Winter at Pretty Beach Polly Babbington (best novels to read txt) 📖

about what he was wearing and whether or not it was appropriate. Coupled with his laid-back attitude and optimistic air something as insignificant as clothing really did not even enter his psyche and whenever she asked him about what she was wearing or how she looked, he would always reply simply that she looked beautiful, which wasn’t always helpful.

She gripped onto his hand tightly as she followed him down to the tube station and a couple of changes later they emerged back up onto the street not far from the Thames.

They marched along through the damp, grey London streets as it got dark until they got to a crossing and an art-deco building on the corner with faded old black tiles, long frosted bay windows and a small black door in the middle of it all. There was an even smaller, old French lady in black cigarette pants, a thick crew neck sweater and gold silk scarf tied to the side of her neck standing outside with a clipboard.

Ben, who had obviously been here before, smiled.

‘Ben Chalmers, table for two.’ The old lady broke out into a smile, opened the door and led them into a silent, narrow stairwell, down two steep sets of dimly lit stairs until they could just about hear signs of life. They entered a small lobby area with a reception desk, an old French flag on the wall and a woman speaking French into her phone and a cigarette in her hand, who waved them in through a door on the left. They entered a tightly packed candlelit restaurant and Ben pointed to the only table that wasn’t occupied - a tiny, wonky table tucked up against the wall with a small dim wall light above it and a floor-length tablecloth.

Sallie stood looking at the scene, a steady hum of conversation and very low jazz music in the background, she couldn't quite work out what was going on - the place was packed to the rafters and Ben had spoken to the woman in French and it seemed as if he was a regular.

‘Where are we, Ben? Is this an underground restaurant?’

‘This, beautiful, is the best French food you’re going to get in London - it’s so good the French themselves come here. My mum has a fast-track pass to it, she’ll even travel over to this side of town to come here - only in a taxi though,’ he said, pulling out her chair, as Sallie tucked her bag under the table.

Sallie looked around. It was breathtaking, but hardly the sort of place she thought Susan would like, way too small and way too unpretentious. Tall lamps with red fringed lampshades sat on the tables, an oddment of mis-matched pictures hung on every bit of spare wall and a narrow shelf midway up the wall and going around the whole place held hundreds of bottles of French wine.

They chatted across the table. A waiter handed them an extensive wine list and a small menu and they sat there talking about Alaska, the Orangery competition and if they would ever find a house in Pretty Beach that ticked all their boxes.

Just as they were finishing an amazing duck pate they had both said was delicious Sallie’s phone buzzed - she said to Ben that she’d better quickly open it as Nina had been worse with her chest. She took it out of her bag and checked - it was from Nina.

You make it ok? Love to know where you ended up?

I certainly am ok, it’s a French underground restaurant - used to be an old theatre apparently.

Sounds right up your street.

Precisely!

How's the asthma?

Not great - been back to the doctor and I’m going to see someone more specialised.

Good, you need to get it sorted.

Yep, I know.

And Tillie - all ok?

Yep fine. BTW the papers have come back - it’s official, you’re her legal guardian, thank you again.

Sallie sent back a love heart and a thumbs up emoticon and put the phone back in her bag.

‘Everything okay?’ Ben asked.

‘Certainly is - we are now very much officially Tillie’s guardians. No pressure or anything.’

Chapter 23

Sallie tried to think about how fun the naming ceremony would be and what she was going to treat herself to wear while she was making the bed of the boathouse cottage, instead of mulling over and over the comments from the doctor, Peter Vicarage. He had sat there, his hands cradled over his desk and had proceeded to lecture her about all sorts of things when she had thought she was there to talk about IVF. It was hard to stop thinking about his attitude and he’d gone on and on until Sallie had concluded the appointment herself.

‘You see, you are over forty so I will point out to you that it’s not going to be an easy ride. The percentage odds are against you every step of the way,’ he’d said to her looking over the top of his glasses and absolutely looking down at her chest.

He’d continued to tell her that he’d seen it so many times before - women who concentrated on their careers and as their bodies were approaching menopause, they would suddenly decide they wanted a baby and expect it to happen overnight.

Sallie had sat there, her lips tightly shut and couldn’t see what he was also looking at on his computer, but she could tell by his body language, his age and by how he was dressed that she and her fertility concerns were really not the most pressing thing of his day.

Sallie had been to the doctors only a handful of times in her life, if you didn’t include the pregnancy and burn, and she’d never come across any medical professional quite so rude and quite so arrogant. She knew that Pretty Beach was desperate for GPs since Dr Founder had passed away but this guy was ridiculous. He was such a contrast too to the