The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts. Jennifer Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ