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‘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.
