the bowl, so I took my time, exerting my charm, and sneaking a few extra spoonfuls to anyone who looked like they'd buy. Oh, and Mr G.

"The Demo's over for now, folks," I announced. "Please feel free to take a recipe card, which will show you where to buy the ingredients in store. There are discount vouchers, too--for tinned tomatoes, I hurry to add, not for a new microwave or a year's supply of luxury face cream." I appreciated the laughter. "And there'll be further demonstrations—" Brace yourselves, happy campers! "I'm here all week!"

Someone cheered, and I got a smattering of applause. I took an extravagant, only half-ironic bow. Customers ambled around either side of the table, getting tangled up with their baskets. They sipped the soup, and chatted and smiled. I must have been good enough.

Maybe I should've kept up with my drama school lessons, though the Dance section had always been a bit of a challenge, mainly because my partners couldn't keep up with my inspired improv. But I wasn't acting the flush on my cheeks and the sudden patter of my heart as Blue-Eyes walked up to me.

I tried to lounge seductively against the table as people grabbed leaflets off the top of it. You try it, leaning against a background of tinned lentils and kidney beans, dressed in fabric that runs static off your trousers, and without your best heels because you have to wear sensible flat shoes for pounding up and down the aisles. And no double entendre intended there.

"That was great," Blue-Eyes said with a smile.

I quickly whipped off the hygiene hat. He was so cute, and his gaze followed my hand as I ran it through my hair to flounce it back up. "Thanks. Fun and flavourful in equal portions, right? That's me!"

His mouth twitched as if he was holding back a grin, which was what I was aiming for— a direct and promising flirt. Damn my ex and his treacherous threesome; I still had my superpower! Make them smile, they'll go a mile. Or two, which was how far away either the pub or my flat was.

"You have a unique delivery, I'll say."

"Yeah?" I was definitely taking that as a compliment, though Mr Vaughn in Drama had made a similar comment when I played Malvolio in Twelfth Night in glitter short-shorts and an alien bobble headband, and he had a much less encouraging look on his face. I leant a little closer to this handsome new man and held out my hand. "Pips Chawton. Are you local?" Not my best pick-up line, but I was sure I hadn't mistaken mutual interest. "There's a great little bar on the green. I'd be happy to show you around. Maybe after we finish here…um…?"

"Marcus. Marcus Lambert. It's a date," he said easily, then flushed again. "Oh. Wait. Not if you didn't mean…"

"Oh, I meant ," I said, still clutching his hand. "Definitely a date."

He chuckled and that delicious twinkle was back in his eyes. "Are you offering to show me around the bar, or…?"

"Whatever you like." Too bloody right, I was. I loved a bit of banter and he seemed to be on the same page. Joy! I felt quite giddy; it'd been a long time since someone had attracted me so quickly and so strongly, and the spark between us was as heady as it was unexpected. My mouth was stuck in a teeth-glinting grin, and I let the sizzle between us go right to my head.

"How did you think the Demo went?" Marcus asked.

I preened, no other word for it. "Though I say so myself, I reckon I nailed it. That's one on the nose for those tossers in Head Office, right?"

"Sorry?"

I smirked. "It was another bizarre idea from Marketing. Demo Days? Daft Days, more like. Yet the despotic decree comes down from on high and we all jump to do their bidding. Head Office is full of fat cats who sit in fancy London offices and have never had a proper job like us minions, let alone tramped the aisles at a small local store like YBB. They probably get everything delivered from Fortnum and Masons."

"How long have you worked here, Pips?"

"Three months. It's… well, actually, quite a long time for me. But this is just until I find something better, of course."

"Of course." His voice was quiet. "But you like the store?"

I was about to bounce a witticism back to him but… for some reason I paused. I'd had a lot of jobs, in a short space of time, and for reasons I didn't always like to dwell on. But I'd already admitted to myself that I liked it here, hadn't I? The staff were great, I'd made some good friends, and I'd learned a lot about both products and customers. It still felt a bit odd. Temps like me—and Marcus—didn't often hang around for long.

"It's a good place," was all I found to say.

Marcus nodded; his smile was barely there. When he tugged gently, I reluctantly let go of his hand. "But you don't think the demonstrations are a good idea? You seemed to throw yourself into today's."

"Our customers drop into YBB for milk and chocolate Hobnobs when the emergency calls, sweetheart. Not for patronising lectures on how to cook soup. But I can still put on a good show, regardless of what I really think of the Marketing Tsar's orders. Right?"

Marcus blinked hard. Maybe a little too hard. He was looking nervous again. Fuck, was I coming on too strong? My spirits dropped a step. But I'd spent too long with my exes worrying about saying and doing the right thing—according to them—and they still dumped me. Things were going to be different from now on. A guy had to like me as I was, or… well. Not . I may lose a few dating opportunities being my full-on extrovert self, but that'd be their loss.

But just for that moment, I wondered if I'd gone too far with the lively gay-boy offensive, because, actually… something made me think I really wanted to get to know this lovely lad much better.

"Hey, watch yourself!" Lina yelped behind me as a passing trolley bumped into her. At her side, Shanaz was trying to shift an abandoned basket loaded with Granny Smith apples away from the logjam of customers, but all I could do was gaze at the handsome, apparently speechless man in front of me.

But Marcus' expression was now tinged with desperation. I mean, I've been known to render my dates speechless—though usually when we were both out of our clothing, and occasionally because I'd forgotten I was wearing my unicorn-patterned jockstrap—but this seemed overreaction. You stupid tosser, Pips . This had started as a passing flirt, a get-your-confidence-back game for me. Or so I'd thought. My heart ached suddenly, sharply. Maybe this wasn't a game at all?

We spoke at the same time.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to rant on like that," I blurted out.

"No. I mean, it's fine," Marcus said urgently. "But I need to say—"

And then someone screamed.

"That sounds like Shanaz!" I gasped.

The echoes ricocheted off tinned peas and back across into a stack of icing sugar. Like a choreographed scene, every head in the aisle, including mine, turned in the direction of the noise. Shanaz was surrounded by people so I could only see her topknot over their heads. I started pushing forward through the crowd towards her.

"Mr G! Look!" Shanaz shrieked, pointing with a shaking arm at a huddled lump on the floor in front of the demonstration table. All heads swivelled again, like a herd of meerkat.

Mr G lay on the tiles, curled up on his side. He wasn't moving. And under his head was a slowly spreading pool of liquid. A dark red, viscous liquid.

"Is he dead?" Shanaz wailed, a mess of discarded sample cups scattered at her feet. "Is that blood ?"