The return of Mrs Amber

The fact was, I just couldn’t say no to Mrs Amber, despite having said far worse to her.

I recognised her the minute she strolled into my cafe, even though it had been 30 years. She’d gone back to her natural colour – ash blonde. She was glowing. The shame I felt, as she weaved past the shabby chic tables to the counter, was overwhelming even though Mrs Amber was nothing but polite. It’s funny how teachers’ names always stick in your mind. Even when I learnt her first name, I couldn’t think of her as anything else but Mrs Amber, my GCSE art teacher.

‘Welcome to the village,’ she said, picking up one of the jam jars full of wild flowers. The jars were table decorations for my cafe’s big opening tomorrow. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’

‘If Mrs Amber noticed my scarlet cheeks, she said nothing’

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. My mind catapulted back to 1990. I