Kitabı oku: «The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts», sayfa 2

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.