The Cosy Teashop in the Castle: The bestselling feel-good rom com of the year. Caroline Roberts

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      ‘No, at least I don’t think so. I’d hand my notice in at work straight away. I’m meant to give a month, but the company owes me some holiday, and I believe they are usually quite flexible.’ Did that actually mean Lord Henry was interested in her? What about Supercook Cynthia from earlier?

      ‘So, what is your current position, Ellie?’ Joe looked right into her eyes as he spoke, unsettling her. He wasn’t going to miss a trick, was he? Damn, and it all seemed to be going so well.

      Deep breath, how to phrase this one? ‘Ah-m, well, I have been working as an insurance administrator. But, as I was explaining to Lord Henry, I have been building up my experience in the catering industry over many years. My friend owns a bistro, where I regularly help out.’ Fill in sandwich bar here. ‘And I have worked at a local restaurant.’ Funky Chicken, as a waitress, the heckler in her mind added. She was losing her nerve rapidly.

      ‘I see.’ Joe was mulling her words over, rubbing his fingertips across his chin, definitely unconvinced.

      ‘Ah, right. Well then. I see.’ Lord Henry was cooling too.

      ‘And what formal qualifications do you have in catering, Ellie?’ Joe.

      She began to feel sick. None, I have none. Her voice came out small, ‘I haven’t anything formal other than the standard health and hygiene requirements.’ Liar, liar pants on fire. Well, she’d be getting those as soon as possible. ‘Much as I’d have loved to, I haven’t trained professionally as a chef.’ A lump stuck in her throat. She knew she shouldn’t have come, what had she been thinking? The dream was slipping away …

      ‘But,’ she had to grasp at something, tell them how much this meant to her, ‘I want this more than anything. The admin, the insurance role, that’s just a job, a means of earning money. But I’m passionate about my baking. I cook fabulous cakes and pastries and scones. That’s not just me saying it, either, my family, my friends are always asking me to bake for them. I can make soups and quiches. I’ve wanted to run my own tearooms since I was a little girl.’ The words were gushing out now. ‘Just give me a year. Give me this season and I’ll show you. I can turn the business around, pay you a good lease, and attract more people to the castle to do the tours that I notice you do. We could plan themed open days. I could cook medieval-style food,’ She wasn’t even sure what kind of food ‘medieval’ might be. ‘Try cream-tea afternoons. Link up with local charities, host a fundraiser, a summer fete. Halloween, why not? It looks spooky enough here.’ She ran out of steam then.

      Joe was giving her a wry smile. She wasn’t sure if he liked what he heard or was thinking that she was totally bonkers. Where had all that come from? She hadn’t actually thought of any of it till now; it certainly wasn’t what she’d been rehearsing in her head all night. Some last-ditch chance at getting hired, probably. A final fling at her dream or else it was back home. Home wasn’t so bad, to be fair. Her mum and dad were great, but it was a narrow life, living in a brick-built semi in Heaton, and working in an office block in the suburbs of Newcastle. She couldn’t afford her own place. Well, not now anyway. That particular dream had been ransacked by Gavin-bloody-tosser-Mason. She needed this so badly, this new start. And a castle, surely, wasn’t a bad place to begin.

      They were staring at her, an awkward silence forming around them. Then Lord Henry stood up, indicating that it was time for her departure. ‘Well, thank you for taking the time and effort to come all this way, Miss Hall.’

      There was no ‘We’ll be in touch very soon’ like good old Cynthia had. Though Joe did add, ‘We’ll let you know something in the next week or so. We do have several candidates to see and there may be second interviews.’ He stood up, his hand outstretched. His fingers clasped warmly around her own.

      ‘Yes, we’ll be in touch.’ Lord Henry gave an inscrutable smile.

      Out in the cool corridor, Deana caught up with her. ‘Do you want to have a quick look around the kitchens, the tearooms? Get an idea of what you’re in for?’

      ‘Okay, yep, that’d be good.’ Go on, just dangle that carrot, show her everything she was about to lose.

      They wound down the stone stairwell. She could almost imagine an old witch up at the top with a spinning wheel; all ready to prick the girl’s finger, send her to sleep for a hundred years, and then there’d be her knight in shining armour galloping in to kiss her awake again. It happened like that in fairytales, you see, oh yes, those heroic men would hack down a forest just to get to you. Where were all the heroes nowadays? She sighed – she’d obviously been fed too many Disney movies as a child. Back out to the courtyard again and in through a heavy wooden side door that opened with a creak into the kitchen. It was big, very big, with rather drab mushroom-grey-painted walls; you could cater for a function easily from here. Weddings and parties were flitting through her mind. It had obviously been designed for bigger things than a tearoom. She wondered if it had been the original castle kitchen, but there were no signs of anything pre-seventies, really, no old ranges or copper kettles, no Victorian bells lined up on the walls for the staff (Downton was still flitting around her head), just practical stainless-steel work surfaces, a two-sided sink, huge oven, modern microwave, fridge, chest freezer and dishwasher.

      Deana waltzed through, pointing out the various equipment, apologising for the general state of the place, explaining that Mrs Charlton, the previous lease-owner, had left in a hurry at the end of last season, only recently announcing that she wasn’t coming back – some family crisis, apparently.

      On closer inspection the walls were a bit greasy-looking, and the convection fan had a layer of tar-like grime; it needed taking down, scrubbing and bleaching. But Ellie didn’t mind a spot of cleaning.

      There was a narrow passageway leading from the kitchen. Deana set off, Ellie following her through to the tearooms themselves. Now this was back in time, a real contrast to the kitchens. History smacked you in the face – high stone walls, leaded windows, a massive fireplace; they’d need whole tree trunks, not logs, on that grate. A huge pair of antlers was fixed high above the hearth; that would have been one hell of a scary deer, like something out of the ice age. Deana was chattering on about how different it was when the visitors were there.

      ‘Are they real?’ Ellie asked, looking up at the antlers.

      ‘Replicas, I believe, but the originals were from a real animal, fossilised. Can’t tell you when they were dated, but, yeah, that would have been a brute of a beast, wouldn’t it?’

      ‘You’re telling me!’ It was like Bambi on steroids.

      The corridor had taken them from twentieth-century kitchen – it hadn’t quite reached the twenty-first yet, back to some sixteenth-century vault. Well, the tearooms certainly had character: reams of it. There were about ten dark-wood tables with chairs, their floral-patterned seat pads frayed. It was an amazing place, but it all looked rather unloved.

      Even so, she could picture it there with the fire on, posies on the tables, the smell of home baking, friendly waitresses in black skirts, white blouses and frilly aprons, and herself cooking away in the kitchen, doing plenty of Nigella spoon-licking, having to test all the cakes personally, of course – Ellie’s Teashop.

      Back in the car a few minutes later, she realised she was trembling. Maybe it was just the Northumberland March chill. Or perhaps it was the fear that this was the last she might see of this place. She wanted this so much.

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