Kitabı oku: «The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts»

For the Joyces – Chris, Rianne and Isobel

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter One

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

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

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 Tito made 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

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.