The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts. Jennifer Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ Chapter Twenty-Six

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Chapter Thirty-One

       Chapter Thirty-Two

       Chapter Thirty-Three

       Chapter Thirty-Four

       Chapter Thirty-Five

       Chapter Thirty-Six

       Chapter Thirty-Seven

       Chapter Thirty-Eight

       Chapter Thirty-Nine

       Chapter Forty

       Chapter Forty-One

       Epilogue

       Copyright

Chapter One

      There are lots of different kinds of kisses, from friendly pecks on the cheek to passionate, tongue-swirling embraces and detached air kisses (the latter of which aren’t even kisses at all, in my opinion). Currently, I’m being subjected to a rather enthusiastic (and rather wet) hello kiss, my entire face on the receiving end of a thorough licking.

      ‘Hello to you too, Franklin.’ I pull the podgy French bulldog’s wriggling body away so that his doggy kisses lap at the air instead of my face, and place him down on the pavement outside my little teashop, winding his lead around the drainpipe and securing it. Franklin – or rather his owner, Birdie – is a regular at the teashop. They arrive each Friday morning, after Birdie’s shampoo and set at the salon two doors down. I adore Franklin. He’s utterly gorgeous with his smooth, tan fur with a darker muzzle and a small patch of cream on his chest. His pink-lined ears are always alert and his chocolatey eyes are always on the hunt for a treat.

      ‘You spoil him,’ Birdie says with a good-humoured tut as I reach into the pocket of my pink-and-white polka-dotted apron and pull out a homemade, bone-shaped doggy biscuit. I don’t have a dog of my own – I don’t have any pets as the tiny flat above the teashop is barely big enough for me – so I make the treats especially for Franklin. I don’t mind. I love baking, whether it’s for my human customers or their four-legged companions.

      ‘I can’t help it.’ I hold out the treat and Franklin takes it gently between his teeth, drawing it from my fingers. ‘He’s so adorable.’ I pat Franklin on the head before Birdie and I step into the teashop. It’s quiet inside, with only one other customer sitting at the table closest to the counter. Robbie works for his mum at the florist’s three doors away, but I suspect he spends more time sipping banana milkshakes in my teashop than he does arranging flowers.

      ‘What can I get you today?’ I ask Birdie as she sits at the table by the window so she can keep an eye on Franklin.

      Birdie doesn’t even bother to glance at the menu or specials boards. ‘Is the apple crumble on today?’

      ‘Of course.’ Apple crumble is Birdie’s favourite dessert, so I always make sure there’s a dish ready on Friday mornings. ‘Warm custard?’

      Birdie grins up at me, her eyes sparkling. ‘Perfect.’

      I’ve always loved baking. It’s my passion and has been ever since my grandmother tied a floral apron around my waist (wrapping the belt around my middle three times before tying it in a bow as I was only a tiny three-year-old at the time) and helped me to whip up my first batch of fairy cakes. I remember the warmth of the oven as Gran opened the door, the delicious smell of the hot buns, the anticipation of waiting for them to cool. I remember the gloopy icing sugar and the rattle of the tub of hundreds and thousands, the rainbow of bright colours as they tumbled onto the still-wet icing sugar.

      Most of all I remember the sweet, sugary taste as I finally bit into the very first cake I’d ever made. The wonder that I, Madeleine Lamington, had mixed up a bunch of ingredients and produced an actual, edible and delicious treat. It was magic, pure and simple.

      I’ve been making magic ever since.

      Gran taught me everything she knew about baking – all the recipes passed down from her own grandmother, all the little tricks she’d honed over the years, and I’d always dreamed of opening my own teashop serving delicious treats, but it didn’t happen straight away. There was a long road ahead after I left school clutching an A* GCSE in food tech. A road that involved college, A Levels and waitressing.

      Later came greasy kitchens and grumpy bakers, more waitressing and admin jobs to pay the bills (plus a soul-destroying stint as a cold caller trying to flog double glazing to people who had no desire to buy it. The only saving grace with that job was meeting Penny, who would become my best friend and ultimately help me to achieve my dream).

      Through it all, I baked and I dreamed and now I’m the proud owner of number 5 Kingsbury Road, aka Sweet Street Teashop. It’s hard work, but I love every single minute of it. There is little else I enjoy more than seeing the pleasure my cakes, puddings and biscuits bring to my customers.

      ‘Cup of tea?’ I ask Birdie.

      ‘Yes please. I’m gasping. I had one at the salon, but the sheer volume of hairspray clogging up the air has undone all its good work. I’m spitting feathers.’

      I make Birdie’s much-needed tea, placing it on her table before heading into the kitchen to warm the custard and spoon a generous serving of apple crumble into a red-and-white polka-dot bowl. I like polka dots. I like patterns in general, mixing and matching them throughout the teashop, from the bright, patterned tabletops (each of my five tables has a different pattern, ranging from a simple but cheery polka-dot design to a yellow rubber duck print) to the crockery I use to serve my desserts.

      ‘Lovely, thank you,’ Birdie says as I carry her order through to the teashop and place it before her on the table. ‘I don’t know how I’d get through the week without my Friday treat.’ She pats her slightly rounded tummy. ‘My body would thank me if I gave it a miss though.’

      ‘Nonsense. We all СКАЧАТЬ