Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!

All week, the weather reporters have been banging on about a spectacular storm that will sweep north, arriving just in time for today’s commuter exodus.

Luckily, I thought to wear my new raincoat this morning – the one I fished out of a bargain bin at a camping shop. It’s fairly obvious why no one wanted it. The last time swirly orange and purple Paisley pattern was on trend, I probably wasn’t even alive. Plus it’s a large size and therefore swamps me. But it’s functional, and that’s what’s important.

As I emerge from the chemist’s, the sky turns spookily dark and thunder crashes overhead. A fork of lightning splits the sky and big fat raindrops begin to splat onto the pavement. Everyone hurries to get somewhere.

I glance anxiously upwards. The clouds are black and menacing, like giant angry gods. Raincoat or not, I’m going to get soaked.

Remembering the teashop Shona keeps raving about, I hurry down the next side street and dive thankfully through the door. I flump down in a seat by the window of Frankie’s Tearoom and observe the storm with wonder for a moment. Rain is now lashing against the windows and it’s so black out there it could be midnight.

I shrug off my coat and glance around to gauge the clientele. There are pearls and stiff perms in abundance. This is clearly an establishment that embraces old-fashioned values: white tablecloths, low lighting, waitresses in black with frilly white aprons, and exotically-named teas that arrive with a strainer on the side. It’s the sort of place where you plan what extravagant cake-y treat you’re going to have well in advance. Beneath the glass case I spy luscious-looking cherry bakewells, scones bursting with sultanas and generous slabs of something gooey and chocolatey. Shona says she comes here for a bit of peace and sanity on days when The Boss is being narky. On that basis, I’m surprised Shona isn’t the size of a modest bungalow.

It’s a maelstrom outside. Cars are crawling; pedestrians keep their heads down, buffeted by the storm. But it’s safe and warm in here, behind the glass.

I order a pot of Earl Grey and watch a man dash from newsagents to van with a paper over his head.

The waitress delivers my tea and I am just about to bring out my book when the door opens and in bursts an amply-fleshed middle-aged woman in a strawberry-patterned mac. She shakes the raindrops from her thick, honey blonde hair and glances around expectantly. When her eyes settle on me, she bustles straight over, her generous hips almost divesting an alarmed couple of their starched tablecloth and jam pot.

With no preamble whatsoever, she says in a loud and cheerful Welsh accent, ‘This is probably going to sound a bit strange but can I interest you in a tea leaf reading?’

My heart sinks.

I glance quickly around. An older couple in the corner are looking over with unconcealed interest.

Oh God, of all the people in here, why do I have to be the one lumbered with Mrs Whacko?

‘No thanks.’ I give her an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t have any cash on me.’

She looks shocked. ‘Oh, Heavens, no, you misunderstand me. I’d be doing it totally for free. I’m still learning, see. Started night classes last week down the college.’

‘Oh, right. Well, that would have been lovely,’ I tell her regretfully, ‘but I have to go in a minute.’

‘But it’ll only take a minute.’

Of course it will. Silly me.

Her smile is so warm and eager, I really haven’t the heart to refuse.

There’s something slightly familiar about her but I can’t think what.

She drops her green velvet shoulder bag on the table and unbuttons the mac to reveal a bright yellow blouse, rugby forward’s arms and an eyeful of cleavage that quivers when she moves like a nearly-set custard.

‘Miriam Cadwalader.’ She holds out her hand.

‘Roberta Blatchett.’ Her hand, when I shake it, is surprisingly small with neat, with hot-pink lacquered nails. ‘But everyone calls me Bobbie.’

Mrs Cadwalader gives her hands a gleeful rub. ‘Right, Bobbie, love, let’s get right down to it.’ She draws her chair closer to the table with several high-pitched screeches of wood on wood and more customers turn to peer in our direction. Completely oblivious to the stir she is causing, Mrs Cadwalader flicks through a notebook filled with big curly handwriting.

Staring at her thick, curly hair, I suddenly remember where I’ve seen her. She’s the woman on the bike in the bright orange tracksuit!

I watch her with a mix of amusement and wariness as she runs her finger down a list. I assume it’s a step-by-step ‘how to’ guide.

I’ve managed to get myself on a fairly even keel since the disaster that was London and Bob the Knob. My life is fine now. There are no great surprises, of either the nice or nasty variety. I do my laundry on Monday nights and my ironing on Wednesdays. I trek to the local supermarket on Saturday afternoons, buying just enough to fill a decent-sized rucksack before going home for ‘treat night’ which involves a long soak in the bath, a glass of wine and a good movie. And that is exactly the way I like it, thank you very much. I do not want to hear that I will travel to foreign shores, meet the man of my dreams and move house.

And I do not believe for one second that future events can be gleaned from the remnants of my cuppa.

Mrs Cadwalader seems very nice. But tea leaf reading at night class? The course organisers must be laughing all the way to the Bank of Gullible Fools and People With More Money Than Sense.

She reaches for my cup, swills it round and deftly tips the tea into the saucer. Then she peers at the contents.

‘You have a lovely man,’ she says, looking up and beaming at me.

‘I do?’

Her smile slips. ‘You don’t?’

Just what I thought. It’s a complete load of bollocks, just like all the other ‘clairvoyant’ pedlars of hocus pocus, who encourage poor hopefuls to part with their cash.

I shrug apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not.’ Unless you count Bob the Knob, of course, who – even after three years – is still moved sometimes to phone up begging me to take him back, which is ridiculous on a number of levels but particularly because he lives three hundred miles away in London. (Ten pints and a kebab seems to be his tipping point these days. Cue copious outpourings of guilt, over-the-top declarations and a surfeit of wind from both ends.)

Mrs Cadwalader grabs the cup and frowns into its depths. ‘Oh, hang on.’ Her brow clears. ‘That’s because he hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Ah!’ I suppress a smile. ‘So will he be along any time soon?’ I ask, looking at my watch. ‘I think they close at six.’

‘Hard to tell,’ she murmurs. ‘But I do see a turkey. Hang on, is that a kangaroo? No, definitely a turkey.’

A laugh escapes. I can’t help it. ‘A turkey? Really? Alive or dead?’

‘Can’t be specific. But what I can tell you is there’s definitely a storm brewing.’ She laughs and raises her hands to the tempest that’s currently giving the High Street a good battering. Then she bends to the cup. ‘Yes, a storm brewing around a lifelong friendship. A girl you’ve known since schooldays?’ She frowns and peers closer. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, really.’

‘Isn’t that just the tea leaves clogging together?’ I suggest helpfully. I’m not at all sure I like where this is going.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Mrs Cadwalader, whose irony radar is obviously either on the blink or still in the shop. ‘You were close as sisters, you two. But not any more. Ooh, she’s a sad, sad person.’ She looks up. ‘Any of that ring a bell, dear?’

Surprisingly, it does – and as guesses go, I have to admit, it’s genius. Mrs Cadwalader can’t possibly know about Carol and the Cold War that broke out between us several years earlier. Frosty relations have since grown icier than a neglected chest freezer.

‘She’s sad, all right,’ I mutter.

Mrs Cadwalader nods in sympathy. ‘You let each other down.’

I sit forward abruptly. ‘Er, I’m sorry, but you’ve got that completely wrong.’

‘Have I, dear?’

‘Yes!’ Self-righteous indignation rises up in my chest. ‘Carol let me down. End of story.’

Mrs Cadwalader places her soft, plump hand over mine and says gently, ‘Except it’s not the end of the story for your friendship.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel stupidly close to tears.