But the décor is coming along nicely. It’s going to be fresh and summery and inviting. The sort of place where friends will meet to chat over coffee or fruit teas. Where shoppers will drop in to take the weight off their feet and enjoy a slice of cake while browsing through our selection of magazines. Where frazzled mums will take a breather, watching their toddlers play happily in our mini soft play area. I’m also hoping to tap into the summer tourist trade with an eye-catching sign on the main road through the village, spotlighting our little cul-de sac café. It’s being taken care of by the local print firm and I’m really excited to see it.
A car draws up outside and seconds later, the door bursts open and in strides a familiar figure. My stomach shifts queasily.
Lucy Slater has always enjoyed making an entrance, and her dramatic appearance normally ensures she gets the attention she craves. She’s not conventionally pretty. Her long dark hair is certainly striking but its thick, coarse texture meant it looked bushy and wild when she was a kid. She must spend a fortune taming it these days.
She wears a lot of long, expensive layers in black, oatmeal and white that accentuate her tall, slim figure. Today’s outfit is a loose black trouser suit, the jacket open to reveal a white silk blouse and a dramatic blood-red crucifix necklace swinging as she walks.
But it’s her eyes that draw the most attention. They’re green with flecks of silver, and their tone changes like the sea, depending on her mood. A dark circle around the colour of the pupil gives her an eerie, other-world look, and she accentuates them with so much thick black eyeliner and mascara, I swear she must have shares in the make-up company.
They might be Lucy’s best feature, but those eyes gave me nightmares when I was a kid.
She ignores me and walks over to Paloma. ‘Nice colour,’ she says, standing on tiptoe to examine the paint tin perched on top of the stepladders.
‘Hillside Heather,’ says Paloma obligingly. Then she looks back at me and we shrug as if to say neither of us has a clue why Lucy is here.
She starts chattering on about the merits of plain white versus colour on a shop wall and Paloma says she thinks a little colour gives a room warmth and makes it seem cosier, which is exactly what I want for my café. Not that it’s any of Lucy Slater’s business.
A second later, Jason walks in, swinging his car keys. He smiles warmly at me and, seeing Lucy bending Paloma’s ear, wanders over to see what I’m doing.
‘It’s a bit rickety.’ I feel I have to apologise for the state of the chair. ‘But we’re hoping that with a makeover …’ I shrug.
He considers the chair on its spindly legs from all angles. Then he grins. ‘Do you think it would take my weight?’
I groan. ‘Oh, don’t!’
‘Rowena’s got a load of furniture and crockery to sell, you know,’ he says.
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Rowena, a lovely woman in her fifties, ran the busy ice-cream parlour on Hart’s End High Street for the past three years, but recently decided it was time she retired. The shop has been vacant for a couple of months now and every time I walk past its blank façade, I feel sad. ‘That’s a great idea. Thanks, Jason. I’ll phone her and find out what she’s done with it.’
‘You should. I spoke to her the other day and she was thinking of putting it all for sale on-line, but if you get in quick, you might find some stuff you can use at a bargain price.’
I smile and offer him a mint, which he takes. They happen to be his favourite brand, and we exchange a look, acknowledging this. Even after all this time, there are so many little things I remember from our time together. I can’t help but wonder if Jason feels this, too.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Lucy giving us shifty looks, so I turn away from Jason and get back to my sanding. I don’t want to get him into trouble. She’s probably desperate to know what we’re talking about.
‘So, I brought some curtain material for you to look at,’ says Lucy, finally announcing the reason for her impromptu visit. She comes over with a plastic bag from a high-end fabric shop and shows me the material inside. It’s a vertical stripe pattern in pretty pastel shades of lilac, pink and blue. ‘Paloma mentioned you were needing curtains and I remembered we had this curtain material that we never used. You can have it if you like it. I could measure up and make the curtains for you.’ She glances around at the room’s four large windows, two ranged either side on opposite walls. ‘Consider it an opening gift.’
I’m confused. Why is Lucy being nice to me?
I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t possibly – unless you let me pay you.’
‘I said you can have it,’ she says, snippily, looking anywhere but at me. And it suddenly occurs to me that maybe she finally feels guilty for making my life a misery at school. ‘I bought it to deck out our summer house, but I went off it, so it’s going spare.’ At last, she meets my eye. ‘Do you like it?’
Feeling pushed into a corner, I nod. ‘It would tone in with the colour on the walls perfectly.’
‘Right, well, have it. As I said, I can run up some curtains and bring them back in good time for your opening day.’
‘Well, I will definitely pay you to do that,’ I tell her firmly.
‘Okay. Fine. I’ll stick the money in the charity fund. You open on 1st June, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I paste on a smile. ‘Gosh, news travels fast. I’ve only just decided the opening day myself. However did you find out?’ I swivel my eyes at Paloma, but she shrugs, disclaiming all responsibility.
‘Oh, it’s all round the village.’ Lucy waves her hand impatiently. ‘You can’t expect to keep anything quiet for long round here.’
‘Right, well, thank you.’ It costs me to say it. I hate being beholden to bloody Lucy Slater. Whatever Paloma might say about me being paranoid, I still can’t help being suspicious of her motives in suddenly being nice. But I suppose people do change sometimes …
‘It’s fine.’ Lucy waves her hand dismissively ‘We’re going to be moving soon, to a much larger property in Lake Heath. Five bedrooms. Triple garage. So we’re hardly likely to need that.’ She looks down her nose at the stripy fabric, which – frankly – is a godsend to me. Then she links arms with her man, gazing up at him adoringly. ‘We can’t wait to move, can we, Jason?’
Jason pats her hand and smiles. ‘Whatever you say, darling. You’re in charge of the purse strings.’ He grimaces jokingly at Paloma and me.
Lucy’s message to me is very clear: She has her man and they’re doing brilliantly well in life. I catch Paloma’s eye and she does a funny finger-down-the-throat mime from her perch on the stepladders, which makes me feel slightly better.
‘Help me measure up and then we’ll be off,’ Lucy orders, and Jason dutifully toes the line.
I watch as he humours her. He’s so patient and doesn’t seem at all put out by her domineering manner. Perhaps he’s so used to it by now, he’s able to let it wash over him.
‘Right, come on, the Jag awaits!’ Lucy gives a little screechy laugh. ‘I’m terrible, I know, but I never get tired of saying that. Do you have a car at the moment, Twilight?’
‘Yes, she does,’ jumps in Paloma, before I can open my mouth. ‘It’s a Lamborghini but she doesn’t drive it much because she doesn’t like to show off.’ She smiles radiantly at a bemused Lucy, and I clamp my lips together to stop myself smiling.
Jason shakes his head at Paloma, clearly amused.
‘So where is it?’ Lucy wants to know. ‘Is it in the garage?’
‘Let’s go.’ Jason grins at me and starts steering Lucy towards the door.
As they walk out to the Jag, Lucy’s voice drifts back: ‘Oh, I see. She was making a joke. Well, it wasn’t very funny.’
Paloma makes a comical face at me. ‘Lucy never could understand irony.’
I shake my head. ‘I just wish you wouldn’t talk to her about my business, that’s all.’
‘But I don’t.’ Paloma sounds indignant. ‘I just happened
to bump into her on the high street the other day and it’s kind of hard not to answer questions when someone is grilling you.’
‘Lucy was grilling you?’
‘No.’ Paloma holds her head in frustration and pretends to scream. ‘I meant she was asking about you and the café. She’s interested, Twi. Just like everyone else in the village.’
‘You obviously didn’t see the look she gave me when they left,’ I mutter darkly.
‘But she brought you material. And she’s going to make curtains for you. Give her a break, for God’s sake.’
She sees my face and instantly looks contrite. ‘Look, I know she treated you horribly at school and I can never, ever forgive her for that. But things have changed. We’re not school kids any more. I still can’t stand the woman, but she’s not that vicious kid any more.’
‘Yes, but the look she gave me would have turned the milk sour,’ I mutter.
‘Oh, well, if a dirty look is all you have to worry about, you should think yourself lucky!’ retorts Paloma.
‘What?’ I can’t believe she’d say something so insensitive.
‘Oh God, sorry, Twi. Forget I said that. My head’s all over the place today. Of course I know you’re going through hell right now. How is your dad? Have you heard anything today?’
I swallow hard. Mum phoned last night in a panic, worrying about him, and it was all I could do not to leap on the first train to London to be with them.
‘Is he okay?’
I wobble my hand to indicate so-so. ‘It’s all a big stress on his already weakened system. Mum’s going through hell, wishing she could have the treatment instead of him. I wish I could be there.’ I feel hot and anxious suddenly. ‘I shouldn’t be here, painting this stupid chair! I should be with them at the hospital, holding Mum’s hand and being there for Dad. What if it’s all too much for him and something terrible happens and I never see him again?’
A tear brims over and slides down my face as I stare in anguish at my best friend.
Paloma comes over and gently removes the sandpaper from my hand, then leads me over to a chair we haven’t started on yet. Crouching down beside me, she puts her arms around me and lets me sob into her shoulder until her shirt is wet through.
*****
Next afternoon, as we put the finishing touches to the tables and chairs, we’re both still a bit subdued.
There’s something troubling Paloma, I can tell, but there’s no point trying to force it out of her. She can be quite stubborn and she’d only clam up. I know she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
As for myself, I just can’t stop thinking about Dad, hoping and praying the treatment will make a difference. Even just a small difference. Just so I can see a spark of life behind his eyes and have my vibrant, energetic dad back again, telling his awful jokes and whistling tunelessly around the place. It’s funny the things you miss when someone isn’t around …
Later, we retreat to the treehouse where I’ve left cookies and an ice-cold thermos flask of home-made lemonade for our break. We sip the lemonade high up on the verandah overlooking the back garden that’s beginning to give a hint of the riot of summer colour to come.
‘Cookie?’ I hold the box out to Paloma. ‘They’re raspberry and white chocolate. Your favourite.’
No reply. She’s staring out, past Dad’s old country store, at the clear blue sky beyond, a deep furrow between her brows.
‘What is it?’ I ask gently.
‘I don’t know.’ To my dismay, her eyes fill with tears. ‘I just feel … weird.’
I grasp her hand, wanting to help. Paloma hardly ever cries. I never even saw her break down when Linda finally succumbed to the cancer last year. She didn’t let out the tears until long afterwards.
‘Tell me.’
She shrugs. ‘All this stuff you’re going through with your dad. Since you’ve been back, it’s been playing on my mind and I really feel for you because it’s so horrible watching someone you love going through hell. And I suppose Mum dying last year made me realise how important it is to have family.’
She draws a deep breath and lets the air out slowly, still staring into the distance.
Then she turns, an urgent look in her eyes. ‘I want to find her, Twi.’
My heart lurches. ‘Who?’
‘My birth mum.’
Chapter 10
‘Wow.’ My mouth opens in total surprise. I never thought I’d see this day.
As long as I’ve known her, Paloma has always been absolutely adamant she already had a wonderful mum and wasn’t at all curious about the woman who gave her up at two weeks old. It was just biology, she insisted, not the loving and nurturing of a true parent.
I take her hand and squeeze it gently, realising now that she probably only said those things because she didn’t want to hurt Linda.
But now that Linda is gone …
She grins at me. ‘I know. Bit of a bombshell, eh?’
‘It certainly is. But if you’re serious, I’ll help you any way I can.’
She leans sideways and nudges my shoulder. ‘Thanks. I could do with my bestie’s support in this. Because I’m scared. And when I say scared, I mean terrified!’
‘Yeah?’
She nods and I can see genuine fear in her eyes.
‘You’ve got nothing to lose, though,’ I tell her gently.
‘But I have! Don’t you see?’ She looks up at the sky in despair. ‘Even though I’ve never looked for the woman who gave birth to me, I’ve imagined what she’d be like. What if I find her and she’s nothing like my image of her?’ She grabs my hand. ‘Oh, Twi, what if I never find her? Or what if I do find her but she doesn’t want to know me? At least if I don’t look for her, I can cling on to the fantasy …’ She shrugs hopelessly and collapses back against the wall of the treehouse, staring up at the sky.
There’s a long silence.
Then I say carefully, ‘The thing is, a fantasy mother isn’t much use. You need a real one.’
She says nothing but her mouth twists in acknowledgement.
‘So if she’s out there, I really think you have to try and find her.’
*****
The next day is Saturday, the day of my cake-tasting party. I’m awake early to bake scones and ice the cakes I baked yesterday.
As I work away, I’m feeling a mixture of nervousness and excitement because the café is now no longer just a whacky concept in my head. After all our hard work over the past few weeks – mine and Paloma’s – my plan is slowly taking shape and becoming a reality.
If the people today give my cakes the thumbs-up, I’ll be a step nearer the big opening day, a week tomorrow!
I’ve issued a casual invitation to around twenty people to drop in some time today, any time after two o’clock, to sample my cakes and, for fun, to score each bake a mark out of ten. Along with my old school friends, I’ve invited some of Mum’s friends from the village. The plan is to find out people’s preferences while at the same time, throwing a spotlight on the opening of the café the following week. A gorgeous poster, full of cupcake lusciousness and designed by Paloma, went up yesterday in various locations around Hart’s End.
Mum phones at lunchtime, just as I’m cutting the tray bakes and slicing the cakes, ready to display on the gorgeous vintage rose-sprigged cake stands I picked up at a car boot sale. ‘Your dad was back to charming the nurses this morning, poor things,’ she jokes.
My heart lifts. ‘That’s great, Mum.’
‘He’s having a little nap right now, so I thought I’d phone and see how you were getting on, love.’
‘I’m almost ready for the pretend customers. I just hope the cakes go down well.’
‘You don’t want them going down. You want them to rise.’
‘Oh, funny.’
‘Twilly, they’re going to absolutely love them. You’re a fabulous baker. Your dad says he can see this café of yours getting awards and everything!’
‘Aw, bless him.’ My
throat feels suddenly constricted. If my café’s success depended solely on the love and support of Mum and Dad, it would indeed be an award-winner!
‘I just wish I could be there to help you today,’ Mum says.
‘To snaffle the chocolate cakes, you mean?’
She laughs. ‘You know me too well. Are they filled with chocolate ganache?’
‘But of course.’
When I hang up, a feeling of uncertainty pulses through me. It’s great that they believe in me, but I just wish I could be sure it was justified. Because right now, the fate of Honey Cottage rests solely in my hands, and that’s quite a terrifying thought. What happens if the café fails to take off? What will we do then?
Paloma comes over just before two o’clock, and soon after that, two of Mum’s friends arrive, both very excited about being cake judges. I pour them a glass of Prosecco each and after they’ve hugged me and asked about Mum and Dad and remarked on how strange it feels to be in their house without them there, we get down to the serious business of sampling the cakes and marking them out of ten.
‘It’s high time the village had a proper café,’ says Betty, picking up a bite-sized square of lemon drizzle cake and popping it into her mouth with a swoony expression. ‘Oh, that’s utter heaven, Twilight, my love. What do you think, Doreen?’
‘Marvellous. My favourite is the coffee and walnut. But I do love that gingerbread.’
Mentally, I thank Lucy. The traditional gingerbread recipe came from her granny’s little notebook. Perhaps I’ve misjudged her. Maybe she has changed, as Paloma keeps assuring me.
I’m busy making tea for everyone when Betty follows me into the kitchen.
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