‘We’ll make mini desserts,’ I suggest. ‘Like we did for the party.’
Mags, who has brought a notepad and pen from the office, jots this down.
‘But won’t it be a bit …’ Victoria scrunches up her face, reluctant to say the next words ‘… boring? Having the same dessert five times in one night, even if it is on a small scale?’
‘She has a point.’ Mags adds the word BORING with an oversized question mark to her notes.
‘I suppose.’ My idea had seemed brilliant only a few moments ago but now I’m not so sure.
‘I think you have something,’ Mags says quickly. ‘But it needs a bit of a tinker to make it work. Let’s have a think about it over the weekend and see what we can come up with.’
‘In the meantime, I’d better get going,’ Victoria says. ‘The others will be wondering where I am.’
‘Good luck for tomorrow.’ I stand up, think about giving Victoria a hug, and quickly change my mind, collecting our empty cups together instead.
‘Terry would be mad not to sign you on the spot,’ Mags adds. ‘But I’ll cross my fingers and toes for you, just in case.’
I take the cups into the kitchen once Victoria has gone, my mind wandering back to my dating idea. I can feel butterflies fluttering up a storm in my tummy and I know this is something we should pursue. If done right, it’ll bring lots of new potential customers into the teashop who will try our cakes and hopefully return for more. And if they happen to find love among the treats, that will be an amazing bonus.
My mind is still on cake and dating when I’ve finished the washing up and I’m mulling ideas over when Nicky arrives during her lunch break.
‘I need cake – and fast.’ She plonks herself down at one of the tables and folds her arms across her chest. ‘He hasn’t called.’
‘Who hasn’t called?’ I honestly can’t keep up with Nicky and her men. She’s been on three dates alone this week, each one with someone new.
‘Tom.’ She sighs, long and heavy. ‘Victoria gave me his number, so I texted him last night. Nothing flirty or anything. Just a hey, how are you kind of thing. We texted back and forth all night and things got a bit … heated.’ I try not to gag at the thought of Nicky and Victoria’s baby-faced pal sexting. ‘I called earlier but it went straight to voicemail. I left a super-cute, super-breezy message but he hasn’t got back to me.’ The corners of her mouth turn down and I swear her bottom lip pokes out ever so slightly.
‘I think he’s just really busy today.’ I explain about the band and their upcoming meeting with Terry Sergeant. Nicky’s eyes are wide by the time I’ve finished.
‘So he’s going to be famous?’ Nicky stands up so quickly, she nearly sends her chair flying backwards. ‘Forget the cake. If I’m going to be a celeb’s girlfriend, I need to keep it trim.’ She flies out of the teashop – and away from the delicious temptation – almost colliding with The Builders. Mags, who has been out the back, makes a suspiciously sudden appearance.
‘What’s your favourite cake?’ I ask Owen as he observes the goodies in the fridge.
‘From here? Your cherry cola muffins.’ He snaps his head up. ‘Why? Do you have any today?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I say, deflated with disappointment. I’d been hoping he’d say raspberry cream cheese brownies – Mags’s favourite – and strengthen my idea of matching up potential pairings by their favourite desserts. ‘We have raspberry and white chocolate muffins if you fancy one of those instead?’
Owen shrugs. ‘Why not? I like to mix it up every now and then anyway. Variety is the spice of life and all that.’
I’m placing Owen’s muffin on a plate when his words hit me fully, sending the butterflies in my tummy into a flurry.
Variety is the spice of life.
Variety.
Of course! We don’t have to offer specific cakes for people to bond over, just cake. A variety of cakes. Who wouldn’t want to date and eat cake? Five different cakes, each bite-sized treat as delicious as the next. It wouldn’t be boring and nobody would leave feeling bloated.
It was perfect!
Chapter Eleven
Dad’s invited me round for tea so, after closing the teashop, I climb into my little mint green Fiat 500 and pop on my favourite summery playlist for the drive. I adore this car. Before setting up Sweet Street, a car was the only splurge I allowed myself from the money Gran left me, and I knew as soon as I saw the adorable, dinky car that it was the one for me. Penny went with me to choose it and she said it was tiny and cute, just like me. If I’d known back then that the extra money would have come in handy for the business I’d set up in a few months’ time, I may have stuck with my ancient, clapped-out car that liked to break down at the most ill-timed moments. It was a nightmare of a car but, as turning up for work late so often had cost me my job at the double glazing call centre, I’d always be grateful to it for that.
I get a whiff of the welcoming smell of Dad’s cooking as soon as he opens the door. Dad wasn’t much use in the kitchen when he was married to Mum. He could knock together a shepherd’s pie if absolutely necessary and his omelettes were pretty good, but it’d been Mum who provided most of my nourishment growing up.
When she first left, I took over most of the culinary duties but once I moved in with Penny, Dad either had to roll his sleeves up and learn to cook a few more meals or exist on a rotating menu of shepherd’s pie, omelettes and tinned soup. Luckily, he went with option one and he’s now pretty proficient when it comes to rustling up meals. He uses a lot of the fresh produce from his allotment, which is a bonus.
‘Something smells good.’ I kiss Dad on the cheek before stepping inside and heading straight through to the kitchen and the source of the delicious smells.
‘We’re actually in the living room.’ Dad reaches out and steers me away from the kitchen.
‘We?’ I ask a split second before I’m nudged into the living room. I pause on the threshold, my jaw slowly journeying to the carpet. ‘Birdie! Hello!’ I’m gobsmacked to see one of my customers sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea. I knew they’d been getting along but I had no idea just how well. This is further proof that my cake-dating service can – and will – work.
‘Hello, dear.’ Birdie smiles and pops her cup of tea on the low table in front of her. ‘You look surprised to see me.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, which is ridiculous as my bottom lip is in danger of getting carpet burns. ‘Well, maybe a little. Dad never said you’d be here. Good job I brought this for pudding.’ I hold up the plastic tub I’ve brought with me.
Birdie’s eyes light up. ‘Is that apple crumble?’
‘It is. I’m just going to put it in the fridge. I’ll be back in a minute.’ I flash Dad a follow-me look, which thankfully he picks up on and he shuffles after me into the kitchen. I take a quick scan of the room, hunting out signs of Mum but other than the wine, which Birdie won’t know aren’t for Dad at this stage, we’re okay. I do need to slip the wedding photo discreetly from the mantelpiece in the living room though and I’ll nab her dressing gown from the bathroom in a moment.
‘You never told me Birdie was going to be here,’ I whisper as I place the tub in the fridge.
‘Didn’t I?’ Dad frowns. ‘Is it a problem?’
Is it a problem? I almost hoot with laughter. A problem? It’s the best bloody thing I’ve seen in ages. Dad has invited another woman round for tea! I’m almost giddy.
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ I say, closing the fridge and heading for the kettle. I need a calming cup of tea before I start performing a jig on the lino.
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’ I turn back to Dad and grasp him by the sleeves of his cardigan. ‘I’m so happy that you’ve found someone.’
‘Found someone?’ Dad frowns again before his eyes widen. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s not like that with me and Birdie. We’ve become friends, that’s all.’
‘Hmm, friends.’ In my head, I’m using air quotes
around the word. ‘Of course. How many friends have you invited round for tea lately then?’ I don’t let Dad answer as I know the answer is a great big zero. Who knows, maybe Dad will be whipping the wedding photo off the mantelpiece himself soon. ‘What are we having for tea, by the way? It smells lovely.’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Dad says as I fill the kettle. Ah, an old favourite. ‘With peas, carrot and spring cabbage. The cabbage will taste even better than usual because I swiped it from Gerry’s plot.’
‘Dad,’ I sigh.
‘What? He’s a smug old git. Thinks he’s better than me because his beetroot won second place at the Woodgate Grows competition. And he started all this pinching crops business, remember. He hasn’t got green fingers – he’s got sticky fingers, the thieving sod.’
I raise my eyebrows at Dad. ‘And what about your fingers?’
Dad shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets on the front of his cardigan. ‘Like I said, he started it.’
I’m about to point out the playground-ness of this conversation when the back door swings open and Franklin waddles into the kitchen, followed closely by Birdie’s grandson. I look at Dad but he’s already dropped to his knees so he can make a fuss of the dog. I always wanted a dog when I was growing up, but my requests were always met with a firm no from the parents. Now I know which parent was steering that ship.
‘Hello again,’ I say, feeling incredibly awkward. It isn’t because I fancy Caleb or anything. It’s because I’m standing in Dad’s kitchen with a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger that I’m quite possibly going to be sitting across the table from while I tuck into Dad’s hearty shepherd’s pie and seasonal – and in some cases, stolen – veg. ‘I didn’t know you were here. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’ Caleb rubs his hands together. ‘I know it’s supposed to be summer but it’s freezing out there. I’ve been outside for fifteen minutes with that dog and he hasn’t done a thing.’ Franklin toddles over to me, sniffing at my fingers when I stoop to scratch behind his ears. He’s obviously in search of his usual doggy treats but, not knowing he was going to be here, I haven’t brought any with me. ‘I see you’re a fan of dogs.’
‘Aren’t you?’ I look up sharply. How can you not be a fan of dogs?
‘Franklin’s okay, I suppose, but in general, no.’ Caleb holds out a hand. ‘A dog took a chunk out of my hand when I was eleven.’
I see it now, the scar in the fleshy part above his thumb. He turns his hand over and there’s a smaller scar on the palm.
‘That must have been traumatic,’ I concede. But still.
‘It was. I get sweaty just watching Crufts on the telly now.’ Caleb grins so I’m not sure if he’s being serious.
‘Why don’t you two go through to the dining room?’ Dad says as Franklin, realising there are no goodies to be had from me, toddles back to him for more fuss. ‘Tea will be ready in a few minutes.’
The dining room? We usually eat in the kitchen, unless it’s a special occasion. And by ‘special occasion’ I mean Christmas. But then this is an extra special occasion for Dad. It isn’t every day he entertains a lady friend, her grandson and her dog.
I make cups of tea for us all before showing Caleb through to the dining room. Dad’s tidied away his gardening magazines that are usually piled high on the table and he’s given it a thorough polish so it’s gleaming. It’s already been set for four, complete with the silver candlesticks Mum and Dad received as a wedding gift at the centre.
‘I’ll just go and get some matches to light the candles,’ I say as an excuse to corner Dad in the kitchen again. I understand Birdie being here – and Franklin – but why Caleb?
‘Birdie’s worried about the lad,’ Dad explains, eyes darting over his shoulder to make sure we’re still alone. ‘He’s had a hard time of it lately, what with the divorce and the custody battle. It sounds like it got a bit messy so Birdie just wants to keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s not sitting at home on his own on the days he doesn’t have the little girl.’
A bit like Dad then, who barely left the house for the first couple of years after Mum left. If it wasn’t for the allotment, Dad wouldn’t have socialised outside of work at all. If you can call pilfering veg from the neighbouring plot a social activity.
‘It’s not a problem, is it?’ Dad asks.
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ I say. At least I hope it isn’t going to be.
I find out all about Caleb McIntosh as we tuck into Dad’s shepherd’s pie, pretending we can’t hear Franklin whimpering from the kitchen. He’s thirty-two and a teaching assistant at a primary school, currently working in a class of Year Four pupils. He makes me laugh with tales from the classroom and, in a bid to make my own life sound interesting, I tell him all about Sweet Street Teashop and the dream that finally came true.
‘What made you take the plunge?’ he asks and I find my cheeks starting to heat up. Do I tell him the truth? That I’d spent three months sobbing in my childhood bedroom, heartbroken and humiliated, before I decided to take control of my own destiny and invest the money into my dream career as Gran would have wanted me to? Gran had always been fiercely supportive of my dream, constantly encouraging me to reach for the stars, to grab every single opportunity that came my way. When Joel and I split up, I could barely reach for the remote to change the TV channel, but I’d somehow shifted my focus onto the business and, through Sweet Street, picked myself up and reached further than I ever thought I could.
‘The time just felt right, I guess,’ I say instead.
Caleb nods and spears some filched spring cabbage with his fork. ‘I sometimes think I should train to become a teacher. The head at school certainly thinks it’s a good idea and would definitely support the decision, but then I look at my class’s teacher and the piles of paperwork and think I’m better off where I am. Teaching was never the dream for me and I need to focus on Cara now. We’ve had a tough few months.’
‘It must have been awful,’ I say, though I have no idea. Joel and I spoke about having children, but it was a way off in the future plan thankfully. The last thing I would have needed while nursing my poor, broken heart was a bitter custody battle.
‘It was.’ Caleb’s mouth is turned down, but then it suddenly stretches into a wide, teeth-flashing grin and my stomach performs a treacherous somersault. ‘But now I get to do all the normal Dad things again. Celine – my ex – stopped me from having proper access when she got together with her new boyfriend. They wanted to cut me out so they could play happy families. She let me take Cara on the odd trip out – the zoo, seaside, that kind of thing – but I missed out on the simple things like tucking her into bed at night.’
‘He’s an excellent father,’ Birdie says. I’d almost forgotten she and Dad were in the room with us. ‘Cara adores him. It’s such a shame they missed out on those precious months together. Celine is a very selfish woman.’
Caleb doesn’t disagree with his grandmother, but he does change the subject, bringing us back to the safer ground of Sweet Street. I find myself confiding in Caleb – and ultimately Dad – about our problem of drawing new customers into the teashop. I’ve never felt comfortable discussing the teashop’s failings with Dad but I feel able to admit the problems now we have a possible solution. I tell Dad about our dating service idea, omitting the inspiration behind the plan.
‘So people will come to your teashop to date?’ Dad asks, clearly sceptical about the idea judging from the frown lines on his face. ‘And eat cake?’
‘Hopefully, yes.’ I explain the speed-dating-like set-up, which Mags, Victoria and I have researched and tinkered with over the past few days since my brainwave. We’ll have five women all sitting down at a table each, who will be joined by one of the five men taking part. We’ll serve them a mini dessert each while they chat and get to know one another. After fifteen minutes or so (this is a little longer than most speed dates – we don’t want anybody suffering from indigestion as they try to ram their dessert dow
n their throats while chatting to their dates in just a few minutes), the men will move over one table and the process will be repeated with a new dessert.
‘Everybody will have a card to fill in after each date, saying if they would like to see that person again,’ I explain. ‘If there are any matches, I will pass on the details via text the following day so the couples can arrange to get together.’
‘But how do you make money from this?’ Dad asks. ‘And how will it help the teashop?’
‘Everyone will pay to use the service,’ I tell him. ‘A flat fee to cover the dating service, plus the desserts. Hopefully, once they’ve been to the teashop and sampled our cake, they’ll return whether they’re after a date or not. And hopefully tell their friends how fabulous we are.’
‘But don’t the people who usually speed date want a few drinks?’ Caleb asks. ‘It’s more of a social occasion than a tea party.’
My grip tightens on my cutlery. ‘A tea party?’
‘I don’t mean that in a bad way,’ Caleb says, though I fail to see how it could be taken as anything but under the circumstances. ‘It’s just that speed dating is usually a more active night out. There’s booze and the buzz of lots of conversations to help ease the awkwardness of the situation. Sitting down with cake sounds pretty formal.’
‘I think it sounds marvellous,’ Birdie says. ‘I might have a go at that myself, just for the dessert.’ She winks at me before turning to Caleb. ‘You enjoyed Maddie’s cakes, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes. Obviously. I’m just not sure …’ Caleb shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I release my grip on my cutlery, placing them down on the table so I can fold my arms across my chest.
‘You’re not sure of what?’ My head cocks to one side as I await the answer and I feel my foot tapping against the carpet.
‘I’m not sure speed dating and teashops go together.’
The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts Page 7
