Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop. Rebecca Raisin

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       Chapter 3

      After a strangely quiet Sunday shift, I’m home earlier than usual, giving me time to mull over whether I’ve taken leave of my senses. Who quits their job on a whim like that?

      My phone beeps constantly with messages like:

       Darling, that swine didn’t, did he? Text me back. Kimmy x

      I wrack my mind wondering who Kimmy might be and come up blank. There’s another from Leroy who I vaguely recall works with Callum.

       So are ya leaving then? If y’are can you put in a good word with Jacques for me?

      The rest are of a similar ilk; people wanting the inside scoop. No one actually offers to help me drown my sorrows or bring cake over so I can eat my feelings. And seeing as they’re all chefs, it hurts.

      They want the gossip or my job. The vultures.

      I don’t dwell on it much – just every hour, on the hour, or so. Still, if there’s one thing I’m good at it, it’s making a plan. New life scenarios. What not to do, kind of thing. I write down various possibilities – stopping just before what if the sky falls down – and realise for once in my life I have absolutely no idea what to do, or where to go when my notice is up.

      It’s a scary thought. Yet somehow liberating.

      No one gives up a sous-chef position at Époque unless they’ve married royalty or won the lottery, and that’s exactly why I’m relishing the thought. No one, absolutely no one, including my husband (do I call him ex at this juncture?), thinks I’ll react.

      The whispers in the kitchen were that I’d work even longer hours and virtually chain myself to the line with some kind of mad zeal, avenging myself by doing the job of three until one day when I’m a lonely old crone someone has to drag me kicking and screaming out of the kitchen. So nothing new there then.

      The wine helps clear my mind and I drink steadily, delighting in the rich Shiraz, a gift from Sally, thrust into my hands at the end of my shift with the words: enjoy your day off tomorrow, but think things through …

      Inexplicably the bottle empties, so I open one of my cheap quaffers as I skim through various blogs online, hoping to find an idea, or something to give me perspective. Those uplifting, let-the-breeze-blow-you-here, change-your-life type of blogs.

      As I sip, I read so many wonderful stories of transformation, of risking it all. Families who’ve wrenched their kids from school to live life on the road. Single women (just like me now!) who’ve thrown their spatulas down and taken the reins and live by their own rules. People with pop-up food vans. Campervan pottery shops. Musicians who play from tiny homes. Artisans who make jewellery by the sea, sell their wares and follow the sun. I shake my head. There’s a whole community of people out there living their best life …

      Could I be that person? Probably not.

      So it can’t hurt to look at campervan prices, can it? I’m only looking, I’m not buying. Even if I were to go out on a limb and envisage a totally new way of life, I’d have to commit to months of research to see if it’s viable. Then there’s the flat to consider. My possessions. Money. I’m stuck, really, aren’t I? It strikes me that we humans build these lives for ourselves that have the tendency to trap us. I guzzle more wine and wonder how I can fix the mess I’ve found myself in …

      * * *

      The next day, I wake up with a screaming headache. The pounding in my head is in staccato with the buzzing of the doorbell. My one and only day off from the restaurant, and my most relished lie-in has been ruined. By me, and the copious amounts of wine I’d put away, and by whoever deems it acceptable to visit at – I scan the clock – barely eight o’clock. It should be a criminal offence. I silently berate myself for drinking so much red on an empty stomach. But cooking for one, well, I’m not used to it.

      The buzzing continues and it dawns on me. It’s Callum come to his senses and seen the error of his ways. He’ll wear that apologetic gap-toothed smile of his, his too-long red hair hanging over one eye, so he can hide behind his mistake. And I shall relish telling him to spin on his heel and go back the way he came!

      I dash out of bed, as the world spins on its axis. Bloody hell, just how much did I drink last night? Don’t tell me I’m going to be one those tragics who drink their life away and use the empty wine bottle as a microphone for an impromptu concert? A memory forms; did I karaoke the night away strutting my stuff for my own reflection in the window? As alarming as the thought is, the doorbell buzzing makes my hangover worse so I hurry along to answer it.

      Hand on wall, I steady myself and wish I’d brushed my teeth and had some painkillers on hand. Urgh. Quickly, I pat down my bed hair and open the door with a grimace.

      It’s not Callum.

      And suddenly it occurs to me I’m braless in a teeny tiny singlet wearing a pair of Callum’s old tracksuit bottoms, so big they gape at the front. So not appropriate. With a wild grin that I hope masks my discomfort, I grasp desperately at the coat rail to my right, while pondering who this stranger is, as my fingers finally make contact with my jacket and I fling it on.

      ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

      Confusion dashes across СКАЧАТЬ