Free Want to Know a Secret? by Sue Moorcroft

disproportionately pleased at the prospect.
    As James murmured easily, ‘Perhaps she has?’ Diane blinked at Tamzin’s transformation from stressy mess to hospitable young woman, recognising the poise from the sort of childhood she’d had herself – private school and lots of socialising at her parents’ house, the scene of almost weekly parties: bridge, dancing, after golf, pre-ball.
    She ignored an unexpected twist of nostalgia. She’d long since left her parents’ lifestyle behind and the pleasure of coffee shops was one of the many economies she’d made in her bull-headed determination to make her life with Gareth Jenner.
    James’s gaze was fixed on her, as if Diane’s acceptance of the simple invitation was of peculiar importance. She was glad of an excuse not to fight the manic traffic all the way to the green Fen lanes and an empty house, so smiled at Tamzin. ‘Sounds great. Lead the way.’
    The coffee shop was small, just ten bentwood tables staffed by a lady in a white top and a red gingham tabard trimmed with rick-rack braid. Once only seen in school needlework lessons rick-rack was currently hot in Diane’s sewing supplies catalogues. There was no accounting for fashion.
    Tamzin appointed herself hostess. ‘Would you like something to eat, Diane? No? Just a latte?’
    Diane, as suggested, ordered latte, having only ever heard of it and curious as to what all the fuss was about. When the pale, creamy liquid was set before her in a thick pan of a cup she was satisfied. Until she saw James’s cappuccino with cream and chocolate sprinkles.
    Cream and chocolate sprinkles would’ve been great.
    ‘Do I call you Aunt Diane?’ Tamzin glanced at the coffee placed before James and Diane – plus biscuits for James – as she accepted mineral water herself.
    Diane wrinkled her nose. ‘I think we could leave off the “aunt”. None of my other nieces and nephews uses it.’
    Tamzin seemed in the mood for conversation, her eyes over-bright. ‘I love your jeans and top, you wear such wicked stuff. It’s well strange.’
    The top was a fine linen shirt with shiny chrome eyelets zig-zagging down one side, threaded with scarlet leather laces and tied with fat tassels. The jeans had dinky little zips in odd places, topstitched in emerald green.
    Automatically, Diane sat back to display the outfit. ‘This is what I do, I make one-offs, and sell a lot of it to a shop in Peterborough. I wear my own stuff as a kind of walking advertisement. It’s all very highly decorated. I was making boho before boho was invented.’
    ‘It’s so cool. Really random but pretty. Do you, like, take orders?’
    ‘Customer commissions? Of course. Mainly evening wear, for ladies who want something you won’t get at John Lewis or Debenhams.’ She stirred her latte.
    ‘What could you make for me?’
    Beside her, Diane felt James start slightly, and wondered wryly whether he’d just seen himself as the guy footing the bill. Oh well, he looked as if he could afford it, with a leather jacket that she kept wanting to trail her fingers across and midnight blue polo shirt that fitted just so. ‘Anything you want, so long as the fabrics are suitable. I don’t do rubber or vinyl or anything.’ She winked.
    Tamzin giggled. ‘No, nothing weird. I was thinking, like, freaky tops. And decorated jeans.’
    Tamzin turned to link her father’s arm, beaming up at him with a smile, their spat, apparently, forgotten. ‘I haven’t had any new clothes for ages, have I?’
    His eyes crinkled. ‘You’re positively overdue for some.’
    ‘You’re not such a sad Dad.’ She planted a sudden kiss on his cheek before swinging back to Diane. ‘Can I talk to you about it? One morning? I know you visit Uncle Gareth most afternoons. I come to your house, right?’
    ‘Tomorrow, if you like,’ Diane agreed, unable to read James’s expression but wanting, as much as the welcome commission, because Rowan at the shop was really stingy with what he