The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea

by Jennifer Joyce

  There was a roar of applause. She was squeezed, kissed, patted on the back, but she didn’t feel any of it.

  ‘That’s me,’ she whispered, her voice inaudible over the congratulatory noise around her.

  ‘I knew you could do it,’ Hugo said, and then she was being propelled forward – whether by her own steam, or someone else’s, she wasn’t sure. She shook the organiser’s hand and received the cheque in a daze, her eyes roaming the crowd for her friends and family. They were there, but they’d been swallowed by the crowd and she couldn’t pick them out.

  She pressed the cheque to her chest and closed her eyes.

  She’d done it.

  For herself, and for Ollie, who had always believed in her.

  She spotted her then, in the middle of the crowd, applauding as though her life depended on it. She caught Lisa’s eye and found she was mirroring the smile on her face: happy, proud, but with a tinge of regret. Earlier, Lisa had said Ollie would be proud of Melody’s bid to reach her dreams, and now, finally, Melody believed her. And, with the award under her belt, she could start to believe in herself too.

  If you enjoyed The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea, then turn over for an exclusive extract from Jennifer Joyce’s The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts!

  Chapter One

  There are lots of different kinds of kisses, from friendly pecks on the cheek to passionate, tongue-swirling embraces and detached air kisses (the latter of which aren’t even kisses at all, in my opinion). Currently, I’m being subjected to a rather enthusiastic (and rather wet) hello kiss, my entire face on the receiving end of a thorough licking.

  ‘Hello to you too, Franklin.’ I pull the podgy French bulldog’s wriggling body away so that his doggy kisses lap at the air instead of my face, and place him down on the pavement outside my little teashop, winding his lead around the drainpipe and securing it. Franklin – or rather his owner, Birdie – is a regular at the teashop. They arrive each Friday morning, after Birdie’s shampoo and set at the salon two doors down. I adore Franklin. He’s utterly gorgeous with his smooth, tan fur with a darker muzzle and a small patch of cream on his chest. His pink-lined ears are always alert and his chocolatey eyes are always on the hunt for a treat.

  ‘You spoil him,’ Birdie says with a good-humoured tut as I reach into the pocket of my pink-and-white polka-dotted apron and pull out a homemade, bone-shaped doggy biscuit. I don’t have a dog of my own – I don’t have any pets as the tiny flat above the teashop is barely big enough for me – so I make the treats especially for Franklin. I don’t mind. I love baking, whether it’s for my human customers or their four-legged companions.

  ‘I can’t help it.’ I hold out the treat and Franklin takes it gently between his teeth, drawing it from my fingers. ‘He’s so adorable.’ I pat Franklin on the head before Birdie and I step into the teashop. It’s quiet inside, with only one other customer sitting at the table closest to the counter. Robbie works for his mum at the florist’s three doors away, but I suspect he spends more time sipping banana milkshakes in my teashop than he does arranging flowers.

  ‘What can I get you today?’ I ask Birdie as she sits at the table by the window so she can keep an eye on Franklin.

  Birdie doesn’t even bother to glance at the menu or specials boards. ‘Is the apple crumble on today?’

  ‘Of course.’ Apple crumble is Birdie’s favourite dessert, so I always make sure there’s a dish ready on Friday mornings. ‘Warm custard?’

  Birdie grins up at me, her eyes sparkling. ‘Perfect.’

  I’ve always loved baking. It’s my passion and has been ever since my grandmother tied a floral apron around my waist (wrapping the belt around my middle three times before tying it in a bow as I was only a tiny three-year-old at the time) and helped me to whip up my first batch of fairy cakes. I remember the warmth of the oven as Gran opened the door, the delicious smell of the hot buns, the anticipation of waiting for them to cool. I remember the gloopy icing sugar and the rattle of the tub of hundreds and thousands, the rainbow of bright colours as they tumbled onto the still-wet icing sugar.

  Most of all I remember the sweet, sugary taste as I finally bit into the very first cake I’d ever made. The wonder that I, Madeleine Lamington, had mixed up a bunch of ingredients and produced an actual, edible and delicious treat. It was magic, pure and simple.

  I’ve been making magic ever since.

  Gran taught me everything she knew about baking – all the recipes passed down from her own grandmother, all the little tricks she’d honed over the years, and I’d always dreamed of opening my own teashop serving delicious treats, but it didn’t happen straight away. There was a long road ahead after I left school clutching an A* GCSE in food tech. A road that involved college, A Levels and waitressing.

  Later came greasy kitchens and grumpy bakers, more waitressing and admin jobs to pay the bills (plus a soul-destroying stint as a cold caller trying to flog double glazing to people who had no desire to buy it. The only saving grace with that job was meeting Penny, who would become my best friend and ultimately help me to achieve my dream).

  Through it all, I baked and I dreamed and now I’m the proud owner of number 5 Kingsbury Road, aka Sweet Street Teashop. It’s hard work, but I love every single minute of it. There is little else I enjoy more than seeing the pleasure my cakes, puddings and biscuits bring to my customers.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ I ask Birdie.

  ‘Yes please. I’m gasping. I had one at the salon, but the sheer volume of hairspray clogging up the air has undone all its good work. I’m spitting feathers.’

  I make Birdie’s much-needed tea, placing it on her table before heading into the kitchen to warm the custard and spoon a generous serving of apple crumble into a red-and-white polka-dot bowl. I like polka dots. I like patterns in general, mixing and matching them throughout the teashop, from the bright, patterned tabletops (each of my five tables has a different pattern, ranging from a simple but cheery polka-dot design to a yellow rubber duck print) to the crockery I use to serve my desserts.

  ‘Lovely, thank you,’ Birdie says as I carry her order through to the teashop and place it before her on the table. ‘I don’t know how I’d get through the week without my Friday treat.’ She pats her slightly rounded tummy. ‘My body would thank me if I gave it a miss though.’

  ‘Nonsense. We all deserve a treat. Speaking of which …’ I pull the little bag of doggy treats out of my apron pocket and hand them over to Birdie. ‘For Franklin.’

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Birdie takes the bag and pops it into the handbag hooked onto the back of her chair. ‘You really shouldn’t go to so much trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’ I place my hand on Birdie’s shoulder briefly before I move through to the little room adjoining the kitchen. Part storeroom, part office, the room is filled with boxes and sacks and the roll-top bureau that once belonged to Gran and now acts as my desk.

  ‘Is it busy out there? Do you need a hand?’ Mags, one of my wonderful assistants at the teashop, looks hopeful as she glances up from the desk. Mags has been working with me for almost a year, taking on the role of baker, waitress and bookkeeper (she really is Wonder Woman without the metallic knickers) when Sweet Street Teashop opened. I’m pretty poor at facts and figures (any numbers that don’t involve pounds, kilograms or other such measurements sail way over my head) but Mags is brilliant. Give her a pencil and a calculator and she’s perfectly happy to sit in this windowless room and take care of the business side of the teashop. Equally, give her a bowl, wooden spoon and access to ingredients and she’s just as happy and capable. I’d be lost without Mags.

  ‘We’re not busy at all,’ I say as I step into the room. If only. ‘There’s only Robbie and Birdie out there.’ I close the door and lower my voice. ‘How are the books?’

  The corners of Mags’s bright red lips turn down. ‘Not so good.’ She shakes her head. ‘We need more customers. And fast.’

&n
bsp; I’m already scarily aware of this fact. Have been since I opened the teashop doors almost a year ago and welcomed three customers that day. When, by the end of the week, I’d served a grand total of twenty-six customers – including my dad and my mum and her partner – I knew we were in trouble. The problem was, knowing this fact didn’t provide me with a solution for how to fix it.

  ‘Do you think another round of flyers would help?’

  Mags shrugs her shoulders. ‘Perhaps. It didn’t have much of an impact last time, but we have to get the word out there somehow. Shall I get on to the printers?’

  I press my lips together, unsure of the answer. Mags is right – we do have to spread the word – but printing flyers is a cost I could do without, especially when the outcome isn’t looking particularly promising. We’ve tried dropping flyers through letterboxes or handing them out to shoppers in the town centre a few times, and we’ve targeted specific groups, such as the local NCT group and the over fifties leisure classes, but it’s had little impact so far and we’re still pretty much welcoming the same core group of regulars that we started with. We need a proper push, something to attract a wider customer base.

  ‘Hold off for now,’ I say, opening the door and stepping over the threshold. ‘We’ll put our heads together later and have a proper think. I’m sure we’ll come up with a solution.’

  We have to, otherwise the dream will be over and we’ll both be out of a job.

  Chapter Two

  Kingsbury Road is a gorgeous little oasis away from the hustle and bustle of Woodgate town centre. With its quaint cobbled road and short terrace of double bay-fronted shops facing a community garden, you can almost imagine you’re in a picturesque village rather than within spitting distance of a shopping mall and busy high street. We’re a twenty-minute drive away from Manchester City Centre, but there’s nothing urban about Kingsbury Road.

  Unfortunately, as beautiful as our little road is, it’s a largely forgotten-about side street with little footfall despite its close proximity to the town centre. Attempts to entice hungry shoppers over in this direction haven’t been working out too well for Sweet Street Teashop.

  There are five shops in the terrace, starting at one end with Paper Roses, a craft supplies shop, and ending with Sweet Street Teashop. Sandwiched between us is a florist – where banana milkshake addict Robbie claims to work – a hair and beauty salon and a letting agency. I can see Rehana and George from the letting agency right now, sneaking past the window with their cardboard cups and greasy paper bags from one of the coffee shops on the high street. Despite sitting next door to Sweet Street, they never pop in for their morning coffee, preferring instead to sip their caffeine from branded cups.

  We have everything they could possibly want first thing on a Saturday morning – freshly baked croissants and bagels, pancakes and waffles with whipped cream and fresh fruit or gooey maple syrup, Danish pastries and cinnamon buns and all the coffee they could wish for – but we’ve never been able to tempt them away from the lure of the high street.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Mags asks when she emerges from the kitchen with a batch of chocolate chip muffins and sees me hovering by the window. I’m tempted to wave at Rehana and George as they scurry past but I chicken out. ‘You shouldn’t be here. It’s your day off.’

  Mags thinks I work too hard. She’s probably right but I don’t feel I have a choice right now. Not when my business is sinking faster than a mafia target tossed into a canal wearing concrete boots.

  ‘I’m not here.’ I step away from the window as Rehana and George disappear from view. ‘Not really. I’m just picking up the leftover apple crumble from yesterday.’ I head into the kitchen, leaving Mags and our sole customer (Robbie, again) in the teashop. Victoria, the final cog that makes up the Sweet Street machine, is blitzing bananas in the blender for Robbie’s daily milkshake. Making milkshakes and washing up is as far as Victoria’s expertise stretches when it comes to the teashop’s kitchen. I tried to teach her the basics when she first started working with us, but it was a bad idea. Very bad indeed. Sometimes, if you inhale deeply enough, you can still smell the charred fairy cakes.

  But Victoria is great out front, serving the customers and chatting with them. I’m a bit awkward when it comes to the face-to-face stuff, feeling much more at ease with my mixing bowl than my fellow human beings, but Victoria’s a natural. She’s the youngest of the Sweet Street team at twenty-two (I’m six years older and Mags is thirty-something. Mags won’t tell you what the ‘something’ is and I won’t risk my safety by passing it on) and though she has a tough exterior, she’s as soft and squishy as a melted marshmallow inside. The lead singer of a band, Victoria is waitressing at Sweet Street until they’re offered a record deal.

  ‘How did the gig go last night?’ I ask as I open the fridge and pull the apple crumble out.

  Victoria turns the blender off. ‘Good. He didn’t turn up though.’

  ‘He’ is a manager that Victoria’s band are hoping to impress so he’ll sign them and rocket them to stardom. She’s talked of little else over the past few weeks so I’m gutted for her.

  ‘Why not?’ It seems pretty shady to me to arrange to watch a band’s gig and then not bother to show up. Especially when Victoria’s been so excited about the gig and what it would mean for the band’s future.

  Victoria shrugs. ‘He didn’t promise anything. We’ve got another gig next week so Nathan’s going to see if he’ll come to that.’

  I want to tell Victoria not to get her hopes up but I know she will. She and the band (including her boyfriend, Nathan) formed when they were still at school and they’ve been working hard to achieve their dream ever since, performing insignificant little gigs for little to no money just for exposure. I know how it feels to have a dream, to want to turn your passion into a career so much it’s actually painful and the thought of not reaching your goal is enough to make you cry. I’ve been there. I am there, because although I have the teashop, it’s quickly slipping from my grasp and I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to say goodbye to it so soon.

  ‘I’ll cross my fingers for you,’ I say instead.

  ‘Thanks.’ Victoria smiles at me and she looks so young, despite her heavily lined eyes and piercings. Victoria has ten piercings – one each in her lip, nose, right eyebrow and bellybutton, plus three studs in each ear. She also has three tattoos but her leggings and oversized hoodie combo currently cover them up.

  Victoria finishes the banana milkshake and takes it out to Robbie while I transfer the leftover apple crumble from its heavy dish into a plastic container. When I return to the teashop, I’m pleased to see a couple more customers enjoying coffee and pastries by one of the windows.

  ‘Don’t forget Paper Roses’ order this afternoon,’ I say to Mags as I pop the tub of apple crumble into a canvas bag and hook it onto my shoulder. The girls at the neighbouring craft shop run weekly classes and usually order a small selection of cakes for their tea break. I’m so grateful for their custom, I often buy sequins, spools of ribbon and other supplies from the shop even though I don’t have a crafty bone in my body.

  ‘I won’t,’ Mags says. ‘Now get out of here and enjoy your day off before I have to physically eject you.’ Mags places her hands on her wide hips and cocks an eyebrow in challenge. I hold my hands up in surrender.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’ I say goodbye to Mags and Victoria before I head out, praying custom magically picks up during my absence.

  Dad lives on his own, in the house I grew up in on the outskirts of Manchester City Centre. The three-bedroomed house is too big for him to potter about in on his own but he likes to cling on to the memories of our family before it fractured. Mum and Dad divorced seven years ago but while Mum is happy with a new partner, Dad can’t seem to move on. I worry about him and it breaks my heart that he’s alone, which is why I visit every weekend – without fail – with his favourite dessert. We’ll sit in the kitchen with a
bowl of warm apple crumble and custard and a cup of tea while we catch up.

  ‘Will tinned custard do?’ Dad asks, as he does every single week. I play along, releasing a long sigh.

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to.’ Gran taught me to make my own custard, which I use in the teashop, but it’s a bit of a faff at the weekend when I just want to relax.

  Dad heats the apple crumble and custard in the microwave while I make cups of tea and then we sit at the table and Dad asks, ‘How’s your mum?’

  Like the tinned custard, this question is routine and, as always, I feel awful when I answer. I want to tell him she’s not so good. That she and Ivor have split up, that she’s regretting ever leaving Dad after twenty-three years of marriage. That she wishes she’d worked harder, that she hadn’t given up, that she was mistaken when she’d said that she cared about Dad but didn’t love him any more.

  But I can’t.

  Mum’s happy.

  And she still cares about Dad but doesn’t love him any more. She loves Ivor.

  I’m happy for Mum, really I am, but I feel for Dad. I’ve been the dumped party, the one left behind. Left devastated.

  ‘She’s okay,’ I tell Dad, though I know it won’t be enough. Mum is a wound Dad likes to prod, even if it hurts like hell. When I split up with my last boyfriend, I couldn’t bear to think about him, let alone talk about him. I’ve shut the door on my relationship with Joel and locked, bolted and welded it shut. But Dad likes to know every little detail of Mum’s life because if he’s out of the loop, he’s truly lost her.

  ‘Did she have a nice holiday?’ I nod, a mouthful of hot apple crumble and custard rendering me unable to speak. ‘I bet she’s tanned, isn’t she? She only has to think about the sun and she’s golden. Not like me, eh?’ Dad lifts up an arm, flashing his pale, freckly skin. ‘Luckily you got your mum’s colouring.’