The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

by Jennifer Joyce

Swiping a clammy arm across my brow, I fish my key out of my bra (it isn’t the comfiest of places to store it, but it’s the best option I’ve found so far. I definitely need to invest in sportswear with pockets). I get the door open and stumble inside, somehow managing to stand up straight after stooping to pick up the post I ignored earlier from the mat. Whatever store of energy I had has now been thoroughly depleted and I flop onto the bottom step, rasping like a forty-a-dayer jogging up the steps of the Eiffel Tower. I’ve pushed myself hard during my run this evening, running further and at a speedier pace than I’m used to in a desperate bid to rid myself of the naughty thoughts involving Caleb McIntosh and dripping icing sugar from my mind.

  It hasn’t worked, but I’m too knackered to worry about them, at least.

  I wipe away the sweat that’s seeping into my eyes with the sleeve of my T-shirt before having a quick look through the small pile of post. There are two bills, life insurance junk mail that will go straight into the recycling bin, and a postcard from Mum. It seems she’s enjoying a few days relaxing in Venice with Ivor, a trip I knew nothing about until this moment in time. At times I’m saddened by our increasingly distant relationship, but then we meet up and I want to throttle her and the thought of communicating solely through postcards seems ideal.

  Forcing myself up from the step, I trudge up the stairs, chucking the post down on the coffee table before peeling off my grubby T-shirt and tossing it somewhere near the laundry basket. I move through to the bathroom to have a quick shower as Nicky is due in around twenty minutes and I doubt she’ll want to spend the evening in the company of my post-run odour. I’ve already stocked up on wine and made salted caramel ice cream, which is waiting in the freezer. The plan is to order a takeaway, but the ice cream is so good, I’m tempted to swerve the curry and gorge purely on the dessert instead.

  I’m so ready to slip on my pyjamas after my shower, but I compromise with a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a white vest top, which is almost as comfortable as bed wear but more socially acceptable. Nicky buzzes as I’m towel-drying my hair so I let her in, indicating the way to the wine and glasses while dragging a brush through my hair.

  ‘Why no date tonight?’ I ask as Nicky joins me on the sofa, placing the wine and glasses on the table. Nicky being dateless on a Saturday evening is like Ant appearing on TV without Dec.

  ‘What’s the point?’ she asks as she pours a generous glass for each of us. ‘I go on all these dates, buy new dresses and shoes and matching handbags. I get my hopes up – and for what? Not to feel good about myself, that’s for sure.’ She takes a sip of wine and settles into the cushions. ‘No, I’m done with dating, for a while at least.’

  ‘Has this got anything to do with Neal?’ Having detangled my hair, I divide it into three sections and work it into a plait. ‘Because you two seemed to be getting on all right at the pub the other night.’

  ‘We ended up arguing over honey-roasted peanuts versus cashew nuts,’ Nicky points out.

  ‘That wasn’t an argument.’ I secure the plait with a band and grab my wine. ‘It was a debate.’

  Nicky eyes me for a moment, as though weighing up my mental state. ‘I ended up threatening to force-feed him honey-roasted peanuts until he either saw the light or his stomach exploded, whichever occurred first.’

  ‘So it was a heated debate.’ I shrug, fighting the smile playing at my lips. ‘There was a definite spark between you.’

  ‘Hardly. He’s all up in Victoria’s face, desperate to snog her lips off.’

  ‘Victoria’s just split up with Nathan,’ I remind Nicky. ‘Not everybody bounces straight back into the dating game. Look at me. It’s been over a year and I’m still living life like a nun. A cake-baking nun, but a nun all the same.’

  I think of the dream I had about Caleb last night. Those were certainly not the thoughts of a nun.

  ‘So things didn’t go well with Caleb last night then?’

  ‘Things were never going to go “well”, at least not in the way you’re referring to.’

  ‘And why not?’

  I think of the list I reeled off to Mags earlier, but I don’t have the energy to go through it again so I give Nicky the condensed version. ‘The ink on Caleb’s divorce papers is still wet, and I’m not ready to start dating again.’

  I say this, but sometimes I get a glimmer of the old Maddie. The trusting Maddie who wanted to live happily ever after with the man of her dreams. And I have been dreaming about Caleb …

  ‘But your eyes get all sparkly when he’s around,’ Nicky says.

  ‘They do not.’ Do they? I’ll have to work on dimming them from now on, just in case Caleb notices my crush.

  ‘You should seduce him,’ Nicky says before taking a long sip of her wine.

  ‘I don’t want to seduce Caleb,’ I say. It’s only a half-lie. The thought of putting myself out there, of opening myself up to rejection, terrifies me. Plus, it’s been a long time since I’ve been naked in front of another human being.

  ‘You want him to do the seducing.’ Nicky nods. ‘Good girl. Let him work for it.’

  I shake my head. It looks like the condensed version won’t suffice after all. ‘There will be no working for anything. I do like Caleb.’ I hold my finger up as Nicky starts to whoop again. ‘But I can’t go there. Not when Birdie’s seeing my dad. It’s icky.’

  ‘I never thought about that.’ Nicky looks even more disappointed than I am, her shoulders slumping as a glum expression fills her face. ‘Can’t you break them up?’

  ‘Nicky!’ I laugh, because Nicky’s kidding, right? I check. Yes, she’s kidding and joining in the laughter. ‘Seriously though, I can’t even think about Caleb like that.’

  ‘Is it difficult?’

  I groan. ‘So difficult. I had a dream about licking icing off his stomach last night.’

  ‘Ooh, saucy!’

  ‘No, there wasn’t any sauce,’ I say. ‘Just hundreds and thousands. They kept getting stuck in my teeth.’

  Nicky and I start to giggle, our mirth building and building until we’re doubled over and clutching each other, white wine spilling everywhere. This feels good. Not the frustrating attraction-that-I-can’t-act-on bit, but this closeness I’ve somehow developed with Nicky. I feel I can confide in Nicky, and I’ve missed that over the past year. Maybe, as well as moving on from Joel, I’m moving on from Penny too.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’m not the only one moving on, it seems, as Dad doesn’t ask me about Mum as soon as I sit down at the kitchen table the following afternoon. He hasn’t asked after her the last few times I’ve seen him, but then he’s usually with Birdie and it’d be a tad off-putting for his new girlfriend if he enquired about the wellbeing of his ex in front of her. But this is the first time Dad’s usual line of questioning hasn’t happened while the two of us are alone. This is progress. Real, unequivocal progress.

  ‘I’ve gone with chicken,’ Dad says as he opens the oven to check on the bird. ‘And I thought I’d do a carrot and swede mash with roasted new potatoes.’

  ‘Adventurous,’ I say. After Mum left, a three-minutes-in-the-microwave meal was as fancy as Sunday lunch went.

  ‘The carrot and swede was Birdie’s idea.’ Dad closes the oven and grabs the kettle, filling it at the sink. ‘If pulling up too many counts as a lunch suggestion. She’s enthusiastic, if nothing else.’

  ‘Things seem to be going well with you two,’ I say and Dad nods.

  ‘It’s nice having the company, though my veggie plot’s paying for it.’

  ‘Are the two of you spending a lot of time there?’

  Dad pulls two cups from the cupboard and adds a teabag to each. ‘I suppose we are. Birdie seems to be enjoying it and I’m enjoying passing on my knowledge. Good for the old ego.’

  ‘Less of the old. You’re in your prime.’

  Dad chuckles. ‘Do you know what? These last few weeks, I’ve felt like I am. In my prime, I mean, not old.’

  ‘Good
. I’m glad.’ And I am, even if the source of Dad’s renewed vigour has made Caleb off limits. Dad deserves to be happy, and if Birdie makes him happy – which she seems to, in bucketloads – I can’t begrudge their relationship even a teeny, tiny bit.

  ‘Didn’t Birdie want to join us?’ I ask as Dad pours water into the cups and stirs them noisily. ‘Because I wouldn’t have minded. I even brought extra cherry pie, just in case.’

  ‘She’s having lunch with Caleb and his parents,’ Dad says and the mere mention of his name flashes up an image of a toned stomach covered in pink icing and sprinkles. I’m suddenly convinced Dad has mind-reading abilities and my cheeks flush accordingly. But, if Dad can detect my filthy thoughts, he doesn’t react. ‘So it’s just the two of us, I’m afraid.’

  ‘More cherry pie for us then,’ I squeak.

  Dad adds a splash of milk to the teas and brings them over to the table. He sits down opposite me and pushes one of the cups towards me. I brace myself for a stern talking-to regarding my improper thoughts, but Dad of course doesn’t mention the icing (or how it happened to land on Caleb’s stomach and how I planned to remove it). We chat as we drink our tea, Dad hopping out of his seat at intervals as he checks on the chicken or the veg. The roast is lovely, as is the cherry pie (I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but it’s true) and I’m happily stuffed as we move through to the living room afterwards.

  My eye immediately falls on Mum and Dad’s wedding photo on the mantelpiece – or rather the empty space where the photo used to stand. Now I think about it, Mum’s dressing gown wasn’t hanging from the back of the bathroom door when I went to the loo either.

  Yes, Dad is moving on. No doubt about it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Caleb-designed flyers are all over town, pinned to every noticeboard we could find – and have permission to use – as well as in dozens of pubs, libraries and shops. Even Rehana and George allow us to display the flyer in the letting agency, as they’re keen to attract as many potential dates for themselves as possible.

  The advertising has an immediate – and positive – response, but it’s mainly women who are signing up with the male participants seriously lagging behind. Still, I won’t be deterred. I have another plan up my sleeve, which I’m keen to put into place on Monday lunchtime.

  Armed with a box of flyers, adapted to include a voucher I’ve spent the morning printing, trimming and stapling to each flyer, I set off for the local college. The voucher offers a free tea or coffee with every dessert and I’m hoping the freebie will entice more students to not only take a flyer off my hands (and hopefully sign up), but to visit the teashop. I’ve roped Nicky into helping and we’ve come prepared with mini samples to entice the students towards us and our promo material. It can be difficult to get people to take a flyer off you, so I’m trying to be a bit sneakier.

  ‘I’ve only got an hour,’ Nicky says as we lug the boxes of flyers and cakes out of my car. ‘I’ve got a back, sack and crack wax booked in at half past one.’

  I pull the final box from the boot and heave it over to our growing pile. ‘Your job is basically torture, isn’t it?’

  Nicky pulls a face. ‘For me or my clients?’

  She has a point. I think I’ll stick with baking cakes and playing Cupid.

  I’m not entirely sure we’d be permitted to advertise on college property, so we set up on the pavement close to the main entrance, using a bus shelter to store our boxes so we don’t end up getting sued should a distracted student topple over one. Nicky, after topping up her lip gloss so she can, in her own words, be extra pouty and alluring, stands with a platter of mini chocolate-dipped flapjacks and rocky road bites while I arm myself with flyers. It isn’t long before we’re swarmed by hungry students, who thankfully fall for my plan and take both the treats and the flyer/voucher combo.

  ‘So you’re putting together cake and dating?’ one student asks through a mouthful of a rocky road bite. ‘Isn’t that what grannies do?’ He turns to his mates and sniggers before reaching for a flapjack.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I ask. ‘Since Bake Off, eating cake is practically foreplay.’

  The flapjack freezes millimetres from his lips. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Nicky jumps in. ‘Nothing speaks to a woman like cake. And you don’t even have to look like Paul Hollywood while presenting it. Trust me, sit there with cake and she’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand.’

  ‘The palm of his hand is the only action he sees,’ his mate says, which makes the rest of the group snigger.

  ‘Then you definitely need this.’ Nicky flutters a flyer in front of his face. ‘Just think about it. Cake is sexy.’

  Still holding the flapjack close to his lips, the lad’s brow wrinkles, still unconvinced. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I give a slow, knowing nod. ‘Think of all those buns to get your lips around.’

  ‘And all that moist cake,’ Nicky adds.

  I lean towards him and whisper, ‘Spotted dick.’

  ‘And don’t even get me started on the cream horns,’ Nicky says. ‘Cake is filthy.’

  The flyer is whipped away from her fingers.

  ‘I’ll sign up if you’ll be there,’ one floppy-haired youth tells Nicky as he jerks his head to flick the hair from his eyes. He grins lazily before popping a flapjack into his mouth.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Nicky purrs, pouting her over-glossy lips.

  ‘Why don’t you give me your number? That way I can give you a call beforehand and make sure our outfits aren’t going to clash.’ He turns to his mates and winks.

  ‘Hun, if you’re worrying about clashing outfits, I’m not the kind of date you’re looking for.’

  Hair-Flick-Dude’s eyes widen as his mates bark with laughter and slap him on the back. ‘No, I didn’t mean … Can I just have your number?’

  ‘It depends if we’re a match.’ She reaches for another flyer and presses it into his hand. ‘Sign up and we’ll see.’ She winks at Hair-Flick and he saunters away with a grin on his face.

  ‘We didn’t need the cakes after all,’ I tell Nicky. ‘We should have just stuck a sign on you asking if they wanted to date you.’

  ‘You know I’d totally be up for that,’ Nicky says. And I believe her.

  The college promo seems to have paid off as the number of sign-ups swell over the next couple of hours and I manage to put together a group that will hopefully have my clients ticking away at their scorecards. It’s a little short notice, but now we have a healthy database, I’ll be able to plan ahead for the next events.

  The first group consists mainly of nineteen to twenty-five-year-olds. Rehana from next door is the oldest at twenty-seven, but she claims on her questionnaire that she prefers younger men, so hopefully she’ll find at least one match. George, who shares a lot of interests with his co-worker, is also in the initial group and I can’t help thinking how fabulous it would be if they ended up together because of me and my teashop. Just imagine it – the pair have been working side by side for goodness knows how long but it’s only as they sit opposite one another with their chocolate mousses that they realise they’re a perfect match. It’s the stuff of movies!

  I email everyone from the list to confirm their participation on Friday and have received eight confirmations when Victoria pops her head into the office to tell me Caleb is here. A silly grin spreads across my face as I bound into the teashop.

  ‘I only managed to get one,’ Caleb says, wafting a completed sign-up form as he steps into the teashop. ‘And he thought I was propositioning him when I asked if he was single.’

  I try not to giggle as I take the forms. ‘This is fantastic. Let me get you some cake as a thank you. What would you like?’ I wave my hand across the refrigerated counter like a magician’s unglamorous assistant.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Caleb says, but he’s moving towards the counter anyway. He has a good look at the treats on offer before deciding on a chocolate-dippe
d flapjack.

  ‘Maddie,’ Victoria calls as I’m transferring a flapjack onto a plate. ‘Do you mind if I take this out the back? I think it’s important.’ She’s holding up her phone, which is vibrating insistently.

  ‘Sure.’ It isn’t as though we’re busy; apart from Caleb there is only Robbie and his milkshake and a small group of teenage girls sharing a blueberry muffin and a Diet Coke between them.

  ‘Thanks,’ Victoria says before she dashes away.

  I make Caleb a coffee and take it over to his table with the flapjack, placing them in front of him before sitting down myself. ‘So who is this?’ I lift the forms Caleb has brought with him from his school.

  ‘Martin Cleavely,’ Caleb says. ‘Deputy Head.’

  ‘And he thought you were coming on to him?’ I’m itching to giggle again.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Got awkward for a little while, until I’d fully explained.’

  ‘As least he didn’t say yes,’ I say with a shrug. ‘That would have been super-awkward.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Caleb, I notice, has a fleck of chocolate resting on the corner of his mouth. I would quite like to lick it off.

  ‘I’m just going to pop this on my desk,’ I call over my shoulder as I scarper with the forms before I act on the impulse to play the part of a serviette. I take a moment to gather my (sane) thoughts in the office, but I can’t leave it too long as I’ve left the teashop unstaffed. When I make it back into the teashop, Neal is there, slipping half of Caleb’s flapjack into his mouth. Thankfully, the chocolate fleck is no longer in sight.

  ‘Would you like a flapjack of your own?’ I ask.

  Neal waves his hands in front of him in a ‘no’ gesture, chewing and swallowing before he explains. ‘I can’t stay long. I only popped in to take your photo.’

  ‘My photo?’ I shrink away. I don’t want my photo taken, especially when I don’t know what the purpose of the snap would be.

  ‘My editor thinks we should have a photo of you standing in front of the teashop for Wednesday’s piece.’