Читать книгу The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts - Jennifer Joyce, Kerry Barrett - Страница 10

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.