‘Got it in one,’ she says. ‘You’re not as dim as you look.’ She turns to a customer who’s come to the counter. ‘Keep your wig on, I’m talking. Go sit down.’
The customer does as he’s told, folding his large frame into one of the battered wooden chairs to wait until Barb is ready to serve him. I’ll say this, she’s got her customers well-trained.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Barb, if you closed me down, then my customers probably wouldn’t come here.’ They’re not overly keen on being mistreated and she doesn’t have enough electrical sockets for the freelancers anyway. Even if she put a power station in the back, I can’t see her letting Leo and his friends monopolise a table all day.
She snorts. ‘I don’t want ’em! A bunch of screaming babies, hipsters and delinquents.’
‘Then what’s your problem, if you’re not after my customers?’
‘I don’t want you after mine either.’
Now it’s my turn to snort, but she seems to be perfectly serious. ‘Your customers don’t strike me as the china cup latte and chai tea crowd, Barb. You serve hot food and we don’t. We’ve got sandwiches and cakes and that’s it.’
‘So far,’ she says. ‘What ’appens when you start serving cooked breakfast?’
‘That’ll never happen,’ I say. For one thing I wouldn’t want the cloying stench of fry-ups hanging in the air like it is in here.
‘Everyone wants a cooked breakfast and a hot dinner.’
‘If that’s true, then they’d have to come here to get it. I’ve got no interest in being a caff, Barb. My business is hot drinks and cakes and a few sandwiches. So if you don’t want my customers and I don’t want yours, and we serve totally different food, do you really have to keep going through all the trouble to try to turf me out?’
‘How much do you charge for a pot of tea?’ she asks, even though her spy already gave her that information.
‘Which flavour?’
‘Fackin’ ’ell, regular tea,’ she says.
When I tell her two-fifty she says, ‘Disgraceful. It’s not worth more than a quid.’
‘We have china pots and cups,’ I point out, ‘but I take your point. I’d never charge less than two pounds for a pot.’
‘Promise two-fifty. None of my lot would be stupid enough to pay that.’
‘Two-fifty, then,’ I say, feeling like a very lightweight East London gangster, price-fixing pots of English Breakfast tea. ‘And I won’t have any cooked food either. I’d have to hire a cook to do that and I’d rather spend the extra money training more kids. So you’re going to keep your… policy about parents with pushchairs?’
‘Won’t have ’em in my caff.’
‘Then it sounds like we don’t overlap at all, Barb. Do you think we can let each other alone now? You’re welcome to come to the café any time you like, you know.’
‘Pssh, as if I’d ever spend two-fifty for a fackin’ pot of tea.’
But she nods once, ever so slightly, before turning to the table where the builder is patiently waiting. ‘What do you want?’ she barks at him.
Chapter 25
‘Yo, boss, you think we’ve got enough cake?’ Joseph surveys the sea of baked goods laid out on pretty plates and stands along the bar top. He’s got his hair gelled straight up off the top of his head in a wavy black wedge, and he even has a new bow tie – a trend he’s embraced from the freelancers. ‘We could feed East London on these, yeah.’
I let Zane go overboard on the cakes, but it’s important to be abundant when having a party to celebrate your business’s six-month anniversary.
Joseph and Lou are behind the bar working the Gaggia with barista skills that would make Pablo proud. It’s hard to remember why we were so afraid of that machine. I guess we speak the same language now.
‘Not like this, like this,’ Joseph tells the boy who’s holding the little metal pitcher under the steamer.
‘Like this?’ the boy says. His big eyes never leave his instructor’s, which couldn’t make Joseph happier.
‘No, like this. Listen. Can you hear it?’ Joseph catches Lou’s eye over the boy’s head. ‘Listen to the bean.’
‘Don’t be an arsehole to the new kid,’ Lou says. ‘You were just as hopeless when you started.’
‘Yo, Professor, what else do you need?’ Tinky Winky says as he carries more clean crockery from the kitchen. ‘The teacups are dried off.’
Joseph nods. ‘And the plates? Top and bottom? Well done, blud. Strong attention to detail. Go see if anyone wants more hot water for their teapots.’
You heard right. Tinky Winky is our newest trainee, along with the boy trying to work the Gaggia, who was referred by Mrs Boggis-Stanton. I might have been too harsh about her over Lou. She did reopen the complaint against Lou’s foster parents. It took several visits and they finally interviewed all the kids without the adults there to intimidate them, and just last week they ruled that the children should be placed with new foster families. It means a lot of upheaval for them, but hopefully they’ll end up being looked after by people who care about them. I know that Mrs Boggis-Stanton will do everything she can to make sure they do.
I just wish they could all stay together. It’s going to be hard for Lou to be away from them. Although her birthday is next month, so she’ll be old enough to live on her own anyway. She can’t wait for that.
I wish we could all stay together too, but I’ll have to get used to saying goodbye to the trainees, since that is the whole point of the café.
Joseph will go off to his new job next week, working for one of the restaurant chains where they do breakfast from the four corners of the world, all with poncy names like the Barbary Toast. Barb would probably spit on the floor if she was ever dragged into one, but I’ve got no doubt that Joseph will rise quickly and have collected at least three new job titles by Christmas.
One of Mrs Ishtiaque’s ladies saunters up to the counter, where Lou is slicing Zane’s newest cake – peanut butter and jelly. I know what Auntie Rose will say about it, but it’s got a certain something.
‘Are you enjoying your job?’ she asks as Lou carefully tries to cut perfectly even slices. She glances at the woman in her bright orange saree.
‘It’s great,’ says Lou, eying the cake again. ‘Do you enjoy being my customer?’
‘It is very nice being your customer. I think you are being a very good waitress.’
Lou smiles at that. ‘And you are a very good customer. Now bugger off, please, so I can cut this.’
‘I am buggering off!’ The woman waves cheerily over her shoulder.
Lou winks at me. ‘Teaching them the local vernacular,’ she says.
Who’d have imagined a year ago, when this was just a closed-down smelly old pub, that it would become someplace where so many people could come to feel at home? I’m thinking about Uncle Colin’s pub, as I often do, and that time I wished for the café to have the same kind of camaraderie. I got my wish.
Six months ago these were all strangers. I’d never even laid eyes on Mrs Ishtiaque’s ladies or, if I had, I didn’t distinguish them from the other women I passed every day. Same goes for the teenagers – who were only faceless hoodies I avoided on the street – or the hipsters whose beards I mocked. Now they’re all as familiar to me, and to each other, as long-time friends – real people, not just the stereotypes that are too easy to ignore or fear or mock.
I watch the vicar as he talks with Carl and Elsie and Mrs Delaney. I know he’ll be sad when Mrs Delaney moves to Spain, but that lovely old couple will keep him from getting too lonely without her. He wouldn’t hear of accepting my thanks when I told him about the councillor’s decision. It’s part of his job, he says, to look after his flock.
‘Gawd, tell me you’re not blubbing again,’ Kelly says, handing me one of the paper serviettes from beside the Gaggia. ‘You’re supposed to be happy.’
‘I am happy,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just hit me that everything’s about to change, I guess
. Joseph’s leaving, and Mrs Delaney… and you.’
‘I’m not leaving for months.’
‘But then I’ll hardly ever see you. I’m going to miss you, that’s all.’
She rolls her eyes. I did tell you she doesn’t show her emotions very much. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘Why?’
‘Just give it here. It’s your usual password?’
I’m so predictable. She taps a few buttons before handing my phone back. Then she takes hers out.
My phone rings. ‘Answer it,’ she says. ‘The green button.’
When I slide the button, Kelly’s face appears on my screen. ‘Happy now?’ virtual Kelly says. ‘You can see me any time you want. It’s Facetime. Now will you pull yourself together and enjoy your party?’
But I’m not looking at my screen. ‘I love you,’ I tell my real best friend.
‘I love you too, you daft thing.’ Then she hangs up and puts her arm round my shoulders.
‘Who wants more cake?’ Joseph calls out to the crowd.
‘We’ll miss you, Joseph,’ Melody calls back with a catch in her voice. She’s been overly emotional lately, ever since she and her daughter finally decided to call time on the breastfeeding. Now Melody is talking about having another baby. Her poor boobs just don’t get a break.
‘Only because you’re getting free cake,’ Joseph says.
‘To Joseph!’ Tinky Winky booms.
‘The Professor,’ Lou says as Joseph beams. ‘Our first graduate.’
‘The first of many. Hip hip–’
‘Hooray!’ Everyone shouts, and all their voices – from the teens to the OAPs, the mums, the freelancers, my family, the ladies in their bright sarees and our kindly corrupt vicar – merge into one.
‘What is meaning hooray?’ I hear one of the ladies ask in the silent second that follows.
‘Just be cheering,’ Mrs Ishtiaque says. ‘It means our café is wonderful.’
If you enjoyed The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square, you might like to try the prequel, The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square, to see where it all began!
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Author Note
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Acknowledgements
I was in the middle of writing this novel when I noticed a new coffee shop near my house: Second Shot Coffee. The name was similar to my book title so I went inside, where I discovered that not only do they make great coffee, they’re a social enterprise that trains people affected by homelessness and helps them go on to work. It’s life imitating art imitating life!
So, if you’re on Bethnal Green Road, do stop by the shop, have a delicious coffee and support a great cause: http://secondshotcoffee.co.uk/
I’d like to say a huge thank you to Second Shot Coffee’s owner, Julius Ibrahim, who very kindly let me pick his brains about opening the café. Any factual errors about setting up and running such an endeavour are mine alone.
Thank you too to my wonderful editors, Charlotte and Caz, whose belief in Lilly’s books means so much to me. Thanks to my copyeditor, the wonderfully OCD Lucy York. We’ve been together now for years and you still always impress me with your attention to detail. Thank you to Sam, HarperImpulse’s fantastic social media ninja, for putting Lilly’s books so firmly in the spotlight, and to all the bloggers and readers who take the time to read them. To all my author friends, old and new, so many of whom said wonderful things about the books and who helped spread the word. With a special mention for the HarperImpulse authors – what a lovely bunch you are! The support from you all has meant the world to me.
Finally, as always, thanks to my agent, Caroline, and to my husband, Andrew, for being so enthusiastic about the new pen-named books. You’re both contractually obliged to be my cheerleaders, but I love knowing that you’d do it anyway!
About the Author
Lilly Bartlett’s cosy romcoms are full of warmth, quirky characters and guaranteed happily-ever-afters. Lilly is the pen-name of Sunday Times and USA Today best-selling author, Michele Gorman, who writes best friend-girl power comedies under her own name.
About HarperImpulse
HarperImpulse is an exciting new range of romance fiction brought to you from the women’s fiction team at HarperCollins. Our aim is to break new talent from debut authors and import the hottest trends from the US, bringing you the very best in romance. Whether that is through short reads for your mobile phone or epic sagas that span the generations we want to proudly publish romance fiction that gets everybody talking.
Romance readers, come and meet the team at our website www.harperimpulseromance.com, our Facebook page www.facebook.com/HarperImpulse or follow us @HarperImpulse!
Writers, we are simply looking for good stories! So, what are you waiting for? To submit, e-mail us at [email protected].
About the Publisher
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The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square Page 26