The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

‘Franklin appreciates you going to the trouble, no matter what you say, so thank you from both of us.’ Birdie places the treats in her handbag and zips up her jacket. ‘I’ll hopefully see you tomorrow. It was nice meeting you, Clive.’

‘You too, Birdie,’ Dad says and he waves as Birdie and Franklin pass the window.

‘Cup of tea?’ I ask Dad.

He checks his watch and nods. ‘I should have enough time to squeeze a quick one in.’ I make cups of tea for Dad, Mags and I, placing a cup beside Mags in the office before joining Dad out in the teashop.

‘So how’s your mum?’ Dad asks as he takes a sip.

‘Good, I think.’ I haven’t actually seen Mum since I last visited Dad so I have no further news. I can see Dad is itching for more information so I’m glad when Nicky descends noisily into the teashop, flopping down onto one of the chairs at our table.

‘So all the shops in the street now have a flyer in their window,’ she says as she shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over the back of her chair.

‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what Nicky is talking about.

‘The flyers. For the party tomorrow. I offered to put one in the salon window and Mags said yes. I thought I may as well ask the others if they’d put one up too and they all agreed. Rehana and George weren’t so keen at first, the miserable buggers, until I pointed out that Rehana’s eyebrows were looking a bit uneven and offered to tidy them up for mate’s rates.’

‘Thank you.’ I’m taken aback by how kind everyone is being. ‘Let me get you a cup of tea and some cake. On the house.’

‘Don’t be daft. You’re going to be giving away more than enough freebies tomorrow.’ Nicky grabs her purse and heads over to the fridge to see what we have on offer today. She selects a chocolate fudge cupcake before joining Dad again. They see each other quite regularly in the teashop so they chat easily but it wouldn’t matter if Dad was a stranger; Nicky has such a breezy confidence and a chatterbox nature, she could start a conversation with thin air.

‘Have you thought any more about asking Jane out?’ I ask Dad when I join them with Nicky’s cup of tea. I’ve asked in front of Nicky on purpose so she can back me up.

Dad shakes his head. ‘I’ve told you, I’m too old for all that dating malarkey.’ Dad says the word ‘dating’ as though it’s the new term for dogging, scrunching up his nose and almost shuddering at the mere thought.

Nicky is about to plunge the cupcake into her mouth but she pauses, cocking an eyebrow at Dad. ‘I beg your pardon? Nobody is too old for dating. I’m going to be dating until the day I’m shoved into a wooden box and buried in the ground.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I scoff. ‘I bet even death won’t stop you.’

Nicky laughs. ‘That’s true. I’ll probably flirt with the undertaker as he’s embalming me.’ She turns to Dad, eyebrows low to show her sincerity now. ‘Seriously, Clive. You’re never too old to date and you’re only what … mid-fifties?’

Nicky knows this isn’t true but her flattery works and the corners of Dad’s lips lift. ‘Sixty-two.’

‘Really?’ I think the squeak in Nicky’s voice is overkill but Dad is lapping it up, full-on grinning now.

‘I’ll be sixty-three in a couple of months.’

‘Wow, you’re looking good, Clive. This Jane is a very lucky woman. You should definitely ask her out.’

Dad’s grin slips. ‘Nah. I’m really not after a relationship. Far too long in the tooth for all that.’

‘Who said anything about a relationship?’ Nicky asks. ‘Go out, have a bit of fun. No strings.’ She winks at Dad and I feel a shudder of my own coming on. ‘You only live once, Clive.’

‘Why don’t you bring Jane along tomorrow?’ I suggest, and not only because it’ll mean an extra body in the teashop.

‘Like I said …’ Dad stands and slips on his jacket ‘… I’m too old for all that, strings or not.’

Chapter Seven

I’m up extra early on Saturday morning, my eyes bleary as I move around the teashop’s kitchen, measuring, mixing and pouring ingredients, sliding trays in and out of the oven, transferring cakes and biscuits to cooling racks and containers. The croissants and cinnamon buns are already cooling by the time Mags arrives just after six and a batch of double chocolate chip muffins are being lifted onto the counter.

‘Blimey, girl. Have you been baking all night?’ Mags asks as she removes her jacket.

‘Not quite, but who needs sleep anyway?’ I say through a yawn.

Mags grabs an apron and slips it over her head. ‘Where do you need me?’

I consult the list that’s already splattered with flour and gooey cake mix. ‘Can you make the chocolate custard for the trifles?’ As well as our regular menu, I’m making the sample desserts for the party this afternoon, including Nicky’s favourite Black Forest trifle. I made the black cherry jelly last night, which is now set in little pots in the fridge. We’ll top the jelly with chocolate custard and whipped cream, adding chocolate sauce and a glacé cherry to finish.

‘Will do.’ Mags ties the apron around her waist and washes her hands before she makes a start on the custard while I pop a batch of bite-sized cherry scones into the oven. We work our way through the list, adding more tiny desserts to the menu, including all our favourites: peanut butter blondies (Victoria’s), raspberry cream cheese brownies (Mags’s) and fairy cakes (mine). Fairy cakes aren’t the most sophisticated of desserts but they remind me of Gran and they never fail to raise a smile. Who can say no to soft sponge covered in sweet icing and rainbow sprinkles?

Victoria arrives just before eight with Nathan and the rest of the band. I’ve heard a lot about Tom, Daniel and Josh but I’ve never actually met them before now, so it’s nice to put faces to the names. Even if I am covered in flour and starting to panic about the day ahead.

Victoria serves the trickle of early morning customers while Mags and I rush around the kitchen to make sure we’re as ready as we can be for the party. We can bake more as needed throughout the day but we’ve managed to get the bulk of the desserts ready by the time the boys head into town with the remaining flyers.

‘Cup of tea?’ Mags asks as I pull the ramekin dishes half-filled with apple crumble out of the oven and set them out on the side. I’ll make the custard nearer the time to top the dishes up with.

‘I’d rather have a vodka and Coke,’ I say. ‘But I’ll make do with tea.’ I’m hoping that in a couple of hours we’ll be so rushed off our feet with new customers that we won’t be able to sit down for a rest, so I’m going to grab this opportunity with both hands. We take our cups of tea out into the teashop, where Robbie and Annette – his sister and fellow florist – are working their way through a banana milkshake and a Danish pastry respectively.

‘I’ve made you a cup of coffee,’ Mags tells Victoria, setting the cup down on the counter before grabbing a couple of the cinnamon buns I made earlier. One of the perks of working at Sweet Street are the treats on tap, which we often make the most of. Even with my better than average metabolism, if I didn’t go for a run three times a week, you’d have to roll me out of the teashop (and I’d probably end up wedged in the door frame).

‘Are you ready for this afternoon?’ Mags asks as she places my bun in front of me.

‘As I’ll ever be.’ There’s a mix of anticipation and apprehension battling for supremacy in the pit of my stomach. Today needs to be a success.

‘I’ll make a start on the decorations once I’ve finished my bun.’ Mags takes a bite, sighing happily at the sweet, cinnamon-y hit. We have balloons and bunting to go up as well as flamingo-shaped fairy lights and bright paper flower garlands that Mags made at home (all those mornings at mum and baby groups when her children were younger have finally come in handy, she told me as she revealed the Hawaii-style garlands). Outside is looking a bit grey and there’s rain forecast for this afternoon, but at least it’ll be cheery inside.

‘There you are!’ Marjorie, the florist from down the street, stands in the doorway of the teashop, glaring at her offspring. ‘We’ve got ten orders waiting in the shop. Stop stuffing your faces and get your backsides back to work.’ Her eyes wander towards the counter as Robbie and Annette troop out of the teashop. ‘Are those chocolate fudge cupcakes?’ Marjorie is constantly on a diet but she often sneaks into Sweet Street for a snack. She will, however, try to incorporate her treat into her five-a-day; a cherry Bakewell, carrot cake or a blueberry muffin, for example. I’m not sure if she genuinely believes these count or whether it’s just something she tells us – and herself – to justify her sweet tooth. Her favourite treat – when she isn’t being ‘good’ – are chocolate fudge cupcakes. She reaches out a hand, letting her fingertips rest on the glass front of the counter.

‘Can I get one to go?’

‘Are you coming to the party later?’ I ask Marjorie while Victoria pops her cake into a paper bag.

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Marjorie assures me. She pays for her cake before following in the wake of her children. Mags and I finish our tea and buns before getting back to work. There’s still lots to do, including the washing up. Fun times.

The cakes, puddings and desserts are all set out on platters, the boys have distributed the flyers and Victoria has set up her face-painting station in the corner of the teashop. We’ve blown up so many balloons I don’t think I’ll ever catch my breath again, and we’ve hung them on the walls and ceilings, along with the bunting and strings of flamingo fairy lights. Mags has draped a flowery garland around our necks and pushed cocktail umbrellas into our hair. We’re ready to go.

The party is set to start at twelve and there are only ten minutes to go. Dad is here, already sampling a miniature apple crumble while Mum and Ivor hover awkwardly by the counter, not sure how to act in Dad’s presence. When they first got together, Dad tracked Ivor down and threatened to thump him on the nose and although Dad has accepted the relationship (as best as he can while still harbouring the hope of a reconciliation with Mum), they’re never entirely comfortable whenever they’re in the same room. It doesn’t happen often – the last time was during my engagement party eighteen months ago.

‘Are you sure I can’t get you a tea or coffee?’ I ask Mum and Ivor, but they both shake their heads, their eyes darting in Dad’s direction. I’ve assured them that Dad won’t do anything silly (like fling a hot drink in their faces) but they’re adamant that they’re fine with the mini scones they’re nibbling for now.

We’ve lined the counter with trays of mini treats and Mags and I will also be circulating the teashop offering more. Nathan and the boys have already had first dibs at the treats (it was only fair after their morning’s work, especially when it started to drizzle part-way through their leaflet distributing) but they’ve decided to stick around, which I’m grateful for as it makes the teashop look more popular before the party has actually begun. Nicky is also here with her junior stylist – although neither can stay for long as they’re booked up for most of the afternoon. Nicky is taking a great interest in Tom – even though he’s seven years younger than she is.

‘Are we ready?’ Mags asks, hand on the door handle. I nod, nerves rendering me speechless, and she swings open the door, propping it open with an unopened bag of plain flour. We hold our breaths and wait.

And wait some more.

Nobody is here, eager to join our party and sample our baked goods.

‘It is only just gone twelve,’ Dad points out, giving my shoulder a pat. ‘The teashop will be packed in no time, just wait and see.’

So we wait some more and still nobody arrives.

‘I don’t understand it,’ Nicky says when one o’clock arrives and not one new foot has stepped over the threshold. ‘I’d do almost anything for a freebie.’ She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight. ‘I’m really sorry but we’re going to have to go. I’ll try and pop back later, okay?’

‘I’ll save you some cake,’ I joke weakly but neither of us laughs.

Nicky and her junior stylist leave but are quickly replaced by Zoe from the craft shop, and Marjorie returns from the florist’s as promised. It’s nice to see them and I’m grateful they’ve turned up in support (as well as for the freebies) but I’d hoped to see some new faces too. To make matters worse, I spot George from the letting agency scuttling past with coffees and paper bags of treats from town. It seems I can’t even entice my neighbours into the teashop with the offer of free cakes.

Plonking myself down at one of the tables, I drop my face into my hands. I’m so embarrassed. Here we all are, trussed up in flowers and cocktail umbrellas, the teashop decked out for a party, and nobody wants to join in. I’ve spent a chunk of my savings on advertising and Victoria, Mags and I have traipsed around town for hours spreading the word. And not only that, my loved ones are witnessing my rejection.

‘It is raining,’ Mags says gently as she sits down next to me, resting a hand on my shoulder. ‘People would rather stay at home when the weather’s bad, even if there is the prospect of cake.’

‘But look.’ I lift my head so I can gaze around the room. ‘Everyone here has come as a favour to me. There’s not one person who’s braved a bit of rain for free cake.’

‘I’m pretty sure that’s all Marjorie came for,’ Mags mutters.

I drop my face back into my hands, but just when I’m losing all hope and considering seriously drowning my sorrows with a whole basket of mini muffins (and that vodka and Coke I’d craved earlier), Birdie steps into the teashop with a younger man and a little girl. I’m so happy to see them, I practically jump on Birdie, throwing my arms around her while she introduces her family.

‘This is Caleb, my grandson.’ Birdie’s eyes twinkle as she gazes up at the tall man beside her. He’s looking slightly dishevelled with the beginnings of dark stubble on his face and his hair looks as though he’s recently run his hands through it and forgotten to smooth it back down again. But his whole face lights up when he smiles, flashing white, even teeth and bright blue eyes. My stomach does something vaguely familiar but most unwelcome. I do not fancy this guy.

I. Do. Not.

‘And this is Cara, my great-granddaughter.’ Birdie brushes a hand over the little girl’s brown hair. With her blue eyes, she looks just like her father. Who I do not fancy. Not even a little bit.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I say as Mags arrives with a bunch of garlands and drapes them over the heads of the newcomers. ‘Help yourself to the cakes.’ I indicate the barely touched trays and baskets on the counter. ‘And there’s also face-painting if you’d like.’ I turn to Victoria, who’s so bored she’s taken to painting flowers on her bare arms.

‘Is that just for the kids or can anyone have a turn?’ Caleb asks and I blush. I have no idea why.

‘I’m sure Victoria would be more than happy to paint you.’ I’m quite confident about this as she’s quickly running out of space on herself.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Caleb says over his shoulder as he’s suddenly tugged away and towed towards the cakes by an eager Cara. I turn away, determined not to check out his bum.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say to Birdie, hugging her again. I’m probably overstepping some customer boundaries here but I’m so grateful to see a new face in the teashop.

Birdie pats my back. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it, dear.’ She holds me out at arm’s length and the twinkle is back in her eyes. ‘Please tell me there’s apple crumble.’

‘There is.’ I guide Birdie towards the counter, where Cara is checking out the array of cakes with wide eyes. ‘Hopefully Dad hasn’t eaten them all.’

‘I heard that,’ Dad says, making me jump, as I didn’t realise he was hovering behind us. ‘Let me serve this young lady.’ Dad slips in between me and Birdie, his hand resting on her back as he guides her towards the tray of apple crumble dishes. I’m shocked. Who knew Dad was a charmer? He turns to me to wink, ruining the effect by saying, ‘I need a top-up anyway.’

We see a few more new faces over the course of the afternoon, but not nearly as many as I was hoping for. Marjorie has her fill of cake (they’re only tiny, so they don’t really count towards her daily calorie intake, apparently) and returns to the florist’s, being quickly replaced by Robbie and Annette. Zoe and Imogen from Paper Roses change places and Nicky returns in between clients.

‘He’s cute,’ she whispers before popping a bite-sized flapjack into her mouth. Although Nathan has stayed behind with Victoria, the rest of the band have filtered away so Nicky has set her sights on Birdie’s grandson instead of baby-faced Tom. ‘But not my type. Maybe yours?’

I choke on the mini homemade jammy dodger I’ve been eating, coughing damp biscuit crumbs into my hand. ‘I don’t think so,’ I wheeze. ‘Besides, I didn’t think you had a type.’ Although Nicky has become a very close friend of mine over the past year, I have to admit that she isn’t fussy when it comes to the men she dates. It’s probably why she ends up with so many bad eggs.

‘Come on,’ Nicky coaxes, nudging me gently. ‘You have to admit he’s pretty cute.’

I will do no such thing.

I won’t even look at him.

Chapter Eight

I was gobsmacked when Joel proposed over dinner one night, quietly so that the other diners weren’t alerted, as he knew I’d be mortified at the attention of so many eyes on me. We’d been together for four and a half years, had lived together for two of those and I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

Joel was everything I ever wanted in a partner: loyal, attentive, fun and caring in equal measures. Joel had been by my side as I visited Gran in the hospital, had cried with me when she passed away. He’d propped me up during the funeral and allowed me to grieve in my own time. I felt completely at ease with Joel. I felt safe and secure. Invincible. And yet it came as a complete shock as he slid the little velvet box across the table towards me, his eyes shining as he asked me to marry him.

Of course I said yes. I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted more than to marry the man I loved. Everyone was thrilled for us and I began planning the wedding with Mum and Penny, agonising over the tiniest details.

‘I just want the day to be perfect,’ I told Penny when she pointed out that it didn’t really matter whether we had gold or silver table confetti. No matter how excited Penny was about my upcoming wedding, she didn’t quite get it. Penny had no real desire to get married. She was happy as she was, flirting with random guys in bars and clubs, hooked on the buzz of heading out for first dates. She’d had relationships, but nothing serious and none that lasted more than a couple of months. She’d grown tired of Jack by their third night together and now he was nothing but a distant memory of a conquest from a long-ago job she’d hated.

‘It will be perfect,’ Mum told me. ‘Because you’re marrying Joel.’ I knew she was right but I still couldn’t stop dithering over gold or silver table confetti; delicate, heart-shaped stud earrings or tiny pearls; cream, embossed save the date cards or something fun and bold.

Somehow, we managed to put solid plans into place. The church and reception venue were booked, Penny had chosen a gorgeous bridesmaid’s dress and I’d whittled my dress options down to three. We sent out save the date cards (I went with the cream) and ordered handmade invitations with a matching guestbook. Joel chose his best man (and Penny vowed to cop off with him at the reception), we pored through holiday brochures in search of a dream honeymoon and we chose our rings and the engravings we wanted on the inside.

Everything was on track. In six months I was going to walk into the church as Madeleine Lamington and emerge as Madeleine Harris. Mrs Madeleine Harris.

And then it all went wrong and I never even made it to the church. Never took the vows or exchanged the readings we’d agonised over during the build-up to our big day. My life was changed, but not in the way I ever expected or would ever wish it to be.

I thought I’d met my soulmate, that I would live happily ever after with Joel, but I’d been wrong. So very wrong and I – and my poor, battered heart – had paid the price for it. The only consolation I could offer myself was that I’d never put myself in the position to be hurt so spectacularly ever again.

Chapter Nine

‘Just leave it, yeah?’ I say when Nicky suggests – again – that I go and speak to Birdie’s grandson. And by ‘speak’ she means flirt, which isn’t going to happen. ‘He’s spending some quality time with his daughter. Birdie told me he’s had a tough time with his ex lately and hasn’t seen much of his little girl. I’m not going to go over there and ruin their afternoon together.’

Nicky shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’ She pops a tiny square flapjack into her mouth – the fourth in as many minutes, but I don’t blame her as they’re so soft and buttery you can’t help yourself – and leans casually against the counter. ‘So what do you think about Tom? Do you think he likes me?’

I try not to roll my eyes. I really, really have to try. ‘He’s twenty-two, Nicky.’

‘So?’

‘And you’re not.’

Nicky does roll her eyes, overdramatically and with a heavy sigh for extra effect. ‘I’m hardly drawing my pension.’

‘You’re almost thirty,’ I point out. ‘He’s not far off twenty-one.’

‘Age is just a number.’ Nicky licks the flapjack crumbs off her fingers. ‘Besides, he might like a more mature lady.’

I snort, both at the ‘mature’ and ‘lady’ parts of that sentence. ‘Or he might like going out, getting trashed and having meaningless one-night stands. Like many other twenty-two-year-olds.’

‘Is that what you did when you were twenty-two?’ Nicky asks and I find myself thinking about Joel and the one-night thing that turned into a five-year relationship, an engagement ring and a wedding that didn’t happen because it turned out the groom-to-be was a lying scumbag who couldn’t keep his willy in his pants.

‘I’m going to get his number off Victoria,’ Nicky says when I fail to answer. She pushes herself away from the counter, grabbing one last mini flapjack before she heads over to the face-painting station in the corner. Victoria is putting the final touches to Cara’s sparkly butterfly design so Nicky settles herself on a chair, which happens to be next to Caleb. I send a few telepathic, anti-meddling messages in Nicky’s direction before Mum snatches my attention away. She and Ivor are leaving as they have dinner plans with friends this evening and they have a drive across Manchester ahead of them.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say as Mum loops a silk scarf around her neck. She knots the scarf before leaning in to kiss my cheek.

‘It was our pleasure. It’s always lovely to pop in. You should be proud of yourself.’ I’m not so sure about that, given the pretty dire turnout, but I say that I am anyway. I don’t want my parents to know how troubled I am by the business. ‘Will you say goodbye to your dad for me? He looks busy and we really must dash.’

I look across the teashop, where Dad is chatting to Birdie at one of the tables by the window, their little apple crumble dishes empty in front of them. I sneak a glance at Nicky and Caleb, who are still chatting, even though Cara is no longer having her face painted by Victoria and is, in fact, on the other side of the teashop, chomping on a jammy dodger.

My stomach churns as I realise they’re probably flirting away over there, so I shift my gaze before I can feel anything ridiculous, such as jealousy. I don’t fancy Caleb and I don’t want to flirt with him myself, so why shouldn’t Nicky have some fun? I sometimes wish I could be as fun-loving and carefree as my friend, but then I remember the devastation when Joel broke my heart and something shuts down inside me. I can’t – won’t – let that happen again.