cups and coffee machine parts are hung on them. These instantly appeal to the designer in me. They’re very well composed, and it’s a nice juxtaposition with the rest of the decor.
The place is about half full of very content-looking coffee imbibers. As well they should be, given the rather lovely atmosphere the place has.
Along the back wall is a wide counter, on which is placed a large shiny barista machine – the only truly modern thing in a space otherwise full to bursting with antique British character – and a small cabinet containing all manner of delectable treats, like muffins and flapjacks. Other than these, though, nothing in here breaks the illusion of being transported back to a bucolic, olde worlde period of English history.
It’s like a coffee shop you’d find in Hobbiton.
I half expect to walk up to the counter and be greeted by Frodo Baggins, asking me if I’d like a latte or a cappuccino.
As it goes, however, it’s not Frodo who greets me, but a pretty, black-haired barista wearing an apron with the café’s simple logo on it, and a winning smile on her face. This is fine by me, as hairy exposed feet are not hygienic in a café setting.
‘Morning,’ I say to her. ‘Is it OK to sit anywhere?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she replies, maintaining that bright smile. ‘Just grab a table, and I’ll come over with a couple of menus.’ As she’s talking, I can see the light of recognition dawn in her eyes.
This is a look I’ve seen a fair bit of since Fergus’s story went into the paper. It appears I have stumbled across someone else who has read the article about my detox.
‘Thanks very much,’ I say to her, and turn away before she has the chance to question me about it. I’m already feeling nervous about meeting with Henrietta; I’m not sure a chat about my new-found local infamy would help me out right now.
I select a table in one of the bay windows that looks out on to the village square.
Longfield seems like a very nice place to live – if you can afford it. There’s no actual sign of the long field itself, but I’m sure it’s knocking around here somewhere.
The black-haired barista brings over a couple of menus and places them on the table.
As she does this, her eyes narrow. ‘I’m sorry, but do I know you? You look awfully familiar.’
I smile a bit awkwardly. ‘Um. Do you read the Daily Local News?’
Her eyes widen. ‘Oh yes! You’re him, aren’t you? The guy who’s doing the detox!’
‘Yep. That’s me.’
‘I read all about you on the paper’s website about a week ago. I was searching for information about detoxing and stumbled across it.’
‘Oh, that’s . . . that’s great.’
The bright smile is gone from her face, and she actually looks a little anguished now. ‘Could I ask you how it’s going? Only, I—’
At that moment, the café doorbell chimes, indicating that another customer has walked in. And not just any customer, either. This must be Henrietta!
The woman is a tall brunette, wearing a long, flowing mauve dress and a black tailored jacket. She also has a large leather handbag strapped across her chest. Henrietta is pretty much exactly as she described herself in her advert and the phone call we shared.
She’s also quite beautiful.
Score!
The black-haired barista turns to her, seemingly forgetting about what she was saying to me. That anguished look on her face is gone, and she’s all smiles again. ‘Good morning!’ she says to my blind date.
‘Hello there,’ Henrietta replies – and I know it’s her from the rich, upper-class accent. ‘I’m here to meet someone.’ She sees me sitting there in the bay window and inclines her head in my direction. ‘That gentleman there, I believe.’
I rise from my seat and smile. ‘Henrietta? I’m Andy. And I’m very pleased to meet you.’
Henrietta comes over to me and takes my hand, shaking it gently.
I can see now that she is a little taller than me, which is a first.
In fact, Henrietta is not the kind of woman who has historically been my type. But, my word, am I pleased she agreed to meet me today. I may have to alter what my type is after this.
‘It’s good to meet you too, Andy,’ she replies. ‘I frankly wasn’t expecting anyone to respond to that silly advert. Not in this day and age.’ She smiles, lighting up her aquiline features. ‘Lucky for me there’s at least one man around