At half-past twelve on Thursday afternoon, Jo Saye turned the small brass sign on the door of Threadbare Alterations from OPEN to CLOSED FOR LUNCH. She locked the deadbolt, pulled down the green linen blind against the glare of Church Street. Then she walked through the beaded curtain into the back parlor.
On the small round dark wood table, Martin had laid out lunch: two bowls of hot potato and leek soup, a crusty brown loaf from the bakery across the lane, a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese, and a small pot of strawberry jam. A small vase of yellow chrysanthemums stood in the center. It caught the pale autumn light from the garden window.
“Look at this,” Jo said. He smiled as she took her seat in the armchair opposite her husband. “A proper sit-down dinner with linen napkins and nobody shouting that a channel is sweating. You’re spoiling me, Martin Saye.”
“You’ve spent four weeks being boiled, frozen, and dragged through cellars by people half your age, Jo,” Martin replied. He passed her the bread basket. “If I don’t spoil you, you’ll start thinking that cold ham rolls eaten standing up in a draft is the standard for human existence. Eat your soup while it’s hot.”
