It’s hard sometimes to remember that she’s only seventeen.
We crowd around Lou’s phone as she scrolls through the photos. ‘The café looks beautiful!’ I say. ‘I guess we should print the flyer in colour. I’ll just have to get some more ink.’
‘You are a living fossil,’ she says. ‘I’ll add some filters and bring these to Snappy Snaps. Give me a tenner. They can print us off a bunch in about two minutes. We can just write whatever we want about the café on the back and hand them out along the main road. They’ll get more attention than leaflets.’
‘Put them on the Instagram account too,’ Joseph says.
They see my expression. ‘Don’t worry, grandma, we can make one for you.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Joseph says. ‘And Facebook too. And that makes me the Head of Social Media, yeah?’
‘Christ.’ Lou rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll be right back with the photos.’
‘Cup of tea?’ I offer to Joseph as he’s setting something up on my phone.
‘Thanks. You can’t be second chance café with a number two,’ he says, ‘but you can be second chance café all spelled out. I’ll do that, yeah?’
‘Whatever’s best.’
‘Don’t you know about any of this stuff? That’s bare weird, boss. How do you talk to your mandems?’
I shrug. It’s not like I’ve never heard of Twitter – despite what they think, I don’t live under a rock – but none of my friends bother being online. What would Kell post about? Hashtag fish scales OMG guts LOL? ‘When we want to talk we ring each other or I go down the market,’ I tell Joseph.
‘Bare weird.’
As I watch him deftly create an entire social media platform for the café, I can’t help but think again that they’re not the only ones getting training around here.
We both look up in surprise when a man walks through the door. He’s got chunky black-framed glasses and one of those hipster beards that I tell Daniel I’ll leave him over if he ever dares to grow one. He’s wearing a blue tweed three-piece suit. I’ve never been partial to tweed on men under seventy, and the suit should give this guy a Farmer Ted vibe, but he’s tall and slim so it looks more Ted Baker.
He doesn’t seem to notice us, though. He hurries past the booths along the windows at the front, peering under the benches before choosing a table near the wall at the side.
‘Give him a few minutes,’ I tell Joseph, ‘and then go take his order. I’ll try to get the Gaggia going in case he wants a coffee.’
Our first customer! Whatever he orders, I’m going to have the pounds set into a frame for the wall behind the bar. If he pays with a note, maybe I’ll even get him to sign it. I feel like naming something after him. The tweedy tea. Beardy bacon butty.
He sets his leather courier bag on the table like he’s planning to do some work while he’s here. That could mean cake and maybe even a sandwich. At least a tweedy tea.
He takes out his phone and his iPad. Then another phone. That’s right, mate, settle in. Out comes his laptop. He should have picked the booth where there’s more room. I’m just about to go over to suggest it when he pulls a handful of cables from his bag and carefully attaches them to his devices. Plugging the ends into a six-socket power strip, also from his bag, he plugs the whole thing into the wall.
Finally, he takes out a beard trimmer and his electric toothbrush.
This guy’s not a customer. He’s a drain on the National Grid.
‘Yo bruv, seriously?’ Joseph hisses from behind the Gaggia. ‘Has he got a Prius outside that needs charging too?’
‘Ssh, we need the business.’
‘You’re not gonna get it from him, boss, you watch.’ Before I can warn him not to assault anyone, Joseph strides over to the man. But instead of threatening him, he says calmly, ‘Hi, what can I get for you? Tea? Coffee? We have cake too.’
‘Maybe later, thanks.’ The man crosses his legs, completely at ease about the trail of cables running up my electricity bill.
‘Nothing at all now? Not a hot drink? Are you sure?’
He strokes his beard. He’s probably contemplating a trim once his shaver is charged. ‘I’ll just have a pot of hot water, please.’
As Joseph stomps back to the bar, I see the man take a teabag out of his satchel.
‘Boss, he’s taking the piss.’
I’ve got to admit a twisted kind of admiration for him. I could never pull that off. I feel guilty getting free Coke refills at Nando’s or accepting those cheese samples they do sometimes in the big Tesco. He’s probably scrounging three square meals a day. ‘I know he is,’ I tell Joseph, ‘but it does look better when there are people in here. Maybe someone will see him through the window, come in and actually pay for a drink. Take his photo,’ I murmur. ‘Post it on your social media as our first customer. He owes us at least that much.’
Our takings at the end of the day are exactly four pounds and sixty pence. Two women came in for takeaway cappuccinos and I had to keep myself from kissing them when I gave them their change. Less the electricity the guy used to charge all his household devices, today was a loss.
Even so, I can’t stop smiling. It’s my café and it’s open. Lou and Joseph handed out dozens of photo adverts and put them through everyone’s door too. I’m not expecting a stampede first thing tomorrow morning, but people will start to come and things will get better. Looking at the bright side, they can hardly get any worse.
The cakes are all cling-filmed and I’m just about to lock up when I hear the door open. It sends my heart soaring. I’ll stay open all night if it’s a real live customer. I’ll even work the Gaggia.
But it’s better than a customer. It’s Daniel, who definitely won’t make me work the Gaggia.
‘Well done on your first day, Em. Are you nearly finished?’ he says, scooping me up in a hug. ‘Do you need any help? I rahly wanted to be here earlier to see you in action.’
‘That’s okay. There wasn’t very much action to see. I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I’m glad I’m here too, and I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve got us a reservation for seven at The Enterprise.’
For the second time in a few minutes, my heart flip-flops. I love The Enterprise. Whenever I needed to revise for exams during Uni or finish a paper, I’d decamp from my parents’ house to stay at Daniel’s. Usually he’d cook for us, but sometimes we’d splurge on a meal out around the corner at The Enterprise. It’s full of lovely dating memories, when our biggest responsibility was paying the bill at the end of the meal.
Not like now. ‘The children,’ I say, speaking of responsibilities. As far as I remember, the restaurant doesn’t have a lot of room for a double pushchair. It probably hasn’t got a lot of patience for two lively toddlers either.
Daniel cringes a bit. ‘Yah, right, please don’t be cross with me, but I’ve asked your mum and dad to look after them so I can take you out properly. I rahly wanted a way to mark this day for you and have a mini celebration. It’s a milestone, Em. You deserve to be spoiled.’
How can I argue with that logic?
When he takes my hand on the walk to the Tube and I tell him about the beardy electricity hoarder, it starts to feel like it did when we were first dating. Like the months and years are rewinding.
I need this reminder about who we were, about who we are. We need this. It’s worryingly easy to get lost in family life till, before you know it, you’re just two strangers job-sharing nappy duty.
The restaurant is buzzy and the hostess claims to remember us, which is pleasing even if it’s a total lie. We should definitely try something similar at the café. Even if it’s someone’s first time in, they’ll like being welcomed like an old friend.
No, stop thinking about work, I warn myself. I’m out properly with my husband for the first time in months. I have to hold on to this romantic feeling as much as I can. Otherwise we may as well be home on the settee watching Gogglebox.
But what will we talk about if not
work or the children, when that’s all I’ve thought about lately? I’ve barely read a magazine, let alone a book, since the twins were born, and Daniel watches all the same telly programmes that I do. There’s nothing new to report about my parents or Auntie Rose. He’s probably not interested that her haemorrhoids have cleared up nicely, though obviously she’s pleased about it. I’ve obsessed enough over Kelly’s possible move to Spain, and there’s no news there anyway. She nearly gave me a heart attack when she said Hola! the other day, but when I questioned her (Que?) she claimed she was just practising with Calvin.
Despite having carried on perfectly entertaining conversations with Daniel for the past three years, now I find myself casting about in my mind for something to say. ‘Do you know that astronauts aren’t allowed to eat beans before going into space?’
It’s not the most obvious dinner topic, I grant you. Joseph reeled off a list of ‘facts’ today while we waited for the customers who mostly never came. ‘Something about the expanding gas in space being bad for their spacesuits. Isn’t that interesting?’
‘Are you planning to go into space?’
‘Pah. As if I’ve ever farted,’ I say. ‘Me, the mother of your children.’ Instantly I regret saying that. Daniel was in the room when the twins were born. It might take a lifetime to forget what went on in there. He doesn’t need any reminders.
‘Would you go into space if you got the chance?’ he asks as the waiter brings our wine. ‘I’d do it in a heartbeat.’
But I shake my head. ‘No way. What if I couldn’t come back? It’s not like having a cancelled flight where you get the next one and might have to land at Gatwick instead of Heathrow. You could be stuck out there forever.’
‘Like Major Tom,’ he says. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t do it now, obviously, not with you and the children. If I have to stay on earth, I’m glad it’s with you.’
But I wonder what else he’d love to do, if it weren’t for us. I haven’t got the guts to ask him that. ‘What’s happening at work?’ I say instead, steering us on to safer topics. But as he talks about his latest water project in Africa, I wonder again if he sometimes wishes things had gone differently for us. When we first met, he was sure he wanted to go work locally for his charity at some point. Coordinating projects from London is one thing, he always said. Think how much more rewarding it would be to work with the villagers directly and see how their projects improve lives. Personally I’d be happy never to sleep in a mud hut – I don’t even see the appeal of glamping at Glastonbury – or have to worry about spiders that might live in the grass roof. But Daniel wouldn’t mind. Now he’ll never get to do that.
‘We’re so lucky to live in the UK,’ I say. ‘Imagine not even having safe water to drink and always worrying about whether your children will fall ill.’ Not to mention the spiders.
‘Yah, I know. It puts Oscar’s sniffles into perspective, doesn’t it?’
At first I laugh. ‘What do you mean, Oscar’s sniffles? What sniffles?’
‘Oh, nothing, rahly. He was feeling a bit peaky this afternoon, that’s all. Your mum said it’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Peaky how? What’s wrong with him? Is he ill? What about Grace, is she feeling well?’ They’re up-to-date on their vaccinations, but they haven’t had their last diphtheria shot. What if it’s that? Does diphtheria cause sniffles? Why don’t I know this?! Or polio? Maybe it’s polio. Measles, mumps, rubella?
‘Emma, darling, relax. It’s probably just a little cold, that’s all. Your mum wasn’t worried.’
And neither is my husband, clearly. He’s sitting there sipping his wine while our children could have polio. ‘We need to go,’ I say.
‘Em, don’t do this, please. Oscar is fine. Ring your mum if you don’t believe me. She’ll tell you. Go on, ring her. You’ll feel better.’
But he doesn’t need to tell me that. My phone is already out. ‘He’s fine, Emma,’ Mum says when she answers. ‘He’s not got any fever and he’s just eaten like a horse. He’s playing peekaboo with Dad. If you turn up here before nine o’clock, I won’t let you have him, so you may as well enjoy your dinner. I’m sorry, but it’s for your own good. Have a glass of wine and order a starter.’ She hangs up.
‘Feel better?’ he asks, pouring more wine.
‘My own mother just hung up on me.’
‘It’s her brand of tough love. Look, Em, we’ll go if you really want to. I want you to be happy.’
He’s right. Mum’s right. Everybody’s right. My children probably don’t have a deadly disease. ‘I am quite hungry,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s share the calamari.’ My heart’s not into squid or anything else on the menu now, but the least I can do is pretend after Daniel’s gone to the trouble.
The twins are asleep in their cots when we get to Mum and Dad’s after dinner. ‘You can leave them here if you’d like,’ Mum whispers as I adjust their blankets and study them for signs of bubonic plague or similar. ‘Come get them in the morning before you go to the café. It’ll give you and Daniel a night alone.’
But it took all my willpower not to hail a cab from the restaurant to get to Mum’s. I’m not leaving them again if I don’t have to.
They barely wake when we scoop them into their pushchair. They’re used to being manhandled when they’re trying to sleep.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ I say to Daniel as we push them home. ‘Would you go into that caff on the main road and spy for me? I’m dying to know what it’s like and the owner won’t know who you are. You could take the twins and pose as a dishy daddy.’
‘I’m not posing,’ he says. ‘I am a dishy daddy.’ He bats his long eyelashes at me. He is quite dishy. Unfortunately for him, I’m also quite tired. On the menu of after-dinner romance, I could probably manage a simple fruit plate or maybe a slice of cheese. Anything more complicated like a soufflé (forty-five minutes to prepare, madam) is out of the question.
I pace through the house the next morning, waiting for them to get back, until finally I hear the front gate squeak.
‘Well?’
Daniel’s shaking his head and laughing as he wrestles the pushchair inside. ‘You won’t believe it when I tell you. She actually threw us out of the caff.’
‘She knew who you were?!’ Of course. Even wearing jeans instead of his usual red or green or yellow chinos, Daniel would have stood out with the twins. There can’t be that many sets around here. I knew I should have tried harder to get Joseph to go in with his mum. Even if it would have meant him dying from shame like he’d claimed.
‘No, I don’t think she had any idea who we were,’ says Daniel. ‘She came over the minute we got inside. I thought at first she was going to offer to find space for the pushchair, but she was hostile, Em. She said, “No effing kids in here. Go find a Starbucks.” Naturally that put me on the defensive. I mean, rahly, she’d just sworn at our children. I asked who she was and she said she’s Barb and what’s it to me and I should eff off with the children. I’m glad you didn’t go in there. She was irate enough with me and I’m a stranger. Who knows what she’d do if she saw you. We thought it best not to push the issue, didn’t we, darlings? So we went to Brick Lane and got bagels for Mummy instead.’ He hands me a bag and plants a quick kiss on my lips as I take in this bit of news. ‘Honestly, Em, you’ve got nothing to worry about as far as competition goes if she won’t even let parents inside. Rahly rude.’
Chapter 12
Daniel’s run-in with the caff owner sticks in my gut long after our bagels have digested. The shear nuttiness of swearing at toddlers is one thing, but what kind of business person is so rude to her customers? She’s supposed to be serving people who come into her caff. It’s not like Daniel turned up at her house asking to sit in her lounge for a cup of tea.
I know it’s an opportunity if my rival is snubbing the parents around here, but how dare she treat my children that way? She doesn’t even know how annoying they can be.
Grace is wedging playing cards into
the DVD player. It’s been one of her favourite games since she found them in the cabinet. We’ve unplugged the machine so she can’t electrocute herself, and I probably shouldn’t let her do it but she screams whenever I try getting her to kick her card habit. Frankly, I’m picking my battles.
Oscar isn’t interested in his sister’s game. The poor little thing has a molar coming through. He’s flushed and pitiful and feeling very sorry for himself. All he’s wanted since waking was for me to hold him, which wasn’t easy in the café. My arms are killing me.
There’s a chicken roasting that needs checking, but I can’t very well lean into a 200˚C oven with a toddler in my arms. ‘Daniel, can you please check the roast?’ He looks up from his laptop. ‘It should be ready, but just check. Grace, darling, have you run out of cards already? Then it looks like the game’s finally over, isn’t it?’
She’s pointing to the DVD player as her face crinkles. That gives me about five seconds to distract her before she goes off. ‘How about bear? You love bear.’ I move the stuffed toy closer with my foot.
Her face is turning puce. ‘No, not bear? What about your music box. Ah, look.’ But I can’t get the leverage to wind the music with one hand. Fat tears appear in Grace’s eyes.
‘Come here, my love.’ Daniel rushes over to scoop her up. ‘Let’s have a gallop, shall we?’ He jiggles her in his arms, round and round the lounge and through the dining room. ‘That’s better, isn’t it? Yes, that’s better.’ She’s giggling like a crazy baby.
Then Daniel’s face goes funny. ‘Here, you take Grace,’ he says. ‘I’ll just go check on that roast like you asked.’
He shifts her to my free arm and rushes for the kitchen.
‘Oh god, Grace! Daniel, what did you shake out of this child?’
‘Hmm? Oh, did she?’ He sticks his head into the oven, where I’m sure it smells better.
That hand-off was no coincidence. I’ve been sapootaged.
The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square Page 12
