Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop

Jacques is the celebrity chef de cuisine and won’t like having to wait in limbo for my decision. He’s an ogre to work under. In actual fact, I do his job so he can sashay about front of house before returning to the line and barking orders and cursing. As his star rose, I worked my way up behind him, and we have a sort of grudging respect for one another. While he has an ego the size of the Titanic, he lets me control the menu and I have complete freedom in the kitchen, even if he does take the credit.

‘Thanks, Sally. I appreciate that. But I’m quite sure, so you can start interviewing.’ No point pretending. They’ll need a sous-chef so things run smoothly, and while I’m not super friendly with Jacques, I do like the other staff and would hate for them to have to carry the extra weight of my absence.

After one of Sally’s breath-stealing hugs, I leave her and go to the kitchen to shuffle the fresh produce around and prepare the day’s menus, hoping the kitchen staff won’t pry, even though I bet they’ve woken up to gossipy text messages about me and Callum.

That’s the culinary scene for you.

Chapter 3

After a strangely quiet Sunday shift, I’m home earlier than usual, giving me time to mull over whether I’ve taken leave of my senses. Who quits their job on a whim like that?

My phone beeps constantly with messages like:

Darling, that swine didn’t, did he? Text me back. Kimmy x

I wrack my mind wondering who Kimmy might be and come up blank. There’s another from Leroy who I vaguely recall works with Callum.

So are ya leaving then? If y’are can you put in a good word with Jacques for me?

The rest are of a similar ilk; people wanting the inside scoop. No one actually offers to help me drown my sorrows or bring cake over so I can eat my feelings. And seeing as they’re all chefs, it hurts.

They want the gossip or my job. The vultures.

I don’t dwell on it much – just every hour, on the hour, or so. Still, if there’s one thing I’m good at it, it’s making a plan. New life scenarios. What not to do, kind of thing. I write down various possibilities – stopping just before what if the sky falls down – and realise for once in my life I have absolutely no idea what to do, or where to go when my notice is up.

It’s a scary thought. Yet somehow liberating.

No one gives up a sous-chef position at Époque unless they’ve married royalty or won the lottery, and that’s exactly why I’m relishing the thought. No one, absolutely no one, including my husband (do I call him ex at this juncture?), thinks I’ll react.

The whispers in the kitchen were that I’d work even longer hours and virtually chain myself to the line with some kind of mad zeal, avenging myself by doing the job of three until one day when I’m a lonely old crone someone has to drag me kicking and screaming out of the kitchen. So nothing new there then.

The wine helps clear my mind and I drink steadily, delighting in the rich Shiraz, a gift from Sally, thrust into my hands at the end of my shift with the words: enjoy your day off tomorrow, but think things through …

Inexplicably the bottle empties, so I open one of my cheap quaffers as I skim through various blogs online, hoping to find an idea, or something to give me perspective. Those uplifting, let-the-breeze-blow-you-here, change-your-life type of blogs.

As I sip, I read so many wonderful stories of transformation, of risking it all. Families who’ve wrenched their kids from school to live life on the road. Single women (just like me now!) who’ve thrown their spatulas down and taken the reins and live by their own rules. People with pop-up food vans. Campervan pottery shops. Musicians who play from tiny homes. Artisans who make jewellery by the sea, sell their wares and follow the sun. I shake my head. There’s a whole community of people out there living their best life …

Could I be that person? Probably not.

So it can’t hurt to look at campervan prices, can it? I’m only looking, I’m not buying. Even if I were to go out on a limb and envisage a totally new way of life, I’d have to commit to months of research to see if it’s viable. Then there’s the flat to consider. My possessions. Money. I’m stuck, really, aren’t I? It strikes me that we humans build these lives for ourselves that have the tendency to trap us. I guzzle more wine and wonder how I can fix the mess I’ve found myself in …

* * *

The next day, I wake up with a screaming headache. The pounding in my head is in staccato with the buzzing of the doorbell. My one and only day off from the restaurant, and my most relished lie-in has been ruined. By me, and the copious amounts of wine I’d put away, and by whoever deems it acceptable to visit at – I scan the clock – barely eight o’clock. It should be a criminal offence. I silently berate myself for drinking so much red on an empty stomach. But cooking for one, well, I’m not used to it.

The buzzing continues and it dawns on me. It’s Callum come to his senses and seen the error of his ways. He’ll wear that apologetic gap-toothed smile of his, his too-long red hair hanging over one eye, so he can hide behind his mistake. And I shall relish telling him to spin on his heel and go back the way he came!

I dash out of bed, as the world spins on its axis. Bloody hell, just how much did I drink last night? Don’t tell me I’m going to be one those tragics who drink their life away and use the empty wine bottle as a microphone for an impromptu concert? A memory forms; did I karaoke the night away strutting my stuff for my own reflection in the window? As alarming as the thought is, the doorbell buzzing makes my hangover worse so I hurry along to answer it.

Hand on wall, I steady myself and wish I’d brushed my teeth and had some painkillers on hand. Urgh. Quickly, I pat down my bed hair and open the door with a grimace.

It’s not Callum.

And suddenly it occurs to me I’m braless in a teeny tiny singlet wearing a pair of Callum’s old tracksuit bottoms, so big they gape at the front. So not appropriate. With a wild grin that I hope masks my discomfort, I grasp desperately at the coat rail to my right, while pondering who this stranger is, as my fingers finally make contact with my jacket and I fling it on.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

Confusion dashes across the elderly man’s face. He’s dressed in a worn duffel, denim jeans and has a kind smile. He doesn’t look like a Londoner, somehow – his features are too soft, too amiable, his face too open, like a doting grandparent. ‘Erm,’ he says scratching the back of his neck. ‘You said you’d pay extra if I got here early.’

Oh bloody hell. Pay extra? Is he some kind of gigolo? He looks a bit too old for that caper. Not that I’ve had any experience with such a thing, but still. Was I so inebriated last night I thought that was the answer? I’m losing my damned mind!

‘Excuse me, sorry, it’s been such a long day …’ Oh, hell, it’s only 8 a.m. ‘I mean, a long night—’, I cough loudly, ‘—the night before, I mean. As in last night.’ Stop talking!

He nods, but worry flashes in his eyes. ‘Well, do you want to come and have a look at her?’

Relief washes over me. Her? I’ve bought a puppy? Or even better a 10-year-old rescue hound who needs some love after too long in the shelter! Forget my 2021 child, I’ve adopted a fur baby who’ll cuddle me better than Callum ever did. It makes sense. There are so many animals out there that need adopting and I mentally give myself a pat on the back for being so forward-thinking.

‘Ah, sure,’ I say and tighten the coat around me, holding the voluminous pants with my other hand. Note to self: wear own pyjamas in this time of drastic change.

I stumble down the steps after him, thinking just how perfect an animal companion will be. Snoopy can snuggle with me at night, be my best friend, my most faithful …

‘Here she is.’ He points but nothing jumps out at me. There’s a great big fuchsia pink van parked on the side of the road blocking my view. I scan parked cars up the length of the street, expecting to see a furry face peeking out, a wet nose fogging up the glass but don’t see a single animal.

Just when I’m about to question him he hands over a set of keys. ‘The credit card payment has been approved so she’s all yours. Let me show you around.’

The credit card.

The what?

What the hell have I done!

The con artist and stealer of my money opens the pink campervan door to reveal a very tidy tiny home complete with small kitchen, doll-sized sink, an electric hotplate and oven. A wave of claustrophobia runs down the length of me. It’s so compact, how anyone could live in such a space is beyond me. However, there’s a faint aroma of cinnamon sugar in the air that makes me smile, as if whoever cooked here last, made comfort food.

‘This here’s the dining room,’ he says, pride in his voice as he motions to a fold-down plank of wood with two padded bench seats on each side, which he lifts to reveal deep storage cavities. Everything seems to have a double function.

Next to the dining area is a one-person sofa with pink storage nooks above. I spy a bedroom off at the back and take a peek in. The bed is made up with fine linen and one rose cushion sits lovingly in the centre of the bed. It makes my heart tug for some reason I can’t pinpoint.

A gauzy floral chiffon curtain separates the living and sleeping quarters. There’s a bathroom, which is so narrow I have to crab walk in sideways, but it’s neat and sparkling clean. Of course, the tiles are pink, and they slowly grow on me as I understand the need for décor to match. There’s no excess, everything here serves a purpose. It’s not chintzy, it’s homely, as if someone put a lot of care into making things pretty and comfortable for long, slow journeys.

But I don’t do things on a whim. I most certainly don’t buy campervans for … the full weight of winter runs right through me from my head down to my toes.

‘Excuse me, how much was erm … the approval?’

He frowns. ‘Five thousand pounds like we agreed and an extra five hundred to get her here by 8 a.m. I drove through the night.’

Flip. Fluck. Fugger.

What the hell am I supposed to do with such a thing? Live in it? Is it even roadworthy? Can I drive such a big, long, hulking thing? And pray tell, where the bloody buggery am I meant to be going in … her. Urgh. How do I know I even spoke to this guy? He could be one of those internet stalker, hacker types. Really, this is very out of character for me.

A scream echoes through my brain.

‘I’m sorry about Callum,’ he says. ‘But you’re doing the right thing. Leaving the big city toxicity behind and heading out on the open road. You’ll find yourself there, Rosie.’

Oh god. I did buy this fuchsia pink monstrosity. I’m never drinking again.

‘Yes, well, I’m lost quite a lot of the time,’ I say, swallowing back panic. ‘So finding myself will be a real bonus.’

He waxes lyrical about hidden storage, and petrol mileage, permits, parking and a bunch of other stuff, I stop listening, as I find it hard to catch my breath. Five thousand five hundred pounds! That’s almost the entirety of my savings. I’ll have to repay my credit card. I’ll have to sell this on. I’ll have to …

‘The trailer hitches on very simply, and inside that are all your tables and chairs, and even a little fire grate for those cold days, customers just love milling about that, warm cocoa in hand.’

‘Customers?’

He gives me that same look as if he’s worried I’m unhinged which I clearly am. ‘Yes, your pop-up tea shop customers, remember?’

‘Erm …’

‘You want to go back to making comfort food, big portions made with love, not a micro herb in sight. Served up with steaming pots of gourmet hand-blended tea. Cream tea Sundays. You are Rosie, aren’t you?’ Uneasiness lines his face.

‘Yes, yes, I’m Rosie. And yes, my very own pop-up tea shop, of course I remember. I haven’t had any tea yet myself you see, that’s all.’ My calming blend would go down a treat right about now, there’s not much that marshmallow leaves, camomile, and mint can’t fix. Well, except making big life decisions while under the influence of Shiraz. I haven’t blended a tea to fix that just yet.

I glance once more at the van and a murky idea takes shape. A pop-up tea van could work. Hadn’t I wanted to go back to my roots, cooking big batches of cookies, apple crumbles, and layer cakes laced with rum? Scones with lashings of home-made jam and thick luscious cream. Rib-stickers, nourishing food that warmed you from the inside out like big bowls of hearty stew, and rich rustic soups. Or cinnamon rice porridge, dishes that filled your belly and kept you warm on those cold wintry nights.

Coupled with my hand-blended exotic teas, maybe inebriated me had a plan and I just had to remember it. Rosie’s travelling tea shop …

‘So …’ The man takes some paperwork from his bag. ‘We just need to fill these out and Poppy is all yours.’

‘The van’s name is Poppy?’ I think of the pink cushion, proudly sitting on the bed, like it should mean something to me, but what? Why?

He laughs and his cheeks pink. ‘My wife chose it. We ran Poppy round for some time before she was taken ill.’

‘I hope she’s feeling better.’ As soon as I say the words I understand, but it’s too late to snatch them back.

He thrusts his hands in his pockets and his eyes cloud. ‘Sadly she passed, but you know, Rosie, she was an eccentric like you …’

An eccentric? I’d been called worse.

‘… and I think she’d be very happy that Poppy is going to be in such …’ He blushes and mumbles something incoherent before recovering and saying, ‘in such good hands.’

I forgive him for stumbling on the words. I’d be a little dubious handing over Poppy to me too, with all those memories attached from the trips they must have undertaken together.

The poor man, you can see the loss in the lines of his face once you know. ‘I’m incredibly sorry to hear about your wife. I promise I’ll take good care of Poppy.’ Curiously, I feel a bond with this elderly fellow. With Poppy. As if his wife left me clues to say: follow your heart!

‘We’re going to have a lot of adventures.’ As I drive straight into a town called Losing-My-Damn-Mind – Population: One.

His face softens, and he swipes at his glassy eyes. ‘Rosie, take it from me – life is so fleeting. Being on the road is full of challenges but nothing comes close to the simple joy you’ll find in some remote corner of the globe. Keep safe, and keep your mind open to possibilities …’

My spine tingles with recognition and a slow smile settles across my face. Who says I’m not spontaneous? Poppy and I are going to embark on an epic journey, one long overdue … But how to afford it? And where to go?

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 chat window but before I can ask anyone another person pops up.

Hey Rosie! I’m Oliver. Welcome to VL. What’s your location?

Blimey, why does he need to know? I can’t just give out my location willy-nilly, can I? There’s a lot to be said for remaining anonymous. Why did I use my real name? An amateur move!

Is this part of my problem though, being so reserved with people? Always holding back, keeping everything bottled up. Slowly but surely becoming an outcast in my own life? Still, he could be anyone! I can’t just trust strangers, especially names on a screen. I compromise, and reply, albeit guardedly. Really he can’t be any worse than my real-life acquaintances, who’ve all kept quiet despite my heartbreak.

Hi, Oliver. I haven’t started my journey yet. Just getting the lay of the land, so to speak. I’m looking for Charlotte, if she’s around?

I scroll to the top of the current thread and read. It’s an online forum for anyone who needs advice or help when it comes to travelling in a caravan or campervan. Born2Travel asks about the best travel insurance, while WanderlustWendall shares an anecdote about an altercation she had with a national park inspector near the Welsh border. They seem so vibrant, so happy; even when WanderlustWendall shares that she copped a fifty-pound fine, she says she learned her lesson and is generous enough to share the tip so others don’t make the same mistake. TravelBug1978 discusses the money saving merits of a 5:2 fasting diet, while NomadbyNight scoffs at the idea.

Charlotte won’t be back for a few weeks, she’s guiding a cycle tour in the Peak District and will be out of range.

Are they all so adventurous? I couldn’t imagine being on a bike for a day, let alone for weeks at a time. Wouldn’t that provoke some sort of injury, all that sitting on a teeny tiny seat?

Thanks, anyway.

I blow out a breath, having psyched myself up to speak openly to Charlotte I feel somewhat deflated.

No worries, so when do you plan to leave?

I want to chat away, and share all my hopes and dreams, but I’m not that person. And for some reason, I felt more comfortable talking to Charlotte, perhaps it’s a female thing. It gave me hope that if there were a bunch of other women travelling the globe alone, then I could do it too.

Soon.

What else can I say? Even if I don’t meander from place to place, I’ll be driving Poppy somewhere, even if it’s only a caravan park where I spend the remainder of my life hiding … No, no I will make the effort, I will adapt, dammit. So Charlotte is currently burning her thigh muscles cycling up and down hills, that doesn’t mean I can’t ask Oliver the same questions.

As I dillydally with how to begin, he asks:

Do you blog?

While I love reading blogs, I’d never write one. My creativity is in the kitchen, and I don’t pretend otherwise.

No, sorry, I don’t.

Another person joins the site, so I’m betting he’ll welcome them and I’ll be able to read through the amazing threads with eye opening titles like: How I quit my corporate job and now live on fifteen pounds a day and couldn’t be happier. Or: Life after Loss, on the open road. And: My pop-up Pimms van, and how I make money to fund travel. So many stories, so many different versions of life, ones I’d never ever considered. Goose bumps prickle my skin, as if my body knows this is the next course of action for me too. Taking Poppy on an adventure like I promised, and making money along the way, enough to keep me going, until I work out exactly what I’m searching for …