It doesn’t help my low mood that three days after Jake’s visit, he emails me some rough plans for the treehouse café. I stare at them for a long time, thinking that he must be a mind-reader; the artist’s impression looks so beautiful, I really wouldn’t change a thing about it. Then I get a lump in my throat when I realise how I’m going to have to disappoint Mum. And Betty and Doreen. I’d need to launch the café in high summer to give the project the best possible chance of success, and clearly, that’s not going to happen. So there’s no point in dreaming …
On Wednesday afternoon, the café is so dead that in despair, I get on my laptop and write an email to my old catering college, saying I’m considering returning in the autumn to complete my studies and would this be possible?
I desperately don’t want to have to give up my dreams and go back to Manchester, but I must face facts. The café is barely breaking even. I’m nowhere near bringing in the sort of cash I’d hoped would mean we could put an end to thoughts of selling Honey Cottage.
I send off the email and snap the laptop shut, feeling slightly sick.
Then I turn the sign on the door over to ‘closed’ and go home early, spending the rest of the afternoon on the phone to some of my old friends from college, which lifts my mood a little.
On Thursday morning, I decide to clean out the fridge for the second time that week, just for something to do. It’s nearly eleven, and my only customer is a dark-haired pleasant-faced woman in a smart business suit, sitting at a table by the counter reading a newspaper she pulled out of her briefcase and drinking a cappuccino. She’s been in a few times before and it raises my spirits to see her back again. I must be doing something right!
While I’m busy out the back, I keep popping my head round to make sure she’s okay, and on one occasion, she looks up and smiles. ‘Could I have the same again, please, and a slice of that gorgeously sinful-looking chocolate cake?’
‘Of course you can.’ Smiling, I set to at the coffee machine then cut her a big slice of cake.
‘Delicious,’ she says, taking a bite. ‘This is the best coffee stop I’ve discovered in a long time, and I travel all over the country with my job.’ She glances around her admiringly. ‘Lovely décor, so relaxing and the best cake for miles around. I don’t know why you’re not busier.’
‘Gosh, thanks.’ I feel quite flustered at such high praise. ‘I’m so glad you like it.’
‘Oh, I do. I tried that café on the high street once. The one that sells only “clean food”, whatever that is.’ She grimaces. ‘Wouldn’t go back. No atmosphere and the customer service isn’t great.’
‘Really?’ Ooh, tell me more!
She shakes her head. ‘You feel as if you’re on a conveyor belt. In and out, so someone else can have your table, and you feel slightly guilty if you linger over a second coffee.’ She shrugs. ‘Their dishes are full of very noble ingredients, but for me, a courgette really has no place at all in a Victoria sandwich cake.’
I smile a little awkwardly. I’m longing to say, ‘Yes, I think it’s pretty shit as well.’ But obviously that wouldn’t be very professional.
‘Oh, sorry, is the owner a friend of yours?’ She frowns. ‘I never thought. A small village like this. Everyone knows each other.’
I laugh, rather too loudly – bordering on the hysterical, actually – and she looks a bit surprised.
I shake my head. ‘No, no, Lucy and I definitely aren’t friends.’
‘Ah! A bit of café rivalry going on?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, you definitely have my vote. Your café is the clear winner by a country mile.’ She smiles. ‘Right, I’d better be off.’ She slides her paper into her briefcase and pays the bill, popping a very generous sum into Dad’s tip jar. ‘I’m Carole, by the way.’
‘Twilight.’
We shake hands and her eyes widen. ‘Lovely name!’
I beam at her. ‘Thank you so much.’ For everything!
‘See you again very soon,’ she says, leaving with a cheery little wave.
After she’s gone, I go over to clear her table, but instead of stacking plates and cups, I slip into her chair and sit there, resting my chin on my hand, thinking. Carole has given me a totally different perspective on my situation here. She actually prefers The Twilight Café to Lucy’s place – by a country mile! And she definitely seems like a woman of taste. It’s interesting that she doesn’t think much of Lucy’s customer service, either, although obviously, I’ll do my very best not to rejoice at that.
Woo-hoo!
If only I had more time, I’m sure I could build up a loyal clientele – not based on special offers galore and ‘celebrity’ gloss, but through good old-fashioned care for the customer, a relaxing atmosphere and great food.
But unfortunately, time costs money. And money is something I don’t have.
Later, after closing up, I walk into the village to pick up a few groceries, and coming out of the supermarket, I bump into a friend of Mum’s called Marilyn, who lives in Hart’s End.
‘Twilight, love, so good to see you!’ After we hug, she frowns and digs in her shopping bag. ‘Look at this. I was reading it while I was in the hairdresser’s.’ She opens the magazine out at a full-colour spread and we look at it together. The heading in bold red type shouts, ‘No more cake for us (unless it’s a delicious parsnip sponge)’ There’s a big photo of a beaming Meghan Sparkle in the café
