The Café in Fir Tree Park

Fern

“Yes, Jasper, yes! That’s much better!”

The door to the café has been propped open to let in some much-needed air. It gets stifling in here during the peak hours otherwise. That’s why the rich tone of the Italian’s voice is drifting in, clearly audible from across the park as he cheers on his enthusiastic young pupils.

Maggie’s had a dopey grin painted on to her face all morning. It’s obvious she’s got a crush on him. She even left her usual spot in the kitchen earlier to peer out of the main window and watch the youngsters dribbling grubby mini footballs around a line of orange plastic cones. When I innocently asked what was keeping her attention she’d given a noncommittal response about how nice it was to see children enjoying the first truly warm day of the year. I didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but hadn’t questioned Maggie’s reply, instead getting on with taking the plateful of fluffy scrambled eggs on toast over to the young man sat in the window, the sunniest seat in the whole café. He’s waiting on a pot of coffee too, which Maggie’s preparing.

After the eventful night at the hospital I’m glad to be busy. It stops me worrying about Luke and waiting for Kelly to turn up. Nerves are churning in my stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to say what I need to say to her.

The scrambled egg on toast guy must be new to these parts: if I’d seen him before I’d have definitely remembered him. He’s got this sort of edgy look that’s slightly out of place in the park. Most of the people here are decidedly mainstream – not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m hardly Lady Gaga myself – but this lad stands out from the crowd. His blonde hair’s a fraction too white to be natural, as though it’s aided by a touch of bleach, and he has a small silver hoop pierced through his bottom lip. It keeps quivering as though he’s moving his tongue against it in the hollow of his mouth, which is kind of distracting.

He’s so far removed from the kind of boy I usually go for that I can’t decide whether he’s good looking or not. I never fancy anyone, except the same person I’ve had a painful crush on since the first day at secondary school. I’d fallen so hard and so deep that I’d never wavered. My heart had one not-so-careful owner who couldn’t care less that he held it captive.

I cast my eyes around the café for the edgy boy’s skateboard, assuming he’s one of the hip kids that hangs out at the purpose-built skate park on the other side of the boating lake. The stuff they do is frightening: dangerous flips and tricks that look like they belong in a music video. Just watching them makes my stomach turn with fear. I can’t see a board though, not even tucked under the table.

“Can you serve this to the gentleman in the window, please?” Maggie asks, snapping me out of my daydream. I carefully carry the gleaming silver coffee pot over to the man.

Ah, there’s a flash of navy blue polo shirt peeping out beneath the red and black flannel of his shirt, a giveaway that he works in the park. All the sports coaches, maintenance staff and gardeners wear the same style. They’re standard-issue, regulation and dull.

Memories of the uniform I wore at secondary school flood back to me. I’d hated it. The other girls had dressed in miniskirts that barely covered their tiny, shapely bottoms, with socks pulled up to their knees in a bid to look sexy. I hadn’t. I’d worn a knee-length skirt with an elasticated waist, the only grey skirt on the High Street that fit my large frame. It was hideous and unflattering and saddled me with the cruel nickname ‘Fernephant’ for all five miserable years I was there.

Thankfully Maggie’s stance on workwear is fairly laid back. As far as she’s concerned staff at the café can wear whatever we like, so long as it’s white on top, black on the bottom, and clean and pressed. I’m still fat, but black trousers are easy enough to come by. School uniforms are difficult to buy for those of us who carry extra weight, unless you accidentally click on those dodgy fetish websites that pop up when your laptop protection expires. At least black trousers are a wardrobe staple.

I place the coffee pot down on the table in front of the guy, cringing at the dull clunk it makes as it lands on the shiny surface of the tablecloth. It goes right through me, setting my teeth on edge.

“Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone. He’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading, silently mouthing words I’m unable to decipher. Lip-reading’s not a skill I’ve mastered.

I stand awkwardly for a moment, shifting on the spot as I wait for eye contact that doesn’t come. Most customers offer at least a cursory smile, but not this one. He doesn’t even look up.

Eventually I give up waiting, but still smile politely even though I know he won’t see. I wish I could be a bit less well-mannered, replying with a clipped “Enjoy,” or something, because it’s downright rude not to acknowledge the wait staff, but it’s too ingrained. I’ve been brought up to be civil regardless of how I’m treated, which is probably why I was such an easy target for the bullies at school. They knew they could say whatever they damn well pleased because I’d never have the guts to fight back.

As I walk back to the counter I wonder about his role. Most of the staff at the park have been here for years, the same familiar faces as much a part of the landscape as the imposing bandstand and the large boating lake. I remember Carrick Braithwaite, the friendly gentleman who tends the walled garden near the main entrance, from when I was young. He’d share interesting snippets of information about the roses he carefully pruned, such as how there were over a hundred species of roses and that it was England’s national flower. Maggie said he’d done the same for her when she was young too, and some mornings on my way to the café I see him passing on his wealth of knowledge to the next generation of curious children. The familiarity in the scene cheers me and although over the years Mr Braithwaite’s hair has changed from mousey brown to silvery grey to the brilliant white it now is, he’s still as friendly and upbeat as ever. He’s part of the park. I selfishly hope he’ll never stop clipping those plants with those secateurs of his, even though he must be closing in on retirement age.

I sneak one last look over at the edgy boy. It’s likely I’ll see him again if he’s working here all summer. Most of the park staff are much older than I am, but he looks a similar age, twentyish. Even if we never become best buddies, it might be nice to have someone else around who knows about chart music and the latest films. If he ever bothers to speak at all, that is, I think sulkily. Maggie tries her best to keep up with the trends but it’s not the same, and although Kelly helps out with the odd shift she’s not around enough. She’s always got her head down, revising for her exams.

I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me. What’s going to happen to Luke now? He won’t be able to sit his exams if he’s recovering from brain surgery, and without A-levels he’ll not be able to take up his place at Nottingham. The letter had been very clear – ‘conditional offer’. Will they let him defer until next year instead, if he’s well enough? Or is that it, his one chance blown because of some freak of nature that he can’t control? It doesn’t seem fair, but having never had any desire to go to university I have no idea how it works. Maybe that’s something I can ask Kelly when she arrives.

Moving towards the window, I tap Maggie on the shoulder with the tip of my index finger. She throws me a look, a warning, as she turns, spotting the knowing smile that’s playing out on my lips. I can’t help it. It’s so cute how enamoured with the handsome coach she is. I can tell by the rosy pink glow of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes, so she can deny it as much as she likes – I still won’t believe her.

“Tell me the truth this time,” I say with a grin, “is it the kids you’re watching or the coach?”

Maggie’s cheeks flush further, until they resemble two red apples on the sides of her face. That’s my answer right there. She’s smitten.

“No, no, I was just looking…” Maggie stumbles over her words, knowing she’s been rumbled.

Peering out of the window, I follow her gaze to where the coach is patiently demonstrating to the kids how to pass the ball with the inside of the foot. His lean body moves nimbly, and his young students flock around him in admiration. He’s a footballing Pied Piper. With a sweep of his hand he nonchalantly flicks his long, dark hair out of his eyes. It’s like a scene from a shampoo ad, and although Maggie’s trying to play it cool I hear her inhale sharply at the motion.

“I suppose he’s quite good looking for an older man,” I think out loud.

“He’s probably only in his thirties, it’s hardly like he’s taking out his pension!” Maggie scoffs, fanning her face with her hand. She’s still a bit pink. “Older man indeed,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

“But he is older.”

“Older than you, maybe. I’d hazard a guess I’ve got a good few years on him.”

“He’s in good shape too,” I muse, hoping to coax her feelings out of her. “And those European men take good care of themselves. There was something about it on that breakfast show; apparently, men on the continent are more likely to cleanse, tone and moisturise than men here in Britain. Looking after your skin is vital if you want to keep a youthful glow.”

My hand automatically reaches for my face. Fortunately, my skin is one of my best features. Even during the height of puberty I rarely suffered spots and blemishes. It’s more the result of good genes and good luck than beauty products, though; Luke’s been blessed with good skin too. It’s probably just as well. I’ve neither the time nor the money to splash out on unnecessary, overpriced creams. Soap and water are good enough for me.

Maggie’s eyes twinkle mischievously, the first hint of a crease wrinkling at their outer corners. “Are you trying to tell me I’m looking old?”

The thought I may have caused offence horrifies me. I don’t want to insult anyone, and certainly not Maggie who’s both a boss and a friend.

“No, no, not at all! You’re always really well presented, but then you’re one of those young, funky mums, not like mine. You’re far more open-minded than either of my parents. And you don’t look forty; if I didn’t know you had a son my age, I’d think you were much younger.”

Now it’s my turn to flush red; I can feel the heat spreading up my neck and I silently curse as the familiar flaming sensation takes over. It’s bloody annoying how I can’t stop it happening. But thoughts of Joshua Thornhill have a nasty habit of turning me into a gibbering wreck, and add to that the fear of causing offence, my cheeks don’t stand a chance.

“I’m teasing, Fern,” Maggie replies, reassuringly placing her hand on my shoulder. “And although I’m delighted that you think I’m young and funky, my main concern is this place.” She gestures around the café, to where the young man in the window is still engrossed in whatever he’s reading and a group of middle-aged women are huddled around the long table near the door, sipping cups of tea whilst putting the world to rights. Her eyes rest on the large clock on the back wall. It’s already twenty past eleven. “Speaking of which, the football mums will be coming in any minute now. Would you be a doll and fill up the water jugs? Those little ones look so tired after all that running about and it’s so warm out there. I bet they’ll come in desperate for a glass of water.”

I hurry off, keen to please, but not before catching Maggie sneaking another discreet look at the coach.

She can deny it all she wants – my boss has a crush on him, I’m certain of it. I only hope it’ll be more fruitful than the one I’ve been harbouring for years.

Maggie

I’m fussing, fidgeting with the collar of my frilly white blouse, but that doesn’t stop me grasping the opportunity to steal one last glance out towards the football session before heading back into the kitchen to rescue a batch of fruit scones from the oven. The coach is smiling broadly as he holds open a large net bag and the boys and girls are gathering up the balls, helpfully putting them away as their training session draws to a close. His head lifts, his angular jaw and high cheekbones visible even from this distance, and I swear he’s looking straight at me. Then he nods, a half nod of acknowledgement that causes me to quickly turn away in embarrassment. I busy my hands by sorting the condiments that sit in a small silver bucket on the table, checking the use-by dates closely although there’s no need. I only bought them last week. If they’re out of date already, the wholesalers will be getting an earful.

How can I let someone I hardly know affect me like this? My stomach’s knotted, my heart pounding wildly. All that over a man I’ve spoken to a handful of times, and then only to say ‘that’s £2.49, please’? What an absolute fool I am. It’s ridiculously childish.

I make my way back to the kitchen, my haven, basking in the pleasurable aroma of the scones.

The kitchen is a safe place to hide, and being out here will give me a chance to regain my composure. I don’t want to be caught eyeing up the toy boy football coach even if Fern does think I’m young and funky.

I know the truth. I’m far too long in the tooth to do something as ridiculous as fall in love.

The lunchtime sun streams in through the window, flooding the café with waves of light. The whole room looks cheerful and welcoming with the natural illumination. The off-white walls radiate warmth, the slivers of thin red curtain that frame the windows casting a soft rosy hue.

It’s another moment that reminds me of how much I love The Lake House Café, and how much I’ve achieved. The place had been a boarded-up eyesore when I took it on. People had said I was crazy to try to turn it around, but I’d always believed it could be restored to its former glory and become a welcoming resting-place for everyone who used the park. I hoped it would become somewhere people could enjoy refuelling before heading back out on their merry way. I’d been right. These days the café is the most popular spot in the park, perfect for people-watching and enjoying a naughty treat. All those doubters had been proved wrong a thousand times over, and I couldn’t be more proud.

The café’s filling up again now. A glut of morning joggers have completed their circuit of the woods and are rewarding themselves with well-deserved lattes, and a young couple walking their two near-identical golden retrievers have popped in for two large sausage sandwiches slathered in generous lashings of tangy brown sauce. The man, a Dermot O’ Leary lookalike with a devilish grin, is secretly feeding titbits to the dogs underneath the table whilst his partner hungrily wolfs her butty down, oblivious.

Then there’s the football mums buying cupcakes with lavish, brightly coloured fondant icing for their ravenous offspring. I make a mental note to put another batch in later, because at this rate they’re going to clear me out altogether. The chatter of the excitable children fills the building with joy, and their mucky boots cover the floor in a dusty trail of dried mud. Fern will have to do a quick mop round when it quietens down a bit.

“Excuse me?”

The interruption snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Oh!” I exclaim, blood rushing to both my brain and my cheeks as I’m face to face with the dishy football coach. I should have guessed it was him by the exotic accent: even those two words were laced with a hint of Italian that reminded me of my current celebrity crush, TV chef Gino D’Acampo. The thought of Gino only makes me blush all the more.

“I’m sorry,” I say, momentarily flustered, “I was miles away. What can I get you?”

I force myself to smile, hoping I look less worked up than I feel. My manic smile can be a bit much: I’m all teeth and gums.

“It’s so hard to choose,” he replies, his voice like a song. “Everything looks delicious.”

Each word causes an excitable flutter low in my stomach, reminiscent of the butterflies I used to get when Clint and I first got together. That seems a long time ago. It is a long time ago, more than half my life. Surely by my age I should be well past crushes that leave me clammy-palmed and stumbling for words? The days of blaming my hormones for my lustful desires are long gone, and surely I’m not menopausal yet? Although that might go some way to explaining the obsession I’ve had with Gino of late…

“The scones are fresh out of the oven,” I offer, “or the lemon drizzle cake is popular. It’s a bit of a favourite with my regulars.”

I immediately regret my choice of words, worrying my comment might come across as big-headed.

“Then I’ll trust their judgement,” he says with a smile. It’s a wide, affable smile over a jaunty, stubble-coated chin, and his dark eyes manage to be both intense and friendly all at once. “A slice of lemon cake and an orange juice please, and one of the cupcakes for Pepe.”

He turns, beckoning a small boy in a navy-blue tracksuit. The child is the spitting image of the man, a miniature version right down to the floppy almost-black hair and the large, lazy smile. The similarity is a timely reminder, a warning, and I immediately chide myself for allowing my far-fetched daydreams to get the better of me. Of course a man like this is married with a family. He’s way too attractive not to be. Plus he spends his Saturday mornings coaching other people’s children. A catch like that was never going to be single.

“Coming right up.”

I busy myself with the order, placing a gleaming glass filled with ice cubes on to the smooth, round tray before adding a chilled bottle of juice and two matching small, white side plates. Reaching for the tongs to select a cupcake, I carefully clasp the frilly yellow bun case between them before purposefully placing it in the very centre of one of the plates. Picking up the mock-marble-handled cake slice, I carefully nudge one of the more generous slices of lemon drizzle along the cake stand, jimmying it on to its side to transfer it to the plate.

“I can already smell the lemon,” he says as the cake balances precariously atop the cake slice. “I like it. It reminds me of home.”

I look up to offer a smile and politely ask where home is, but before I can say a word the cake has slid straight on to the counter. It crumbles sadly as I exclaim “Oh!”, hurriedly reaching for a serviette to tidy the mess, as though hiding the evidence will somehow undo my clumsy error.

Scooping the largest remnant of the cake into the white tissue paper, I exhale, feeling every inch an absolute idiot. But I don’t have chance to dwell on it as an olive-skinned hand skims my own.

I jolt back, acting on instinct. It’s as though a shock has been sent through my body by his fleeting touch.

“Let me help you.”

Pulling his hand towards him, he brushes the rogue crumbs into the palm of his other hand.

“I’m sorry,” I stutter nervously. “I’ll tidy the mess, then I’ll get you another slice.”

The little boy, Pepe, is wide-eyed at the mere thought of his cupcake.

“Why don’t you two sit down and I’ll bring it over to you?” I say, mortification charging through me.

“It’s fine,” the man insists, brushing his hands against the silky black material of his shorts. Stray crumbs fall to the floor. “We’re in no rush, we can wait.”

His eyes lock with mine and I nod graciously. I throw the cake-filled paper napkin into the bin before washing my hands in the small sink that lines the back wall. This small act gives me a moment to regain my composure. Heaven knows I need it. Inside I’m a mess: a jibbering, cake-dropping mess.

“Anything I can do here, Maggie?” asks Fern, her rounded cheeks aglow after cleaning the tables. She’s a delicate English rose with her creamy complexion, dark hair and natural blush, a real beauty. It’s just a shame Fern can’t see for herself how pretty she is, but that’s the reserve of the confident. Shy, retiring people rarely appreciate how beautiful they are.

“This gentleman’s waiting on a slice of lemon drizzle cake. I had one of my ditzy moments and managed to smash a slice to smithereens on the counter.” I bring the heel of my hand to my forehead. “If you could finish serving him whilst I go and check on what’s in the oven, please?”

Fern gives me a loaded look, one that shows she knows full well there’s nothing in the oven and that I’m scrabbling for an excuse – any excuse – to escape the shop floor after my faux pas; but she takes over anyway, managing to slice and serve the cake in one effortless manoeuvre.

I’m very nearly in the kitchen when the man’s voice calls out to me, polite and genuine. “Thank you, Maggie.”

Twisting on the spot until our eyes connect, I pause before speaking.

“Thank you…?” I say, my voice trailing off questioningly.

“Paolo,” he responds, his Italian accent stronger than ever. “My name is Paolo.”

I push the swing door open just a fraction, peeping cautiously through the gap. I don’t want to make a fool of myself yet again, but can’t resist sneaking one last look at Paolo and his son. They’re sat at the same table as the attractive young man with the pierced lip and dimples. I wonder how they know each other: they seem an unlikely friendship. Maybe it’s nothing more than both working in the park.

The little boy is scooping the buttercream from the top of his cupcake with his index finger before deliberately licking it off, whilst Paolo is cupping his glass of juice as he talks. They are proper man’s hands, big and protective, but even from here I can see it, the tell-tale gold band on the third finger of his left hand. It’s thick and glistening and screams ‘married’.

I close the door, disheartened. I refuse to allow myself to so much as daydream about a married man; it doesn’t feel right. Those trollops who had affairs with Clint all the while knowing I was sat at home looking after Josh and Kelly, well, I don’t want to be like them. What little froth of excitement I’d allowed myself to feel at this crush (or whatever it is) is starting to dissipate already. Even thinking about him is wrong if he’s not available, and the ring, not to mention Pepe, show that available is something he most definitely is not.

Fern appears from nowhere, making me jump.

“What are you doing?” Fern asks curiously, her brow furrowing as she examines my face.

“Nothing!” I hiss, my heart still racing from being unexpectedly disturbed. “And stop sneaking up on me!”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” She looks put out at the suggestion. “I came to see if there was any more gingerbread in the kitchen, that’s all. It’s selling fast today.”

“In the red tin in the cupboard. I made a double batch.”

“And how was the cake?” Fern asks innocently. Her large brown eyes are wider than ever with exaggerated virtue but there’s a knowing look on her face. Not quite a smirk – Fern isn’t the sort to smirk – but almost. “You were in such a rush to get away, I hope you got to it before it burnt.”

“All right, all right,” I say, throwing my hands up. I know when I’ve been rumbled. “There was no cake. I wanted the ground to swallow me up and escaping into the kitchen was the closest I could get to disappearing.”

“Thought as much,” Fern answers with a quiet triumph.