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A petite woman stood hesitantly by the door. Her clothes spoke of the south and high fashion of the utmost quality. In fact, her exquisite spring blue ensemble screamed of Paris couture. ‘Oh, should I leave?’ the woman offered. Yes, she was from the south, Alex deduced.

‘Forgive me. That must have sounded rude. I was just packing up but you’re most welcome to choose a selection. I’m Alex Frobisher.’

‘The owner?’ The woman approached the counter and peeled off cream gloves before unwrapping a silk cream and pink scarf. She smelled of expensive perfume.

She blushed. ‘Yes. A working girl,’ Alex replied, feeling dowdy in comparison to the beautiful woman with flaxen hair cut short in the latest bob style that was sweeping through the country. She touched her own in a self-conscious manner of being behind the times . . . something she’d never considered she could be accused of. But Harry had asked her not to cut it.

The woman offered a hand in greeting. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at last, Alex.’ Her accent was posh, far more exaggerated than Alex’s, which had been so prized by Rowntree’s. But there was nothing disdainful or even vaguely condescending in the woman’s attitude. Her smile struck Alex as genuine, reflecting in the shiny round eyes the colour of a summer sky.

She blinked. ‘My apology – should I recognise you?’

‘No. We have not met previously.’

‘Oh.’ Alex was startled into uncertainty. The woman’s bright smile didn’t falter. ‘I do love your hair,’ she admitted. ‘I was thinking of cutting mine equally short. So much easier for work.’

‘Do it. Not only will you not regret the freedom it brings from all those pins and fiddly decoration, but your beautiful dark hair will sit like a glossy helmet. Mine is neither the right texture nor colour, but I do love the shape.’

Alex grinned. ‘I probably will.’

‘Perhaps have it styled in London, though. I can give you my hairdresser’s name to get it perfectly shaped.’

‘Thank you.’ The pause was only vaguely awkward but Alex felt obliged to fill it. ‘So . . . um, what can I help you with today?’

‘I’ve heard about your famous hollow heart – I thought I might pen a little note to go inside one.’

‘I’d be delighted to organise one for you. Here’s the paper. Write on one or both sides – it folds up perfectly to fit into quarters. Then I’ll seal and foil it for you.’ The woman took the small square of paper and gestured to the tiny table and seat. Alex nodded. ‘Pencils are on the table,’ she offered. ‘I’ll just check the chocolate’s temperature to seal the heart. Back in a moment.’

She left the woman scribbling her note, returning a minute or so later with the small pot of molten chocolate. ‘Here we are. Now I can seal your note inside.’

‘Thank you,’ her customer said, handing over the folded note.

Alex sat the paper into one of the halves that she’d picked up with gloved hands and both women were silent as she piped chocolate around the edge of the seal. She looked up and grinned. ‘We’ll just give that a moment or two to set and then I’ll foil and pack it for you.’

‘It’s such a clever idea.’

‘To tell you the truth, it wasn’t mine,’ she admitted. ‘It was given to me by a close friend. I’ve never been able to thank him properly or even show him how well his idea works.’

‘I feel sure that one day you’ll both be able to share the success of it together.’

‘That’s a wonderful thought, but we’ve lost touch.’ She cleared her throat beneath the direct, blue gaze. ‘Too much water under the bridge,’ she added, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’ll foil now.’ With great care she cocooned the heart with dexterous precision in the golden wrap, reminding herself to make Holly practise this part as enthusiastically as the sealing, for it was the foiling that everyone admired first and there should be no smudges of chocolate, no unnecessary wrinkles of the shimmering paper.

‘Well, life is rarely certain and often springs surprises. Keep faith with your friendship.’

‘I’m not sure I hold such optimism,’ she continued politely, but her tone sounded slightly distracted.

‘Oh, I think you and Harry will definitely meet again.’

Alex’s attention snapped to her customer, her brow creasing with surprise. ‘H-how . . .? Who are you?’ she stammered.

‘I am Bethany Blakeney.’

Alex’s hands froze, holding the foiled heart.

‘Forgive me, Alex – may I call you Alex? I really didn’t mean to startle you and I can see I have done just that. There was no easy way to meet you. Coming to the salon seemed the most polite way.’

Alex put the heart down, pulled off her gloves and tucked a wayward curl of hair behind her ear. Her voice was raspy when she finally found it. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to speak with you privately.’