‘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.
‘It’s such a lovely thing you’re doing, setting up this café for your dad. And I love the name. The Twilight Café.’ She wanders over to the window and peers out. ‘That’s a big garden,’ she murmurs. ‘Just as well you’ve still got that man – Terry, is it? – coming in to keep it tidy.’
I nod. ‘He’s great. But I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to afford him.’
‘Once the summer is over, of course, you won’t need him for a while.’
‘True.’ I stare at my reflection in the shiny aluminium kettle. Paying Terry is the least of my worries. The mortgage arrears are piling up – and there’s another payment due next week. I’ve set aside a small budget to pay for things like the café signs, the curtains Lucy’s making for me, and the huge list of ingredients I’ll need, to bake for opening day. I’ve calculated that after that, I’ve got just enough money left in my savings account to pay the mortgage arrears, which I will do this week. But unless the café turns in a decent profit in week one, I’ll be unable to meet the regular monthly payment.
‘Isn’t that treehouse wonderful?’ sighs Betty. ‘Your dad is such a clever man.’ She turns, a gleam in her eye. ‘Why don’t we take our tea up there?’
‘Into the treehouse? The last time I had a tea party up there, the conversation wasn’t exactly stimulating.’
Betty raises a querying eyebrow and I laugh. ‘I was about eight and the guests were all dolls.’
‘Ah!’ She nods.
‘But you’re right, Betty. It’s much too lovely a day to stay inside. If you’re game, so am I! Do you think Doreen will be up for it, though?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Betty winks, then nips off into the living room, and the upshot is Paloma and I steadying the ladder while two ladies of a certain age tackle the ascent to the treehouse platform, giggling and in generally high spirits thanks to the Prosecco. Betty manages it without too much difficulty. But Doreen has to be steadied from behind on her way up by Paloma and me. Luckily, she’s wearing trousers.
Once we’re all safely up there, the treehouse works its magic, making everyone smile and relax. Betty and Doreen sit on the window seat inside, on the
