Thirty Days
Nothing thrills me more than when someone creates a lovely sponge cake from scratch and tries it for the first time.
I am just nearing my car when a prickle of awareness runs up my spine. I scan the empty parking lot, my heart thumping in my chest, but come up with nothing. With a start I have to remind myself that, actually, I am being followed and Henry’s men would not be doing their job properly if I could spot them. I let out a sigh of relief and scrabble around in my bag for my keys. As always they have somehow made their way to the bottom, and I finally fish them out in triumph, not before realising that it might be time to have a little sort-out when I get home.
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