The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts
Jennifer Joyce
A deliciously charming romance, perfect for fans of Caroline Roberts, Jane Linfoot and Debbie Johnson.From fairy cakes to first dates!Maddie Lamington’s dreams are crumbling around her. If she doesn’t come up with a plan to save her little teashop on Sweet Street soon, it might be too late…So when she sees how the perfect apple crumble brings together her lonely father and faithful customer Birdie, inspiration strikes: she’ll set up a dating night involving all her sweetest bakes.Luckily, seriously gorgeous Caleb is on hand to help sprinkle a little magic – and a lot of sugar! Could one night of scrumptious first dates fix Maddie’s heartbreak and save her beloved teashop, too?Praise for Jennifer Joyce:‘The perfect chick-lit novel to cosy up with!’ – Pretty Little Books‘Just magical, the perfect read for Valentine’s Day!’ – Jessica Bell (NetGalley Reviewer)‘A fascinating tale, I highly recommend this novel to all women, everywhere!’ – Urban Book Reviews‘A scrumptious, warm, romantic book.’ – Tracey Ford (NetGalley Reviewer)
From fairy cakes to first dates!
Maddie Lamington’s dreams are crumbling around her. If she doesn’t come up with a plan to save her little teashop on Sweet Street soon, it might be too late…
So when she sees how the perfect apple crumble brings together her lonely father and faithful customer Birdie, inspiration strikes: she’ll set up a dating night involving all her sweetest bakes.
Luckily, seriously gorgeous Caleb is on hand to help sprinkle a little magic – and a lot of sugar! Could one night of scrumptious first dates fix Maddie’s heartbreak and save her beloved teashop, too?
A deliciously charming romance, perfect for fans of Caroline Roberts, Jane Linfoot and Debbie Johnson.
The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts
Jennifer Joyce
JENNIFER JOYCE
is a writer of romantic comedies. She’s been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee’s knees typing on that. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything). Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester, with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their bunnies Cinnamon and Leah, and Jack Russell Luna. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer likes to make things – she’ll use any excuse to get her craft box out! She spends far too much time on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.
You can find out more about Jennifer on her blog at jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk (http://www.jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk/), on Twitter at @writer_jenn (https://twitter.com/writer_jenn) and on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites (https://www.facebook.com/JenniferJoyceWrites/)
Thank you to the HQ Digital team, especially my editor, Charlotte Mursell, who helped me to shape The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts into the book you are about to read.
Thanks also to all the wonderful bookish people: Team Novelicious, the SCWG, bloggers, Tweeters, Facebookers and Instagrammers who make reading and writing a joy. A special mention to the Blossom Twins for their cheerleading of The Wedding Date (and many, many more books from many, many authors – they truly are superstars of the book world).
Thank you to PG Tips, Yorkshire Tea and Twinings for fuelling the writing process. You make excellent tea – keep up the good work.
Massive thanks to my family, especially the Joyces: Chris, Rianne and Isobel (and not forgetting Luna, Cinnamon and Leah). For the encouragement, the excitement and allowing me to slope off to my desk with a cup of tea and a deadline.
Finally, the biggest thank you to the readers. I hope you enjoy Maddie’s story.
For the Joyces – Chris, Rianne and Isobel
Contents
Cover (#uc222246b-f62b-54f8-ae3d-85d702b2b490)
Blurb (#u434f267b-a939-512e-8183-00d17a81f0f1)
Title Page (#u5f646d84-a7a4-5615-91ed-80405c4ff713)
Author Bio (#ub095d358-c158-50ba-a12c-3c3945f1e95d)
Acknowledgements (#ua6e4c33d-365b-54fb-bd5b-47c34dbbaa43)
Dedication (#u7b52fe79-6282-5e8f-a59b-7ae4ac196121)
Chapter One (#ulink_5d7cc445-5114-545f-bf2f-3cc37406cccd)
Chapter Two (#ulink_0a16e890-15b7-5ff9-a6d8-6f3cab0cf9f9)
Chapter Three (#ulink_07613277-653d-5ebc-ae50-49026ef842fa)
Chapter Four (#ulink_6bf6dd3e-26de-5520-b98f-b5658a29210a)
Chapter Five (#ulink_851caffa-da7b-592d-ab51-b933974789cd)
Chapter Six (#ulink_495f3eaf-1fd2-5b9c-b52a-18326897d9f8)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_d10b2257-2cca-554f-9552-adfc89929761)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_1155765f-e47e-59cd-b5b3-358c6d4aec09)
Chapter Nine (#ulink_0a620e82-b488-5b44-b5b0-95ef50dd82c8)
Chapter Ten (#ulink_b71aab4c-0824-594c-b53f-388221b9f551)
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_51ad552b-6a15-548d-ab05-b29414e1a392)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_10896038-82ce-5174-aab6-cfa8ac4564ec)
There are lots of different kinds of kisses, from friendly pecks on the cheek to passionate, tongue-swirling embraces and detached air kisses (the latter of which aren’t even kisses at all, in my opinion). Currently, I’m being subjected to a rather enthusiastic (and rather wet) hello kiss, my entire face on the receiving end of a thorough licking.
‘Hello to you too, Franklin.’ I pull the podgy French bulldog’s wriggling body away so that his doggy kisses lap at the air instead of my face, and place him down on the pavement outside my little teashop, winding his lead around the drainpipe and securing it. Franklin – or rather his owner, Birdie – is a regular at the teashop. They arrive each Friday morning, after Birdie’s shampoo and set at the salon two doors down. I adore Franklin. He’s utterly gorgeous with his smooth, tan fur with a darker muzzle and a small patch of cream on his chest. His pink-lined ears are always alert and his chocolatey eyes are always on the hunt for a treat.
‘You spoil him,’ Birdie says with a good-humoured tut as I reach into the pocket of my pink-and-white polka-dotted apron and pull out a homemade, bone-shaped doggy biscuit. I don’t have a dog of my own – I don’t have any pets as the tiny flat above the teashop is barely big enough for me – so I make the treats especially for Franklin. I don’t mind. I love baking, whether it’s for my human customers or their four-legged companions.
‘I can’t help it.’ I hold out the treat and Franklin takes it gently between his teeth, drawing it from my fingers. ‘He’s so adorable.’ I pat Franklin on the head before Birdie and I step into the teashop. It’s quiet inside, with only one other customer sitting at the table closest to the counter. Robbie works for his mum at the florist’s three doors away, but I suspect he spends more time sipping banana milkshakes in my teashop than he does arranging flowers.
‘What can I get you today?’ I ask Birdie as she sits at the table by the window so she can keep an eye on Franklin.
Birdie doesn’t even bother to glance at the menu or specials boards. ‘Is the apple crumble on today?’
‘Of course.’ Apple crumble is Birdie’s favourite dessert, so I always make sure there’s a dish ready on Friday mornings. ‘Warm custard?’
Birdie grins up at me, her eyes sparkling. ‘Perfect.’
I’ve always loved baking. It’s my passion and has been ever since my grandmother tied a floral apron around my waist (wrapping the belt around my middle three times before tying it in a bow as I was only a tiny three-year-old at the time) and helped me to whip up my first batch of fairy cakes. I remember the warmth of the oven as Gran opened the door, the delicious smell of the hot buns, the anticipation of waiting for them to cool. I remember the gloopy icing sugar and the rattle of the tub of hundreds and thousands, the rainbow of bright colours as they tumbled onto the still-wet icing sugar.
Most of all I remember the sweet, sugary taste as I finally bit into the very first cake I’d ever made. The wonder that I, Madeleine Lamington, had mixed up a bunch of ingredients and produced an actual, edible and delicious treat. It was magic, pure and simple.
I’ve been making magic ever since.
Gran taught me everything she knew about baking – all the recipes passed down from her own grandmother, all the little tricks she’d honed over the years, and I’d always dreamed of opening my own teashop serving delicious treats, but it didn’t happen straight away. There was a long road ahead after I left school clutching an A* GCSE in food tech. A road that involved college, A Levels and waitressing.
Later came greasy kitchens and grumpy bakers, more waitressing and admin jobs to pay the bills (plus a soul-destroying stint as a cold caller trying to flog double glazing to people who had no desire to buy it. The only saving grace with that job was meeting Penny, who would become my best friend and ultimately help me to achieve my dream).
Through it all, I baked and I dreamed and now I’m the proud owner of number 5 Kingsbury Road, aka Sweet Street Teashop. It’s hard work, but I love every single minute of it. There is little else I enjoy more than seeing the pleasure my cakes, puddings and biscuits bring to my customers.
‘Cup of tea?’ I ask Birdie.
‘Yes please. I’m gasping. I had one at the salon, but the sheer volume of hairspray clogging up the air has undone all its good work. I’m spitting feathers.’
I make Birdie’s much-needed tea, placing it on her table before heading into the kitchen to warm the custard and spoon a generous serving of apple crumble into a red-and-white polka-dot bowl. I like polka dots. I like patterns in general, mixing and matching them throughout the teashop, from the bright, patterned tabletops (each of my five tables has a different pattern, ranging from a simple but cheery polka-dot design to a yellow rubber duck print) to the crockery I use to serve my desserts.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ Birdie says as I carry her order through to the teashop and place it before her on the table. ‘I don’t know how I’d get through the week without my Friday treat.’ She pats her slightly rounded tummy. ‘My body would thank me if I gave it a miss though.’
‘Nonsense. We all deserve a treat. Speaking of which …’ I pull the little bag of doggy treats out of my apron pocket and hand them over to Birdie. ‘For Franklin.’
‘Thank you, dear.’ Birdie takes the bag and pops it into the handbag hooked onto the back of her chair. ‘You really shouldn’t go to so much trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble at all.’ I place my hand on Birdie’s shoulder briefly before I move through to the little room adjoining the kitchen. Part storeroom, part office, the room is filled with boxes and sacks and the roll-top bureau that once belonged to Gran and now acts as my desk.
‘Is it busy out there? Do you need a hand?’ Mags, one of my wonderful assistants at the teashop, looks hopeful as she glances up from the desk. Mags has been working with me for almost a year, taking on the role of baker, waitress and bookkeeper (she really is Wonder Woman without the metallic knickers) when Sweet Street Teashop opened. I’m pretty poor at facts and figures (any numbers that don’t involve pounds, kilograms or other such measurements sail way over my head) but Mags is brilliant. Give her a pencil and a calculator and she’s perfectly happy to sit in this windowless room and take care of the business side of the teashop. Equally, give her a bowl, wooden spoon and access to ingredients and she’s just as happy and capable. I’d be lost without Mags.
‘We’re not busy at all,’ I say as I step into the room. If only. ‘There’s only Robbie and Birdie out there.’ I close the door and lower my voice. ‘How are the books?’
The corners of Mags’s bright red lips turn down. ‘Not so good.’ She shakes her head. ‘We need more customers. And fast.’
I’m already scarily aware of this fact. Have been since I opened the teashop doors almost a year ago and welcomed three customers that day. When, by the end of the week, I’d served a grand total of twenty-six customers – including my dad and my mum and her partner – I knew we were in trouble. The problem was, knowing this fact didn’t provide me with a solution for how to fix it.
‘Do you think another round of flyers would help?’
Mags shrugs her shoulders. ‘Perhaps. It didn’t have much of an impact last time, but we have to get the word out there somehow. Shall I get on to the printers?’
I press my lips together, unsure of the answer. Mags is right – we do have to spread the word – but printing flyers is a cost I could do without, especially when the outcome isn’t looking particularly promising. We’ve tried dropping flyers through letterboxes or handing them out to shoppers in the town centre a few times, and we’ve targeted specific groups, such as the local NCT group and the over fifties leisure classes, but it’s had little impact so far and we’re still pretty much welcoming the same core group of regulars that we started with. We need a proper push, something to attract a wider customer base.
‘Hold off for now,’ I say, opening the door and stepping over the threshold. ‘We’ll put our heads together later and have a proper think. I’m sure we’ll come up with a solution.’
We have to, otherwise the dream will be over and we’ll both be out of a job.
Chapter Two (#ulink_85173985-a983-5473-9c07-9cc1e07d75f1)
Kingsbury Road is a gorgeous little oasis away from the hustle and bustle of Woodgate town centre. With its quaint cobbled road and short terrace of double bay-fronted shops facing a community garden, you can almost imagine you’re in a picturesque village rather than within spitting distance of a shopping mall and busy high street. We’re a twenty-minute drive away from Manchester City Centre, but there’s nothing urban about Kingsbury Road.
Unfortunately, as beautiful as our little road is, it’s a largely forgotten-about side street with little footfall despite its close proximity to the town centre. Attempts to entice hungry shoppers over in this direction haven’t been working out too well for Sweet Street Teashop.
There are five shops in the terrace, starting at one end with Paper Roses, a craft supplies shop, and ending with Sweet Street Teashop. Sandwiched between us is a florist – where banana milkshake addict Robbie claims to work – a hair and beauty salon and a letting agency. I can see Rehana and George from the letting agency right now, sneaking past the window with their cardboard cups and greasy paper bags from one of the coffee shops on the high street. Despite sitting next door to Sweet Street, they never pop in for their morning coffee, preferring instead to sip their caffeine from branded cups.
We have everything they could possibly want first thing on a Saturday morning – freshly baked croissants and bagels, pancakes and waffles with whipped cream and fresh fruit or gooey maple syrup, Danish pastries and cinnamon buns and all the coffee they could wish for – but we’ve never been able to tempt them away from the lure of the high street.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mags asks when she emerges from the kitchen with a batch of chocolate chip muffins and sees me hovering by the window. I’m tempted to wave at Rehana and George as they scurry past but I chicken out. ‘You shouldn’t be here. It’s your day off.’
Mags thinks I work too hard. She’s probably right but I don’t feel I have a choice right now. Not when my business is sinking faster than a mafia target tossed into a canal wearing concrete boots.
‘I’m not here.’ I step away from the window as Rehana and George disappear from view. ‘Not really. I’m just picking up the leftover apple crumble from yesterday.’ I head into the kitchen, leaving Mags and our sole customer (Robbie, again) in the teashop. Victoria, the final cog that makes up the Sweet Street machine, is blitzing bananas in the blender for Robbie’s daily milkshake. Making milkshakes and washing up is as far as Victoria’s expertise stretches when it comes to the teashop’s kitchen. I tried to teach her the basics when she first started working with us, but it was a bad idea. Very bad indeed. Sometimes, if you inhale deeply enough, you can still smell the charred fairy cakes.
But Victoria is great out front, serving the customers and chatting with them. I’m a bit awkward when it comes to the face-to-face stuff, feeling much more at ease with my mixing bowl than my fellow human beings, but Victoria’s a natural. She’s the youngest of the Sweet Street team at twenty-two (I’m six years older and Mags is thirty-something. Mags won’t tell you what the ‘something’ is and I won’t risk my safety by passing it on) and though she has a tough exterior, she’s as soft and squishy as a melted marshmallow inside. The lead singer of a band, Victoria is waitressing at Sweet Street until they’re offered a record deal.
‘How did the gig go last night?’ I ask as I open the fridge and pull the apple crumble out.
Victoria turns the blender off. ‘Good. He didn’t turn up though.’
‘He’ is a manager that Victoria’s band are hoping to impress so he’ll sign them and rocket them to stardom. She’s talked of little else over the past few weeks so I’m gutted for her.
‘Why not?’ It seems pretty shady to me to arrange to watch a band’s gig and then not bother to show up. Especially when Victoria’s been so excited about the gig and what it would mean for the band’s future.
Victoria shrugs. ‘He didn’t promise anything. We’ve got another gig next week so Nathan’s going to see if he’ll come to that.’
I want to tell Victoria not to get her hopes up but I know she will. She and the band (including her boyfriend, Nathan) formed when they were still at school and they’ve been working hard to achieve their dream ever since, performing insignificant little gigs for little to no money just for exposure. I know how it feels to have a dream, to want to turn your passion into a career so much it’s actually painful and the thought of not reaching your goal is enough to make you cry. I’ve been there. I am there, because although I have the teashop, it’s quickly slipping from my grasp and I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to say goodbye to it so soon.
‘I’ll cross my fingers for you,’ I say instead.
‘Thanks.’ Victoria smiles at me and she looks so young, despite her heavily lined eyes and piercings. Victoria has ten piercings – one each in her lip, nose, right eyebrow and bellybutton, plus three studs in each ear. She also has three tattoos but her leggings and oversized hoodie combo currently cover them up.
Victoria finishes the banana milkshake and takes it out to Robbie while I transfer the leftover apple crumble from its heavy dish into a plastic container. When I return to the teashop, I’m pleased to see a couple more customers enjoying coffee and pastries by one of the windows.
‘Don’t forget Paper Roses’ order this afternoon,’ I say to Mags as I pop the tub of apple crumble into a canvas bag and hook it onto my shoulder. The girls at the neighbouring craft shop run weekly classes and usually order a small selection of cakes for their tea break. I’m so grateful for their custom, I often buy sequins, spools of ribbon and other supplies from the shop even though I don’t have a crafty bone in my body.
‘I won’t,’ Mags says. ‘Now get out of here and enjoy your day off before I have to physically eject you.’ Mags places her hands on her wide hips and cocks an eyebrow in challenge. I hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’ I say goodbye to Mags and Victoria before I head out, praying custom magically picks up during my absence.
Dad lives on his own, in the house I grew up in on the outskirts of Manchester City Centre. The three-bedroomed house is too big for him to potter about in on his own but he likes to cling on to the memories of our family before it fractured. Mum and Dad divorced seven years ago but while Mum is happy with a new partner, Dad can’t seem to move on. I worry about him and it breaks my heart that he’s alone, which is why I visit every weekend – without fail – with his favourite dessert. We’ll sit in the kitchen with a bowl of warm apple crumble and custard and a cup of tea while we catch up.
‘Will tinned custard do?’ Dad asks, as he does every single week. I play along, releasing a long sigh.
‘I suppose it’ll have to.’ Gran taught me to make my own custard, which I use in the teashop, but it’s a bit of a faff at the weekend when I just want to relax.
Dad heats the apple crumble and custard in the microwave while I make cups of tea and then we sit at the table and Dad asks, ‘How’s your mum?’
Like the tinned custard, this question is routine and, as always, I feel awful when I answer. I want to tell him she’s not so good. That she and Ivor have split up, that she’s regretting ever leaving Dad after twenty-three years of marriage. That she wishes she’d worked harder, that she hadn’t given up, that she was mistaken when she’d said that she cared about Dad but didn’t love him any more.
But I can’t.
Mum’s happy.
And she still cares about Dad but doesn’t love him any more. She loves Ivor.
I’m happy for Mum, really I am, but I feel for Dad. I’ve been the dumped party, the one left behind. Left devastated.
‘She’s okay,’ I tell Dad, though I know it won’t be enough. Mum is a wound Dad likes to prod, even if it hurts like hell. When I split up with my last boyfriend, I couldn’t bear to think about him, let alone talk about him. I’ve shut the door on my relationship with Joel and locked, bolted and welded it shut. But Dad likes to know every little detail of Mum’s life because if he’s out of the loop, he’s truly lost her.
‘Did she have a nice holiday?’ I nod, a mouthful of hot apple crumble and custard rendering me unable to speak. ‘I bet she’s tanned, isn’t she? She only has to think about the sun and she’s golden. Not like me, eh?’ Dad lifts up an arm, flashing his pale, freckly skin. ‘Luckily you got your mum’s colouring.’
While I’ve inherited Dad’s auburn hair, I don’t have his perma-pale skin tone. All our family holiday snaps show Mum and I beaming at the camera, our teeth a flash of white against golden flesh while Dad grimaces, his skin painfully raw with sunburn. It doesn’t matter how frequently he applies his Factor Fifty, Dad will always, always burn to a crisp. It was one of the reasons he refused to holiday abroad and why Mum makes up for it now with Ivor, jetting off at least twice a year. I have a postcard from their latest trip to Hawaii on my fridge.
‘I haven’t seen her since they got back,’ I tell Dad. I hope that this will offer some comfort to Dad. To know that while I visit him often, I’m not off playing happy families with Mum and Ivor the rest of the time.
‘You should see your mum more often. I bet she misses you.’
‘I saw her just before they went away,’ I say, though this isn’t technically true. It was a month before they left but we’ve both been busy – Mum with planning her trip and me with trying to keep the teashop afloat – and we don’t have the same easy relationship I have with Dad. Not any more.
‘This is good apple crumble,’ Dad says as he scoops a giant spoonful towards his mouth. ‘Just like Gran used to make.’ He wedges the spoon into his mouth and closes his eyes. This is the best compliment I could ever receive. Gran baked the most delicious desserts and if my own creations taste nearly as good as hers, I’ll be very proud of myself.
‘How’s the teashop going?’ Dad asks once we’ve finished eating. He usually pops in at least once a week but I haven’t seen him since my visit home last weekend.
‘Great.’ I force a smile on my face and nod my head like Churchill the dog. ‘Really great.’
There are some things I can’t lie about. I’m truthful while telling Dad week after week how happy Mum is without him or while telling my friend Nicky that the guy she’s been bombarding with unanswered texts probably isn’t interested in her. I don’t lie about these things, no matter how difficult it is to tell the truth, but I do lie to Dad about the teashop. I can’t tell him that it’s failing. That I’m failing. That the money Gran left me in her will may have been wasted on a dream not come true.
‘It’s no wonder it’s doing so well if you keep making desserts like these.’ Dad gathers our empty cups and dishes and carries them over to the sink to wash up. When the doorbell rings, he holds up his wet, soapy hands. ‘Would you get that? If it’s those energy people, tell them to bugger off. I’m happy with the service I’ve got.’
‘Will do,’ I say, though I know I won’t. I’ll stand there while they blather on about the better deals they can offer and then I’ll politely decline, apologising as I gently close the door. I don’t do confrontation. Ever. Luckily it isn’t a door-to-door ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything’ salesman. It’s a woman (without a clipboard, ID badge or charity tabard), who takes a startled step back when I open the door.
‘Oh.’ Her eyes flick to the door, checking the number, checking she has, in fact, got the right house. ‘Is Clive in? I’m Jane? From next door?’ She poses the last two statements as questions, as though I may have an inkling who she is.
‘Jane?’ Dad booms from the kitchen. ‘Come in!’
I open the door wider and Jane-from-next-door takes a tentative step over the threshold, the corners of her lips twitching into an awkward smile. She follows me through to the kitchen, where Dad is drying his hands on a tea towel.
‘I’ve brought your screwdriver back.’ Jane reaches into the handbag looped over her arm and pulls the tool out, holding it out to Dad between finger and thumb, as though it could burst into life and attack at any given moment.
‘Did it do the trick?’ Dad asks as he takes the screwdriver and places it on the table.
Jane nods, the awkward smile flicking at her lips again. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Thought it would.’ Dad moves towards the kettle, plucking it from its stand. ‘Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?’
Jane’s eyes brush over me, the smile flickering on her lips again. She looks like she’s got a tic. ‘You’ve got company.’
‘That’s just Maddie.’ Dad fills the kettle and flicks it on. ‘My daughter.’
‘Oh!’ The smile is wider now, more genuine. I try not to feel offended by the ‘just’ in Dad’s introduction. ‘I see! Of course. Hello, Maddie.’
I raise my hand and give a little wave, the awkward bug having been passed on.
‘So,’ Dad says. ‘Tea?’
Jane eyes me briefly before she turns to Dad. ‘I have to dash, actually. Maybe another time? Tomorrow?’
Dad nods, already striding across the kitchen so he can see Jane-the-neighbour to the door. ‘Sure.’
Jane beams at Dad, placing a hand on his arm now he’s reached her. ‘Thank you again for the screwdriver.’
‘Any time.’
I watch as Dad and Jane disappear into the hall, hear their muffled voices as they chat at the door. The kettle’s boiled by the time Dad returns to the kitchen.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask Dad, indicating the screwdriver still on the table.
‘Jane asked to borrow it yesterday. Asked me if I knew anything about plugs. She needed to replace one of hers so I wrote down some instructions and let her borrow the screwdriver.’
I want to drop my face into my hands. ‘Da-ad. She didn’t want to borrow a screwdriver! She wanted you to go over.’
Dad shakes his head. ‘Nah. Jane’s not like that. She’s very independent. Capable, like.’
Facepalm, round two. ‘She didn’t want you to go round to replace the plug.’ If there was ever a plug in need of replacing in the first place.
Dad grabs the tea caddy and pulls a couple of bags out. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘She fancies you.’ I am almost giddy. With relief. With hope. A woman fancies my dad. He doesn’t have to be alone any more! ‘Jane-from-next-door fancies you and she was trying to lure you round to her house.’
Dad shakes his head as he plops teabags into two cups. ‘Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Jane’s friendly, that’s all. A good neighbour.’
I’m not convinced. I fling myself at Dad, wrapping my arms around his middle and planting a noisy kiss on his stubbly cheek.
‘Jane-from-next-door has a crush on you. I’m sure of it.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Dad scoffs. ‘People our age don’t have “crushes”. And I’m not interested anyway. I’m too old for all that nonsense.’
By nonsense, I assume Dad means having fun and being happy with somebody other than Mum.
‘You’re never too old for love. Besides, you’re sixty-two and sixty is the new fifty, which is the new forty, so you’re practically a spring chicken.’
Dad grabs the kettle and pours boiling water into the cups. ‘I don’t think your logic pans out quite right there.’
‘Oh yes it does.’ I open the fridge and take out the milk, passing it to Dad. ‘I want you to be happy.’
‘And you can’t be happy and single?’ Dad raises his eyebrows at me and I feel myself squirm.
‘You can. Of course you can.’ I’m an example of that. I’ve been single for a year now and I’ve never been happier. I push the thought of waking up wrapped in Joel’s arms away, of feeling safe and loved. ‘But aren’t you ready to move on? To find someone new?’
Dad places the fresh cups of tea on the table and looks pointedly at me. ‘Are you?’
Chapter Three (#ulink_038977e3-8e09-5360-93b7-0be24983c679)
I’d been working at the Blue Llama – a super-pretentious, celeb-chef-endorsed restaurant – for three weeks when I first met Joel. The tips were amazing (super-pretentious people can be pretty free with their wads of cash when they’re tipsy, full of good grub and showing off in front of their friends, colleagues or dates. Especially when they’re showing off in front of their dates), but I was fed up. Fed up of blisters on my feet from the compulsory heels. Fed up of being patronised by the diners and yelled at by the chef.
And then, one evening shortly before Christmas, when the restaurant was particularly packed with diners enjoying a festive night out, I was accosted as I passed the men’s toilets down in the basement bar. Hands and lips were on me before I even realised the tray of empty glasses I’d been carrying had slipped from my grasp and had crashed to the floor, glass shattering on the tiled floor around my feet.
‘You. Are. Gorgeous,’ the bloke drawled and I recognised his voice. I’d been waiting on his group of friends earlier, sidestepping wandering hands and pretending not to hear the vulgar comments as I went about my duties, reminding me that money doesn’t always buy class. ‘You’re coming back to mine, princess.’
Before I could reply that no, actually, I wasn’t going back to his place, his mouth was on mine again, his fat tongue squirming against the roof of my mouth and making me gag. His whole body was crushing mine, his hands pinning my shoulders to the wall so any attempts to push him away were futile. I knew a swift knee to the balls would help my case, but as he’d jammed one of his legs between my knees, I couldn’t even deliver the blow.
‘Whoa, mate. What do you think you’re doing?’
Glass crunched underfoot as the bloke was wrenched away from me and I dipped slightly as my jellied knees gave way. I swiped a hand across my mouth, trying to rid myself of the taste and memory of his lips and tongue.
‘Piss off and mind your own business,’ he growled at my rescuer. ‘Go and find a bird of your own. This one’s taken.’
‘I don’t think so.’ My rescuer turned to me. ‘Are you okay?’
The bloke snorted. ‘Course she’s all right. We were only kissing.’
‘Didn’t look that way to me,’ my rescuer said. ‘It looked like you were pawing at the poor girl while pinning her to the wall. Whatever it was you think you were doing, she wasn’t enjoying it.’ He turned to me and repeated his question. ‘Are you okay?’
I nodded, though I didn’t feel okay at all. My body was suddenly trembling and I wasn’t sure my legs would allow me to move away from the wall even though I wanted nothing more than to run like hell.
‘Come on.’ With a hand almost but not quite touching my back, he guided me away from the secluded spot and into the main bar area, where he caught the attention of one of the other waitresses and explained what had happened. You’ve probably guessed Joel was my rescuer, but I didn’t know that yet and wouldn’t for a while longer yet. The waitress took me away to the staff quarters, where I promptly burst into tears before quitting my job and taking a cab home. Being assailed by a slobbering drunk was the final straw and it was time to try something else.
‘It’s different for me,’ I tell Dad as I sit down at the table, cradling my cup of tea. The too-hot cup anchors me back down into the present, stops me drifting back to Joel and our relationship. ‘We only split up a year ago and although I haven’t started a new relationship, I have moved on.’ I blow on my tea so I don’t have to look at Dad’s face. There are signs that Dad hasn’t moved on in every room in the house: the framed wedding photo on the mantelpiece, Mum’s dressing gown still hung up on the back of the bathroom door, her favourite wine in the rack, even though Dad doesn’t drink wine. He keeps Mum in this house and I’m worried he’ll never let her out.
‘Plus, I’m pretty busy with the teashop. I don’t have time for a new relationship.’
Dad laughs softly and eases himself into the chair opposite mine. ‘Don’t you think I used to say the exact same thing when your mum left? I was too busy with work, with looking after Gran, with the allotment.’ Dad even keeps Mum in his little shed there, the floral gloves and pink trowel he bought for her to use still on the shelf, waiting for her return. ‘You make time if you really want to.’
Dad doesn’t understand just how much work is involved in keeping the teashop going, but then why would he when I don’t confide in him how difficult it is? How much we’re struggling?
‘Won’t you give Jane a chance?’ I ask. ‘Go on one date. Take her to the pub or out for a meal. Take her to the allotment if you have to.’
Dad shakes his head. ‘No. I’m sorry but I can’t.’
I don’t push it further. I’ve tried in the past to get Dad interested in other women but he won’t even entertain the idea and I don’t want to cloud the rest of our morning together. So we drink our tea and creep away from the subject of relationships. I tell Dad the good bits about the teashop, making him laugh with stories about Mags and the builder she flirts with whenever he comes in for a sneaky afternoon treat, and he tells me about work and his feud with Gerry, the bloke at the neighbouring plot at the allotment. He tells me about catching Gerry helping himself to Dad’s cabbages and Dad’s revenge pilfering of his swedes.
‘You’ll come into the teashop during the week, won’t you?’ I ask as I’m getting ready to leave. ‘If you come on Friday, there’ll be another bowl of apple crumble waiting for you.’
‘How can I say no to that?’ Dad kisses my cheek and gives me a squeeze. ‘Friday it is.’
I return to the teashop and am disappointed when I see there are only three customers. It’s Saturday lunchtime – the teashop should be packed. Mags and Victoria should be rushed off their feet. Instead, Mags is staring into space while Victoria is perched on top of the counter, texting on her phone.
‘There must be something we can do,’ Mags says when she follows me into the storeroom slash office. ‘There are so many potential customers just up the road. We just need to find a way to get them in here instead of the high street.’
‘You mean rather than dragging them down by their hair?’ Victoria has followed us through, though she’s remained on the threshold so she can keep an eye on the teashop.
‘I don’t think that would make happy customers,’ I say. ‘And unhappy customers don’t return.’
‘Why don’t we have a party?’ Victoria suggests. ‘A belated launch night.’
‘We’ve been open a year,’ I point out, but I’m intrigued by the idea. ‘But I think you might be onto something. We could have a summer celebration. Strawberries and cream, ice-cream sundaes, fruit salad.’
‘We could make mini sample versions of our cakes,’ Mags says. ‘People like a freebie. We’ll let them try what we have to offer and hopefully they’ll come back.’
‘With cash,’ Victoria says.
Mags nods. ‘That’s the idea.’
Victoria gasps, her eyes wide. ‘We could play. The band! We could put together a summer set. Unless Terry Sergeant signs us and we’re too busy recording our album.’ Victoria winks at us, to show she’s joking but I wouldn’t hold it against her if she dropped her waitressing job like a hot potato if the manager signed them. She’s young. She has dreams and I wouldn’t begrudge her grasping hold of them as tight as she can. ‘I’ll text Nathan, see what he says.’ Victoria spins around, almost colliding with another body that has sneaked up behind her. We’ve been so busy chatting, we haven’t noticed the teashop door opening, haven’t noticed the customer wandering ‘backstage’ to search for a member of staff.
Luckily, it’s only Nicky from the salon along the terrace. Nicky goes by several names, depending on whose company she’s in. She was named Nicole Seraphina Vickery at birth, but luckily she is rarely given the full-name treatment (and then only by her parents and grandmother). To her family she is Nicole, to her clients she is Nico (from Nico’s Hair & Beauty – she thinks Nico sounds more glam than Nicky) and Nicky to her friends, of which I am one.
I’ve known Nicky for just over a year. We met as I stood on the pavement, staring into the grimy window of Sweet Street Teashop (which wasn’t actually Sweet Street Teashop back then. It was Val’s Caff – though only in name. Val had packed up and gone. Without cleaning her windows, it would seem). It was a decent size; not exactly large but reasonable for the asking price. There was already a counter in place, which was handy, and I could probably fit five or six tables in the available space. I adored the façade, with its creamy rendering and bay windows either side of the glass-panelled door. The paint was peeling on the frames, but it wouldn’t be difficult or too costly to fix.
‘It’s a shame, isn’t it?’ a voice asked as I squinted past the filth. ‘About Val?’
‘Sorry?’ I stepped away from the window, my stomach churning with guilt. Had the previous owner died? Is that why she hadn’t cleaned her windows?
‘I said it’s a shame about Val.’ The voice belonged to a woman wearing a hot pink tunic and matching, slim-fitting trousers. She was beautiful with smooth brown skin, large dark eyes and full, glossy lips. Her thick black curls were pulled off her face in a high ponytail with twisty tendrils framing her face. ‘She did the best full English breakfasts. So greasy but so delicious.’ The woman sniffed the air, deep and long. ‘Nope, doesn’t even smell the same without Val around. Lucky cow though, eh?’
‘Sorry?’ It seemed that one word was my entire contribution to the conversation.
‘Winning that cruise. Meeting Arnold. Mega rich Arnold. Marrying him and retiring to the south of France.’ She sighed and gave a slow shake of her head. ‘Some people have all the luck. I can’t even find a date for Friday night and Val’s hit the jackpot.’
‘I didn’t know Val,’ I admitted. ‘I’m waiting for an estate agent. I’m viewing the teashop and the flat upstairs.’
‘You’re buying Val’s?’ The woman’s eyes grew even larger. ‘How’s your full English?’
I shrugged. ‘Okay, I guess. But it won’t be that kind of teashop.’
Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head to one side. ‘What kind of teashop will it be?’
I explained the idea behind Sweet Street Teashop, where I’d serve freshly baked desserts, biscuits and pastries. There would be no full English breakfasts on offer but would fluffy, American-style pancakes do instead?
‘Are you kidding me?’ A pair of arms were suddenly thrown around me and I was being squeezed tighter than was comfortable. ‘You’re my new best friend!’
‘Whoa, there.’ Nicky now takes a step back from Victoria, hands raised and palms out. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘Sorry. I need to text Nathan.’ Sidestepping Nicky, Victoria dashes out into the teashop, where she’s left her mobile under the counter.
‘Young love, eh?’ Nicky sighs as she joins us in the storeroom/office. ‘Not that I’d know how that feels. I’ve been single for ever.’
Nicky’s been single for a couple of months, though her last three relationships have hardly been long-term and the word ‘love’ wasn’t mentioned by either party. Nicky doesn’t have much luck with men. She has no trouble finding dates (she’s gorgeous) but she always seems to pick the wrong kind of men. The kind that are after a quick fumble and won’t even remember your name – never mind your phone number – the next day.
‘Love is overrated anyway,’ Mags says. ‘I’ve been happier since the divorce than I ever was while I was with Graham.’
‘Surely the beginning was good?’ I ask. ‘Why else would you get married?’
‘I was pregnant and Mum is very old-fashioned about that sort of thing. She swore me and Graham to secrecy until after the wedding so my grandmother wouldn’t find out. She left it a month before she told Abuela that I’d had Brian and she said he was two months early. By the time Abuela and Titomade it over from Spain, Brian was six weeks old but supposedly a two-week-old prem.’ Mags – or Magdalena – is half Spanish, but she’s lived in Manchester all her life and is as northern as Blackpool Tower – and as Spanish as a supermarket frozen paella. ‘If Abuela suspected, she didn’t say anything. Brian still has to wait a month for his birthday cards from our Spanish relatives.’
‘I can’t wait to get married,’ Nicky says. She’s joined us in the ‘office’ and is leaning against the chest of drawers that houses both the business files and my recipes. ‘I want a massive wedding, with a dozen bridesmaids.’
I don’t even know a dozen women I like enough to be part of my wedding. Not that I’ll ever have a wedding. I’m with Mags’s ‘love is overrated’ view.
‘I want the whole puffy-white-dress, horse-and-carriage-to-the-church affair and an eight-tier cake, which you’ll make, of course.’ Nicky grins at me. ‘And I want to do the Dirty Dancing routine for my first dance.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all planned,’ Mags says and Nicky nods.
‘Pretty much. Just need the husband now.’
‘Ah, the hard part.’ Mags turns to me. ‘What about you? Have you mapped out your wedding?’
I feel betrayed. As though Mags has turned on me. What happened to our shared ‘love is overrated’ view?
‘Maddie doesn’t believe in marriage,’ Nicky says as I squirm awkwardly. ‘In fact, I don’t think she even believes in relationships full stop.’ Nicky purses her lips as she observes me. ‘No, she hasn’t had one date in all the time I’ve known her. Me, I’ve had tons of dates in that time. Not that any of them have been worth it in the long run …’
‘And you wonder why I don’t bother with men.’ I haven’t told Nicky about Joel. I haven’t told Mags or Victoria either, as I try to block the whole episode from my mind and not talking about it helps a lot. Mum tries to talk about it (which is probably why I don’t see her as often as I should, if I’m honest) and Penny tried in the very beginning, but I refused to hear a word of it.
Victoria scuttles into the room, squeezing between Nicky and a sack of self-raising flour, and I’m glad of the distraction. ‘Nathan loves the idea! As long as you pick a date where everyone’s free, we can play at the party!’
‘What party?’ Nicky asks so I explain about our plan to host a summer-themed party to entice more customers into the teashop.
‘And your band is going to play?’ Nicky asks Victoria, who attempts to do a little dance in the cramped space while nodding her head. ‘But where? I hate to break it to you, hun, but you’re not going to fit in the teashop. Not if you want customers inside at the same time.’
Victoria’s animated jig freezes. She frowns, trying to work out the logistics, her shoulders slumping when she realises Nicky’s right.
‘We can’t play at the party then.’
‘Maybe you can,’ Nicky says with a shrug. ‘Just not inside the teashop.’
‘Then where?’ Victoria asks. ‘On the roof?’
Nicky ignores Victoria’s sarcasm. ‘If you’re going to have a party, why not make it big? Have it out there, in the garden.’
The garden! Of course! Opposite the teashop, running the length of the Kingsbury terrace of shops, is the little community garden. When I’d viewed the teashop all those months ago, I’d assumed the gated garden would encourage families onto Kingsbury Road. I thought that employees from the town centre would wander over on warm days to sit by the fountain or picnic on the grass. And once they clocked my teashop and its sweet treats on offer …
I’d been wrong. Nobody uses the poor, neglected garden. But perhaps we can. Perhaps the garden across the road is the answer to all my problems.
Chapter Four (#ulink_42cb1ed0-8692-59f1-adf6-e49c2eaeff57)
I’m buzzing about the party as we start to make plans, moving out into the teashop and taking over one of the tables as it really is far too cramped in the office and the teashop is empty anyway. Mags brings a pad and pen with her, jotting down the ideas we fire at her.
Picnic blankets.
Sample-sized treats.
Victoria’s band.
A bouncy castle (kids love a bouncy castle, Mags tells us, and there’s nothing stronger than pester power).
Face-painting (see above).
‘Why don’t we get the other shops involved?’ Nicky asks. ‘Make it into a Kingsbury Road open day? I can offer free mini manicures or eyebrow shaping and I’m sure Marjorie from the florist’s and the girls from Paper Roses will be keen to drum up new business.’
‘How will George and Rehana fit in?’ I ask as Mags makes a note of Nicky’s suggestion. Although the pair offer a valuable service, I’m not sure what freebies a letting agency would be able to provide at an open day.
Nicky shrugs. ‘Why would we want them to fit in? They’re hardly loyal to us. Rehana gets her nails done at that tacky, overpriced salon off Piccadilly Gardens and I spotted George the other day with a spray tan that wasn’t applied at Nico’s.’
‘We should mention it to them anyway,’ I say. ‘It’d be rude otherwise.’
Nicky shrugs again. ‘If you really want to, go ahead. They don’t deserve it though.’
‘So, first thing on Monday morning, I’ll go and have a word with the others,’ I say, decision made. ‘Maybe Imogen and Zoe can run some free classes at Paper Roses? Make something cheap and cheerful?’
Mags nods. ‘Run it past them. I’m sure they’ll want to be part of it.’
I feel a warm glow inside as we throw around some more ideas. The party is taking on a real community spirit and I hope the others will want to be involved. We’ll make a far bigger impact if we’re all working together and it’ll benefit us all in the long run.
We’re still sharing suggestions when the teashop door opens and Birdie steps inside, murmuring to Franklin that she won’t be long. I’m surprised to see Birdie as she doesn’t usually pop in on a Saturday.
‘I’m after cake to take away,’ she explains when I stand up to serve her. ‘My great-granddaughter is coming over for a tea party and I’ve promised her cake.’ Birdie’s eyes crinkle in the corners as her mouth stretches into a wide smile. ‘I can’t wait to see the little angel. I don’t see her much, you see. My grandson’s ex-wife is … difficult.’
I sense Birdie wants to use much more colourful language to describe the woman but she manages to rein it in. ‘She wouldn’t let my grandson see their daughter much after the divorce. It’s been so stressful for poor Caleb. For everyone. But he’s finally been granted joint custody, which means I’ll get to see her more often. So we’re celebrating this afternoon.’
Birdie heads over to the refrigerated counter and peers at the cakes on offer. There are peanut butter blondies, chocolate fudge cupcakes and raspberry cream cheese brownies as well as homemade jammy dodgers. ‘I’ll take one of each of the cakes and some of the biscuits, please. Oh, and I’ll take those as well.’ Birdie points at the two chocolate chip muffins in a basket on top of the counter. ‘We’re really going to treat ourselves. Celine won’t like Cara having all that sugar, but it’s a special occasion.’
Birdie wanders over to the table we’ve been working at while I box up her order. If only we had more customers like Birdie, it wouldn’t be such a worrying time.
‘What’s going on here?’ she asks and Nicky explains about the community open day. Birdie thinks it’s a brilliant idea and says she’ll pass on the details to her grandson once they’re in place. It’s the kind of positive response we’ve been hoping for but our bubble is momentarily burst by her next words.
‘I’m surprised you got permission to use the garden from the council. My friend’s granddaughter wanted to erect a marquee on her village green when she got married but they refused, miserable beggars.’
I’m reaching out to take the money Birdie is handing towards me, but I freeze, my eyes wide as they lock onto Mags’s equally wide-eyed look.
‘The council?’ Why didn’t we think of that? It seems so obvious now that we’d need permission, but it hadn’t even occurred to me.
‘You have got permission to use the garden, haven’t you?’ Birdie asks.
‘Not yet.’ I take the money and slide it into the till, handing over the change and the boxed treats. ‘But I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’
My eyes find Mags’s again.
Will it? they desperately ask. They don’t receive an answer.
The obstacle of gaining permission to use the garden is only a minor one. A tiny blip, really. Mags says she’ll get on to the council on Monday morning as she’s far more assertive than I am, will push for this stronger than I could ever imagine pushing and hopefully we’ll get the result we want. The result we need. In the meantime, I’m using every spare minute planning our menu. I take my books and Gran’s handwritten recipes up to the flat, spreading them out across the sofa while I make notes.
Sitting directly above the teashop, my flat is tiny with one bedroom, a doll-sized bathroom and an open-plan kitchen and living area. But living above the teashop is handy and I was in a bit of a pickle, accommodation-wise, when I started looking for a suitable property for my new business. Finding the shop with a flat above it had been fortunate and certainly helped me to make my mind up about the Kingsbury Road location.
Nicky joins me with a bottle of wine once the salon is closed for the day and we order a takeaway, sifting through the recipes as we wait for our food. Nicky had wanted to go into town tonight, but as I have to work, we’ve compromised with indulgent food, wine and Gilmore Girls on Netflix in the background.
Besides, it’s been a while since I braved Manchester’s clubs on a Saturday night. I’m usually too exhausted to face a night out after being up at the crack of dawn to bake – or at least that’s the excuse I go with. The truth is, I’d rather curl up at home with a bottle of wine and a DVD, where I’m safe from men like Joel. I can’t risk being hurt again.
‘Why hasn’t he texted me?’ Nicky suddenly growls, dropping the recipe for Gran’s treacle tart so she can snatch up her phone from the arm of the sofa. ‘He said he’d be in touch.’
‘You only saw him last night,’ I point out as I pick the recipe up off the floor and add it to the pile we’ve already looked at. ‘Give him a chance. He’s probably been busy with work. What does he do?’
Nicky shrugs. ‘No idea.’
‘But you slept with him.’ Nicky has, unfortunately, shared all the details of her date the previous night.
‘So?’
I close the recipe book I’ve been poring over, saving my page with the aging slip of paper containing Gran’s recipe for blackberry pie. ‘Do you know anything about him, other than his name?’ And by name, I’m referring to the username on the dating app Nicky uses to meet men. I don’t know if she knows his actual – and full – name.
‘I know that he’s got a mole right here.’ Nicky places a finger a couple of centimetres below her right hip. ‘And a tattoo of an eagle here.’ She trails her finger up to her shoulder blade.
‘Have you ever thought about playing it a bit cooler?’ I ask. ‘Waiting for a guy who’ll respect you enough to call you afterwards before you have sex with him?’
Nicky nods and takes a sip of wine. ‘I’ve thought about it but I sort of get caught up in the moment.’ She nudges me playfully with her elbow. ‘We can’t all be Snow White like you.’
‘Hey, I’ve had my moments.’ I think of Joel, even though I shouldn’t.
Nicky sighs. ‘I’ve had lots of moments. Too many.’ She looks down at her phone and growls. ‘Why hasn’t he texted? Do you think I should send him a message on the app?’
‘No, I really think you should leave it for now.’ We’ve been down this path so many times before, the trail has practically worn away. Nicky will send a message to this guy, wait a day (at the most) before sending another. And another. Until she’s sent a barrage of increasingly desperate messages, none of which will be replied to. In the end, Nicky will be blocked and she’ll move on to the next guy, restarting the cycle.
The takeaway arrives and I take the foil dishes and paper packages into the little kitchenette to distribute onto the plates I’ve already set out. The plates are piled high with noodles and fried rice, roast duck and stir-fried vegetables, crispy spring rolls and prawn toast. I have similar restraint when it comes to the local Chinese takeaway that Nicky has with men on her dating app. Joel used to say I had hollow legs, marvelling that I could eat so much and still stay slim. When we first met at the call centre, Penny used to joke that she hated me as she only had to glance in the general direction of a takeaway and she put on a couple of pounds.
Nicky looks guilty as I carry the plates into the living area, a bag of prawn crackers tucked under one arm and another bottle of wine under the other. I soon see why when I place the plates down on the coffee table and relieve myself of the prawn crackers and wine. Nicky’s phone had been on the arm of the sofa when the doorbell rang. It’s now been tossed across the coffee table.
‘You sent him a message, didn’t you?’
Nicky cringes. ‘Sort of.’
I pass Nicky a plate and a set of cutlery and join her on the sofa. It’s done now. All we can do is wait for him to reply. Or not, as the case will probably be. And we may as well stuff ourselves stupid while we wait it out.
After the Chinese, I pull the leftover raspberry cream cheese brownies out of the fridge and top up our glasses. Stuffed and a little bit squiffy, Nicky has to be practically rolled down the stairs and wedged into the waiting taxi. I return to the flat and pick up a recipe book for one last look before bed. Most of the desserts we serve at the teashop can be downsized, from apple crumble served in ramekin dishes with a dollop of warm custard to bite-sized brownies and mini cupcakes.
Caught up and forgetting I have to be up at five the next morning, I start to compile a list, noting ingredients and quantities so I can gauge how much cash the party will eat up. I’ll get Mags to take a thorough look on Monday but a rough estimate will do for now.
Ouch. It’s quite a hit but fingers crossed it will do the trick and earn us a healthier customer base. Because we can’t keep going as we are. My funds are quickly dwindling and soon, if things don’t pick up, I’ll be forced to close the teashop and I’ll be as heartbroken as I was a year ago.
Chapter Five (#ulink_df6c8b4f-f7b8-529a-b813-2400a58ff052)
‘Too much?’ Penny lifted her face away from the mirror propped up on top of the chest of drawers and turned towards me, pouting her cherry-red lips at me. I was sitting cross-legged on her bed, applying a coat of mascara using the shaving mirror from the bathroom. Penny and I shared a flat so my own bedroom was only next door, but it was more fun to get ready together, our favourite music blasting from the CD player.
I was twenty-two and living away from home for the first time and I’d honestly never had so much fun. Yes, the bills were a pain and the discovery that there wasn’t a washing-up fairy (or a laundry or toilet-cleaning fairy) was a shock to the system and I was constantly plagued with pangs of guilt at leaving Dad on his own, but living with Penny was amazing.
We’d met six months earlier, at the call centre where we attempted to coax people (who neither liked being disturbed or being coaxed) into buying double glazing, and we’d gravitated towards each other. Penny was so fun and vibrant, it was hard not to smile when she was around and she seemed to enjoy my company too. We quickly became best friends and when Penny’s flatmate moved out, I took his place. Not only did I get to live with my best friend, the flat was a short walk to the Deansgate call centre where we worked, which saved on travel costs.
‘You look fierce,’ I told Penny as she pouted at me. She’d spritzed her usually frizzy ginger hair with some kind of magical potion that had given her bouncy, shimmery curls, applied a perfect eyeliner flick and finished off the look with a glossy cherry-red lipstick.
‘That’s exactly the look I was going for,’ Penny said, attempting an air of uber-confidence but spoiling the effect with a self-conscious giggle. ‘Do you think I’ll finally pull Jack?’
Jack was our team leader at the call centre and Penny had a major, major crush on him. We were getting ready for a night out with the team to celebrate his birthday so Penny had made an extra special effort, both with her hair and make-up and the super-clingy, super-low-cut dress she’d bought that afternoon.
‘He’d be mad not to fancy you,’ I told her, which made her go all giggly, which in turn made me go all giggly.
We finished getting ready and then made our way to the pub to meet the others. Penny made a beeline for Jack, flinging her arms around him and giving him a birthday kiss on the cheek that branded him with a bright red lipstick mark. We had a couple of drinks before we moved on to a club, where Penny pulled Jack onto the dance floor. I followed, dancing with some of the other girls from the team while Penny worked her magic on Jack. It was a good night, a proper let-your-hair-down kind of night with lots of dancing and laughing and team bonding. My feet were in agony as my shoes slowly murdered them and I was sure I’d have a killer hangover in the morning, but I didn’t care.
‘Oh my God. He is gorgeous.’ Penny had hauled herself off the dance floor for refreshment purposes and we were at the bar, trying to catch the attention of the harried bar staff. ‘He makes Jack look like Quasimodo.’ I followed Penny’s wide-eyed gaze and understood what she meant as I spotted the object of her lust. Tall and muscular without being too bulky, he was throwing back his head as he laughed, his blue eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting of the club. Wow. Just wow. He was stunning.
‘Hey, Pen.’ Jack – without a hunchback, despite Penny’s assessment – draped an arm around her waist and pulled her away from the bar. ‘Come and dance. I love this song.’
‘Grab me a drink!’ Penny yelled as she was towed away and I nodded before turning back towards the blond God. But he was gone and I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of his retreat through the throng. Not that I’d have followed in pursuit. Why would a man like that look at me?
Eventually, I managed to buy our drinks and I headed to the perimeter of the dance floor in search of Penny and Jack. They weren’t difficult to spot, entwined in the middle of the jiggling bodies, feasting on each other as they gyrated to the music. They were still devouring each other by the time I finished my drink so I made a start on Penny’s. There was no point in wasting it, after all.
I’d perhaps had a little more to drink than I should as I started to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges. My feet weren’t quite so co-ordinated as I made my way up to the loos and I found myself stumbling on the last couple of steps that led back down to the bar. A hand grasped me by the elbow, keeping hold until I was steady on my feet again.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ Oh, God. It was the gorgeous blond and he was looking at me with concern, which wasn’t quite the look I’d wished for. ‘Every time I see you, you’re in trouble.’
‘Sorry?’ I moved – carefully – away from the staircase, my eyes scanning for Penny. And then something clicked. I’d seen him before, months earlier. ‘Oh, it’s you! The Blue Llama. You rescued me from that sleaze.’ It had happened six months ago and he remembered me? How odd. ‘Did I even say thank you?’ I’d been so shaken at the time, I hadn’t properly registered him (otherwise I’d have noted how gorgeous he was, obviously) so I doubted I’d shown an ounce of gratitude.
‘There was no need,’ he said with a shrug.
‘There was.’ I couldn’t believe how rude I’d been. That sleazy bloke could have done anything to me that night if it hadn’t been for my rescuer. ‘Let me at least buy you a drink.’
He grinned and my knees went a bit wobbly, which had nothing to do with the excess alcohol swimming around my bloodstream. ‘I won’t say no to that.’
His name was Joel and he was a property developer who was out with his mates. I would meet them all later, but not tonight. Tonight was about us, about getting to know all the fascinating little details that we could cram into the remainder of the night as we huddled in a corner, blocking out the noisy revellers, thumping beat and the multicoloured lights flashing around us. When the night came to an end, when we found we were the only ones left (Penny, Jack and the others had all trickled away at some point without me noticing), we found we couldn’t say goodbye and I did something I’d never done before. I went back to Joel’s place.
To some people, this is no big deal. It’s an ordinary, sometimes weekly, occurrence but to me, this was momentous. I didn’t have sex with virtual strangers, ever. But it felt right with Joel. It felt as though I’d known him for ever rather than a couple of hours in a sweaty club. And I knew, without a doubt, that this wouldn’t be a one-night thing. My actions were so unprecedented, Penny was in a bit of a state when I performed the walk of shame the following morning.
‘Where. Have. You. Been?’ Penny leapt on me as soon as I pushed open the front door, her hands squeezing my shoulders tighter with each word. ‘I’ve been worried sick! I’ve been pacing the flat. I’ve phoned your dad. Your mum. I was about to phone the bloody police!’ Penny reached into my bag and tugged out my phone, turning it so that I could see the blank screen. ‘Why is your phone switched off?’
I nudged the door closed with my foot and wandered into the living room as I attempted to process the information she’d just dumped on me. She’d phoned Mum and Dad? She’d been thinking about phoning the police?
‘The battery died.’ Kicking off my shoes, I collapsed onto the sofa with a part happy, part weary sigh. ‘I’m sorry you were worried but I’m fine.’
‘I can see that.’ Penny looked almost put out that the drama had come to a sudden halt. ‘But where were you?’
My face itched until I gave in and allowed the huge Cheshire-cat grin to spread. ‘Do you remember that blond guy we saw?’
‘The totally fit one?’
‘The one you said made Jack look like Quasimodo.’
‘Sssssh!’ Penny’s eyes were wide, her head bobbing towards her bedroom next door. ‘Don’t tell him I said that.’
‘Jack’s here?’ I whispered.
‘Sleeping last time I checked. I tried to wake him up when I realised you weren’t here but the lousy sod said you’d probably pulled and started snoring again. I thought it was rubbish. Maddie doesn’t go on the pull. Maddie doesn’t have one-night shags.’ I flinched at the vulgar word. ‘But it turns out I was wrong. You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’ Penny flopped down on the sofa next to me and nudged me with her elbow. ‘So what was it like? Are you seeing him again?’
The Cheshire-cat grin made a return. ‘It was amazing and I’m seeing him tonight.’
Penny’s mouth gaped open. ‘Tonight? Blimey, he’s keen. It must have been good!’
‘It’s not just sex,’ I told Penny, who patted my knee in a patronising of-course-it’s-not kind of way. But I proved her wrong. I knew, without a doubt, that it hadn’t been a one-night thing and my gut instinct was verified by the five-year relationship that followed.
Chapter Six (#ulink_e5271a8a-1c6f-54cd-852a-bca362024902)
Sunday at the teashop was quiet (even by our usual standards) and even Robbie failed to turn up for his banana milkshake, so I sent Victoria home early to spend some time with Nathan. One of us may as well make the most of their loved-up status and, as I’d been single since my relationship with Joel ended, it obviously wasn’t going to be me.
Luckily, business picked up on Monday morning, with a breakfast rush (if you can call six customers a rush). The only downside was that Mags didn’t manage to get onto the council until mid-morning. Still, we were confident that our request would be approved. Why wouldn’t it? We wouldn’t damage the garden or prevent anybody else from using it. In fact, we’d be doing the council a favour by drawing attention to the neglected public area.
So it comes as an unexpected blow when we receive the rejection from the council a few days later, refusing permission to use the garden for our proposed summer party. We’re back at square one and nothing can haul us out of the slump the news has brought. Even The Builders, a group of jovial blokes who have been popping in for an afternoon treat once or twice a week while they’ve been working on a nearby housing development, fail to raise a smile. They usually arrive like sunshine in their fluorescent jackets, cracking jokes and making us laugh, but today we’re far too down in the dumps to play nicely. Even Owen, the foreman of the group, fails in his attempts to flirt with Mags.
‘Come to the pub with me tonight,’ Owen coaxes while a nonplussed Mags swipes at a table with a cloth. ‘I’ll cheer you up over a few drinks.’
‘It’ll take more than you buying me a few drinks to cheer me up,’ Mags says with a weary sigh.
‘Who said I was buying?’ Owen asks, which would usually crack us up but today it’s only Owen’s fellow builders, Connor and Little Jordan, who laugh while Mags and I can’t even raise a half-hearted smile to play along. Connor and Jordan (nicknamed ‘Little Jordan’ by his workmates as he’s on an apprenticeship scheme and the youngest on site) usually accompany Owen on the treat run, though others occasionally make the trip too. They’ve been popping into the teashop for the past six weeks and I’ll miss them when their job is completed and they move on. Although Mags will claim otherwise, she’ll miss Owen’s visits too.
‘Don’t be daft. He isn’t being serious,’ Mags will insist every time I broach the subject of her accepting Owen’s offer of a date, but her cheeks will take on a rosy tinge and her smile will be a little wider after his visits.
‘What are we going to do now?’ Victoria asks once The Builders have trooped out with their goodies. It’s her day off but she’s popped in with Nathan for a crisis meeting. They’re sitting at the rubber-duck-patterned table, Nathan’s hand making soothing circles on Victoria’s back. It’s so sweet, I have to look away otherwise I’ll either burst into tears or combust with jealousy.
‘We could still have the party,’ Mags says, though she can’t seem to muster much enthusiasm. ‘But on a smaller scale. We can do the samples as planned, just in here.’ She sits down opposite Victoria and Nathan, the corners of her mouth turning down. ‘I’m afraid that’d mean the band couldn’t play.’
Victoria nods. ‘It’s okay. It would have been fun, but the teashop and drumming up business is the most important part.’
‘And we’ll still help out if we can,’ Nathan says which, again, is incredibly sweet of him. ‘I’m not much use in the kitchen but I can hand out flyers and stuff. I’m sure the others will chip in too.’
I manage my first genuine smile since we received the council’s rejection. ‘That would be amazing, thank you.’
‘So we’re going ahead with the free samples?’ Mags asks.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say, because we have to do something and this is all we’ve got.
So we forge ahead with the revised plan over the next few days. I plan the menu of sample-sized treats, ordering the required supplies and plotting a timetable to keep me on track on the day, while Mags contacts a local printer to provide the advertising materials we need. Victoria, Mags and I will distribute the flyers between us during the run-up to the event, covering the town centre, the local college and as many of the nearby primary schools as we can.
On the actual day, Nathan and the band (minus Victoria) will distribute more flyers in the town centre to catch any potential last-minute customers. Mags has also placed an advert in the local paper and I’ve been busy putting up posters in every permitted spot in town. I’m currently tacking one of the posters to the teashop’s window to grab the attention of any passers-by.
‘Is this the party you were talking about last time I was here?’ Birdie asks. She’s sitting by the window with her usual bowl of apple crumble and custard while Franklin waits patiently outside, his doggy treat long gone.
‘Sort of.’ I step back, gauging whether the poster is straight. ‘We didn’t get permission to use the garden so we’re having a scaled-down version here in the teashop. There’ll be lots of free samples and Victoria’s going to do some face-painting for the kids.’ I grab a flyer from the box that I’ve kept handy behind the counter and hand it to Birdie.
‘I’ll see if my Caleb can pop along with Cara,’ she says. ‘She loved the cakes and biscuits I took home for our tea party so I’m sure she’ll want to come.’
‘They’re more than welcome,’ I tell Birdie as the door opens. Dad is stooped in the doorway, scratching Franklin behind the ears as he slowly inches inside the teashop. He finally straightens, closing the door reluctantly as Franklin blinks at him with wide eyes through the glass.
‘You’re just in time,’ I tell Dad as I lead him to one of the tables. ‘The apple crumble is just out of the oven.’ I seat Dad before heading into the kitchen where I scoop a generous serving of apple crumble into a bowl and pour on thick, freshly made custard.
‘Best apple crumble I’ve ever had,’ Birdie says, lifting her loaded spoon as I place the dish in front of Dad.
‘She’s a smashing little baker,’ Dad says, winking up at me. ‘Always has been.’
‘This is my Dad,’ I explain. ‘Dad, this is one of my most loyal customers, Mrs Conrad.’
‘Birdie, please.’ Birdie reaches a hand across the small distance and shakes Dad’s hand. ‘Mrs Conrad is what the children call me at school.’
‘You’re a teacher?’ Dad asks.
‘Semi-retired. I do supply work now, three days a week. Keeps my brain active but I still get to enjoy leisurely days, stuffing myself with Maddie’s apple crumble. What is it you do …? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Clive,’ Dad says and I back away, leaving them to bond over their apple crumble while I join Mags in the office. She seems to spend more time in here than she does in the teashop and each time I see her hunched over the books at the desk, I grow more and more anxious.
‘The poster’s up,’ I tell Mags. ‘And Nathan and the others are going to pass the flyers out in exchange for baked goods.’ I’m doubly grateful for Nathan and the band’s generosity. They’ve not only stepped in to help spread the word, they’re doing it for free. ‘This is going to work, isn’t it?’
Mags tries to smile, though she can’t quite pull it off and it resembles a grimace. ‘I hope so. I really, really do.’
The alternative is unthinkable, so I busy myself with a bit of cleaning, making a start on the washing up while we’re quiet. Dad and Birdie are the only customers in the teashop and, as they’re entertaining themselves, I’m not really needed out in the teashop. Dad and Birdie are still chatting away as I clear their empty dishes but Birdie says her goodbyes when a fed-up Franklin start to yap outside the door.
‘Don’t forget these.’ I wave the usual bag of doggy treats and Birdie tuts and says I shouldn’t go to any trouble. ‘It’s no trouble. You know that.’
‘Franklin appreciates you going to the trouble, no matter what you say, so thank you from both of us.’ Birdie places the treats in her handbag and zips up her jacket. ‘I’ll hopefully see you tomorrow. It was nice meeting you, Clive.’
‘You too, Birdie,’ Dad says and he waves as Birdie and Franklin pass the window.
‘Cup of tea?’ I ask Dad.
He checks his watch and nods. ‘I should have enough time to squeeze a quick one in.’ I make cups of tea for Dad, Mags and I, placing a cup beside Mags in the office before joining Dad out in the teashop.
‘So how’s your mum?’ Dad asks as he takes a sip.
‘Good, I think.’ I haven’t actually seen Mum since I last visited Dad so I have no further news. I can see Dad is itching for more information so I’m glad when Nicky descends noisily into the teashop, flopping down onto one of the chairs at our table.
‘So all the shops in the street now have a flyer in their window,’ she says as she shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over the back of her chair.
‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what Nicky is talking about.
‘The flyers. For the party tomorrow. I offered to put one in the salon window and Mags said yes. I thought I may as well ask the others if they’d put one up too and they all agreed. Rehana and George weren’t so keen at first, the miserable buggers, until I pointed out that Rehana’s eyebrows were looking a bit uneven and offered to tidy them up for mate’s rates.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m taken aback by how kind everyone is being. ‘Let me get you a cup of tea and some cake. On the house.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’re going to be giving away more than enough freebies tomorrow.’ Nicky grabs her purse and heads over to the fridge to see what we have on offer today. She selects a chocolate fudge cupcake before joining Dad again. They see each other quite regularly in the teashop so they chat easily but it wouldn’t matter if Dad was a stranger; Nicky has such a breezy confidence and a chatterbox nature, she could start a conversation with thin air.
‘Have you thought any more about asking Jane out?’ I ask Dad when I join them with Nicky’s cup of tea. I’ve asked in front of Nicky on purpose so she can back me up.
Dad shakes his head. ‘I’ve told you, I’m too old for all that dating malarkey.’ Dad says the word ‘dating’ as though it’s the new term for dogging, scrunching up his nose and almost shuddering at the mere thought.
Nicky is about to plunge the cupcake into her mouth but she pauses, cocking an eyebrow at Dad. ‘I beg your pardon? Nobody is too old for dating. I’m going to be dating until the day I’m shoved into a wooden box and buried in the ground.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I scoff. ‘I bet even death won’t stop you.’
Nicky laughs. ‘That’s true. I’ll probably flirt with the undertaker as he’s embalming me.’ She turns to Dad, eyebrows low to show her sincerity now. ‘Seriously, Clive. You’re never too old to date and you’re only what … mid-fifties?’
Nicky knows this isn’t true but her flattery works and the corners of Dad’s lips lift. ‘Sixty-two.’
‘Really?’ I think the squeak in Nicky’s voice is overkill but Dad is lapping it up, full-on grinning now.
‘I’ll be sixty-three in a couple of months.’
‘Wow, you’re looking good, Clive. This Jane is a very lucky woman. You should definitely ask her out.’
Dad’s grin slips. ‘Nah. I’m really not after a relationship. Far too long in the tooth for all that.’
‘Who said anything about a relationship?’ Nicky asks. ‘Go out, have a bit of fun. No strings.’ She winks at Dad and I feel a shudder of my own coming on. ‘You only live once, Clive.’
‘Why don’t you bring Jane along tomorrow?’ I suggest, and not only because it’ll mean an extra body in the teashop.
‘Like I said …’ Dad stands and slips on his jacket ‘… I’m too old for all that, strings or not.’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_f746c38e-9670-50cb-9f3e-1dcb814b464c)
I’m up extra early on Saturday morning, my eyes bleary as I move around the teashop’s kitchen, measuring, mixing and pouring ingredients, sliding trays in and out of the oven, transferring cakes and biscuits to cooling racks and containers. The croissants and cinnamon buns are already cooling by the time Mags arrives just after six and a batch of double chocolate chip muffins are being lifted onto the counter.
‘Blimey, girl. Have you been baking all night?’ Mags asks as she removes her jacket.
‘Not quite, but who needs sleep anyway?’ I say through a yawn.
Mags grabs an apron and slips it over her head. ‘Where do you need me?’
I consult the list that’s already splattered with flour and gooey cake mix. ‘Can you make the chocolate custard for the trifles?’ As well as our regular menu, I’m making the sample desserts for the party this afternoon, including Nicky’s favourite Black Forest trifle. I made the black cherry jelly last night, which is now set in little pots in the fridge. We’ll top the jelly with chocolate custard and whipped cream, adding chocolate sauce and a glacé cherry to finish.
‘Will do.’ Mags ties the apron around her waist and washes her hands before she makes a start on the custard while I pop a batch of bite-sized cherry scones into the oven. We work our way through the list, adding more tiny desserts to the menu, including all our favourites: peanut butter blondies (Victoria’s), raspberry cream cheese brownies (Mags’s) and fairy cakes (mine). Fairy cakes aren’t the most sophisticated of desserts but they remind me of Gran and they never fail to raise a smile. Who can say no to soft sponge covered in sweet icing and rainbow sprinkles?
Victoria arrives just before eight with Nathan and the rest of the band. I’ve heard a lot about Tom, Daniel and Josh but I’ve never actually met them before now, so it’s nice to put faces to the names. Even if I am covered in flour and starting to panic about the day ahead.
Victoria serves the trickle of early morning customers while Mags and I rush around the kitchen to make sure we’re as ready as we can be for the party. We can bake more as needed throughout the day but we’ve managed to get the bulk of the desserts ready by the time the boys head into town with the remaining flyers.
‘Cup of tea?’ Mags asks as I pull the ramekin dishes half-filled with apple crumble out of the oven and set them out on the side. I’ll make the custard nearer the time to top the dishes up with.
‘I’d rather have a vodka and Coke,’ I say. ‘But I’ll make do with tea.’ I’m hoping that in a couple of hours we’ll be so rushed off our feet with new customers that we won’t be able to sit down for a rest, so I’m going to grab this opportunity with both hands. We take our cups of tea out into the teashop, where Robbie and Annette – his sister and fellow florist – are working their way through a banana milkshake and a Danish pastry respectively.
‘I’ve made you a cup of coffee,’ Mags tells Victoria, setting the cup down on the counter before grabbing a couple of the cinnamon buns I made earlier. One of the perks of working at Sweet Street are the treats on tap, which we often make the most of. Even with my better than average metabolism, if I didn’t go for a run three times a week, you’d have to roll me out of the teashop (and I’d probably end up wedged in the door frame).
‘Are you ready for this afternoon?’ Mags asks as she places my bun in front of me.
‘As I’ll ever be.’ There’s a mix of anticipation and apprehension battling for supremacy in the pit of my stomach. Today needs to be a success.
‘I’ll make a start on the decorations once I’ve finished my bun.’ Mags takes a bite, sighing happily at the sweet, cinnamon-y hit. We have balloons and bunting to go up as well as flamingo-shaped fairy lights and bright paper flower garlands that Mags made at home (all those mornings at mum and baby groups when her children were younger have finally come in handy, she told me as she revealed the Hawaii-style garlands). Outside is looking a bit grey and there’s rain forecast for this afternoon, but at least it’ll be cheery inside.
‘There you are!’ Marjorie, the florist from down the street, stands in the doorway of the teashop, glaring at her offspring. ‘We’ve got ten orders waiting in the shop. Stop stuffing your faces and get your backsides back to work.’ Her eyes wander towards the counter as Robbie and Annette troop out of the teashop. ‘Are those chocolate fudge cupcakes?’ Marjorie is constantly on a diet but she often sneaks into Sweet Street for a snack. She will, however, try to incorporate her treat into her five-a-day; a cherry Bakewell, carrot cake or a blueberry muffin, for example. I’m not sure if she genuinely believes these count or whether it’s just something she tells us – and herself – to justify her sweet tooth. Her favourite treat – when she isn’t being ‘good’ – are chocolate fudge cupcakes. She reaches out a hand, letting her fingertips rest on the glass front of the counter.
‘Can I get one to go?’
‘Are you coming to the party later?’ I ask Marjorie while Victoria pops her cake into a paper bag.
‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Marjorie assures me. She pays for her cake before following in the wake of her children. Mags and I finish our tea and buns before getting back to work. There’s still lots to do, including the washing up. Fun times.
The cakes, puddings and desserts are all set out on platters, the boys have distributed the flyers and Victoria has set up her face-painting station in the corner of the teashop. We’ve blown up so many balloons I don’t think I’ll ever catch my breath again, and we’ve hung them on the walls and ceilings, along with the bunting and strings of flamingo fairy lights. Mags has draped a flowery garland around our necks and pushed cocktail umbrellas into our hair. We’re ready to go.
The party is set to start at twelve and there are only ten minutes to go. Dad is here, already sampling a miniature apple crumble while Mum and Ivor hover awkwardly by the counter, not sure how to act in Dad’s presence. When they first got together, Dad tracked Ivor down and threatened to thump him on the nose and although Dad has accepted the relationship (as best as he can while still harbouring the hope of a reconciliation with Mum), they’re never entirely comfortable whenever they’re in the same room. It doesn’t happen often – the last time was during my engagement party eighteen months ago.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you a tea or coffee?’ I ask Mum and Ivor, but they both shake their heads, their eyes darting in Dad’s direction. I’ve assured them that Dad won’t do anything silly (like fling a hot drink in their faces) but they’re adamant that they’re fine with the mini scones they’re nibbling for now.
We’ve lined the counter with trays of mini treats and Mags and I will also be circulating the teashop offering more. Nathan and the boys have already had first dibs at the treats (it was only fair after their morning’s work, especially when it started to drizzle part-way through their leaflet distributing) but they’ve decided to stick around, which I’m grateful for as it makes the teashop look more popular before the party has actually begun. Nicky is also here with her junior stylist – although neither can stay for long as they’re booked up for most of the afternoon. Nicky is taking a great interest in Tom – even though he’s seven years younger than she is.
‘Are we ready?’ Mags asks, hand on the door handle. I nod, nerves rendering me speechless, and she swings open the door, propping it open with an unopened bag of plain flour. We hold our breaths and wait.
And wait some more.
Nobody is here, eager to join our party and sample our baked goods.
‘It is only just gone twelve,’ Dad points out, giving my shoulder a pat. ‘The teashop will be packed in no time, just wait and see.’
So we wait some more and still nobody arrives.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Nicky says when one o’clock arrives and not one new foot has stepped over the threshold. ‘I’d do almost anything for a freebie.’ She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight. ‘I’m really sorry but we’re going to have to go. I’ll try and pop back later, okay?’
‘I’ll save you some cake,’ I joke weakly but neither of us laughs.
Nicky and her junior stylist leave but are quickly replaced by Zoe from the craft shop, and Marjorie returns from the florist’s as promised. It’s nice to see them and I’m grateful they’ve turned up in support (as well as for the freebies) but I’d hoped to see some new faces too. To make matters worse, I spot George from the letting agency scuttling past with coffees and paper bags of treats from town. It seems I can’t even entice my neighbours into the teashop with the offer of free cakes.
Plonking myself down at one of the tables, I drop my face into my hands. I’m so embarrassed. Here we all are, trussed up in flowers and cocktail umbrellas, the teashop decked out for a party, and nobody wants to join in. I’ve spent a chunk of my savings on advertising and Victoria, Mags and I have traipsed around town for hours spreading the word. And not only that, my loved ones are witnessing my rejection.
‘It is raining,’ Mags says gently as she sits down next to me, resting a hand on my shoulder. ‘People would rather stay at home when the weather’s bad, even if there is the prospect of cake.’
‘But look.’ I lift my head so I can gaze around the room. ‘Everyone here has come as a favour to me. There’s not one person who’s braved a bit of rain for free cake.’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s all Marjorie came for,’ Mags mutters.
I drop my face back into my hands, but just when I’m losing all hope and considering seriously drowning my sorrows with a whole basket of mini muffins (and that vodka and Coke I’d craved earlier), Birdie steps into the teashop with a younger man and a little girl. I’m so happy to see them, I practically jump on Birdie, throwing my arms around her while she introduces her family.
‘This is Caleb, my grandson.’ Birdie’s eyes twinkle as she gazes up at the tall man beside her. He’s looking slightly dishevelled with the beginnings of dark stubble on his face and his hair looks as though he’s recently run his hands through it and forgotten to smooth it back down again. But his whole face lights up when he smiles, flashing white, even teeth and bright blue eyes. My stomach does something vaguely familiar but most unwelcome. I do not fancy this guy.
I. Do. Not.
‘And this is Cara, my great-granddaughter.’ Birdie brushes a hand over the little girl’s brown hair. With her blue eyes, she looks just like her father. Who I do not fancy. Not even a little bit.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I say as Mags arrives with a bunch of garlands and drapes them over the heads of the newcomers. ‘Help yourself to the cakes.’ I indicate the barely touched trays and baskets on the counter. ‘And there’s also face-painting if you’d like.’ I turn to Victoria, who’s so bored she’s taken to painting flowers on her bare arms.
‘Is that just for the kids or can anyone have a turn?’ Caleb asks and I blush. I have no idea why.
‘I’m sure Victoria would be more than happy to paint you.’ I’m quite confident about this as she’s quickly running out of space on herself.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Caleb says over his shoulder as he’s suddenly tugged away and towed towards the cakes by an eager Cara. I turn away, determined not to check out his bum.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say to Birdie, hugging her again. I’m probably overstepping some customer boundaries here but I’m so grateful to see a new face in the teashop.
Birdie pats my back. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it, dear.’ She holds me out at arm’s length and the twinkle is back in her eyes. ‘Please tell me there’s apple crumble.’
‘There is.’ I guide Birdie towards the counter, where Cara is checking out the array of cakes with wide eyes. ‘Hopefully Dad hasn’t eaten them all.’
‘I heard that,’ Dad says, making me jump, as I didn’t realise he was hovering behind us. ‘Let me serve this young lady.’ Dad slips in between me and Birdie, his hand resting on her back as he guides her towards the tray of apple crumble dishes. I’m shocked. Who knew Dad was a charmer? He turns to me to wink, ruining the effect by saying, ‘I need a top-up anyway.’
We see a few more new faces over the course of the afternoon, but not nearly as many as I was hoping for. Marjorie has her fill of cake (they’re only tiny, so they don’t really count towards her daily calorie intake, apparently) and returns to the florist’s, being quickly replaced by Robbie and Annette. Zoe and Imogen from Paper Roses change places and Nicky returns in between clients.
‘He’s cute,’ she whispers before popping a bite-sized flapjack into her mouth. Although Nathan has stayed behind with Victoria, the rest of the band have filtered away so Nicky has set her sights on Birdie’s grandson instead of baby-faced Tom. ‘But not my type. Maybe yours?’
I choke on the mini homemade jammy dodger I’ve been eating, coughing damp biscuit crumbs into my hand. ‘I don’t think so,’ I wheeze. ‘Besides, I didn’t think you had a type.’ Although Nicky has become a very close friend of mine over the past year, I have to admit that she isn’t fussy when it comes to the men she dates. It’s probably why she ends up with so many bad eggs.
‘Come on,’ Nicky coaxes, nudging me gently. ‘You have to admit he’s pretty cute.’
I will do no such thing.
I won’t even look at him.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_09174f91-266d-503f-8711-b547cfcea1c4)
I was gobsmacked when Joel proposed over dinner one night, quietly so that the other diners weren’t alerted, as he knew I’d be mortified at the attention of so many eyes on me. We’d been together for four and a half years, had lived together for two of those and I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
Joel was everything I ever wanted in a partner: loyal, attentive, fun and caring in equal measures. Joel had been by my side as I visited Gran in the hospital, had cried with me when she passed away. He’d propped me up during the funeral and allowed me to grieve in my own time. I felt completely at ease with Joel. I felt safe and secure. Invincible. And yet it came as a complete shock as he slid the little velvet box across the table towards me, his eyes shining as he asked me to marry him.
Of course I said yes. I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted more than to marry the man I loved. Everyone was thrilled for us and I began planning the wedding with Mum and Penny, agonising over the tiniest details.
‘I just want the day to be perfect,’ I told Penny when she pointed out that it didn’t really matter whether we had gold or silver table confetti. No matter how excited Penny was about my upcoming wedding, she didn’t quite get it. Penny had no real desire to get married. She was happy as she was, flirting with random guys in bars and clubs, hooked on the buzz of heading out for first dates. She’d had relationships, but nothing serious and none that lasted more than a couple of months. She’d grown tired of Jack by their third night together and now he was nothing but a distant memory of a conquest from a long-ago job she’d hated.
‘It will be perfect,’ Mum told me. ‘Because you’re marrying Joel.’ I knew she was right but I still couldn’t stop dithering over gold or silver table confetti; delicate, heart-shaped stud earrings or tiny pearls; cream, embossed save the date cards or something fun and bold.
Somehow, we managed to put solid plans into place. The church and reception venue were booked, Penny had chosen a gorgeous bridesmaid’s dress and I’d whittled my dress options down to three. We sent out save the date cards (I went with the cream) and ordered handmade invitations with a matching guestbook. Joel chose his best man (and Penny vowed to cop off with him at the reception), we pored through holiday brochures in search of a dream honeymoon and we chose our rings and the engravings we wanted on the inside.
Everything was on track. In six months I was going to walk into the church as Madeleine Lamington and emerge as Madeleine Harris. Mrs Madeleine Harris.
And then it all went wrong and I never even made it to the church. Never took the vows or exchanged the readings we’d agonised over during the build-up to our big day. My life was changed, but not in the way I ever expected or would ever wish it to be.
I thought I’d met my soulmate, that I would live happily ever after with Joel, but I’d been wrong. So very wrong and I – and my poor, battered heart – had paid the price for it. The only consolation I could offer myself was that I’d never put myself in the position to be hurt so spectacularly ever again.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_0a7b943b-37a9-5592-978b-c661e07a2f58)
‘Just leave it, yeah?’ I say when Nicky suggests – again – that I go and speak to Birdie’s grandson. And by ‘speak’ she means flirt, which isn’t going to happen. ‘He’s spending some quality time with his daughter. Birdie told me he’s had a tough time with his ex lately and hasn’t seen much of his little girl. I’m not going to go over there and ruin their afternoon together.’
Nicky shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’ She pops a tiny square flapjack into her mouth – the fourth in as many minutes, but I don’t blame her as they’re so soft and buttery you can’t help yourself – and leans casually against the counter. ‘So what do you think about Tom? Do you think he likes me?’
I try not to roll my eyes. I really, really have to try. ‘He’s twenty-two, Nicky.’
‘So?’
‘And you’re not.’
Nicky does roll her eyes, overdramatically and with a heavy sigh for extra effect. ‘I’m hardly drawing my pension.’
‘You’re almost thirty,’ I point out. ‘He’s not far off twenty-one.’
‘Age is just a number.’ Nicky licks the flapjack crumbs off her fingers. ‘Besides, he might like a more mature lady.’
I snort, both at the ‘mature’ and ‘lady’ parts of that sentence. ‘Or he might like going out, getting trashed and having meaningless one-night stands. Like many other twenty-two-year-olds.’
‘Is that what you did when you were twenty-two?’ Nicky asks and I find myself thinking about Joel and the one-night thing that turned into a five-year relationship, an engagement ring and a wedding that didn’t happen because it turned out the groom-to-be was a lying scumbag who couldn’t keep his willy in his pants.
‘I’m going to get his number off Victoria,’ Nicky says when I fail to answer. She pushes herself away from the counter, grabbing one last mini flapjack before she heads over to the face-painting station in the corner. Victoria is putting the final touches to Cara’s sparkly butterfly design so Nicky settles herself on a chair, which happens to be next to Caleb. I send a few telepathic, anti-meddling messages in Nicky’s direction before Mum snatches my attention away. She and Ivor are leaving as they have dinner plans with friends this evening and they have a drive across Manchester ahead of them.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say as Mum loops a silk scarf around her neck. She knots the scarf before leaning in to kiss my cheek.
‘It was our pleasure. It’s always lovely to pop in. You should be proud of yourself.’ I’m not so sure about that, given the pretty dire turnout, but I say that I am anyway. I don’t want my parents to know how troubled I am by the business. ‘Will you say goodbye to your dad for me? He looks busy and we really must dash.’
I look across the teashop, where Dad is chatting to Birdie at one of the tables by the window, their little apple crumble dishes empty in front of them. I sneak a glance at Nicky and Caleb, who are still chatting, even though Cara is no longer having her face painted by Victoria and is, in fact, on the other side of the teashop, chomping on a jammy dodger.
My stomach churns as I realise they’re probably flirting away over there, so I shift my gaze before I can feel anything ridiculous, such as jealousy. I don’t fancy Caleb and I don’t want to flirt with him myself, so why shouldn’t Nicky have some fun? I sometimes wish I could be as fun-loving and carefree as my friend, but then I remember the devastation when Joel broke my heart and something shuts down inside me. I can’t – won’t – let that happen again.
I lead Mum and Ivor to the door with the handful of treats I’ve insisted they take with them. Mum opens her mouth to say something, but as I already know what it’s going to be and have no desire to hear it (it’s the same thing every visit or phone call), I cut her off before she can utter a word of it. ‘I’ll tell Dad you said goodbye. Have fun tonight!’ I give Mum a nudge over the threshold and into the drizzle, waving as they make a dash for the car before returning to the teashop.
It’s almost four o’clock so the party – if you can call it that – is due to end soon. It doesn’t look like we’re going to entice any more new customers so I think we can officially label this afternoon as a flop. A dud. A complete waste of time, effort and cake.
‘What are we going to do now?’ Mags asks the next morning as we prepare the teashop for opening. We avoided the subject as we baked a few of the morning essentials, but there’s no escaping the fact we need a new plan of action before we sink completely.
‘I really don’t know.’ If I had the money, I’d advertise the teashop far and wide, but the cash Gran left me has been eaten up by deposits, mortgage repayments and equipment and if I empty my account, I’ll have nothing to pay wages or buy ingredients with. I’m in a bind and I can’t see a way out of it. ‘Maybe it’s time we called it quits.’
‘You what?’ Mags’s face morphs quickly from shock to anger.
‘I’m a baker,’ I say. ‘Not to sound arrogant, but I’m damn good at it. But I’m clearly not a businesswoman. As much as I love this place, I don’t think I’m cut out to run my own teashop.’
‘Nonsense.’ Mags shakes her head. ‘We’ve had a rocky start, but we’ll get there.’
‘How?’ I’m out of ideas. I can bake cakes morning, noon and night but there’s little point if there’s nobody in the teashop to buy them.
‘We need a gimmick,’ Mags says. ‘Something to draw people in.’
‘But what?’ If offering free cake wasn’t enough to drive new customers to the teashop, I’m not sure what else will.
‘That’s the conundrum,’ Mags says as she switches the sign on the door to open. It’s something we both ponder as we serve the trickle of early morning customers. I’m happy to see one new face among the familiar, but it isn’t enough to save the teashop from closure.
‘How about baking classes?’ Mags suggests when there’s only Robbie and his milkshake sitting in the teashop.
‘But then won’t everyone bake at home and leave us with even fewer customers?’
‘Hmm, quite possibly,’ Mags concedes while mentally popping her thinking cap back on. We still haven’t brought any new ideas to the table when The Builders descend at lunchtime, filling the teashop with chatter as they thump their way to the counter in their big boots.
‘You’re looking radiant this afternoon, Mags,’ Owen says. ‘If I were ten years younger, I’d leap over this counter and snog your face off.’
Mags bats off the compliment with a wave of her hand. ‘What are you talking about? You’re not much older than I am.’
‘I know but my leg’s giving me jip.’ Owen stoops to rub his thigh as Mags and the other builders laugh. ‘Want to massage it for me?’
‘I’d rather not.’ Mags rubs her hands together. ‘What can I get you today? Cake-wise before you get any mucky ideas.’
‘Would I?’ Owen grins. ‘I’ll have a handful of those little flapjacks – not a euphemism, by the way – and a coffee.’
‘Are you eating in or out?’ Mags asks.
Owen leans his elbow on the counter. ‘I’ll eat in if you’ll join me. It’ll be our first date.’
‘I’m working,’ Mags points out. ‘So you’ll have to either take it out or date one of your buddies here.’
‘I’ll put out if you’re paying,’ Connor jokes.
‘Then I’m definitely not,’ Owen tells him before turning to Mags. ‘I’ll eat in. Alone.’
‘Take a seat; I’ll bring them over,’ Mags says before moving on to take Little Jordan’s and Connor’s orders. I make the coffees and teas while Mags transfers the cakes onto plates. The teashop always comes to life when The Builders are in. They can be boisterous but fun, and today is no exception. I’d love it if the teashop was like this all the time but I have no idea how to make that happen and it’s only a matter of time before Owen and the lads finish their job and move on. I’m dreading that day and I’m pretty sure Mags is too. Despite her protestations to the contrary, I think she rather enjoys the banter with Owen.
‘What about sponsorship?’ I say later, once The Builders have returned to their site. ‘We could sponsor a local football or rugby team. Nobody big, obviously. I’m not talking Woodgate Warriors or anything, but a pub team or something.’
‘I don’t need to check the books to know we can’t afford that,’ Mags says with a little shrug.
Money, money, money. The root of all evil – and all my problems, it seems.
‘We’ll think of something.’ Mags pulls me into a hug but I’m not sure either of us believes her. But it turns out that she’s right. We will think of something, just a few days later, and it’s an idea that is, quite literally, sitting under my nose.
Chapter Ten (#ulink_b7b7960a-15e8-5afd-9a88-1fb88b49b0ba)
Victoria practically bursts into the teashop on Friday morning and I’m surprised the door is still on its hinges with the force. She usually tries to maintain a cool, sometimes even standoffish demeanour, but this morning she’s carrying a huge smile and has a jittery, kid-at-Christmas vibe going on.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask because it’s Victoria’s day off. As much as she loves the teashop, it’s still her workplace and everybody needs a rest from that.
‘I have news and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell you.’ Victoria clutches her hands together and gives an excited little yelp. ‘And I sort of need a favour.’
‘Spill then.’ Intrigued, I lean across the counter towards Victoria and she does the little yelp again.
‘Terry Sergeant came to see us play last night and he wants to see us at his office tomorrow.’ Victoria’s words gush out in a breathtaking rush. ‘If it goes well, he might sign us!’
There’s the yelp again, louder this time. I scuttle out from behind the counter and throw my arms around her. Not one for physical contact, Victoria allows me to hug her for three milliseconds before she squirms out of my grip.
‘That is amazing! I’m so happy for you. You deserve this.’ I give a little yelp of my own. ‘You’re going to be famous! I can’t believe I’m going to have a famous friend. Do you think you can send all the celebrities you meet this way?’
Victoria laughs. ‘Terry hasn’t signed us yet.’
‘But he will.’ I’m positive of that.
‘Then of course I’ll send all the celebrities this way. We’ll be the coolest place to hang out.’
‘We?’ I ask. ‘You’ll be hanging up your apron soon. Superstars don’t waitress in little teashops.’ I’ll be sad when the time comes as Victoria has become a good friend as well as a colleague, but I want this for her so much.
‘Speaking of hanging up my apron …’ Victoria says. ‘Do you think I could have the day off tomorrow? The meeting with Terry isn’t until late afternoon but we’d like to get in as much practice as we can beforehand, just in case he needs us to play again for him.’
‘Of course.’ I’d planned to go over to Dad’s, but he’ll understand if I put my visit off for a couple of days. ‘Do you have time for some celebratory cake? I’d have made some peanut butter blondies this morning if I’d known.’
‘An orange sponge finger will do,’ Victoria says and she sits down at the Russian-doll-patterned table while I pop three orange sponge fingers with tangy lime icing onto a plate. I call Mags out from the kitchen and pour cups of tea and coffee, taking them and the cake to the table. Victoria shares her news and Mags is as delighted as I am.
‘To our little megastar in the making,’ she says, raising her cup of tea. Victoria and I raise our own cups, though we don’t clink them as dripping scalding hot tea over your hands is hardly a celebratory move. ‘You won’t forget about us little people, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ Victoria narrows her eyes and bites her lip. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Funny.’ Mags bites into her sponge finger as the teashop door opens so I get up to greet Birdie. I already have a bag of dog biscuits in my apron pocket so I pop outside to say hello to Franklin while Mags serves Birdie’s usual apple crumble with custard. His bum starts to wiggle as soon as he sees me, his claws clattering on the pavement in his excitement as he knows he’s in for a treat.
‘Who’s a gorgeous boy?’ I coo as I scratch Franklin behind his ears. ‘Here you go.’ I hold out a biscuit and pat him on the head as he takes it between his teeth. ‘Good boy.’
I head back into the teashop and pass on the remainder of the dog biscuits before I wash my hands in the kitchen. When I step back into the teashop, I’m surprised to see Dad sitting with Birdie by the window.
‘I didn’t know you were coming in today,’ I say, stooping to kiss his cheek.
Dad winks at me. ‘I was lured by the smell of freshly baked apple crumble.’
‘I see.’ Apple crumble, eh? Or could it be another apple crumble fan has enticed him into the teashop? ‘I’ll just go and let Mags know we need two portions then.’
Leaving Dad and Birdie to chat, I rush into the kitchen, where I grab Mags while making the same excited yelping noises Victoria was emitting earlier.
‘Dad and Birdie!’ I hiss. ‘Come and look.’
Pulling Mags towards the doorway separating the teashop and kitchen, we both peer out at the pair as they chat easily across the table. I can’t quite believe Dad has struck up such a quick and easy companionship with Birdie Conrad but, now that I think about it, he barely noticed Mum at the so-called party at the weekend and spent most of his time chatting with his new friend.
‘Do you think Dad fancies Birdie?’ I whisper, which makes me giggle. I press a hand to my mouth to smother my childish reaction.
‘And why not?’ Mags asks. ‘She’s a lovely woman.’
‘She’s nothing like Mum though.’ Mum’s more refined with a sleek blonde bob and subtle make-up. She wears skirt suits, heels and silk scarfs whereas Birdie’s more robust-looking with greying brown curls and a ruddy complexion. She wears comfortable slacks, flat shoes and an anorak.
‘Have all your boyfriends been the same?’ Mags asks. There haven’t been that many, to be fair, but Joel was completely different to the short-lived romances I’d had before. ‘I know I’d never go for a man like Graham again.’
‘Is Owen like Graham?’ I ask the question casually but Mags tuts.
‘Oh, stop it. I’m not interested in Owen and he isn’t interested in me. It’s a bit of fun, that’s all. But no, Owen is nothing like Graham at all. Graham couldn’t even change a light bulb, never mind build whole houses. He was a bit useless, really.’
I can’t help thinking of Joel. He wasn’t very good at DIY either, despite being a property developer, but he had many other talents. Fidelity not being one of them, it painfully transpired.
‘Oh, look.’ I forget about Joel as I hear laughter from the teashop. Dad is chuckling while Birdie has thrown her head back for a full-on chortle. ‘I really do think they like each other.’
I’m so pleased. Not only has Dad found a woman who just may help him finally get over Mum, but it’s also all down to me. Well, me and my apple crumble. I always knew cake was special but I didn’t know it had Cupid-like powers.
‘Oh my God, that’s it!’ My sudden outburst is so loud it attracts the attention of Dad, Birdie and Victoria. I tug Mags deeper into the kitchen, out of view of our new audience, and lower my voice. ‘I’ve got it! The hook that might bring people to the teashop.’
‘What is it?’ Hearing the commotion, Victoria has rushed into the kitchen to find out what’s going on.
‘Love,’ I announce, a huge grin spreading across my face. ‘Or rather dating.’
I think it’s a marvellous idea and I’m already picturing my little teashop full to bursting point with loved-up couples (who will then, of course, frequent my teashop now it’s on their radar) but Mags and Victoria don’t look convinced. In fact, they look quite bewildered.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Mags asks, which seems to be the question on Victoria’s mind too judging by the frown on her face.
‘I’m talking about matching people up with their favourite cakes,’ I say, almost giddy with the prospect. ‘Like Dad and Birdie and the apple crumble that brought them together. We’ll set up a dating service in the teashop.’ I’m pacing the kitchen now, my hands flying about the place as I try to explain my vision. ‘There’ll be five men and five women who all love a certain dessert and they’ll chat to each other in turn while they enjoy their chosen dessert. It’ll be like speed dating … with cake!’
‘Won’t people be a bit bloated after five lots of cake?’ Victoria asks as we sit down to discuss my idea further now the teashop is empty. Dad and Birdie have finished their apple crumbles and gone their separate ways and although Victoria should be getting back to Nathan and the boys for band rehearsals, she’s decided to stick around for a few more minutes to iron out a few details. ‘Being stuffed to the brim with cake hardly makes you feel sexy, does it?’
‘We’ll make mini desserts,’ I suggest. ‘Like we did for the party.’
Mags, who has brought a notepad and pen from the office, jots this down.
‘But won’t it be a bit …’ Victoria scrunches up her face, reluctant to say the next words ‘… boring? Having the same dessert five times in one night, even if it is on a small scale?’
‘She has a point.’ Mags adds the word BORING with an oversized question mark to her notes.
‘I suppose.’ My idea had seemed brilliant only a few moments ago but now I’m not so sure.
‘I think you have something,’ Mags says quickly. ‘But it needs a bit of a tinker to make it work. Let’s have a think about it over the weekend and see what we can come up with.’
‘In the meantime, I’d better get going,’ Victoria says. ‘The others will be wondering where I am.’
‘Good luck for tomorrow.’ I stand up, think about giving Victoria a hug, and quickly change my mind, collecting our empty cups together instead.
‘Terry would be mad not to sign you on the spot,’ Mags adds. ‘But I’ll cross my fingers and toes for you, just in case.’
I take the cups into the kitchen once Victoria has gone, my mind wandering back to my dating idea. I can feel butterflies fluttering up a storm in my tummy and I know this is something we should pursue. If done right, it’ll bring lots of new potential customers into the teashop who will try our cakes and hopefully return for more. And if they happen to find love among the treats, that will be an amazing bonus.
My mind is still on cake and dating when I’ve finished the washing up and I’m mulling ideas over when Nicky arrives during her lunch break.
‘I need cake – and fast.’ She plonks herself down at one of the tables and folds her arms across her chest. ‘He hasn’t called.’
‘Who hasn’t called?’ I honestly can’t keep up with Nicky and her men. She’s been on three dates alone this week, each one with someone new.
‘Tom.’ She sighs, long and heavy. ‘Victoria gave me his number, so I texted him last night. Nothing flirty or anything. Just a hey, how are you kind of thing. We texted back and forth all night and things got a bit … heated.’ I try not to gag at the thought of Nicky and Victoria’s baby-faced pal sexting. ‘I called earlier but it went straight to voicemail. I left a super-cute, super-breezy message but he hasn’t got back to me.’ The corners of her mouth turn down and I swear her bottom lip pokes out ever so slightly.
‘I think he’s just really busy today.’ I explain about the band and their upcoming meeting with Terry Sergeant. Nicky’s eyes are wide by the time I’ve finished.
‘So he’s going to be famous?’ Nicky stands up so quickly, she nearly sends her chair flying backwards. ‘Forget the cake. If I’m going to be a celeb’s girlfriend, I need to keep it trim.’ She flies out of the teashop – and away from the delicious temptation – almost colliding with The Builders. Mags, who has been out the back, makes a suspiciously sudden appearance.
‘What’s your favourite cake?’ I ask Owen as he observes the goodies in the fridge.
‘From here? Your cherry cola muffins.’ He snaps his head up. ‘Why? Do you have any today?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I say, deflated with disappointment. I’d been hoping he’d say raspberry cream cheese brownies – Mags’s favourite – and strengthen my idea of matching up potential pairings by their favourite desserts. ‘We have raspberry and white chocolate muffins if you fancy one of those instead?’
Owen shrugs. ‘Why not? I like to mix it up every now and then anyway. Variety is the spice of life and all that.’
I’m placing Owen’s muffin on a plate when his words hit me fully, sending the butterflies in my tummy into a flurry.
Variety is the spice of life.
Variety.
Of course! We don’t have to offer specific cakes for people to bond over, just cake. A variety of cakes. Who wouldn’t want to date and eat cake? Five different cakes, each bite-sized treat as delicious as the next. It wouldn’t be boring and nobody would leave feeling bloated.
It was perfect!
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_21ad7345-3a83-562c-8ad8-c999d15c19d5)
Dad’s invited me round for tea so, after closing the teashop, I climb into my little mint green Fiat 500 and pop on my favourite summery playlist for the drive. I adore this car. Before setting up Sweet Street, a car was the only splurge I allowed myself from the money Gran left me, and I knew as soon as I saw the adorable, dinky car that it was the one for me. Penny went with me to choose it and she said it was tiny and cute, just like me. If I’d known back then that the extra money would have come in handy for the business I’d set up in a few months’ time, I may have stuck with my ancient, clapped-out car that liked to break down at the most ill-timed moments. It was a nightmare of a car but, as turning up for work late so often had cost me my job at the double glazing call centre, I’d always be grateful to it for that.
I get a whiff of the welcoming smell of Dad’s cooking as soon as he opens the door. Dad wasn’t much use in the kitchen when he was married to Mum. He could knock together a shepherd’s pie if absolutely necessary and his omelettes were pretty good, but it’d been Mum who provided most of my nourishment growing up.
When she first left, I took over most of the culinary duties but once I moved in with Penny, Dad either had to roll his sleeves up and learn to cook a few more meals or exist on a rotating menu of shepherd’s pie, omelettes and tinned soup. Luckily, he went with option one and he’s now pretty proficient when it comes to rustling up meals. He uses a lot of the fresh produce from his allotment, which is a bonus.
‘Something smells good.’ I kiss Dad on the cheek before stepping inside and heading straight through to the kitchen and the source of the delicious smells.
‘We’re actually in the living room.’ Dad reaches out and steers me away from the kitchen.
‘We?’ I ask a split second before I’m nudged into the living room. I pause on the threshold, my jaw slowly journeying to the carpet. ‘Birdie! Hello!’ I’m gobsmacked to see one of my customers sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea. I knew they’d been getting along but I had no idea just how well. This is further proof that my cake-dating service can – and will – work.
‘Hello, dear.’ Birdie smiles and pops her cup of tea on the low table in front of her. ‘You look surprised to see me.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, which is ridiculous as my bottom lip is in danger of getting carpet burns. ‘Well, maybe a little. Dad never said you’d be here. Good job I brought this for pudding.’ I hold up the plastic tub I’ve brought with me.
Birdie’s eyes light up. ‘Is that apple crumble?’
‘It is. I’m just going to put it in the fridge. I’ll be back in a minute.’ I flash Dad a follow-me look, which thankfully he picks up on and he shuffles after me into the kitchen. I take a quick scan of the room, hunting out signs of Mum but other than the wine, which Birdie won’t know aren’t for Dad at this stage, we’re okay. I do need to slip the wedding photo discreetly from the mantelpiece in the living room though and I’ll nab her dressing gown from the bathroom in a moment.
‘You never told me Birdie was going to be here,’ I whisper as I place the tub in the fridge.
‘Didn’t I?’ Dad frowns. ‘Is it a problem?’
Is it a problem? I almost hoot with laughter. A problem? It’s the best bloody thing I’ve seen in ages. Dad has invited another woman round for tea! I’m almost giddy.
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ I say, closing the fridge and heading for the kettle. I need a calming cup of tea before I start performing a jig on the lino.
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’ I turn back to Dad and grasp him by the sleeves of his cardigan. ‘I’m so happy that you’ve found someone.’
‘Found someone?’ Dad frowns again before his eyes widen. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s not like that with me and Birdie. We’ve become friends, that’s all.’
‘Hmm, friends.’ In my head, I’m using air quotes around the word. ‘Of course. How many friends have you invited round for tea lately then?’ I don’t let Dad answer as I know the answer is a great big zero. Who knows, maybe Dad will be whipping the wedding photo off the mantelpiece himself soon. ‘What are we having for tea, by the way? It smells lovely.’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Dad says as I fill the kettle. Ah, an old favourite. ‘With peas, carrot and spring cabbage. The cabbage will taste even better than usual because I swiped it from Gerry’s plot.’
‘Dad,’ I sigh.
‘What? He’s a smug old git. Thinks he’s better than me because his beetroot won second place at the Woodgate Grows competition. And he started all this pinching crops business, remember. He hasn’t got green fingers – he’s got sticky fingers, the thieving sod.’
I raise my eyebrows at Dad. ‘And what about your fingers?’
Dad shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets on the front of his cardigan. ‘Like I said, he started it.’
I’m about to point out the playground-ness of this conversation when the back door swings open and Franklin waddles into the kitchen, followed closely by Birdie’s grandson. I look at Dad but he’s already dropped to his knees so he can make a fuss of the dog. I always wanted a dog when I was growing up, but my requests were always met with a firm no from the parents. Now I know which parent was steering that ship.
‘Hello again,’ I say, feeling incredibly awkward. It isn’t because I fancy Caleb or anything. It’s because I’m standing in Dad’s kitchen with a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger that I’m quite possibly going to be sitting across the table from while I tuck into Dad’s hearty shepherd’s pie and seasonal – and in some cases, stolen – veg. ‘I didn’t know you were here. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’ Caleb rubs his hands together. ‘I know it’s supposed to be summer but it’s freezing out there. I’ve been outside for fifteen minutes with that dog and he hasn’t done a thing.’ Franklin toddles over to me, sniffing at my fingers when I stoop to scratch behind his ears. He’s obviously in search of his usual doggy treats but, not knowing he was going to be here, I haven’t brought any with me. ‘I see you’re a fan of dogs.’
‘Aren’t you?’ I look up sharply. How can you not be a fan of dogs?
‘Franklin’s okay, I suppose, but in general, no.’ Caleb holds out a hand. ‘A dog took a chunk out of my hand when I was eleven.’
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