Free Barefoot in the Dark by Lynne Barrett-Lee

suddenly, unaccountably, debilitatingly self-conscious again. She should talk. About him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Tell me about your football team.’
    ‘Absolutely not,’ he said, smiling in a perfectly relaxed and happy way. ‘I’d kind of like to have you awake for the evening. How about you tell me all about you instead?’
    Oh, God. ‘Me?’
    ‘Yes, you. I was just thinking. I might write a feature about you.’
    ‘Me?’
    He stirred in his seat. ‘Oh, and Heartbeat, of course. Nice human interest story. They like those at the Echo . And very good publicity for you, of course.’
    This was better. Back on track. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?’
    ‘Indisputably.’ He laced his fingers together and propped his chin on them. ‘So, go on then. Shoot.’
    ‘Oh dear. That’s the only trouble. I’m not sure there’s much to tell.’
    He shook his head. ‘There’s always lots to tell. How d’you come to be there for instance? Doing what you do?’
    ‘That’s easy enough. I used to help out in the shop. We have a nearly-new shop, and I used to work there a couple of days a week when the children were smaller. But then, well, you know, with the divorce and everything, I had to get a proper job again and Madeleine asked me if I’d like to work for them full-time. Her husband had died and she’d taken on the running of the whole charity, and she needed someone to take on her old role.’
    ‘The fundraising.’
    ‘Exactly. And, well, I said yes.’ She shrugged. ‘Not much of a story there.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I think that’s a nice story. But what about you?’
    ‘What about me?’
    ‘Hopes? Dreams? What d’you do when you’re not busy extorting money out of people?’
    ‘Oh, dear. Now there really isn’t anything to tell. Not right now, at any rate. I don’t know. I guess I have the same dreams as everyone else. To get through all the bad bits and move on to the good bits. God. I don’t know. What do I do? I go to work. There never seems to be much time for anything else. I run. I read books. I watch TV… er… I make cushions.’ She winced. ‘Jesus, but that sounds grim, doesn’t it? I wish I could tell you something else, but I can’t. I don’t do anything creative, like you do. I go to work, I come home from work, I do stuff with my kids. I go out running. I make cushions. There.’
    She sat back in her chair while the waiter brought her dessert. Jack studied her. ‘Cushions? ’
    ‘Oh, I live life on the edge, me. Yes. Cushions. It’s not quite as dreary as it sounds. I make them out of leather, suede, that sort of thing. I have a bit of a fetish for skin, you see. God, that sounds worse! But, you know, out of all the old jackets and coats and stuff we get in at the shop. We get heaps of them. Even the odd fur. I don’t use the fur, of course.’ She leaned forward again. ‘Well, not officially. I do. But just for me. Don’t tell anyone that, will you? I have a big heap on my bed. So not PC. I don’t – I mean, I don’t approve, or anything. But we get these old furs, and they’re only going to be binned, and they’re so… well, anyway. Yes, I make cushions. I just got the idea, and made a couple to sell in the shop – I’ve got my mum’s old industrial sewing machine – and, well, they went like a bomb. And then I made some for the office, because Maddie liked them, and nowadays I can hardly keep up with the orders. They must be in vogue or something, because everyone seems to want them.’
    ‘There we are then. A one-woman cottage industry. That’s pretty creative.’
    ‘You think?’ said Hope, who had never really thought about it. ‘Well, I suppose. If you say so. Actually, Maddie thinks I should tout them round Liberty’s or somewhere. See if I can’t get some big deal going. But I haven’t gotten around to it. It’s just therapy, really. Something to do.’ She pushed her teaspoon into the top of her crème brûlée,