by Karen Clarke
‘That’s good,’ I said, pleased she was on board, but sorry she seemed ill at ease in spite of her rigid smile. Great things never came from comfort zones. ‘You’ll be able to recommend it,’ I said. ‘Is Dad OK with the coffees?’
I peered past her to see him polishing the coffee machine with the same sort of zeal that Sid Turner buffed his car. He’d changed, too, into grey suit trousers and a lilac shirt with the top button undone. He’d sworn off wearing ties after leaving his banking job, except at weddings and funerals.
‘He’s fine,’ Mum said, pointing to a row of white cups lined up on the counter, which I’d instructed him to fill with the different flavours of coffee beans. ‘They’re all labelled too.’ She scrunched her face into an expression of excitement that didn’t quite convince. ‘I must say, the Peruvian coffee sounds… exciting.’
‘And you’ve both had a look at the packets, so if anyone asks you can say where the teas and coffees are from and answer any questions?’
‘We did our best, love, but it’s been quite busy today.’
‘Well, I’ve done some reading up, too, so I can help,’ I said. The planner wasn’t supposed to get involved in the event, just blend into the background and oversee its smooth running, but I really needed to prove myself – to show my parents I could make the café even more successful – and hopefully impress any potential future clients.
I rubbed the skin on my wrist as I tried to remember whether I’d forgotten anything.
‘What’s that?’ Mum took hold of my hand and looked at the rash.
‘I must be allergic to your washing powder,’ I said, pulling the cuff of my blouse over the offending patch. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’s fine.’
‘There’s some antihistamine cream in the first-aid box, I’ll go and get it,’ she said, seeming relieved to have an excuse to leave the café. She started to take tiny steps towards the office, as though genuinely worried about falling off her heels.
‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’ Meg said, joining me in the doorway. I was grateful she’d offered to stay and help, especially as she’d been on her feet all day and was probably keen to get home. ‘It’s funny, really, when you didn’t used to like organised dos.’
I turned to her in surprise, hit once more by a wave of pleasure at seeing her again. ‘Didn’t I?’
She dimpled into a smile and nudged me with her shoulder. ‘You refused to come to my sixteenth birthday because it was fancy dress, remember? And when your mum wanted to arrange something for yours, you said you’d rather hang out with Tilly and me. We went to see The Others at the cinema in Dartmouth, and Tilly didn’t realise it was spooky and kept her eyes shut.’
‘Oh god, yeah, I’d forgotten about that,’ I said, momentarily distracted from the sight of Dad rubbing the window with his tea towel. ‘But we’re grown up now, and bound to be different to how we were back then.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Meg slipped her arm through mine in an easy gesture. She smelt faintly of vanilla essence with a hint of something fruity, and I leant against her and discreetly breathed it in. ‘Obviously you are, but I don’t think Tilly or I have really changed that much.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t,’ I said, feeling peeved in a way I didn’t understand. ‘Is Tilly still coming this evening?’
‘As far as I know. She’s dying to see you again.’
Warmed by the genuine feeling in her voice, I said, ‘Shall we get your muffins out?’
Sniggering childishly, we arranged them on cake stands, alongside the Bakewell tart, its icing as shiny as a tile, and a farmhouse-style fruit loaf scented with cinnamon. After checking that every table had one of my tasting menus on it, I began to rearrange them, moving them closer together to create a more intimate space.
‘Cassie, don’t do that,’ scolded Dad, alerted by the sound of wood scraping across the floorboards. His smile looked more like a grimace. ‘We had it just how we liked it.’
‘But this is cosier,’ I said.
‘It’ll be cramped when everyone’s sitting down.’
‘I’m creating a harmonious zone.’
Dad subsided with a shrug. ‘OK, love, you’re the boss,’ he said, turning back to look outside, where the lowering sky was making it look later than it was.
I took a last look around the café, my gaze snagging on the bare walls. Some lucky artist could have made a killing tonight, but it was too late now. Vicky Burton’s paintings would probably have broken some indecency laws, and I couldn’t risk my reputation – never mind the café’s.
Mum bustled through with a tube of cream and I let her rub it on my rash, thinking perhaps I did have an allergy and the ointment would magic it away. ‘You definitely told people about tonight?’ I said, glancing at the door. The time was ticking down to seven o’clock and I’d expected to see people queueing outside, but apart from an elderly man with a stiff-legged dog there was no one around.
‘Of course I did.’ She slipped the tube of cream in her pocket and moved round to the sink to wash her hands. ‘I just think…’
‘What?’
‘It’s a bit of a funny time, that’s all. People will be having dinner and settling down for the evening.’
I stared at her back. ‘I suggested holding it later, but you wanted to be home by ten.’
‘So, it’s my fault if no one turns up?’ Mum’s voice had gone a bit high-pitched and Meg shot a look at me that said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Of course it’s not your fault, I’m just saying…’ I said, then almost left my skin when Dad yelled, ‘Someone’s here!’ like a castaway spotting a rescue boat on the ocean.
‘Thank Christ for that.’ I smoothed a hand over my ponytail before picking up my checklist. ‘Leave the door open, Dad,’ I instructed, straightening my shoulders to give the impression I was in charge, and he pushed it wide and stepped outside to greet the first customer.
‘Welcome to our taster night,’ he said in a jolly voice, a tea towel folded over his arm like a waiter. Mum sprang forward and placed her hands on the counter, an over-the-top smile on her face, and something inside me shrivelled at the sight of my parents trying to play roles that normally came so naturally to them.
They’ll settle into it, I told myself. It was only because they were outside their normal routine.
‘No need for a welcome committee, it’s only me,’ said Rob, slapping Dad on the back as he strode in.
Mum’s high-wattage smile dimmed to a normal level. ‘Is Emma coming?’ she asked, as though they were best friends now.
Rob shook his head. ‘Just this dude.’ He swept his arm in an arc, as the friend I assumed was Fletcher came loping in, a guitar slung across his lanky body. Everything about him seemed droopy, from his middle-parted hair and moustache, to his sloping shoulders and the flappy beige trousers that looked like they might have once belonged to his granddad.
‘Helloooo,’ he said, swinging round in a circle, arms outstretched, as if greeting a horde of people. Confusion crossed his face. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘On their way,’ I said, hoping it was true. ‘He’s the musician,’ I explained on seeing Mum and Dad’s muddled faces, and remembering that I hadn’t mentioned Fletcher in case he didn’t turn up. ‘I thought some live music would be nice for ambience.’
‘If you’d said, I could have asked my friend Jim to bring his saxophone in,’ Dad said. ‘He’d have done it as a favour.’
‘Oh.’ (Failure to communicate with your client is a sure-fire way to disaster.) ‘Well, I think Fletcher’s doing it as a favour…’ my words trailed off as I saw him shaking his shaggy head, as mournful as a bloodhound.
‘S’not possible, sorry, no way,’ he said. ‘I’ve got fees to pay. Granddad’s care home don’t come cheap, mate.’
He grabbed his guitar and bashed out some tuneless chords that brought Mum’s hands crashing to her ears. ‘Talent like this don’t come cheap either.’ He dropped onto the nearest chair, like a p
uppet whose strings had been cut, and, as he began to giggle helplessly, I realised that Rodney’s Dad was high as a kite.
Chapter Sixteen
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ I hissed at Rob, once we’d wrangled a tittering Fletcher into the office and left him stroking his guitar and making little crooning noises.
‘Honestly, he wasn’t that bad in the car on the way over, or I’d never have got in with him.’ Rob tried to keep a straight face, but was obviously finding the whole thing hilarious. ‘He’s been at his granddad’s medication again.’
I snorted with disbelief. ‘Not long ago, you had the world at your feet, and now you’re hanging around with idiots like him.’
‘Hey,’ he said, losing the grin. ‘You asked me to find someone at short notice, and Nick recommended him. I didn’t know about his little habit, and I don’t think Nick does either.’
‘Well, thanks for nothing.’ I felt a hot flare of resentment. ‘Now the evening’s spoilt.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, then held up his hands as if I was advancing with a sword. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m not doing it, Sandra. I’ve told you, I’m finished with music.’
‘Just this once, as a favour to me.’
He shook his head, his glasses sliding down his nose. ‘Why won’t you take me seriously?’
‘What’s the problem?’ I felt an ache of tiredness in my back. ‘It’s just a few songs while people drink tea, not a three-hour set at the O2.’
‘That’s not the point, sis. You’re asking me to do something I’ve expressly told you I’m not happy doing any more.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ I was suddenly close to crying. ‘You just wait until you’re in front of a bunch of spotty students, you’ll soon be wishing you were back on the road.’
‘How do you know that?’ Rob’s colour deepened as he fidgeted his glasses back into place. ‘You don’t know what I want. When did you last even talk to me properly?’
‘What?’ Shock stilled the urge to weep. Rob and I had always bickered whenever we were in the same room, but there’d never been anything malicious in it. Now, he looked as though he’d like to shove me over. ‘I’m always WhatsApping you,’ I said. ‘And we FaceTime.’
‘Yeah, thank god for technology.’ His tone rocked me to my core. Rob didn’t do bitterness – at least not with me. ‘I’d probably never have heard from you otherwise.’
‘But… we’ve been busy with our lives.’ A fluttering feeling started up in my chest. I couldn’t be having this conversation, not now. ‘I thought you were out there having a brilliant time, not sitting around waiting for your sister to call.’
‘I wasn’t “sitting around”.’ His arms dropped to his sides. ‘I missed you, that’s all.’ His eyes were big and shiny behind his glasses, reminding me of when he’d cried after a routine eye test, aged seven, had revealed his long-sightedness, and he’d worried his friends would laugh at him in his glasses. ‘Look, forget it,’ he said, appearing to cave in. ‘I’ll borrow Fletch’s guitar and do a couple of numbers, if that’s what you want, though I’m not as good on the guitar as I am on the keyboard.’
‘No, wait.’ Flooded with guilt that he was willing to capitulate to please me, I held out my hand. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘They don’t need music to drink tea by. I’m just being silly.’
‘No, you want things to go well, and I’m being a bit of a twat.’
‘No, you’re sticking to your guns,’ I insisted, relieved he seemed like his usual self again. I tugged the sleeve of his baggy shirt. ‘Thanks for offering though.’
‘Cassie, if a customer wants to sample all the teas, how does that actually work?’
I turned to see Mum’s head poking round the door.
‘Have people turned up?’
‘Yes,’ she said, eyebrows high. ‘We’re nearly full. I was thinking of asking Gwen to come in.’
‘No need,’ I said, too quickly. ‘We’ll come and help.’ I looked at Rob, willing him to be OK.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I can wash spoons or something, I suppose.’
‘Or take some photos to put on the website,’ I said, thinking too late that I should have invited someone from the local paper to cover the event. The words EPIC FAIL flashed through my head in lights. I couldn’t believe I’d taken my eye off the ball, when I’d usually been so meticulous in the past, checking and double-checking every detail. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
Although the café wasn’t quite as busy as I’d seen it during the day, I was pleased to see people were still trickling in, looking a bit furtive, as if turning up to an illegal cage fight.
Meg, behind the counter, looked fresh and pretty in her blue-and-white floral tea dress and gave me a thumbs up, which I returned – even if it was a little shaky. Pushing aside my altercation with Rob, I watched a well-dressed couple squeezing themselves in at a table – Dad had been right, the tables were too close together – and settled down to study the menu. The woman called Dad over, and after they’d spoken he pointed me out, then beckoned me over with a curl of his finger.
Oh god. I tried to remember what I’d read about the origins of the different drinks, mumbling under my breath as I approached the table. ‘The Fadenza coffee is from a small region of Brazil and has been processed using the honey method, offering complex flavours of…’ Of what? Butternut squash? And was it Brazil, or Peru? And what the hell were peaberries?
‘They were asking who designed the menu,’ Dad said, helping me round a tight cluster of chairs. ‘I told them it was my clever daughter.’
‘Oh.’ Thrown, I looked at the woman, who was probably around forty, with a glamorous sweep of auburn hair and so many freckles they’d melted into splodges.
‘I’m throwing a golden wedding anniversary for my parents later this year,’ she said, smiling pleasantly.
My heart started racing. I’d hoped people might ask who’d organised the evening without me having to network too much, but hadn’t expected it to happen right away. ‘You’d like me to plan it for you?’ A blend of excitement and dread rose in my gullet as I flipped my checklist over and unclipped my pen. ‘Did you have a theme in mind?’
Her brow wrinkled and she exchanged a look with her partner, as if checking she’d been speaking plain English. ‘That’s all in hand,’ she said, returning her gaze to me. ‘I was wondering whether you’d be interested in designing the invitations.’
‘Invitations.’ I scribbled on my pad, to buy myself a moment. Literally, scribbled, as I tried to make sense of her request. ‘Of course,’ I said perkily, slamming the pad to my chest so she couldn’t see my squiggles. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Great!’ She was all smiles again. ‘Do you have a business card?’
‘I, er, not on me at the moment.’ I patted my backside, as if I normally carried hundreds of them in my pocket. ‘I’m actually in the process of getting some new ones printed.’ At least that much was true. Almost. ‘Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll call you to discuss details?’ What was I doing?
‘Sure.’ She reeled it off, along with her name, and I dutifully wrote it all down. ‘Brilliant,’ she said, beaming at her partner, who beamed right back, and as Dad was beaming too it seemed only fitting that I joined in, even though I was thinking, What the HELL? Designing golden wedding invitations wasn’t even on my list of things to do, but it was a job of sorts, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to turn down work.
‘Won’t you be back in London by then?’ Dad had stopped beaming and was looking puzzled, but luckily the woman spoke at the same time and I didn’t have to reply.
‘Could I taste the lemongrass and dill tea? And my husband wants to try the Peruvian coffee.’ She gave him a wicked grin. ‘He likes a challenge.’
‘Of course.’ I snapped back to the current event. ‘The tea is… well, the flavours speak for themselves, and the coffee is…’ What is it, Cassie? ‘It’s earthy,’ I improvised, ‘with
quite a kick.’ I mimed a little kicking motion, narrowly missing her slender shin. ‘Dad, could you bring the tasters over?’ I grabbed his arm for support as I edged round the table on tiptoe, trying not to stand on bags and shoes as a group of women crowded round, pulling their chairs closer together to look at the menu.
‘This is cute,’ I heard one of them say. ‘Wish I was artistic.’
‘You’re good at painting the town red,’ said another, and they burst out laughing, even though it wasn’t very funny.
‘Mum, do you still have a radio out the back, or a music player somewhere?’
‘What?’ She looked up from straining tea into a cardboard takeaway cup, and some of it dripped down the side. It was bright red, like fresh blood, but the customer seemed entranced, inhaling the steam as though trying to clear his sinuses.
‘Radio?’
She shook her head and I suppressed a sigh as I went to join her and Meg, who was slicing her Bakewell tart into even slices. Maybe it was better without music, I thought, seeing everyone was entering into the spirit of things, discussing and comparing flavours and appearing to be enjoying the novelty of it all.
Music might have been a distraction, now I thought about it.
Think through every aspect of the event, and make sure you’ve judged it correctly. Carlotta’s voice this time. No wonder she’d been bad-tempered, thinking about it. All that thinking and judging.
‘Do I have to spit it out, like wine?’ someone was asking, and I hastily shook my head when Mum turned querying eyes my way.
‘That coffee’s rank,’ said a man with a face like a bulldog, screwing up his nose in disgust. ‘I think I’ll stick with my usual espresso, please.’
‘Oh, we’re not serving our usual drinks this evening,’ Dad said, looking a bit hot and bothered. ‘Only the new stuff.’
The man opted to taste one of Meg’s muffins instead, not bothering to sit down before biting into it, spilling crumbs down his shirt.
‘How much are you charging for those?’ I asked her.