The Orange Grove

by Rosanna Ley

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Holly loves making marmalade. She returns to the Dorset landscape of her childhood to open Bitter Orange, a shop celebrating the fruit that first inspired her. Holly's mother Ella has always loved Seville. So why is she reluctant to go back there with Holly to source products for the shop? Does it have anything to do with the old Spanish recipe for Seville orange and almond cake that Ella keeps hidden from her family? In Seville, where she was once forced to make the hardest decision of her life, Ella must finally face up to the past, while Holly meets someone who poses a threat to all her plans. Will love survive the secrets of the orange grove?

Release date: March 4, 2021

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Holly

West Dorset, February 2018

Holly flipped through the crumpled and stained pages of her mother’s old recipe book and there it was, peeking from inside a yellowing envelope. As if somebody (her mother?) had half wanted the recipe to be a secret one, half wanted it to be seen.

Carefully, she extracted the fragile sheet of paper from the envelope and smoothed out the folds with her fingertips. The original recipe was written in Spanish; she recognised a few of the words. Under this, the ingredients and instructions had been written much more clearly and in English, all of it in handwriting she did not recognise.

Seville orange and almond cake, she read. For an occasion.

Well, she thought, if this wasn’t an occasion – the day she made her big announcement, the day she told her parents what she’d been planning, what she’d been working towards this past eighteen months without them having the slightest idea what was going on – then she didn’t know what was.

Holly consulted the English version of the recipe. First, scrub and roughly chop the Seville oranges. She glanced over at them. They were sitting in a bowl on the kitchen counter, glowing like orange lanterns in the dim February afternoon light. The oranges weren’t the prettiest; they were misshapen, rough and knobbly. But the colour . . . It was so vibrant, so bright. The first time she’d seen a box of Seville bitter oranges in the farm shop just outside Bridport, she’d been smitten.

Holly selected one now and sniffed the thick skin. Ah. The Seville orange was too bitter to be eaten fresh – it was as sharp and sour as a lemon. But the scent of this orange . . . It transported her to the possibility of an intoxicating summertime. Here’s hoping . . . Holly began to scrub.

She had first discovered her mother’s old Spanish recipe as a teenager. Other girls spent Saturday afternoons in town having coffee with their friends, buying make-up, chatting about which boy they fancied or what film was showing at the local cinema . . . Holly baked – fruit cakes, crumbles, batches of brownies. There was nothing quite as satisfying, she’d always thought, as a tray of pastries fresh from the oven.

OK, so she had been an unusual teenager. She smiled to herself. Sifting through her mother’s recipe books had been her idea of a wild time.

Almost reluctantly, Holly placed the scrubbed oranges down on the chopping board. She sliced firmly into the first one. The bitter juice squirted, releasing more of its citrussy-fresh scent.

Holly had found the recipe, studied it, been fascinated by it, but she had never baked the cake – never dared, after the way her mother had reacted to the suggestion.

She gathered the aromatic and thick-skinned orange pieces together and pushed them to one side of the board with the back of her hand. The juice felt like an astringent on her skin. She could understand why Seville oranges had numerous uses, many of them medicinal – their scent, their flavour when cooked was both complex and intense.

And then there was marmalade. Holly had been using them to make marmalade for years. Seville oranges were considered the best in the world for it, because the high natural pectin content helped the marmalade to set correctly. And Holly had certainly never had any complaints. Making and baking were activities she turned to when she was tired or anxious. Far from sapping her energy still further, marmalade-making invigorated her, it always had.

She vividly remembered her fourteen-year-old self, waving the Seville orange and almond cake recipe in front of her mother, already excited about the prospect. ‘Can I make this, Mum?’ she’d begged.

‘What?’ Her mother stared at the piece of paper, almost snatched it from Holly’s grasp. ‘No,’ she said.

She’d never said ‘no’ to a cake before. Holly had frowned. ‘Why not?’

Her mother hesitated. ‘Your father doesn’t like it. It’s not a great recipe.’

‘But—’

‘And we don’t have any Seville oranges.’

‘I could—’

‘No, Holly.’

Even at fourteen, Holly had known her mother was protesting too much. What was it then about this old recipe? What was the big deal? Her mother’s refusal only increased its allure. Where had it come from exactly? Why had her mother kept it? And why was it out of bounds? As far as she was aware, her mother had no Spanish friends. So, who had written it out for her, first in Spanish and then English? Holly was determined to find out more.

She wasn’t stupid, though – she waited a few days before asking her mother about Spain.

‘Of course I’ve been to Spain,’ her mother said breezily. Too breezily? Holly wondered. ‘I went with your father.’

Was that when someone had given her the recipe for the Spanish orange and almond cake? Holly decided that it was wiser not to ask.

‘When did you go?’ she asked her mother instead.

Her mother’s expression changed. ‘Oh, I don’t know exactly, Holly. Does it matter? Back in the 1980s, I can’t remember the exact year.’

Was that suspicious? Holly supposed not. No one ever remembered the exact year they went away anywhere. ‘Whereabouts in Spain did you go?’

There was a pause. ‘Seville.’

Was it Holly’s imagination, or did her mother glance over towards the kitchen shelf, to where her old recipe book sat in the corner? ‘So . . . ?’

But her mother didn’t give her a chance to ask any more. ‘Come on now, Holly,’ she said. ‘Enough. Dinner’s almost ready and the table won’t lay itself, you know.’ She’d swept into full chivvying mode. Not only was she frowning, but Holly thought she could detect a tear in her mother’s eye. That was it then. Her mother had never been a strict parent exactly, but she was a teacher and she’d always maintained boundaries. Enough said. The subject was very definitely closed.

That was fifteen years ago. At the moment, Holly lived in Brighton, but she was back here in Dorset on one of her regular weekend visits, because apart from wanting to see her family, she missed the landscape of her childhood too. Fortunately, she still had baking rights in this kitchen.

Holly put the vibrant orange pieces in a small pan, picking out the pips with a wooden spoon. She added water, covered the pan and switched on the gas. The recipe promised that after thirty minutes the oranges would be soft and the liquid would have evaporated. Holly felt the small hum of excitement that she always felt when baking. It was the process of creation, she guessed. Alchemy. It was something she never felt in the office in Brighton.

She glanced at the recipe. Maybe this old, crumpled piece of paper had been the start of her dream all those years ago. So, she’d decided to make the Seville orange and almond cake this afternoon while her parents were out. It seemed appropriate somehow.

She still felt bad about not telling them what she’d been planning, what she’d been doing. But her grandmother had advised against it, and with her parents living here where Holly had grown up, and Holly in Brighton, it hadn’t been too hard to keep things quiet. But now, everything was about to change.

Holly cracked the eggs, carefully separating them into white and yolk. She put the whites into a bowl and whisked them into stiff peaks. Gradually, she added the castor sugar, beat the remaining sugar with the egg yolks until the mixture thickened and then added her fragrant chopped orange mixture and the ground almonds. Already it smelt heavenly.

She folded the egg whites into the mix, carefully transferred it to the greased and lined baking tin and sprinkled the top with flaked almonds. She checked her watch. It would be ready by the time her parents came back with her grandmother for tea. And instead of tea . . . Holly took the bottle of champagne she’d brought with her from Brighton from her tote bag and put it in the fridge. She was sure that her grandmother would approve.

Seville orange and almond cake – for an occasion. She fancied she could already smell the almonds toasting, already sense the sugar combining with the oranges to make the cake perfectly bitter-sweet.

And when they came back? When they came back, she would try to explain to them why she was so dramatically turning her life around. She would tell them – finally – what had happened to her in Brighton and what she had decided to do.

CHAPTER 2

Holly

Brighton, one year earlier

It began one evening after work. Holly was late leaving the office – as she so often was – and hadn’t had time to think about food. On the way home, she stopped off at the supermarket, her mind still full of work, recalling an email that she hadn’t had time to answer, replaying in her head a phone conversation she’d had earlier with a client who was proving tricky.

She pulled a trolley from the line and made her way inside. The supermarket was bright, busy and disorientating. She steered the trolley past the newspapers and two quarrelling children and picked up a green salad from the fresh veg section. Tomorrow’s lunch, she thought. She never had time to leave the office, always ate salad at her desk or heated up soup in the microwave.

She wasn’t quite sure how her job as an accounts manager in Brighton had come to dominate her life, to consume every waking hour – there didn’t seem much left after it had taken its fill. And no matter how drained Holly felt, Russell, her boss, never seemed totally satisfied.

She headed for the deli counter. She had left West Dorset in her early twenties, drawn to the edgier, more bohemian buzz of Brighton, home of her boyfriend, Jack, who had become an ex-boyfriend after a year or so – fortunately with no one’s heart being broken – by which time Holly had made friends, found a job and was earning good money. She was content to stay in her newly adopted city; she’d just never been sure that it would be forever.

She selected a few bits and pieces, checked the sell-by dates, paused in front of the chilled soup counter. Holly liked Brighton – she relished wandering down North Laine at weekends, meeting friends, dipping into the little bars and independent boutiques, exploring the vintage centre. She liked the music scene here, the arty crowd, the open houses and festivals, and she enjoyed living by the sea, which reminded her of her childhood. There was no one special for Holly right now. But nevertheless, she’d made a good life in Brighton.

Only . . .

She continued to hover in front of the chilled soup counter. Which one should she buy? How could it be so difficult to decide? Her mouth was dry and she swallowed and licked her lips. If only she hadn’t left her bottle of water in the car. Tomato and red pepper, Stilton and broccoli . . . There was so much choice – too much choice – and oddly, she couldn’t remember which one she preferred.

She felt dazed, not present almost, as if a part of her was floating above the shopping trolley watching her other self down below. And the lights – they were so bright, surely brighter than usual? Holly took a deep breath. She was working too hard, that was all; she needed to take a break, relax, she needed to . . . Escape, she thought.

Because something was going wrong. She was working long hours (but she was hardly alone in that), she wasn’t sleeping well and she was stressed. Somewhere along the line in her twenties, this had become the norm – for her and more than a couple of her friends. She went to the gym, she’d taken up yoga, but rather than being relaxing, it felt as if she was always just desperately trying to fit more in. And then . . .

Holly began to feel dizzy; the chilled soups were swimming in and out of focus. She blinked hard. But now, without warning, she couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe and there was a rapid inner pounding somewhere that could be in her heart or could be in her head – she didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t stay in the supermarket, no way; she had to leave right there and then, shopping or no shopping. And she also knew that she felt scared.

 

‘I think you had a panic attack,’ her GP told her when she went along to the medical centre the following day.

Panic attack . . . Fight or flight. Holly closed her eyes. Remembered that moment, that strong urge she’d had to escape.

She listened to what her GP had to say about self-help, management and therapy. ‘Try to ride it out,’ he advised. ‘Breathe. Confront your fears. Remind yourself it’s only anxiety.’

Only anxiety, she thought. She admitted that she was stressed, overworked, exhausted. He gave her a look. Aren’t we all? it seemed to say. Helpful . . .

Later, she looked up ‘panic attack’ online, recognised the feelings described by so many: the inability to decide, to think, the sudden overwhelming fear. Her GP had suggested that hopefully it would be a one-off incident, especially if she could cut down on stress at work, but Holly couldn’t help thinking, was this what she wanted her life to be?

That Friday evening she went back to Dorset for the weekend. It was late summer and, unusually, the green hills were pale and parched from lack of rain. As she drove over the ridge between Dorchester and Bridport she looked out across the familiar landscape – sheep grazing in the fields, stone cottages and wooden barns, the limpid, blue-grey sea glimmering like moonstone in the distance. And for the first time in ages, she felt a sense of peace unexpectedly steal over her.

During the weekend, she visited a few of her old friends – Will and Susie still lived in a village just outside the town and were making a living from Will’s art and sculpture and Susie’s vintage furniture business, while Jess still lived with her parents and worked in the beach café at Burton. Holly also spent time with her family. It was so reassuringly normal, she could almost forget what had happened a few days before.

Her father, Felix, was still managing the garden centre; he’d been there most of his working life. He loved growing seeds and tending plants and Holly suspected he’d probably have been even happier if he’d never been promoted. Her mother, Ella, was as busy as ever. She was a primary teacher in the local school and if she wasn’t teaching or marking books, she was going to staff meetings or lesson planning – nothing new there.

And Holly’s grandmother, Ingrid . . . Holly’s father’s mother had always been an indomitable presence in Holly’s life, but she seemed a bit softer these days, more mellow. And maybe more observant too.

‘You look tired, my dear,’ she said as Holly sat down in her grandmother’s old-fashioned sitting room decorated with china dogs, shepherdesses and ornamental Toby jugs.

Like Holly’s grandmother herself, the room smelt faintly of musty lavender. The covers her grandmother kept on her best chairs had preserved the fabric, stopping it from becoming faded in the sun, and the antimacassars protected the chair wings from wear and tear. The walls were painted ice blue and the carpet was what Holly’s father would call ‘scrambled egg and fireworks’. Still, that too was reassuring somehow. The entire house was a time capsule from the 1950s. Holly found herself breathing more easily.

It was pointless pretending – her grandmother’s eyes were much too sharp. And it was a relief to let her bright ‘I’m fine’ smile slip a little. ‘Yes, Gran,’ she said, ‘you’re right, I am tired.’

In contrast, her grandmother’s face was glowing. Eighty-five years young and despite her losses along the way, Gran’s blue eyes were still as strong and determined as ever.

‘Have you been burning the candle at both ends, my dear?’ Her grandmother bent her head slightly to one side. Her hair was soft and white these days but she kept it cut short and neatly styled; she’d never been one to let herself go.

Holly knew her mother had had her moments with Gran over the years, but although her grandmother was still a force to be reckoned with, Holly had always felt safe, one generation removed and knowing she was unconditionally adored. ‘It’s mainly work,’ she admitted. ‘It’s so stressful.’

‘That’s not good.’

‘I know, Gran.’

It came out easily after that – the never-ending stream of emails to be answered, the constant client queries and demands, the thorny work relationship with a colleague, the unrelenting pressure, the long hours . . . She didn’t mention the panic attack – she didn’t want to worry her grandmother unduly. But perhaps, Holly thought, that was why she’d decided to come home this weekend.

‘If it’s so bad, why on earth are you doing it, child?’ Her grandmother clicked her tongue. ‘Why not do something else instead?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gran made it sound so simple. But Holly needed to earn that salary so that she could continue to live in her Brighton flat and have the lifestyle that she currently enjoyed. And did she still enjoy it? The truth was, she was on a treadmill. ‘What else could I do?’ She spoke half to herself.

‘The question is,’ her grandmother said, ‘what is it that you want to do, my dear?’

 

Holly thought about this conversation a lot after she got back to Brighton. What is it that you want to do . . . ? What she’d always loved doing was baking. She missed it so much. She still baked occasionally on Sunday afternoons after the gym and before she had to start preparing for work the next day. But it was snatched time and that spoilt the good feeling. And how could anyone make a living from baking cakes and making marmalade? How could that ever be more than a hobby?

So, what else could she do? She couldn’t give up work, at least not yet. But she could make some changes. Slowly, gradually, she began to develop strategies for coping, some of them gleaned from online threads she was following. She tried to be nice to the colleague giving her a hard time – however much the woman glared at her. She walked away from her computer every thirty minutes – even if only to go to the loo – and she tried to focus on one task at a time instead of checking her emails constantly. She pushed herself into being firmer with Russell about just how much she was capable of doing and, to her surprise, he responded more positively when she was confident and assertive than he had ever done before.

She started to meditate once a day. She cut down on social media time. And when she started feeling a bit stronger, Holly bit the bullet and enrolled in an online course to develop her business studies. That had been Gran’s idea. ‘You could always think about getting some different qualifications, Holly,’ she had said. ‘Something to enable you to take control?’

Control . . . None of it was easy. But Holly knew that she was beginning to make a difference.

Quite a few phone calls passed between Holly and her grandmother in the months following that first chat in Gran’s sitting room at the end of the summer. Holly had made the decision to change her life, but it was taking much longer to decide exactly what to do instead.

Holly visited her grandmother too, every time she was in Dorset, and they discussed strategies. Holly sensed that she was relishing the excitement of being Holly’s confidante. Gran had always been so sure of what she thought, so strong-minded. Gradually, with her help, Holly began to make a plan. At last, she’d decided on the way forward.

‘We won’t tell your parents though,’ her grandmother had said. ‘Not yet. We don’t want them to interfere and spoil things, do we?’ And she shot Holly a conspiratorial smile.

‘No, Gran. I suppose not.’

But now, they had agreed it was time to come clean and tell her parents everything. What would they say? Holly was about to find out.

CHAPTER 3

Ella

West Dorset, February 2018

Ella opened her back door and stepped into the kitchen. In seconds, the familiar scent of cake-baking filled her nostrils with sweetness.

She breathed in deeply. ‘Oh, Holly, that smells heavenly! What—?’ She stopped abruptly. The fragrance was indeed heavenly – and it didn’t just remind her of the marmalade Holly used to make in this kitchen. It reminded her of so much more besides. It was intense, heady. Orange blossom. Ella steadied herself with a hand on the kitchen counter. It had been such a long time ago. And yet . . .

‘I thought you wouldn’t mind if I made it just this once.’ Holly’s voice wavered.

And Ella’s heartbeat quickened. ‘Made what, Holly?’ Oh, she had seen the pitted, twisty oranges in the fruit bowl this morning, but thought very little of it. Holly was planning to make some marmalade. Nothing new there. But this . . . this was something else.

‘In you come then, Mum.’ All of a sudden, Felix was behind Ella, ushering his mother into the room.

Ella moved out of the way. These days, Ingrid needed a stick and couldn’t spend so long on her feet.

‘Hello, my dear,’ Ingrid said to her granddaughter. And there was something in her tone . . .

‘Hi, Gran.’ Holly came over to give her a hug.

‘What are you baking, Holly?’ Ella asked again. She kept her voice casual. But the scent of almonds was threaded through that of the oranges: sweet, rich and nutty. Surely she wouldn’t have?

Her daughter’s expression said it all. ‘Sorry, Mum, I know you were never keen on me making it.’

So why do it then? ‘It doesn’t matter.’ It had been so long ago. Shouldn’t Ella have got over it by now? Though the scent of the cake drifting in the air was already having an effect on her. She shrugged off her jacket, hung it on the hook by the door.

‘Tea, everyone?’ she asked brightly. She mustn’t show she cared. And over the years, hadn’t she become so very good at pretending?

Ella looked around. Felix’s mother was smiling, eyes gleaming as if . . . as if she knew something Ella didn’t. Ella caught the conspiratorial glance that passed between her ­mother-in-law and her daughter. They’d been as thick as thieves lately, these two. What were they up to?

‘Good idea. I’ll do it.’ Felix beamed. ‘Mmm. What’ve you made for us then, love?’ As usual, he had missed the subtext, had no clue what was going on. Not that Ella was much wiser. She waited.

‘Mum’s Spanish Seville orange and almond cake,’ Holly said. She shot a worried glance towards Ella. ‘I wanted to make something special. For an occasion.’

‘Quite right.’ Ingrid nodded her approval.

‘Something special?’ Felix raised an eyebrow at Ella. ‘What occasion might that be then, love?’

So, she’d been right. Ella shrugged at Felix. She’d never made the cake herself, of course – didn’t want to lower the drawbridge and risk all those memories flooding back in.

She shouldn’t have kept the recipe at all, she supposed. Only, she had so little and it had meant so much. It had seemed such a small thing. And whenever she’d seen the little envelope as she flicked through her recipe book, whenever she’d gently pulled the old Spanish recipe from its hiding place and read through the list of ingredients, it had made her smile, sometimes even made a tear come to her eye. Ella’s emotions were never far from the surface where this cake and the city of Seville were concerned. But sometimes, it was good to remember.

Felix rubbed his hands together in that characteristic and hearty way he had. ‘Is it somebody’s birthday?’ He chuckled. ‘Let me take your coat, Mum.’ He helped his mother off with her coat and settled her in what they called the comfy chair, putting her walking cane to one side. ‘Are you going to let us in on the secret then, love?’ He turned to Holly and laughed – but not unkindly. Felix wasn’t the sort of man to be unkind.

The secret. Ella realised she was holding her breath. What was this all about? And why did she feel a sense of foreboding? Something was definitely up. She busied herself with cups and saucers; over the years, distraction techniques had been more useful than she cared to admit.

‘Yes.’ Holly straightened her shoulders. She glanced at Ella and then back to Felix again. ‘Mum, Dad, I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said.

‘Go on then, love.’ Again, Felix looked at Ella. Again, she shrugged.

But Felix smiled. Some young man, he was thinking, Ella could tell from the expression in his grey eyes. Was his daughter about to announce her engagement to someone they hadn’t even met? Ella knew the way his mind worked. It worried her sometimes how well she could follow its patterns. They’d been together thirty-six years, but had he ever considered that her brain even had a pattern? She wasn’t so sure.

‘Well . . .’ Holly began.

Ella shot her a look. There wouldn’t be any young man. Holly had told her only yesterday that there was no one special. Her last date had been with someone called Liam she’d met at the gym. Holly had apparently run out of things to say to him after two drinks, made an excuse and left the bar. Ella knew some things.

Holly cleared her throat. She looked anxious. Ella wanted to reassure her but she also needed to know what this was all about.

Felix was frowning. Now was about the time he might suspect that their daughter was pregnant, Ella thought. It wouldn’t be that, though. Holly had been unusually quiet this weekend, and Ella had certainly detected an undercurrent of excitement, which had made her ask in the first place if there was someone new. What else could it be? A new job perhaps? Promotion? She shook her head at Felix, but was a microsecond too late.

‘You’re not . . . ?’ Felix’s frown deepened.

‘Dad!’ Holly looked indignant.

Ingrid clicked her tongue. ‘There are other kinds of announcements, Felix,’ she said reprovingly.

For once, Ella was in full agreement with her mother-in-law. She tried to say, A work thing, is it, darling? But strangely, her throat closed under the assault of the fragrance of the Seville orange and almond cake and no sound emerged at all.

‘The thing is, I’ve come to a decision. I want to do something different with my life.’ Holly turned to open the flowery cake tin that was on the kitchen counter. She lifted out the cake; Ella noticed it was already standing on one of her more decorative plates. Holly held it out in front of her like an offering.

Ella couldn’t help smiling. It looked just like the other Seville orange and almond cake that had been made all those years ago, the only difference being that the icing sugar on the top of the other one had been dusted more finely.

She brought herself back to the present. ‘What is it that you want to do, darling?’ Ella tried to sound encouraging. She knew Holly had been finding things hard lately, though she hadn’t opened up to her mother as much as Ella would have liked. ‘Have things been tough at work?’

‘I’ve given in my notice,’ Holly said. ‘And yes, they have.’

‘Blimey.’ Felix went to put the kettle on. ‘Have you got something else lined up then, love?’

‘Well . . .’

Ella noted another glance passing between her daughter and her mother-in-law. She tried not to feel resentful. But how come Ingrid knew something that Ella did not? Ella had always been a busy mother – her career was important to her; she loved her teaching work even though it could be very full-on – but she’d never been a bad mother. Had she? Had she been too busy to listen? Too busy for Holly to come to her with her problems, her fears? She tucked her hair behind one ear and away from her face. It was warm in here – from the baking, she supposed. She was certainly feeling a little dizzy.

‘I’m starting my own business.’ Holly looked from one to the other of them, clearly unsure of their reaction.

‘Your own business?’ Felix echoed.

Ella blinked at her. ‘Just like that?’ Where had all this come from so suddenly?

Holly seemed to stand a little straighter. ‘I know it’s risky. But I’ve given it a lot of thought. And actually, I decided some time ago.’

‘You didn’t say a word,’ Ella murmured. But her mother-in-law had known, she was sure.

‘I didn’t tell you before, because I didn’t want either of you to try to make me change my mind.’ Holly spoke in a rush. ‘But the thing is, I’ve done a business course—’

‘A business course?’ How come Ella didn’t know anything about this? Neither did Felix, she presumed; he seemed as bemused as she.

Holly looked down. ‘Like I said, I didn’t want to say too much too soon. And I didn’t know if anything would come of it. So . . .’

The kettle was boiling. ‘What kind of business, love?’ Felix threw in four bags – he always used too many – and poured the boiling water into the teapot.

‘I’d like to open a shop.’ At last, Holly put the Seville orange and almond cake down on the kitchen counter.

Ella tried not to look at it. ‘What kind of shop?’ she asked.

‘An orange shop.’

Ella gazed at her daughter, trying to understand. ‘An orange shop?’ What was she thinking? It sounded more like a phone company.

‘All things orange, that is.’ Holly took a breath. ‘I want to call it Bitter Orange. I’ll be making marmalade, sourcing toiletries and beauty products – all made from oranges. I’ll import orange wine and liqueur, candles. You wouldn’t believe how many products there are.’

Ella would actually. ‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Where would you open this shop?’

‘Bridport.’

‘I see.’ So, she’d be close by. A smi