Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop. Rebecca Raisin

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       Chapter 4

      A couple of weeks later, after a dizzyingly long shift at Époque I realise leaving really is the best course of action, no matter how much it scares me. Work has been a nightmare with the rumours, gossip and constant whispering behind hands and I want out.

      But first I need to formulate a plan. I have Poppy and now I just need figure out what to do with her. Back in the flat, after a healthy and nutritious meal of a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, I fire up the laptop and do a bit of investigating.

      OK, I go straight to Khloe Parker’s Facebook page, and see she’s updated the masses already: Khloe Parker is in a relationship. She’s tagged Callum in the post and collectively, they’ve had seventy-two comments. I can’t help myself and I click them open, hoping they’re not all congratulations.

      Does anyone remember he is in fact married? Even though it’s like a stab to the heart, I read each comment, from the inane ‘wow’ to the more heartbreaking, ‘Congrats guys, glad it’s finally out in the open!’

      In the gloomy evening, in the quiet of night, I realise I was the last to know, and the thought pains me so much I can barely swallow my tears. Our mutual acquaintances had known and no one bothered to tell me. Instead they’ve sent the happy couple their best wishes … What kind of life have I been living here?

      I click over to Callum’s page, and find photos of the pair, selfies taken up close, their bright eyes and wide smiles taking up the frame. I quickly close Facebook down, and resolve never to check their pages again. Not my best idea, was it? It makes me feel lower than low, as if I don’t matter to anyone.

      Is it just because I’m leaving and will have no relevance anymore, because I won’t be Rosie Lewis, Michelin-starred sous-chef …? Or more truthfully is it because I was always on the periphery anyway, never quite fitting in and not knowing how to do anything well, except cook. With my legs well and truly kicked from under me, I forge ahead, trying to push it from my mind.

      Mindlessly I scroll the internet, looking for something to distract me. Funny cat videos work until I picture my future with a furry companion and a very healthy herb garden, and quickly move on. Hours later I stumble on a website that catches my eye.

       Van Lifers: Living the dream on the open road

      As I click through the site, marvelling at the exotic pictures of these strangers’ travels, I find a forum, and request to join. I plan to lurk and read their live conversations, but as soon as I’m approved, a message pops up from another member, so I don’t have the chance.

       Hello there Rosie! I’m Charlotte, one of the moderators. If you have any questions, do let me know.

      Golly, I thought I’d sneak in and read their posts before actually having to chat to anyone!

       Thanks, Charlotte. I’m just going to have a peruse.

      She sends me a thumbs-up emoji and I shut the chat window down and spend the next little while trying to make sense of all the different threads, and the plethora of advice from nomads.

      Dare I try to live such an unstructured life?

      Just the thought of it almost makes me break out in hives. Every day would be different, and I’d have to learn to let go of my obsession with planning every minute, and factoring in variables. Could I do such an audacious thing?

      I shut the computer with a bang. Doubtful. But their profile pictures stick in my mind, some with islands and cerulean water in the background, others with rugged mountains, forests, or verdant fields, but they all shared one trait: huge smiles that threatened to swallow them whole. Not the fake selfie smile, the forced rigor mortis of social media pictures, but real joy emanating from these strangers as if they’ve found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

      That’s what I want. To feel joyful. But are some people predisposed to joy and others to worry? It would be an experiment then, right? To shed my old self, and see who hides beneath. Despite my self-enforced alcohol ban, I pour a glass of white wine, and think about where I’d go, and what I’d sell to be able to afford the lifestyle, and mostly how I’d manage to reinvent myself if only I took the first leap.

      Logging back on, I click the chat button and find Charlotte’s name and type:

       Charlotte, do pop-up food vans make enough money to fund travel, or do most people have a safety net of savings?

      I send it before I can overthink it, cringing at how desperate I must sound. How do I, planner extraordinaire, not have enough savings? After buying Poppy I wiped out most of what I had; coupled with the cost of living in London, there’s not much left to save even if I wanted to.

      Ellipses appear as she writes a reply, and finally:

       Everyone is different and it depends on what sort of lifestyle you want to maintain, but generally speaking, pop-up food vans do exceptionally well – everyone needs to eat, right? Not only do they sell to the public at various festivals, and fairs, they also sell to the other nomads, so if that’s your speciality, what are you waiting for!

      Hmm, she has a point, everyone does need to eat, and who doesn’t like a freshly brewed pot of exotic tea alongside scones with jam and cream. I could keep my menu simple to start with, and see how things go. Poppy can’t sit on the side of the road forever.

       Thanks, Charlotte. What am I waiting for indeed! I’ll mull it over

      * * *

      A few days later, a rough idea takes shape, and even though it’s daunting, it somehow feels right. But I need more information so I head back to the forum to find Charlotte. Her name isn’t on the СКАЧАТЬ