Читать книгу The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts - Jennifer Joyce, Kerry Barrett - Страница 16

‘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.