‘You were great with Cara the other day. She keeps asking if we can come over and bake again. I think she’s caught the bug. If you’re looking for a new assistant, she’s willing, though she can only work at weekends.’
I smile, remembering the fun we’d had making the fairy cakes. ‘She’s welcome to come over for a baking session any time. I always loved baking when I was little. There was nothing better than getting messy with Gran in the kitchen, apart from eating the cakes afterwards.’
‘You’re really good at it,’ Caleb says. ‘The baking, that is, not the eating them afterwards.’
‘Can’t I be good at both?’ I tease.
‘Multi-talented.’ Caleb lifts his drink in admiration.
‘Careful,’ I warn. ‘Any more talk like this and I won’t be able to fit my head through the door.’
‘Then we’ll have to stay here. Lock-in!’ He lifts his drink again and I clink my own against it. ‘So, where shall we start?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The ego boost,’ Caleb says. ‘Your head is looking normal-sized right now. We need to inflate it with a few more compliments. We could always ask those two for their input.’ He nods at Harvey and Des, who have kissed and made up and are staring at their pints in companionable silence again.
‘Don’t you dare,’ I say.
‘I guess I’ll have to do it on my own then.’ Caleb’s voice is heavy with mock regret. ‘I haven’t had a lock-in since my student days and after the day I’ve had, I deserve one. I wasn’t kidding about the runaway gerbil, you know. It took me over an hour to find the little bugger and I ripped my trousers wriggling under the stage to grab him.’ Caleb points to a tiny rip in the thigh of his trousers. ‘So, here goes.’ He shifts in his seat so that he’s facing me full-on. ‘Let’s start from the top. Your hair. It’s lovely, like Anna’s in Frozen.’
I bite my lip so I don’t giggle. ‘You’ve watched Frozen?’
‘I have a four-year-old daughter,’ Caleb points out. ‘I know it word for word, songs included.’ I can’t help the giggle escaping this time. ‘It’s not funny. Actually, it is quite funny. Don’t tell anyone, but I secretly enjoy it.’
‘I’ve got a copy on DVD,’ I tell him. ‘We could skip the drink and go and watch it.’
‘I get the feeling you’re teasing me,’ Caleb says. ‘So we’ll move on. Where were we? Ah, yes. Your eyes.’
‘You’re not seriously going to work your way down my body, are you?’ I’m suddenly picturing the icing, but this time it isn’t Caleb’s body smeared. I clear my throat and my dirty, dirty mind. ‘Do you think we could leave it at the Anna hair? That’s more compliments than I’ve had in the past year.’
‘Rubbish,’ Caleb scoffs. ‘You’re gorgeous. I bet people have complimented you, but you’ve turned a blind eye. Which is totally understandable after everything. I haven’t been on a date since the divorce. Bea – Neal’s little sister – tried to set me up with one of her friends about a year ago, but I wasn’t interested in dating. I had to focus on Cara. Plus, Celine kind of put me off the opposite sex for a while.’
‘Not all women are like your ex,’ I point out.
‘And not all men are like yours,’ Caleb adds. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier though.’
‘That’s true.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘How do you know when you’re ready to put yourself back out there?’
Caleb shrugs. ‘When you meet someone you can’t bear not to be with, I suppose. Or you get fed up of meals for one.’
‘I hear you on that one. I usually end up with a ready meal or beans on toast. Who can be bothered to rustle up a proper meal when you’re the only one who’s going to eat it?’
‘You can always pop round to mine,’ Caleb says. ‘Have a meal for two.’
‘That sounds like a date to me.’ I’m teasing but Caleb doesn’t smile.
‘Would that be so bad?’
Whoa. Where did this come from? One minute we’re taking about not being ready to move on from our exes, the next Caleb’s asking me round for dinner. Is he serious? Or is his face going to crack into a smile any minute when he tells me he’s pulling my leg?
‘I … don’t know,’ is my honest reply. Of course, part of me is delighted. It’s jumping up and down inside me, tugging at the string of a party popper while balloons float around the air. But another part of me is taking a step back, questioning if I’m really ready for this. And then there’s the third part who’s still convinced Caleb is having a lark.
‘Sorry, I’m such an idiot.’ Caleb thwacks the palm of his hand onto his forehead and shakes his head. ‘Here you are, telling me you’re not ready to date after your ex, and I storm in with my massive clown shoes, asking you out like some kind of moron.’
‘You’re not a moron.’ I reach out and take Caleb’s hand away from his forehead. ‘But are you serious? Because you said you weren’t ready to date either.’
‘I wasn’t, until recently.’ Caleb shrugs. ‘And then I met you and I’m finding that I want to spend time with you, to get to know you more. You’re so kind and sweet and funny. Not always intentionally funny, but funny all the same.’
Caleb grins at me and I give him a nudge with my elbow. ‘You told Birdie you weren’t interested in me.’
‘You heard that?’ Caleb asks. Deep ridges line his forehead. I want to smooth them down, so I wedge my hands under my thighs so I’m not tempted to actually reach out and touch his face.
‘I accidentally heard when we all had dinner at my dad’s that time. I wasn’t snooping or anything.’
Caleb groans. ‘That was Nan, trying to set us up. She orchestrated the whole thing, you know, and then she cornered me in the kitchen to give me an extra nudge. And no, I wasn’t interested – in anyone, not just you. Like I said, I wasn’t ready to start dating again then.’
‘But you are now?’
‘Only the right woman,’ Caleb says.
‘Wow.’ I take a sip of my drink, wishing I’d gone for the alcoholic route after all. ‘That’s a lot of pressure.’
‘I know,’ Caleb says. ‘The idea weirded me out too, to be honest. I really didn’t think I’d be ready to start dating again for a long time, then the other night you were being all adorable and putting your foot in it repeatedly and I just thought, this is it. This is a woman I want to get to know. A woman I want to spend time with. To laugh with. It was a shock, but I know it’s what I want.’
‘When did this revelation happen?’ I ask.
I can see that Caleb tries not to grin, but he can’t seem to stop it. ‘I hate to bring it up again, but it was during the whole underpants thing. You were so adorable, the way you kept going and going with it.’
‘Is that why you were so quiet? I thought you were mortified to be in the same room as such an idiot.’
Caleb shakes his head. ‘I was confused. I’m sorry if it came off the wrong way and I made you feel bad.’
‘Don’t worry, I managed that all by myself.’
‘So what do you think?’ Caleb asks. The grin has vanished from his face and the ridges have made a comeback. ‘We don’t have to put so much pressure on it. We can keep it casual. Super-casual. Hanging-out-as-friends casual. Just getting to know each other, like we are now.’
‘I’d like that,’ I say, despite the voice screaming in my head that we’re not ready for this. ‘Super-casual.’
‘Super-duper casual. But who knows, one day you might even get to see my underwear.’ Caleb winks at me while I groan.
‘You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?’
‘Not even a little bit.’
Chapter Thirty-One
The newspaper is spread out before us on the rubber-duck-printed table, our heads pressed together so we can read the article at the same time. It’s a bizarre sensation seeing yourself in the newspaper – especially when you’re posed like a dork. As well as my cheesy, finger-pointing photo, Neal’s used the photo he took during – or rather
after – the trial run. The focus is on Nicky as she throws her back to laugh at something, but Caleb is there too, looking handsome with a tiny dimple in his cheek as he laughs along. I can’t remember what the joke was, but I want to hop into the page to join them, which is the idea.
Neal has very cleverly captured a pure gold moment and his article is amazing too, enthusing both about the teashop and the date nights that will take part over the following weeks. If Neal were here right now, I’d squeeze him until he popped. I can’t thank him enough (though not squishing him to death may be thanks enough, actually).
‘This is wonderful,’ Mags says. ‘Doesn’t he have a way with words?’
‘And with the camera,’ I say. ‘I actually look half decent, cheesy pose aside.’ This is a miracle after the revelations that took place just before Neal captured this moment in time. You wouldn’t know that I’d just spilled my soul in the street for all to hear.
‘Half decent,’ Mags scoffs. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘Easy.’ I hold my hands up. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.’
‘Nobody is getting ahead of themselves.’ Mags heads behind the counter, rummaging until she finds a pair of scissors tucked in a drawer. ‘You are beautiful. And a certain young man obviously thinks so too.’ Mags winks at me while Victoria – who isn’t supposed to be here technically but didn’t want to miss out on reading the article with us – turns to me with an open mouth.
‘Did Caleb actually ask you out?’
‘Thanks, Mags.’ I’d finally caved and told Mags about Caleb’s suggestion that we date – super-casually – this morning during a lull in breakfast trade. I use the term ‘lull’ loosely as it’s pretty much standard for Sweet Street, though hopefully that’s about to change now that Neal and The Woodgate Chronicle have put us on the map.
I’d also confided in Mags about Penny and Joel (with the others knowing, it would only be a matter of time before Mags heard about my past so there was no point keeping it to myself) and she’d offered tons of sympathy, an almost-asphyxiating hug and, of course, cake. We had a really good chat and Mags admitted that she’d been scared to start dating after Graham. Her confidence had been knocked but Owen was slowly building it back up again, which gave me hope for the future – and my super-casual dates with Caleb.
‘Sorry. Slipped out,’ Mags says now. She gives me an apologetic look before she starts snipping at the newspaper, the very tip of her tongue poking out of her cherry-red lips in concentration.
‘A bit like Owen slipping out of your house on Sunday morning,’ I say before covering my mouth overdramatically. ‘Sorry, that slipped out too.’
‘Rewind, rewind!’ Victoria cries. ‘What happened on Sunday morning?’
During our heart-to-heart, Mags had confessed that her relationship with Owen was going rather well.
‘You little tinker.’ Mags waggles a scissors-free finger at me before turning to Victoria. ‘Owen had a, er, sleepover on Saturday night and had to sneak out of the house before my boys were up on Sunday morning.’
‘Really? Go Mags!’ Victoria whoops and holds out a palm for a high five, which a bemused Mags responds to. ‘I’m so happy for you. For both of you. I think our luck is changing, you know. I have a good feeling about The Sweetest Kiss. A good feeling indeed.’
‘Me too,’ Mags says as she continues her snipping. She cuts the article out of the newspaper and holds it aloft. ‘We need a frame for this.’
‘I can pop into town,’ Victoria offers. ‘I need to go to the shops anyway. My sister and her family get back from their hols tomorrow and I need to replace the scatter cushion covers. I had an incident with Bolognese sauce and it won’t come out.’
‘Are you going to be able to find the same ones?’ I ask and Victoria gives a one-shouldered shrug.
‘Who knows? But she’ll be a bit more forgiving about me ruining her original covers if I have their replacements already in place.’
‘Replacements? You spilled sauce on more than one?’ I’ve heard of messy eaters, but that’s going a bit far.
‘I was watching Tremors on Netflix,’ Victoria explains. ‘And one of those giant slug things flew up out of the ground all of a sudden. I cacked myself, jumped up and sort of flung my plate across the sofa. I managed to splatter three of the cushions, but I can’t imagine she’d be too precious about these things – my niece and nephew have always got sticky hands and snotty noses. They tend to leave trails.’
‘It’s good that you’re replacing them though,’ Mags says. ‘It’ll be one less hassle when she gets back from holiday. Have you thought about where you’re going to stay when they get back? Because my spare room is still on offer.’
‘No offence, but I don’t fancy running into Owen in the buff on my way to the bathroom,’ Victoria says and I hide a smirk behind my hand. ‘Plus, I’ve arranged to stay with a friend. We haven’t seen each other for ages but it turns out she’s in need of a new flatmate.’
‘That’s handy,’ I say. ‘I see what you mean about luck being in our favour.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way for Friday,’ Mags says.
Our luck starts early, with a surge of customers – consisting mainly of new faces – at lunchtime. People tell us they had no idea we were here, but they’ll definitely be back. I can only assume they’ve read about us in the newspaper and I hope they do return. Our stock starts to run low and we run out of Bakewell slices, chocolate chip muffins and raspberry cream cheese brownies completely, which Mags is devastated about as there’ll be none to take home once we’ve closed. I’ve promised to make another batch tomorrow, which seems to have cheered her up.
As well as the new and hungry customers, we’ve also attracted a number of new sign-ups for The Sweetest Kiss, including lots and lots of blokes. There has been an actual, bona fide lull after the lunchtime rush (and what a rush it was, both for the teashop and for its owner) so I’ve been sitting in the office for the past hour, matching up potential clients into groups of ten so that I can schedule the next few date nights. I’ve already emailed next week’s group and am about to get cracking on the following group when Mags pops into the office.
‘If we carry on like this,’ Mags says as she adds another completed sign-up sheet to the tray on the desk, ‘we’ll have to run the date nights for two evenings a week.’
‘Or maybe we could squeeze more tables in, once we’re properly up and running.’
‘I suppose we could.’ Mags purses her lips as she figures it all out in her head. ‘We could get some foldaway tables, maybe double up so we have twenty participants altogether. We already have enough chairs.’
‘And we can put them away when they’re not being used for the date nights.’ There’s no way we can operate during the day with ten tables, but it won’t matter so much during the date nights as there’ll be less traffic. As long as the male participants can move to the next table and the waiting staff can place the desserts on the tables, it’ll be fine.
‘Am I getting too carried away?’ I ask Mags, who tuts at me.
‘No such thing. You dream big, sweetheart.’
‘We could also do with a better sign-up system,’ I muse. ‘We really should look into adding online sign-up and payment on the website, rather than emailing completed forms and paying on the night.’
Mags nods and jots the idea down. ‘You’re really getting into the swing of things now.’
‘We need Friday night to go well, otherwise dreaming big will come to nothing.’
‘Friday night will go perfectly,’ Mags tells me. ‘Like Victoria said earlier, our luck is changing.’
‘It’s about time,’ I say. I’ve plunged all of Gran’s money into this place and given it my all. I need Sweet Street Teashop – and The Sweetest Kiss – to be a success.
Mum turns up just as I’m making Mags a cup of tea. We’ve switched places so now Mags is shut away in the office, inputting the new sign-ups into the system, so I’m going to surp
rise her with a cup of tea and two lemon sponge fingers (the extra finger is to make up for the lack of her favourite brownies).
‘You didn’t tell me you were going to be in the paper,’ Mum says, delving into the oversized handbag looped over her arm. She pulls out The Woodgate Chronicle and wafts it in front of her. ‘It was Wendy who told me. She rang me this morning, asking if it was my Maddie on page six.’ Mum cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘I do think it would have been more professional if they’d printed your actual name. Maddie’s cute, but it doesn’t scream businesswoman.’
‘I prefer Maddie,’ I say as I transfer Mags’s tea and cakes onto a tray.
‘It’s not about what you prefer,’ Mum tells me. ‘It’s about what’s best for this business.’
The business Mum hasn’t shown much interest in so far? While Dad pops in at least once a week, I can count on one hand the number of times Mum’s stepped through the doors. It wouldn’t be so bad if she enquired about the teashop every now and then, but she rarely utters a word about it. It would get in the way of her Penny-meddling, I suppose.
‘Nobody cares whether it says Maddie or Madeleine in the paper,’ I say, lifting the tray. ‘Will you excuse me? I just need to take this to Mags.’
Mags is hammering away at the keyboard when I nudge the door open with my foot, but she stops as soon as she sees the refreshments.
‘I need this,’ she says before sinking her teeth into the first lemon sponge finger, groaning as the sugary treat hits the right spot.
‘They were both supposed to be yours,’ I say, reaching for the other sponge finger. ‘But Mum’s here and she’s suddenly under the impression she’s Alan Sugar’s even-more-business-savvy sister. I need to comfort eat.’
‘Oi.’ Mags bats my hand away. ‘Mitts off. These babies are mine.’ She puts the sponge back down on the plate and licks the crumbs from her fingers, one by one. ‘Why don’t you take your mum and some cake up to your flat so she can annoy you in the comfort of your own home? I can catch up with these later.’ She nods towards the pile of sign-up forms and, decision made, she picks up the tray and carries it out into the teashop, parking her tea and cake behind the counter.
The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts Page 21