The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘Darling, what is this?’ She’s holding the paper cup like it’s a used Kleenex. I explain about the crockery delay, leaving out my panicked voicemails to Pablo. ‘Oh, how utterly awful for you!’ she exclaims.

  Well, in the scheme of world events, it’s not exactly a refugee crisis, is it?

  Her eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail. ‘Do you think you could use some cats in here, darling?’

  ‘Why, do you think we have mice?’ Or rats? Has she seen something?

  ‘No, no, I’m sure you don’t. It’s just that I’ve heard about the most amahzing café where they have cats. Cats and cakes, isn’t that divine? I think it›s near here, actually. Maybe you know them, darling.’

  Philippa is convinced that I know everyone east of Liverpool Street. At least once a week she sends me an article from the paper about someone doing something good in East London, always with the same few words scrawled across the top. How wonderful for your friend! I suppose that’s because of the wedding, when it probably did seem like the entire borough was there. My in-laws expected the champagne-soaked wedding of the century on a beer purse, and we’d never have pulled it off without a lot of help from our friends.

  The café door swings open, but it’s not a customer. Just Kelly and Calvin. Well, not just Kelly, but you know what I mean.

  Where are all the customers?

  ‘Congratulations!’ Kell shouts in my ear as she squeezes me in a hug so tight I can hardly breathe. ‘This is awesome and you did it!’

  ‘There are no real customers, Kell,’ I whisper in her ear. I don’t have the guts to admit that to anyone except her. ‘It’s all friends and family. This isn’t good.’

  ‘Right then, let’s sort that out,’ she says. ‘I’ll be back, Calvin.’

  Calvin shrugs and smiles. With his riot of blondy-brown curls and tanned skin he looks like a surfer and he’s just as laid-back. He won’t mind that his girlfriend is abandoning him two minutes after they get here. He knows us by now.

  ‘Team meeting,’ I tell Lou and Joseph, who are doing another round with the teapots. ‘In the kitchen.’

  After introductions, since Lou and Joseph have heard me talk about Kelly a lot but haven’t actually met her, I say, ‘I think we should go around to the neighbours and remind them about the party. Nobody’s turned up so maybe they forgot, or lost track of time or something.’

  Joseph is shifting from foot to foot. ‘I don’t think that’s it.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Lou says. ‘Don’t, Joseph, not tonight.’

  But he pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘This is probably where they all are. We didn’t want to show you before, in case it didn’t matter,’ Joseph says, handing me the folded leaflet.

  Kelly and I stare at it.

  ‘It’s that builder’s caff on the main road,’ Kell says. ‘You know the one, with the yellow front that always looks dirty. Are you saying everyone’s there instead of here?’

  When Joseph shrugs, the shoulder pads in his suit nearly reach his ears. It’s obvious he doesn’t like breaking this news to me. ‘My mum had the flyer through the door. She would’ve come here, but she loves tombola.’

  ‘Everybody loves tombola,’ I say. I wish I’d thought of it. ‘Look at the top. They must have seen our flyer first, otherwise they wouldn’t mention new cafés.’

  So it’s an attack, to keep customers away from us. I lean against the worktop. Why would they do that? Surely there’s enough business to go around. We’re tucked away off the main road. It’s not like we’ve set up next door.

  ‘What’ll you do, boss?’

  ‘Ignore it,’ Kell advises. ‘At least for tonight. Maybe a few punters will come by after, or they’re on their way here now. You can’t let it ruin your night. You’ve worked too hard for this. Tomorrow you can figure out what to do.’

  But I can’t ignore it, knowing that all my potential customers are around the corner raffling their traitorous little hearts out. ‘Let’s go see how many people are there,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’s empty. At least then I’ll know there’s another reason people haven’t shown up here. I think that would make me feel better. Are you two okay here for a little while if Kell and I go? Just keep making Nescafé with steamed milk if anyone orders coffee and we’ll be back soon.’

  Kell and I sneak out the back door and through the gate so I don’t have to explain to anyone what’s going on.

  But she stops me as we get to the main road. ‘You definitely can’t go in there, you know,’ she says. ‘And you shouldn’t really even go near the place. They might know what you look like. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you upset. I’ll have a look for you.’

  ‘Thanks, but I need to see for myself,’ I say. ‘We’ll just walk by quickly. It’s dark. They can’t see out with all the lights on inside.’

  The caff glows yellow from the strip lights in the ceiling, illuminating dozens of faces. It’s packed, standing room only. Everyone is boisterous, laughing, have a grand time. There’s a stocky middle-aged woman with short blonde hair at the tombola. She’s shouting at everyone and calling out numbers to raucous laughter.

  It’s exactly what I imagined our grand opening would look like. Minus the prizes.

  ‘Come on, don’t stare,’ Kell says. ‘We’ve seen it now.’ She loops her arm round my shoulder to lead me away. ‘I’m sorry, Em. This sucks, but it’s not the end of the world. Just because she got them in for tombola doesn’t mean they won’t come to the café. You’ll see, people will love your place.’

  ‘But why would she do it? That’s what I don’t get.’

  Kell shrugs. ‘She probably just saw the opportunity and took it. Think about it. Someone goes to all the effort to let people know there’s something on in the neighbourhood. You warmed them up. All she had to do was offer more free stuff and of course people are going to take it. They were probably all ready to go to the party but, sorry to say, the tombola idea trumped it. They’re getting prizes with their free tea. I’m sure your cakes are good, but they can’t really compete against free bottle openers and Dairy Milks and the market tat that she’s probably handing out. Maybe you should give out free fridge magnets with every cuppa. That’d get the punters in.’

  When we get back to the café, Mrs Delaney and the vicar, Del, are standing in the doorway. ‘Quite the merry turnout,’ Del calls when he sees me. ‘May we all be the harbingers of glad tidings and manifold successes.’

  He always talks like he’s on a nineteenth-century stage. You’d never think it to look at him, with his shaved head, crooked nose and all the tattoos covering his arms and neck. The black clergy shirt and dog collar he’s wearing do help him look slightly less like a hooligan. ‘Ah, I see your lovely offspring and husband are inside. Delightful.’ He kisses my cheek and strides off amongst his flock.

  His guidance isn’t always so much spiritual as it is spirituous. We usually see him in the Cock and Crown, communing with his whiskey.

  ‘How are you doing, girl?’ Mrs Delaney asks. ‘Happy?’ She’s dressed up especially tonight and her elfin face is beaming. I recognise the cinch-waisted pale blue 1950s dress from her shop. We put it on one of the mannequins when we were tarting up the place to help her sell it.

  ‘It’s great to see everyone here,’ I tell her truthfully. Kelly is right. There’s nothing I can do about my neighbours not turning up. We’ll just have to find a new way to get them in here after the café is open tomorrow.

  ‘Is that your mother-in-law?’ She points to where Philippa is talking to my father-in-law, Hugh, and Uncle Colin. ‘Has she had work done or something?’

  ‘Who, Philippa? No, she never would!’ Most of Philippa’s society friends might be on a first-name basis with the cosmetic surgeons on Harley Street, but she hardly ever bothers with make-up, let alone Botox.

  Although something about her does look different.

  ‘Hellair, darling, hellair, Mrs Delaney, so lovely to see you again,’ she says whe
n we walk over. Philippa never forgets a face, which is handy for keeping all the lords, ladies and heads of state straight in her head for the next drinks party.

  ‘Erm, Philippa, are you feeling okay?’ Her face is starting to get puffy.

  She puts her hand to her cheek. ‘Just a bit flushed, I think, thank you, darling. It’s quite warm in here. We were telling Colin about our wine tour in South Africa. It was divine. You really must go, or at least come to supper and we’ll open a few of the nice bottles.’ She wipes her brow, where beads of sweat are glistening.

  ‘Can I get you some water, Philippa? Or something to eat? Maybe you should sit down.’

  ‘No, thank you, I’b fine. Just a bit warb. Well, baybe sub water would be nice.’

  ‘What’s happened to your lips?!’ Hugh says.

  They’re starting to look like someone’s used a bicycle pump on them. And her eyes are getting squinty.

  ‘Oh, Phil, what did you eat?’ Hugh asks.

  ‘Just some of that divine raspberry cake.’

  ‘It must have had almonds in it,’ he says.

  He’s right. It’s made with ground almonds. ‘Are you allergic?!’

  She starts rubbing at the red blotches on her neck. ‘No, darling, don’t gib it a thought. It’s just a little reaction. I’ll be fine in a few hours. Rahly, it’s nothing to worry about. If you happen to have an antihistabine I could take one, but otherwise the swelling will go down on its own. So where was I? Oh, yes, South Africa.’

  ‘Does she need the hospital?’ I ask Hugh. This is perfect. I’ve poisoned my mother-in-law.

  ‘Right, no, she’ll be fine. She’s tough as old boots. It’s just swelling. Happens a lot, especially around Christmas. Can’t keep her off the marzipan.’

  Philippa won’t let anyone fuss over her, and she doesn’t seem the least bit fazed that she looks like one of those ‘after’ photos of lip-fillers gone wrong.

  Later, Mum finds me leaning against the worktop in the kitchen. ‘I’ll take Dad and Auntie Rose home, and I think Daniel is ready to go with the twins. What’s wrong, love?’

  It all comes pouring out: that we can’t work the coffee machine, we won’t have any crockery when we open tomorrow, that everyone’s gone to the tombola and that I could have killed my mother-in-law with a cake.

  ‘These are all just teething problems that you need to work out, that’s all,’ says Mum. ‘In a way that’s what tonight is for, really.’

  ‘But Mum, have you seen Philippa? You could use her lips as a bouncy castle.’

  She sniggers. ‘I saw her. She reminded me of those models of Neanderthals they put on telly sometimes. Look, you’ll find a way round all of this. Just be sure to get the ingredients for the cakes and write on cards when there’s anything people might want to avoid. Ring your fancy coffee consultant and get him in here for a refresher before you open tomorrow.’ She gathers me into a hug. ‘I promise these problems are solvable, and it’ll all look better in the morning,’ she says. ‘Especially Philippa’s face.’

  Chapter 11

  Pablo finally answers my voicemails at the crack of dawn the next morning. At first I thought the hysteria in my voice had convinced him that I really did need him, but he just wants the chance to fondle the Gaggia again. He’s stroking it with a tea towel, polishing off every fingerprint and watermark from last night’s frantic attempts to coax it into doing its job. He keeps murmuring carina mia, and I know he’s not talking to me.

  To look at him, you’d never know I’ve been leaving him threatening messages for two weeks. His smile is relaxed, blissful almost, and I’d like to strangle him. I can’t, though. He’s the only person around here who knows how to make coffee. Without him, that Gaggia is just an overpriced hanger for tea towels.

  Hopefully I haven’t misread my clientele by getting it. Virtually everyone last night wanted tea, not coffee. Even Philippa seemed happy with the Nescafé, though I’d never admit that to Pablo. And didn’t Carl and Elsie reject Rome, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, packed with history and culture, because he couldn’t get a decent cup of tea? Maybe all we really need to do is boil water. It would be easier than working that temperamental machine.

  Somehow I can’t imagine the owner of the Other Half Caff fiddling with one. But then I can’t imagine her worrying too much about pleasing her customers at all. She does seem to know what they want, though, judging by how many people were at tombola last night. It’s hard not to feel panicky just thinking about it. Lou was being kind to say it wasn’t personal. Of course it was. The question is: why?

  ‘Pablo, about the crockery we’ve ordered.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, not taking his eyes off the steam nozzle that he’s wiping. ‘I am thinking it has already come and you did not notice. You have been very busy, I think.’

  ‘All right then, if it’s been delivered, where is it? Show me, please, because we open in an hour and I have nothing to serve coffee in.’

  His movements are so languid that I want to scream. Into the kitchen he wanders, opening the cabinet doors and commenting on everything he finds there. Then he circles the café, peering under tables and into corners.

  ‘I’ve already checked everywhere. Admit it, Pablo. They’re not here.’

  ‘They are not here,’ he agrees. ‘There may be a problem.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, it seems like there may be a problem. Will you sort the problem?’

  ‘Of course, carina mia.’

  ‘Good… and might that be today?’

  ‘Of course.’ He waves the question away. ‘And now I will remind you how to ask the espresso to sing. Come, I will show you the magic. We will make the magic.’

  But we hardly get started on making the magic when there’s a sharp rap at the door. ‘Delivery.’ A skinny man’s handcart is piled with red plastic crates. ‘Sign here.’ He shoves his scanner at me. ‘No pen. Use your finger.’ As if anyone in the history of deliveries has ever been able to track down her missing package from a finger signature.

  He stacks the crates in the middle of the doorway while I make a point of ignoring Pablo’s expression. Nobody likes a smug Italian.

  I carry the first heavy box back to the bar. ‘That was close, Pablo. We almost had to use the takeaway. Hey, what is this?’ I hold up a dainty teacup. They’re all the same pattern: white flowers on a bright blue background with gold curlicues and gold rims, and gorgeous colourful roses painted inside. There are scalloped-edge cake plates to match. They are stunning. They are definitely not what I ordered from Pablo.

  ‘Bella,’ he says. ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘Very not your delivery, though.’ When I glance at the paper the delivery man left on the box, I see that I have a fairy godmother. Or a fairy mother-in-law, at least. ‘You still owe me crockery,’ I tell Pablo, taking out my phone to ring Philippa. ‘These are only temporary.’

  ‘Oh good, darling, I’m glad they’ve arrived in one piece,’ Philippa says when I gush my thanks at her. ‘And don’t be silly, I’m glad to do it. I’m not using them. We have those lovely big mugs you gave us for Christmas last year, so keep them for as long as you like. I hope forty-eight will be enough. I’m sorry I haven’t got more place settings.’

  Who, aside from the royal family, has forty-eight place settings in the first place? ‘It’s going to be hard to go back to normal old cups after these,’ I tell her. ‘You’re spoiling us!’

  ‘Oh, well, darling, I’m happy for you to keep them if you want. They’re not heirlooms or anything. Hugh and I got them as wedding gifts and I’m sure they still make the pattern. I can always get replacements for us.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean for you to give them to me! I’ll get them back to you as soon as the ones I’ve ordered turn up. I’m sure it’ll be sorted out today.’ I shoot Pablo a pointed look. ‘Thank you.’

  I always have to be so careful with compliments around Philippa. She’ll literally hand you the shirt off her own back if she thinks you’d like
it. This is the woman who sent me a two dozen handmade chocolate bars to taste – big ones, too, not the tiddly little sample sizes – on the off-chance I might like one enough to have at the wedding. I’m just glad I steered her away from her café cat idea or she might have sent live animals instead.

  ‘It’s just gone nine,’ Lou says. ‘I don’t suppose everyone’s waiting outside.’ A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away.

  ‘You’re joking,’ I say, because, despite the twitch, I still need to check these things. Lou is as deep and still as Loch Ness.

  ‘Of course. Can’t you tell? I’m practically hysterical.’

  I stare at the doorway while Joseph and Lou stare at their phones.

  It feels exactly like it did a minute ago, before we were officially open. I didn’t expect a stampede, but it would be nice if an actual customer turned up today.

  The cakes are sitting along the bar – with warnings about the things that might kill a person – and we’ve all tied and retied our new black aprons a few times. Pablo has left us alone with the Gaggia and a notebook full of instructions. Now we need customers.

  ‘Maybe we should put some flyers up again on the road,’ I say. ‘Just to remind people we’re here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lou says. ‘When was the last time you paid attention to a flyer that wasn’t about a lost cat?’

  ‘Shame we don’t have a lost cat,’ says Joseph. ‘Pictures get attention.’

  Pursing her lips, Lou starts scanning her phone around the café. ‘Then let’s give them pictures.’ She aims at the row of cakes. ‘Joseph, stand up there and pretend you’re making a coffee. You make a good blurry background.’

  Thoughtfully, she chooses a few of Mum’s teapots to add to the shot, then stacks some teacups beside them. As I watch her, I realise that Lou does everything with care. There’s never any hurry or faff about her. She’s the kind of person you’d want on a desert island. Joseph and I would be flapping around in a panic after writing SOS on the beach, probably below the tide mark at dusk, and she’d quietly be starting a fire and building shelter for the night.