The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts. Jennifer Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      I feel a warm glow inside as we throw around some more ideas. The party is taking on a real community spirit and I hope the others will want to be involved. We’ll make a far bigger impact if we’re all working together and it’ll benefit us all in the long run.

      We’re still sharing suggestions when the teashop door opens and Birdie steps inside, murmuring to Franklin that she won’t be long. I’m surprised to see Birdie as she doesn’t usually pop in on a Saturday.

      ‘I’m after cake to take away,’ she explains when I stand up to serve her. ‘My great-granddaughter is coming over for a tea party and I’ve promised her cake.’ Birdie’s eyes crinkle in the corners as her mouth stretches into a wide smile. ‘I can’t wait to see the little angel. I don’t see her much, you see. My grandson’s ex-wife is … difficult.’

      I sense Birdie wants to use much more colourful language to describe the woman but she manages to rein it in. ‘She wouldn’t let my grandson see their daughter much after the divorce. It’s been so stressful for poor Caleb. For everyone. But he’s finally been granted joint custody, which means I’ll get to see her more often. So we’re celebrating this afternoon.’

      Birdie heads over to the refrigerated counter and peers at the cakes on offer. There are peanut butter blondies, chocolate fudge cupcakes and raspberry cream cheese brownies as well as homemade jammy dodgers. ‘I’ll take one of each of the cakes and some of the biscuits, please. Oh, and I’ll take those as well.’ Birdie points at the two chocolate chip muffins in a basket on top of the counter. ‘We’re really going to treat ourselves. Celine won’t like Cara having all that sugar, but it’s a special occasion.’

      Birdie wanders over to the table we’ve been working at while I box up her order. If only we had more customers like Birdie, it wouldn’t be such a worrying time.

      ‘What’s going on here?’ she asks and Nicky explains about the community open day. Birdie thinks it’s a brilliant idea and says she’ll pass on the details to her grandson once they’re in place. It’s the kind of positive response we’ve been hoping for but our bubble is momentarily burst by her next words.

      ‘I’m surprised you got permission to use the garden from the council. My friend’s granddaughter wanted to erect a marquee on her village green when she got married but they refused, miserable beggars.’

      I’m reaching out to take the money Birdie is handing towards me, but I freeze, my eyes wide as they lock onto Mags’s equally wide-eyed look.

      ‘The council?’ Why didn’t we think of that? It seems so obvious now that we’d need permission, but it hadn’t even occurred to me.

      ‘You have got permission to use the garden, haven’t you?’ Birdie asks.

      ‘Not yet.’ I take the money and slide it into the till, handing over the change and the boxed treats. ‘But I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

      My eyes find Mags’s again.

      Will it? they desperately ask. They don’t receive an answer.

      The obstacle of gaining permission to use the garden is only a minor one. A tiny blip, really. Mags says she’ll get on to the council on Monday morning as she’s far more assertive than I am, will push for this stronger than I could ever imagine pushing and hopefully we’ll get the result we want. The result we need. In the meantime, I’m using every spare minute planning our menu. I take my books and Gran’s handwritten recipes up to the flat, spreading them out across the sofa while I make notes.

      Sitting directly above the teashop, my flat is tiny with one bedroom, a doll-sized bathroom and an open-plan kitchen and living area. But living above the teashop is handy and I was in a bit of a pickle, accommodation-wise, when I started looking for a suitable property for my new business. Finding the shop with a flat above it had been fortunate and certainly helped me to make my mind up about the Kingsbury Road location.

      Nicky joins me with a bottle of wine once the salon is closed for the day and we order a takeaway, sifting through the recipes as we wait for our food. Nicky had wanted to go into town tonight, but as I have to work, we’ve compromised with indulgent food, wine and Gilmore Girls on Netflix in the background.

      Besides, it’s been a while since I braved Manchester’s clubs on a Saturday night. I’m usually too exhausted to face a night out after being up at the crack of dawn to bake – or at least that’s the excuse I go with. The truth is, I’d rather curl up at home with a bottle of wine and a DVD, where I’m safe from men like Joel. I can’t risk being hurt again.

      ‘Why hasn’t he texted me?’ Nicky suddenly growls, dropping the recipe for Gran’s treacle tart so she can snatch up her phone from the arm of the sofa. ‘He said he’d be in touch.’

      ‘You only saw him last night,’ I point out as I pick the recipe up off the floor and add it to the pile we’ve already looked at. ‘Give him a chance. He’s probably been busy with work. What does he do?’

      Nicky shrugs. ‘No idea.’

      ‘But you slept with him.’ Nicky has, unfortunately, shared all the details of her date the previous night.

      ‘So?’

      I close the recipe book I’ve been poring over, saving my page with the aging slip of paper containing Gran’s recipe for blackberry pie. ‘Do you know anything about him, other than his name?’ And by name, I’m referring to the username on the dating app Nicky uses to meet men. I don’t know if she knows his actual – and full – name.

      ‘I know that he’s got a mole right here.’ Nicky places a finger a couple of centimetres below her right hip. ‘And a tattoo of an eagle here.’ She trails her finger up to her shoulder blade.

      ‘Have you ever thought about playing it a bit cooler?’ I ask. ‘Waiting for a guy who’ll respect you enough to call you afterwards before you have sex with him?’

      Nicky nods and takes a sip of wine. ‘I’ve thought about it but I sort of get caught up in the moment.’ She nudges me playfully with her elbow. ‘We can’t all be Snow White like you.’

      ‘Hey, I’ve had my moments.’ I think of Joel, even though I shouldn’t.

      Nicky sighs. ‘I’ve had lots of moments. Too many.’ She looks down at her phone and growls. ‘Why hasn’t he texted? Do you think I should send him a message on the app?’

      ‘No, I really think you should leave it for now.’ We’ve been down this path so many times before, the trail has practically worn away. Nicky will send a message to this guy, wait a day (at the most) before sending another. And another. Until she’s sent a barrage of increasingly desperate messages, none of which will be replied to. In the end, Nicky will be blocked and she’ll move on to the next guy, restarting the cycle.

      The takeaway arrives and I take the foil dishes and paper packages into the little kitchenette to distribute onto the plates I’ve already set out. The plates are piled high with noodles and fried rice, roast duck and stir-fried vegetables, crispy spring rolls and prawn toast. I have similar restraint when it comes to the local Chinese takeaway that Nicky has with men on her dating app. Joel used to say I had hollow legs, marvelling that I could eat so much and still stay slim. When we first met at the call centre, Penny used to joke that she hated me as she only had to glance in the general direction of a takeaway and she put on a couple of СКАЧАТЬ