The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

‘Oh!’ The smile is wider now, more genuine. I try not to feel offended by the ‘just’ in Dad’s introduction. ‘I see! Of course. Hello, Maddie.’

I raise my hand and give a little wave, the awkward bug having been passed on.

‘So,’ Dad says. ‘Tea?’

Jane eyes me briefly before she turns to Dad. ‘I have to dash, actually. Maybe another time? Tomorrow?’

Dad nods, already striding across the kitchen so he can see Jane-the-neighbour to the door. ‘Sure.’

Jane beams at Dad, placing a hand on his arm now he’s reached her. ‘Thank you again for the screwdriver.’

‘Any time.’

I watch as Dad and Jane disappear into the hall, hear their muffled voices as they chat at the door. The kettle’s boiled by the time Dad returns to the kitchen.

‘What was that all about?’ I ask Dad, indicating the screwdriver still on the table.

‘Jane asked to borrow it yesterday. Asked me if I knew anything about plugs. She needed to replace one of hers so I wrote down some instructions and let her borrow the screwdriver.’

I want to drop my face into my hands. ‘Da-ad. She didn’t want to borrow a screwdriver! She wanted you to go over.’

Dad shakes his head. ‘Nah. Jane’s not like that. She’s very independent. Capable, like.’

Facepalm, round two. ‘She didn’t want you to go round to replace the plug.’ If there was ever a plug in need of replacing in the first place.

Dad grabs the tea caddy and pulls a couple of bags out. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘She fancies you.’ I am almost giddy. With relief. With hope. A woman fancies my dad. He doesn’t have to be alone any more! ‘Jane-from-next-door fancies you and she was trying to lure you round to her house.’

Dad shakes his head as he plops teabags into two cups. ‘Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Jane’s friendly, that’s all. A good neighbour.’

I’m not convinced. I fling myself at Dad, wrapping my arms around his middle and planting a noisy kiss on his stubbly cheek.

‘Jane-from-next-door has a crush on you. I’m sure of it.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Dad scoffs. ‘People our age don’t have “crushes”. And I’m not interested anyway. I’m too old for all that nonsense.’

By nonsense, I assume Dad means having fun and being happy with somebody other than Mum.

‘You’re never too old for love. Besides, you’re sixty-two and sixty is the new fifty, which is the new forty, so you’re practically a spring chicken.’

Dad grabs the kettle and pours boiling water into the cups. ‘I don’t think your logic pans out quite right there.’

‘Oh yes it does.’ I open the fridge and take out the milk, passing it to Dad. ‘I want you to be happy.’

‘And you can’t be happy and single?’ Dad raises his eyebrows at me and I feel myself squirm.

‘You can. Of course you can.’ I’m an example of that. I’ve been single for a year now and I’ve never been happier. I push the thought of waking up wrapped in Joel’s arms away, of feeling safe and loved. ‘But aren’t you ready to move on? To find someone new?’

Dad places the fresh cups of tea on the table and looks pointedly at me. ‘Are you?’

Chapter Three (#ulink_038977e3-8e09-5360-93b7-0be24983c679)

I’d been working at the Blue Llama – a super-pretentious, celeb-chef-endorsed restaurant – for three weeks when I first met Joel. The tips were amazing (super-pretentious people can be pretty free with their wads of cash when they’re tipsy, full of good grub and showing off in front of their friends, colleagues or dates. Especially when they’re showing off in front of their dates), but I was fed up. Fed up of blisters on my feet from the compulsory heels. Fed up of being patronised by the diners and yelled at by the chef.

And then, one evening shortly before Christmas, when the restaurant was particularly packed with diners enjoying a festive night out, I was accosted as I passed the men’s toilets down in the basement bar. Hands and lips were on me before I even realised the tray of empty glasses I’d been carrying had slipped from my grasp and had crashed to the floor, glass shattering on the tiled floor around my feet.

‘You. Are. Gorgeous,’ the bloke drawled and I recognised his voice. I’d been waiting on his group of friends earlier, sidestepping wandering hands and pretending not to hear the vulgar comments as I went about my duties, reminding me that money doesn’t always buy class. ‘You’re coming back to mine, princess.’

Before I could reply that no, actually, I wasn’t going back to his place, his mouth was on mine again, his fat tongue squirming against the roof of my mouth and making me gag. His whole body was crushing mine, his hands pinning my shoulders to the wall so any attempts to push him away were futile. I knew a swift knee to the balls would help my case, but as he’d jammed one of his legs between my knees, I couldn’t even deliver the blow.

‘Whoa, mate. What do you think you’re doing?’

Glass crunched underfoot as the bloke was wrenched away from me and I dipped slightly as my jellied knees gave way. I swiped a hand across my mouth, trying to rid myself of the taste and memory of his lips and tongue.

‘Piss off and mind your own business,’ he growled at my rescuer. ‘Go and find a bird of your own. This one’s taken.’

‘I don’t think so.’ My rescuer turned to me. ‘Are you okay?’

The bloke snorted. ‘Course she’s all right. We were only kissing.’

‘Didn’t look that way to me,’ my rescuer said. ‘It looked like you were pawing at the poor girl while pinning her to the wall. Whatever it was you think you were doing, she wasn’t enjoying it.’ He turned to me and repeated his question. ‘Are you okay?’

I nodded, though I didn’t feel okay at all. My body was suddenly trembling and I wasn’t sure my legs would allow me to move away from the wall even though I wanted nothing more than to run like hell.

‘Come on.’ With a hand almost but not quite touching my back, he guided me away from the secluded spot and into the main bar area, where he caught the attention of one of the other waitresses and explained what had happened. You’ve probably guessed Joel was my rescuer, but I didn’t know that yet and wouldn’t for a while longer yet. The waitress took me away to the staff quarters, where I promptly burst into tears before quitting my job and taking a cab home. Being assailed by a slobbering drunk was the final straw and it was time to try something else.

‘It’s different for me,’ I tell Dad as I sit down at the table, cradling my cup of tea. The too-hot cup anchors me back down into the present, stops me drifting back to Joel and our relationship. ‘We only split up a year ago and although I haven’t started a new relationship, I have moved on.’ I blow on my tea so I don’t have to look at Dad’s face. There are signs that Dad hasn’t moved on in every room in the house: the framed wedding photo on the mantelpiece, Mum’s dressing gown still hung up on the back of the bathroom door, her favourite wine in the rack, even though Dad doesn’t drink wine. He keeps Mum in this house and I’m worried he’ll never let her out.

‘Plus, I’m pretty busy with the teashop. I don’t have time for a new relationship.’

Dad laughs softly and eases himself into the chair opposite mine. ‘Don’t you think I used to say the exact same thing when your mum left? I was too busy with work, with looking after Gran, with the allotment.’ Dad even keeps Mum in his little shed there, the floral gloves and pink trowel he bought for her to use still on the shelf, waiting for her return. ‘You make time if you really want to.’

Dad doesn’t understand just how much work is involved in keeping the teashop going, but then why would he when I don’t confide in him how difficult it is? How much we’re struggling?

‘Won’t you give Jane a chance?’ I ask. ‘Go on one date. Take her to the pub or out for a meal. Take her to the allotment if you have to.’

Dad shakes his head. ‘No. I’m sorry but I can’t.’

I don’t push it further. I’ve tried in the past to get Dad interested in other women but he won’t even entertain the idea and I don’t want to cloud the rest of our morning together. So we drink our tea and creep away from the subject of relationships. I tell Dad the good bits about the teashop, making him laugh with stories about Mags and the builder she flirts with whenever he comes in for a sneaky afternoon treat, and he tells me about work and his feud with Gerry, the bloke at the neighbouring plot at the allotment. He tells me about catching Gerry helping himself to Dad’s cabbages and Dad’s revenge pilfering of his swedes.

‘You’ll come into the teashop during the week, won’t you?’ I ask as I’m getting ready to leave. ‘If you come on Friday, there’ll be another bowl of apple crumble waiting for you.’

‘How can I say no to that?’ Dad kisses my cheek and gives me a squeeze. ‘Friday it is.’

I return to the teashop and am disappointed when I see there are only three customers. It’s Saturday lunchtime – the teashop should be packed. Mags and Victoria should be rushed off their feet. Instead, Mags is staring into space while Victoria is perched on top of the counter, texting on her phone.

‘There must be something we can do,’ Mags says when she follows me into the storeroom slash office. ‘There are so many potential customers just up the road. We just need to find a way to get them in here instead of the high street.’