There’s no one around to ask about it, so I head along to the newsagent’s.
No poster there, either. And Val, the owner, is unable to tell me what happened to it.
‘I know it was there last week,’ she says, puzzled. ‘Maybe my husband took it down, but I don’t think so.’
I arrive back home feeling utterly despondent.
All the posters Paloma pinned up have been mysteriously removed and no one seems able to shed any light on the situation. It’s extremely worrying. If no one knows about the café opening, except the people I’ve told in person, what sort of turnout can I expect?
Standing there in the hall, I make myself stop and draw in a long, steadying breath. Then I breathe out again, very slowly, trying desperately to calm the panic that’s rising inside. I can’t afford to fall apart at this late stage! There’s still work to be done before I officially open those doors in just over an hour.
I open the parcel, which I know is a gift from Dad. Drawing out a simple wooden bowl with ‘The Twilight Café’ carved in tiny letters along the front, I gasp at its perfection. He said I needed something for tips and I laughed and said I should be so lucky. He must have created this specially, despite getting tired so easily these days, and it would have taken him ages to make it. A lump fills my throat. I’ll phone him later to thank him.
There’s a big good luck card from Mum and Dad and one from Paloma. The third is from Lucy and Jason. Thinking of you and wishing you well for today.
I stare at the message, hit by a pang of sorrow mixed with regret. I run my fingers over Jason’s familiar handwriting. It would have been his idea to send me a card, of course. A warm feeling envelops me like a hug and tears prick my eyes, but I tell myself not to be so ridiculously sentimental. It’s just nice to know he still thinks of me, that’s all. We were always such good friends as well as lovers …
I shake myself and head back into the kitchen to start packing the scones into boxes ready to transport. And by nine-forty-five, I’m standing behind the café counter in my new pale blue summer dress, patterned with white dragonflies, teamed with practical navy ballet pumps. My hair is twisted up, off my face, and at the last minute I cut my nails short and applied a coat of clear polish.
I’ve put a fresh hand towel and matching soap and hand cream by the mirror in the newly decorated ‘rest room’. (Paloma painted the walls cream and I put up a pretty yellow, white and green daisy border.) There’s cash in the till, the scones and iced cakes are all laid out under the pristine glass case along with several stainless-steel cake slices, and there’s fresh milk in the dinky little jugs for customers to collect with their hot drinks. I’ve been practising with the coffee machine and can now deliver the perfect cappuccino with a cocoa sprinkle smiley face on top.
I’m all set for my first customer!
I potter around, straightening up the magazines on the side table and turning the cake forks so they all face upwards and look pleasingly uniform, and as ten o’clock approaches, the butterflies in my stomach go quite manic and start flapping about in there like nobody’s business. I know that no one is likely to pitch up the instant I’m open. But after unlocking the door and turning the sign hanging there to ‘open’, I can’t help peering along the road to see if I can see any cars or people on foot. Of course, there’s no one. It’s only two minutes past ten.
Shaking my head at my own daft impatience, I take my position behind the counter again, quickly checking my reflection in the shiny aluminium coffee maker, making sure my hair is still hygienically in place, with no wisps escaping. No, it’s fine.
At ten-forty-five, I’m drumming my fingers on the counter in the rather eerie silence, when I suddenly remember Dad’s old stereo system. Digging in my bag, I find the CD of popular jazz songs I’d thought would be a good choice of background music and I go through to the back and slide it into the player. It belts out of the speakers far too loudly, so I turn it down low until it’s perfect, then I collect a magazine from the table and read it behind the till. I’ll push it under the counter when a customer walks in.
And then, at last, I hear footsteps outside and the door opens.
I glance up, big smile at the ready, my heart racing.
It’s Paloma.
‘Looking good!’ she says approvingly, glancing around. ‘No customers yet?’
I shake my head, determined to remain upbeat. ‘It’s still early, though. Mum’s friends said they’d pop in about eleven.’
‘I guess I’m your first official customer, then.’ She grins and sits down at a table near the counter. Then she sniffs. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Can’t smell anything. My nose is still snuffly.’ I frown at her. ‘What is it?’
She sniffs again and shakes her head. ‘Place has been empty for ages. It just needs to be lived in probably.’ She sits up straight, hands folded in her lap, and studies the cakes under the glass. ‘Right. The important stuff. Could I please have a latte and one slice of your finest double chocolate fudge cake?’
I laugh. ‘Certainly, Madam. But chocolate cake so early in the day? Not that I’m complaining.’
Paloma sighs. ‘I’ve been up most of the night working. Got just three hours’ kip before I came over here. I’m absolutely starving!’
I’m just bringing over her latte when the door opens and in come Betty and Doreen, with Rowena Swann in tow.
‘Oh my days!’ sighs Betty, looking around her. ‘How beautiful you’ve made it!
