Christmas for One: No Greater Love by Amanda Prowse Read Free Book Online

she admit to hating them all just then, when they were being sympathetic?
    ‘I’ve got something that’ll last much longer than Yule log.’ Pam winked at Megan and left the room, returning with the box the cake had come in. ‘Look, Megan! It’s got a lovely picture on it of holly and berries and it still smells of chocolate.’ Pam smiled as she handed it to her.
    Megan had gathered the box to her chest and sniffed its interior. It was torture, only reminding her of what she’d missed out on. Funny she should think of that now.
    Meg walked inside the warm, busy deli and inhaled the heady mixture of food, spices and coffee. It was noisy: people shouted greetings and laughed, the till chimed, and Dean Martin crooned ‘White Christmas’ through the speakers on the wall. In front of the counter sat straw panniers full of large red apples and bags of designer vegetable crisps. To the side was a wooden cart loaded with every type of cheese imaginable, from wedges of creamy blue Roquefort to vast wheels of Grana Padano, displayed amid full clusters of red and green grapes. Six dark-haired men stood behind the counters in white tunics with ‘The Greenwich Avenue Deli’ embroidered above the breast pocket. Masters of the sandwich, they swiped at rounds of warm ciabatta, loaves of organic San Francisco sourdough and Cuban batons, depending on the customer’s preference, slitting them with long, sharp knives before loading them up with savouries from the cold counter. They slid and slipped around each other in the small space like dancers with well-choreographed moves, never missing a beat.
    Meg stood in the queue, watching with fascination as succulent slices of milky mozzarella were laid on top of sundried tomatoes, smoked peppers and salad, before being finished with a rip of fresh basil and a twist of coarsely ground black pepper. The ciabatta was then quickly sealed, wrapped inside waxed paper and handed to a young guy in a grubby baseball cap and black square-framed glasses who was nodding to whatever his earphones were pumping into his head. She decided to have the same. It looked delicious.
    The woman in front of her ordered sourdough piled high with peppery rocket, crispy bacon, slices of white chicken meat and a generous dollop of homemade spicy slaw. Meg decided to have that instead.
    Suddenly it was her turn. Her indecisiveness made her nervous.
    ‘What’ll it be, lady?’ The man stood with knife in hand. Every second of hesitation caused his mouth to twitch. His leg jumped as the knife banged against his thigh. He was like every other New Yorker, in a desperate hurry.
    ‘Oooh… I’m not sure. It all looks so good!’
    He didn’t react to her compliment; keen to keep the line moving, conversation would only slow proceedings.
    She was about to settle on sourdough cut into thick doorsteps – ‘I think I’ll go for…’ – when a roll of dark German rye caught her eye. She hesitated. ‘Actually, no. I think… erm…’ She tapped her finger against her mouth, unable to decide. The bread was the foundation on which her sandwich would be built; get it wrong and the whole thing could be a disaster. And if there was one thing Meg knew about, it was bread. She let her eyes wander over the crusty batons and seeded loaves. Fatigue was getting the better of her.
    A large arm in a blue denim shirt, rolled above the elbow, reached over her shoulder and a voice boomed in her ear. ‘I’ll take a hoagie with pastrami, pickle and sauerkraut, coupla slices of Swiss and tomato, lots of black pepper, hold the mayo.’
    Meg turned to face the overbearing New Yorker who had queue-jumped her. ‘Excuse me! I was just about to order!’
    The tall auburn-haired man grinned. ‘Ah well, that’s where you went wrong. “Just about to” will never get you anywhere here. You need to pounce, not dally.’
    ‘You want mustard with that, pal?’
    Meg stared at the sandwich guy, complicit in bumping her place in the