Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop: An absolutely perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy. Rebecca Raisin

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СКАЧАТЬ only you were more—’

      ‘Don’t you dare say spontaneous.’

      ‘—if only you were less staid.’ He manages a grin. A grin. Do I even know this man who thinks stomping over my heart is perfectly acceptable?

      He continues reluctantly, his face reddening as if he’s embarrassed. ‘It’s just … you’re so predictable, Rosie. I can see into your future, our future because it’s planned to the last microsecond! You’ll always be a sous-chef, and you’ll always schedule your days from sun up to sun down. You’ll keep everyone at arm’s length. Even when I leave, you’ll continue on the exact same trajectory.’ He shakes his head as though he’s disappointed in me but his voice softens. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I really am, but I can see it playing out – you’ll stay resolutely single and grow the most cost-effective herb garden this side of the Thames. I hope you don’t, though. I truly hope you find someone who sets your world on fire. But it’s not me, Rosie.’

      What in the world? Not only is he dumping me, he’s planning my spinsterhood too? Jinxing me to a lonely life where my only companion is my tarragon plant? Well, not on my watch! I might be sleep-deprived but I’m nobody’s fool. The love I have for him pulses, but I remember the other woman and it firms my resolve.

      He sighs and gives me a pitying smile. ‘I hate to say it, Rosie. But you’re turning into your dad. Not wanting to leave the …’

      ‘Get out,’ I say. He is a monster.

      ‘What?’

      Cold fish, eh? ‘OUT!’ I muster the loudest voice I can.

      ‘But I thought we’d sort who gets what first?’

      ‘Out and I mean it, Callum.’ I will not give him the satisfaction of walking all over me just because he thinks he can.

      ‘Fine, but I’m keeping this apartment. You can—’

      ‘NOW!’ The roar startles even me. You want to see me warm up? ‘LEAVE!’

      He jumps from the couch and dashes to the hallway, where I see a small bag he’s left in readiness, knowing the outcome of our ‘quick chat’ long before I did. With one last guilty look over his shoulder, he leaves with a bang of the door. He’s gone just like that.

      As though I’m someone so easy to walk away from.

      Laying down on the sofa, I clutch a cushion to my chest and wait for the pain to subside. How has it all gone so wrong? There’s someone else in his life? When did he find time to romance anyone?

      Sure, I don’t go out much, other than for work purposes, but that’s because there’s no bloody time to go out! I’m not like my dad, am I? No, Callum is using that as ammunition, knowing how sensitive I am to such a comparison.

      The sting of his words burns and doubt creeps in. Am I not spontaneous enough? Am I far too predictable?

      Admittedly I’d been feeling hemmed in, ennui creeping into everything, even my menu. Each day bleeding into the next with no discernible change except the plat de jour. Sure, my professional life is on track but lately even my enthusiasm for that has waned. I’ve had enough of tweezing micro herbs to last a lifetime. Of plating minuscule food at macro prices. Of the constant bickering in the kitchen. The noise, the bluster, the backstabbing. Of never seeing blue skies or the sun setting. Of not being able to sit beside my husband on the couch at a reasonable hour and keep my eyes open at the same time.

      Is this my fault? Am I a cold fish? I like routine and order so I know where I fit in the world. Everything is controlled and organised. There’s no clutter, mess, or fuss, or any chance I’ll lose control of any facet of my life. That need to keep life contained is a relic of my childhood. Is my marriage now a casualty of that?

      But he’d promised he’d love me for better or worse.

      Am I supposed to hope he comes to his senses or to beg him to come back?

      Sighing, I place a hand on my heart, trying to ease the ache. I could never trust him again. I’m a stickler for rules, always have been, and cheating, well … I can’t forgive that.

      But bloody hell, our lives had been all mapped out. Our first child was scheduled for conception in 2021. The second in 2023. And he’s just blithely walking away from his children like that! Didn’t he understand I would have given up my career for our future family? The career I’d worked so hard for! And I would have done it gladly, too.

      Now this?

      The gossip will spread like wildfire around the foodie world. My name embroiled in a scandal not of my choosing. It’s taken me fifteen years to get to where I am in my career, and that’s meant sacrificing a few things along the way, like a social life, and free time, real friendships. But that was all part of the bigger picture, the tapestry of our lives.

      It hurts behind my eyes just thinking about it all.

      And I mean to cry and wail and torment myself about the ‘other woman’, or force myself up off the couch and throw my lovingly baked birthday tart at the wall, or eat it all in one go as tears stream down my face – something dramatic and movie-esque – but I don’t. Instead, I fall into a deep sleep, only waking when my alarm shrills at stupid o’clock the next day, and with it comes the overwhelming knowledge that I must leave London. At 32, this could be my rebirth, couldn’t it?

      Not spontaneous enough? Cold fish? Spinster? Like my dad?

       I’ll show you.

       Chapter 2

      At Billingsgate Market the briny smell of seafood hardly registers. I dash to the fishmonger, rattle off my order, too distracted to make the usual small talk. John, the guy with the freshest seafood this side of Cornwall, notices my jittery state.

      ‘What’s up, Rosie? There’s something different about you today.’ He gives me a once-over as if trying to pinpoint the change.

      ‘Oh,’ I say, mind scuttling. ‘I haven’t had any tea.’ My other great love. Making hand-blended teas for various moods. Wake-me-ups. Wind-me-downs. And everything in between. If I ever leave my job, I have a backup plan at least … tea merchant!

      John cocks his head. ‘You don’t look like you need it though, Rosie. You look alive.’ He shrugs. ‘And utterly different from this fella.’ He points to a dead flounder whose glassy eye stares up at me as John lets out his trademark haw, while I flinch slightly at being compared to deceased marine life. He bags my order, promising to courier it on ice to Époque immediately.

      Do I look alive?

      As I make my way to the butcher to confirm my weekly order, it occurs to me. Shouldn’t I be puffy-faced, red-eyed, fuzzy-headed from tossing and turning all night? Instead, I feel this sort of frenetic energy because I realise that I’m about to do something very out of character, bold and brave, and completely unexpected – what that entails, I’m still not quite sure, but the desire is there and I’m about to implement a huge change. Shriek.

      I’m steadfast СКАЧАТЬ