The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  “No room for delays.” I try to sound authoritative.

  “You know, I’ve just decided: I’m not coming on this trip. New England is just full of old people looking at leaves. I’m going to stay here in New York.”

  Oh god. As much as this is music to my ears, I know Pamela won’t go for it.

  “You know that’s not possible,” I begin.

  “Why not? She doesn’t want me there anyway.”

  “Your mother?” I’m about to beg to differ when she says: “No. The other one.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “She can’t stand being around me.”

  “Well . . .” I stop myself from saying, “She does have a point.”

  “It’s just going to be boring. Cake after cake after cake . . . What am I supposed to do?”

  I shrug. “What every person your age does: tune out, text, listen to music, play games, go on Facebook. I mean, does it really matter where you are to do that?”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Besides, you’d be doing your mother a huge favor.”

  “Huge is the word—have you seen the size of her? It’s just so embarrassing! Who does she think she’s fooling? Eat my delicious cakes and end up obese like me!”

  “Stop!” I halt her. “I won’t have you talking about her like that.”

  Ravenna scoffs at my objection. “You know, it’s really none of your business what I say about my own mother.”

  “When you say those things in front of me,” I counter, “you make it my business. It is not acceptable to my ears. Have you got that?”

  She stares at me. And then she stares at the floor. Eventually her eyes return to mine.

  “You know, you’re right. It’s the least I can do for her.”

  I can’t believe it. “Really?”

  She nods. “Forget what I said. I just want to pick up a little something at Diesel and then we can head back to the hotel. Is that okay?”

  “Y-yes, that’s fine. Let me just look up the directions.”

  “Okay, I’m going to nip to the loo.”

  Wow. That was a narrow escape. Maybe she’s more reasonable than I thought? I was worried I’d gone too far, but something obviously got through to her. Thank goodness!

  I tap at my phone. Perfect! Diesel is just three minutes’ walk from here. We’d have time for a quick mani afterward, if she’s game. Maybe I’ll treat her to one of those rad new designs—I saw this dip-dye effect that I think she’d like. That’s if she ever comes back.

  I turn to the shop assistant. “Excuse me, where are the restrooms in here?”

  “Up on the sixth floor.”

  Oh. That could explain it. She’s probably got distracted, looking at more goodies. Until today I didn’t realize Tiffany did so many non-jewelry items. There’s even a tea set (tea pot, milk jug and sugar bowl) in angular sterling silver with rosewood handles and jade cabochon accents: $23,000 a pop. But that does include a matching tray.

  I strum my fingers. I wonder how Pamela and Gracie are getting on. She did mention she wanted to try the Cronut craze (croissant-doughnut hybrid originating here in Manhattan), but the bakery is all the way down in SoHo. I’m not sure she’ll have time. I look at my watch. I look at Tiffany’s watches—the rose gold, the diamonds, the ticking hands . . .

  Still no sign of Ravenna.

  Perhaps it’s best if I wait over by the door. I smile at the security guard.

  “I’m just waiting for my friend.”

  “The one you came in with?”

  “Short skirt, crazy mess of hair . . .” I squiggle my hands around my head.

  “She left.”

  “What? When?”

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  Oh god. Oh god, oh god. She just totally played me. What do I do now? Once again I find myself freaking out in an entirely inappropriate environment.

  “Krista!” I wail as soon as I get outside. “I’ve lost Babycakes!”

  I find myself instinctively heading for the Apple store, as if I might be able to harness their technology to create some kind of tracking system using her mobile phone number. Not that I have it. And not that I can ask Pamela for it, since that would give the game away.

  “Okay, let’s be logical about this,” Krista calms me. “It’s too early to file a Missing Persons report and there’s no better place for a person to disappear than in New York City, so scouring the streets isn’t going to work.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “Have faith.”

  “Have faith?” I’m not convinced. “You think she’ll have her little run-around and then see the error of her ways?”

  “No, I just mean that without her mum’s credit card, she won’t have enough money to last a whole week in NYC. Very few people do.”

  “Oh.” I bite my lip. Then I see some men leering at a woman in hot pants. “What if she turns to prostitution?”

  “You’ve seen the state of her. Even punters have standards.”

  I sigh. “So what now?”

  “Go back to the hotel and wait for her. Her things are still in the room, right? She’ll have to go back for them.”

  “Actually, I asked everyone to check out before they left this morning, so we wouldn’t have any holdups leaving at noon.”

  “Then her luggage will be in storage.”

  “Unless she went straight there from Tiffany’s and nabbed it.”

  “Then you’d better get a move on!”

  “All right! I’m on my way. And Krista?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for always being there for me.”

  “My god, you’ve always been there for me. It’s nice to be able to help you for a change.”

  I smile, put my phone away and then duck and dive through the crowds like an American footballer hurtling for the touch-down line.

  • • •

  Her bag is still here. That’s something. I fall into the nearest seat, waiting for my heaving chest to settle.

  Of course there’s no need for her to come back to collect it before our departure deadline. She could easily wait us out. Check-in at her next accommodation wouldn’t start until 3 P.M. Unless she’s just planning on sleeping under some railway bridge, of course.

  I get a swimmy-swampy feeling in my head. Could this trip be over before it’s begun? Will the blame for its failure fall at my feet? I can’t deny—I went too far, I let things get personal. My head falls into my hands.

  “Laurie!”

  “Gracie!” I jump up. “Where’s Pamela?”

  “Still with Charlie. They’re working on some kind of Velvet-Victoria hybrid.” She pulls a face. “It was all getting a bit technical for me, fractions of ounces, I thought I’d come up for a cup of tea. Care to join me?”

  “Er-um . . .”

  Gracie studies me. “Is something the matter?”

  “Well . . .” Dare I tell her?

  “Ravenna ditched you once she realized you didn’t have her mum’s credit card?”

  I blink back at her.

  “I thought she probably would.”

  I sigh. “I should have just taken it.”

  “What did she try to get you to buy?”

  “A thousand dollars’ worth of bracelet from Tiffany’s.”

  Gracie hoots. “Little minx. She was totally trying it on.”

  “Really? Because I might have slightly crossed the line in terms of what I said to her . . .”

  Gracie smiles broadly. “Got a bit of Supernanny in you, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve got a big mouth on this topic.”

  “Me too. For all the good it does.” She places a comforting arm around my shoulder. “Let’s see if a cup of tea can make everything better . . .”

  • �
� •

  So this is the plan: we say nothing. And if anything needs to be said, I let Gracie do the talking.

  Gracie is with Krista, in that she thinks Ravenna will turn up at the last minute.

  An hour ago, this reassured me. But, as of now, there are just ten last minutes to go. And still no sign.

  We’ve already loaded the car and lied to Pamela, telling her that Ravenna has just nipped to the hotel gift shop.

  “I think I might go and chivvy her up.” Pamela goes to turn back into the hotel.

  “No, no!” I protest. “Allow me.”

  “Why don’t you get comfortable in the car?” Gracie guides her to the Mercedes.

  I take one last look up and down Park Avenue.

  And that’s when I see her. Directly across the street from us. Watching us.

  I daren’t blink for fear that she’ll disappear. She looks so fragile, so small in this land of giants. I take a step in her direction just as a sightseeing bus passes between us, and then she’s gone.

  Nooo! My shoulders slump.

  What did that mean? Was she just there to taunt me? Or see if we’d really call her bluff?

  “Ms. Davis?” A male voice calls to me.

  I turn back; it’s the doorman.

  “Mr. Romano has something for you.”

  Charlie is beckoning to me from the other side of the glass.

  “I know you missed out on Pamela’s Victoria Sponge, so I saved you a slice.”

  I gasp out loud, squishing him in a hug and then tearing into the box.

  “You don’t have to eat it now!” Charlie hoots.

  “Yes I do,” I muffle. “This might be my last chance to taste her cooking.”

  “But . . .” he frowns.

  “Don’t ask!” I hold up my hand. And then I close my eyes and, just for a moment, surrender to the cake—the moist-light sponge, the dairy creaminess of the filling blending with the strawberry stickiness . . .

  “Good?” Charlie inquires softly.

  “Ohhhhh!”

  “I know!” he grins. “Please tell her that she’s welcome back anytime!”

  “That may be sooner than you think,” I mutter as I dust off the blonde crumbs and head out to face her.

  The time has come. I take a deep breath, dip into the backseat, only to find Ravenna occupying the front passenger slot.

  “Wha—?”

  “What’s the holdup?” she asks before I can form a sentence. “I thought we had a schedule to keep to?”

  Chapter 9

  I don’t know whether to kiss her or slap her. But I don’t get the chance to do either because, no sooner am I buckled up than Gracie whiplashes us into traffic.

  All too soon the yellow cab escorts and iconic buildings morph into a scene from a gritty, lowlife movie—grimy streets, clunky railway bridges and menacing characters, all bundled up even though it’s a sunny day. I always used to turn my nose up at the London suburbs when I was heading home from Heathrow, but no more. They are a bucolic dream compared to this.

  “Watch out!”

  Vehicles weave, break and honk around us, as if they are in cahoots to keep us from staying our course. While I grip the hand-rest and resist the urge to close my eyes during the dicier moments, Gracie is astoundingly calm under pressure.

  “Oh no you don’t buddy, you can wait your turn.” She denies a Mustang trying to barge into our lane.

  I turn, openmouthed, to Pamela.

  “How the hell does she do this?” She predicts my question.

  “It’s extraordinary. This is a total white-knuckle ride—my heart is in my mouth and she’s as cool as a cucumber.”

  Pamela smiles. “She’s spent the last fortnight memorizing every nuance of the journey. She’s even planned which lane she’s going to drive in.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “She loves it!” Pamela takes a quick sip of water. “She took The Knowledge on her seventieth birthday, just to put a smile on her husband’s face.”

  “Was he a taxi driver?”

  “Bus actually.”

  “Ahhh, hence the connection in Newport?”

  She nods, explaining how, about twelve years ago, her father helped a billionaire named Arby Poindexter to pick out the double-decker of his dreams.

  “They actually became pals during his stay in London, and Arby was so impressed with Dad’s knowledge and passion, he invited him and Mum out to stay with his family in Newport.”

  “So Gracie’s been there before?”

  Pamela nods. “And she can’t wait to go back.”

  “All right!” Gracie announces. “It should smooth out from here.”

  She’s quite right—suddenly the urban chaos streamlines into a green-bordered freeway. We can’t see much of the places we’re passing—Greenwich, Stamford, Norwalk—but I know we’re in Connecticut now.

  Most people know this state as a commuter belt, but it is also the home of PEZ candy’s U.S. manufacturing facility and the first lollipop machine. As in the hard candy globes on a stick, rather than the British iced version.

  “The idea started before the Civil War, when children used to have a bit of sugar candy stuck to the end of a pencil,” I read from my notes.

  “No concerns about lead poisoning back then,” Pamela notes.

  “Would anyone object to having the windows down, now we’re away from the grime?” Gracie asks.

  “Fine with me,” I reply, quite enjoying the bluster. And then I ask Gracie if her husband taught her to drive. He did.

  “And how did you two meet? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all.”

  I settle in for story time.

  “I was seventeen, still living at home but yearning for some independence. My parents were very formal—even breakfast was a fixed sit-down affair—and I took every opportunity I could to get out of the house, just so I could breathe. When I finally persuaded them to let me have a dog, I started to explore our grounds a little more and one day I saw this chap tramping across the bottom of our lawn. I tried to catch up with him but he was walking at quite a clip. I asked the gardener if he’d hired an assistant, but he said no. So who was he and where was he heading? I went back the next day to find out.”

  “By yourself?”

  “With the dog.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Are you aware that this is private property?’ He hesitated and then he said, ‘I am.’

  “‘Where are you going?’ I asked him.

  “‘To work,’ he said. ‘It saves me a good twenty minutes if I cut through here. Do you mind?’

  “He had the most open face I had ever seen. Everyone I knew was either snooty or sly. He was just so straightforward. I looked at him some more and then I looked at this package in his hand—a little block covered in waxed paper.

  “‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  “‘My lunch,’ he said.

  “And it just seemed such a little lunch for such a big man. So I told him I would see him tomorrow.”

  I laugh. “Just like that?”

  “I wasn’t a very chatty child. I just spent a lot of time being silent around adults until I met Georgie. That was his name.” She looks pleased even to say it.

  “So what happened next?”

  “Well, I decided I would make him a cake to go with his sandwich.”

  I look at Pamela. “Is this where all the baking began?”

  She nods.

  “I thought it should be the heaviest, most filling cake I could muster, so I made a fruit cake. Cut it into four, wrapped his wedge in a cloth napkin and sat in wait . . .” She smiles. “The next day he said it was the best cake he’d ever tasted and that everyone else at the bus depot was jealous. So I made another one
and gave him the whole thing so he could share it.”

  “Gosh! I bet you were popular!”

  She smiles. “I didn’t meet the other chaps straightaway. For a couple of months it was just me and Georgie and our morning tea flasks under the oak tree. I wouldn’t see him on the way home because the busses were running by then. But I was always thinking about him, always thinking about what I could make him next for lunch. Scotch eggs were his favorite.”

  “The way to a man’s heart, eh?”

  “Oh, he had such a lovely heart!” She swoons. “No rules. No caution. He didn’t worry what anyone thought of him.”

  “Not even your parents?”

  “Well, I didn’t leave a lot of room for negotiation there. He gave me such confidence—when I presented him it was as my fiancé and that was that. And they grew to love him dearly. As did everyone who ever met him. It’s a wonderful thing, when someone can make you laugh, all other concerns go out of the window.”

  I think how true this is. How disarming laughter can be. You can’t be defensive and guarded while you are laughing. All you are is delighted.

  “Did you ever get to drive his bus?”

  “Oh yes. He taught me everything he knew. Sixty years we were together . . .”

  She looks so proud.

  It must be wonderful to be filled with admiration for your other half. I know Krista feels that way about Jacques. So that’s two role models I have now.

  “Have you ever been married, Laurie?” Gracie asks me.

  “Oh no,” I shudder. “No, no, no.”

  “Is that aversion toward the institution itself or—”

  “Oh, I’ve nothing against marriage as a concept. It’s just the thought of being married to anyone I’ve actually been in a relationship with.”

  “That diabolical?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve yet to find my Georgie.” No need to gloom them with my romantic history. I turn to Pamela. “But you’ve done well too—how long is it with Brian, twenty years?”

  “Mmm.” Pamela turns to look out through the window.

  Okay. We’ll leave that there.

  “What about you, Ravenna? How long have you been with . . .”

  “Kevin.” Gracie helps me out with her boyfriend’s name.

  Ravenna’s eyes narrow. “It’s Eon now, as well you know.”