Two more of Mallory’s friends came in a short while later, and to Olivia’s gratification they each bought a cupcake. Then a moody-looking sixth form boy with super-gelled hair and a sulky expression strode in, causing Mallory and her friends to look up and nudge each other. He bought two cupcakes, and a little while later a mum bought four for her family’s pudding that night. It seemed people were taking notice of her sign, not to mention the offer of a free cupcake at the end. Olivia had stamped their cards with cheerful enthusiasm. Perhaps this idea really would take off.

She’d already sold ten cupcakes, and there were only two left. It was half past four and the shop had emptied out, and Olivia hoped that one of the cupcakes had a certain person’s name on it. Simon Blacklock. Was she mad, thinking this way—or just pathetic? Wishful, at the very least.

The clock ticked slowly to the hour and no one came in. It was dark outside now; people were hurrying home, heads tucked low against the bitter December wind. Olivia tidied up and then toyed with designs for a customer loyalty card on a notepad, looking up to check the door every few minutes, only to catch sight of her own rather woebegone reflection in the darkened pane. Maybe he wasn’t coming. That really shouldn’t disappoint her as much as it clearly did.

It wasn’t even him, Olivia thought even though she knew it sort of was. But it was also the fact that something so small, so seemingly inconsequential, could become so important to her. A couple minutes, if that, of chit-chat, and here she was, glancing hopefully towards the door yet again.

Another hour passed by with agonising slowness, and yet all too fast. Olivia sorted through her boxes of Christmas decorations, binning the dodgy lights with their too-tangled cords and dusting off the porcelain nativity set she placed on the Victorian stand in the centre of the shop. Already things were starting to look a bit more Christmassy, and it gave her a little lift, even as she fought a growing disappointment as time ticked relentlessly on.

Finally, at quarter past five, Olivia flipped the sign to closed—something she usually did at five—and rather disconsolately started wiping tables and stacking chairs.

Don’t be disappointed, she told herself. Don’t be a complete ninny. And maybe get out more, besides the wine nights at Willoughby Close. Maybe she’d join one of those wretched dating sites. Oh, no. She wasn’t ready for that. But something else, perhaps... The village had loads of clubs. Bridge, crocheting, cricket. Admittedly most of the clubs attracted either OAPs or children, but perhaps she could find something suited to someone like her—middle-aged and single.

The shop tidied, she glanced at two cupcakes in all of their salted caramel glory, the glossy buttercream piled on top of the spongy cake in lovely swirls.

“Oh, screw it, then,” she said on a sigh, and taking one of the cupcakes, she peeled the paper away from the cake and took a big, gooey bite.