Veronica Henry The Last Strawberry Tart

Peace offering… ice-breaker… life changer… Who would imagine the power that lay in a pastry?

It was lying there in splendid isolation. The last strawberry tart. It had the crispiest golden pastry that would snap as you bit into it, buttery and slightly salty. Then a layer of wobbling crème anglaise. And on the top, tiny little fraises des bois set in a perfect circle and covered in a shiny glaze of ruby-red jam; not too sharp, not too sweet.

Jon could almost hear the tart saying Buy me. It was the perfect peace offering. A small gesture that would say “I’m sorry” to her, for the row they’d had that morning. Not that he had started it. He never did. But he knew that the quickest way to reconciliation was for him to take the blame, otherwise Suzanne would sulk. For days, sometimes. It was exhausting.

If he apologised, and handed her the tart, then maybe they could enjoy the rest of the weekend. They were due to go out with friends for Sunday lunch, and he didn’t want to sit over roast beef with a false smile fixed to his face, pretending everything was all right.

He wanted to relax and enjoy his time off, before heading off to his stressful job on Monday morning, to hit targets and sift through complaints and unreasonable demands from his superiors. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could carry on.

The woman behind the stall gave him an uncertain look, and he realised he had been standing there staring at the tart for so long it must seem rather strange. She had a big blue apron on over a white T-shirt and jeans, her hair tied back with a red bandana. He smiled, and as she smiled back he thought he recognised her.

“Catherine?” he said, and she nodded. “It is you,” she said. “I didn’t recognise you at first, because you’re not wearing a suit. It’s Jon, isn’t it?”