The New Beginnings Coffee Club: The feel-good, heartwarming read from bestselling author Samantha Tonge

Everyone deserves a second chance…don’t they?

Jenny Masters finds herself living the modern dream. Wife to a millionaire, living in a mansion and mother to Kardashian-obsessed ten-year-old April, there isn’t anything missing. Until, her whole world comes crashing down, forcing Jenny and April to leave behind their glittering life and start over with nothing.

With village gossip following her wherever she goes, she finds refuge and a job in the new coffee shop in town. As the days pass Jenny fears she doesn’t have what it takes to pick herself back up and give April the life she always wanted to. But with the help of enigmatic new boss Noah, and housemate Elle, Jenny realises it’s never too late to become the woman life really intended you to be!

Also by Samantha Tonge:

Doubting Abbey

From Paris with Love

Mistletoe Mansion

Game of Scones

My Big Fat Christmas Wedding

How to Get Hitched in Ten Days

Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun

The New Beginnings Coffee Club

Samantha Tonge

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Samantha Tonge 2017

Samantha Tonge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition May 2017 ISBN: 978-0-00-823916-9

Version: 2018-06-13

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publishers

SAMANTHA TONGE

lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and a cat who thinks it’s a dog. Along with writing, her days are spent willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at Disneyland Paris. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing romantic comedy novels is her passion.

http://samanthatonge.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/SamTongeWriter

https://www.facebook.com/SamanthaTongeAuthor

New beginnings indeed – with heartfelt thanks to Angela, Karen, Mark, Mary and Michelle.

Prologue

I looked at Mum and we grinned. Every time I made fairy cakes, flour somehow ended up on my face. The giveaway? Like the Easter bunny’s, my nose twitched from side to side.

‘Just look at the state of you, Jenny Jarvis,’ she teased and rolled her eyes. All crinkly around the edges, they looked tired. It was Easter Sunday and Mum had looked after my grandparents all weekend. They were still in bed. We’d got up early to make chocolate mini-egg cakes. They were my favourite and Mum had baked them for my last birthday, when I turned ten. I’m not a stickler for tradition, she would say, and we sometimes had turkey roast with all the trimmings, months away from Christmas. Dad said that was one of the reasons he loved her to bits. She’d always make a big batch of his favourite festive figgy puddings, so that he could also eat them in summer, autumn, and spring.

My chest glowed as I watched her hum a cheerful song, whilst doing the washing up. Strong. Comforting. Cuddly. Mum was like the best teddy bear in the world. I breathed in the yummy cocoa smells that wafted from the oven.

‘Keep beating, sweetheart – the butter and sugar won’t cream themselves.’

As Mum hummed increasingly loudly, I bit my bottom lip and my arm moved faster. Finally the ingredients came together and the icing looked all shiny and smooth.

She passed over a mini-egg and winked. ‘We ought to try one each – just to check they’re okay.’

I giggled. Mum could obviously read my mind as well. I popped it into my mouth. My teeth cracked the outer shell and as the gooey insides melted across my tongue, I glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock.

‘Will we have time to fill the bird feeders, before Granny and Granddad come down? Those goldfinches need to keep up their strength to care for the chicks. They looked so cute, last week, hopping across the lawn after Dad mowed it.’ I gazed out of the window, to see a blue sky and sunrays lighting up the oak’s new leaves. Attached to the trunk was a bird box Mum had assembled from a kit.

She was clever like that. Did amazing things with craft stuff and food. Worked part-time as a receptionist, at the local vet’s. The kitchen always smelt tasty and the garden overflowed with life.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll make sure they also get Easter treats.’ Mum brushed straggly curls out of her eyes. She didn’t wear much make-up but, I reckoned, was the prettiest person in the world. Of course, we had our fallouts. She didn’t look quite so pretty when she was cross with me for not doing my homework. And she could be annoying, like insisting I tidy my room, even though I knew exactly where I’d put everything. But Mum believed in keeping things simple. Appreciating nature. Making instead of buying. That made life fun.

I smiled to myself, at how she often brushed off compliments – or went bright red. Like when Daddy once told her that she had a heart bigger than a whale’s … Mind you, that hadn’t sounded especially romantic. Playfully she’d punched his arm and we’d all laughed.

‘Right, let’s check those cakes, Jenny. We don’t want them burnt or too flat. I’ll take them out of the oven. You can press the sponge, with your fingers, and decide if they are ready yet.’

I did as I was told. ‘They feel all springy – like my bed mattress.’

‘Perfect. Just like you.’ She took off the oven gloves and gave me a hug.

Feeling safer than a baby kangaroo in its mummy’s pouch, I closed my eyes and held her ever so tight. No, you’re the perfect one, I thought, and if I ever have a daughter, I’m going to be exactly the same sort of mum as you …

Chapter One

Celebrity glossy hair. Cerise-pink painted nails. A beige dress with matching nude sandals. I tore my gaze away from April and felt a lump in my throat – she looked so grown-up. It was hard to believe my daughter was only ten.

My friend Chanelle, who owned this nail salon, had just thrown a party for her little girl, Skye. I say little girl, but as I gazed at the posse of mothers and daughters, preening in front of large mirrors, apart from their height they all looked the same. I’m talking designer handbags, straightened hair, and the most on-trend clothes, as if it was just a different uniform to wear, outside of the girls’ posh private school. But it made me feel comfortable, contented, to belong to some sort of clan.

A border full of plants in bud promising a colourful summer caught my attention. It reminded me of my own childhood building treehouses and getting close to nature in the field behind our two-up, two-down. Once I’d caught a frog to see if it really would turn into a prince. My gentle kiss on its head left me disappointed, and with a slimy lip-gloss effect that made Mum laugh hard.

How I’d loved baking with her and making feeders for birds. It had taken me a while to get used to the highflying life of my husband. I rarely cooked now. Nor spent much time in the garden. A heavy sensation briefly tickled my chest. I’m not sure why, because times changed, right, and no one wanted to be left behind?

‘April has been so excited about today,’ I said to Chanelle, who bobbed forwards and air-kissed my cheeks. My face broke into a smile as I scanned her tight dress, which hugged every unnatural inch. The boobs had been a thirtieth birthday present and the bum implants marked an anniversary. The generous curves suited my generous friend.

I glanced again at April and reflected, as I often did, that life was good. More than good, in fact, with my heartbreakingly handsome husband and luxurious family home. It was the perfect scenario to safely raise a child, thank goodness, because no one warns you that from the moment you give birth, the world suddenly looks like a dangerous place.

I squeezed Chanelle’s shoulder and tickled behind the ears of Prada, the pug in her arms. The horizontally striped dress also hugged every good-hearted bone in her body. Since April had joined Skye’s playground clique a year ago, after her best mate moved to Dubai, clothes horse Chanelle had vigorously welcomed us both into her life. How thrilled she’d been to know me, the wife of Zachary Masters, the head of her favourite fashion house Elite Eleganz.

Chanelle gave me a wide grin with her Julia Roberts mouth – although today there were no twinkly eyes to match.

I gazed around. ‘So … how’s business going? Still on the up since you found that investor?’

Her cheeks pinked up. ‘Not bad at all. Thank God. It was risky of me to plough all of my divorce money into expanding the place but I can’t complain now. Finally we’re enjoying a decent turnover.’ She cleared her throat and gave another super bright smile. Something didn’t seem right. ‘It’s been sheer torture not being able to enjoy my yearly cruise.’ She said it like it was a joke, but with Chanelle you could never be sure.

Travel was as important to Chanelle as her credit card and facials. I took her cheery cue to change the subject. You see, our conversation never went much deeper than the Clarins concealer on her face. Chanelle always veered away from really personal chat. Instead we shared countless shopping trips and dissected celebrity gossip. It was a far cry from my student days, when I used to drink cheap lager, wear homemade tie-dye tops, and analyse the meaning of life with friends.

‘Thanks again for having April over.’ I studied her tired face, wondering how perky it actually looked like beneath the thick make-up. ‘Let me help tidy up. You must be shattered.’

‘No, it’s fine, thanks. It won’t take long. And anyway, as if Skye would have a party without her bezzie! April’s a real credit to you, Jenny. Such good taste. Always picks the classiest shade of nail varnish. Plus she understands exactly why any self-respecting female should love glamorous reality shows …’ She was rambling now.

My mind drifted as I gave Prada another stroke. A credit to me for those qualities? Unusual, perhaps, considering her young age. But then celebrity is a modern religion and it’s difficult not to get sucked in. An image of my own mum popped into my head, with her straggly hair and hands always covered in flour, soil, or soap. She’d taught me the different colours of garden birds, plus the importance of cooking and reading. Jeez. I gave a wry smile. My childhood sounded like a chapter from an Enid Blyton book.

‘Did you have fun?’ I bent down to give April a hug. She wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed me tight. My chest glowed. If I could bottle that happy feeling, I’d become an addict overnight. We left the salon. It was a lovely May day. The sun shone. Laventon and the surrounding area was iconically English in appearance, with yellow rapeseed fields and low-ceilinged cottages. Yet it was only forty minutes from London, near enough not to miss out on that diverse city’s offerings.

April peered up at me from under her brunette fringe and gave me a lipsticked smile. ‘Fab-u-licious,’ she said in her singsong voice. I grinned at her new favourite word. ‘We watched two episodes of the Kardashians whilst Chanelle and Skye’s auntie did our make-up.’

I thought back to a few weeks previously, in the month of my daughter’s name. I’d asked her what sort of trip out she would prefer for her birthday – at her age I’d gone ice-skating, pottery painting, or the cinema maybe. She’d rolled her eyes at all three, preferring a disco limo or makeover party.

‘She’s only ten!’ I’d mused with Zak that night, as he got in late from work again. He’d loosened his tie, revealing a patch of that toned, tanned chest, and poured a whisky. My husband epitomised sexual attraction with his dark looks and undressing-you eyes. At parties, women flocked to him as if he were a sweet treat and they were flies.

‘Kids grow up faster these days. April’s probably imitating you, what with your weekly manicures and designer clothes.’ He’d smiled. ‘Where has young Jennifer Jarvis gone – the fashion student with her geometric hairstyle and outlandish dress sense?’

Hmm. Good question. But nothing stayed the same – I’d become a wife, a mum. I’d grown up. Still, over the last couple of months, I’d spent an increasing amount of time thinking about my old sketches from college. Now that April was older, a yearning had struck me to restart my studies. The very thought made my stomach flutter. I’d never finished my degree. It would have taken a woman of strong mettle – make that metal – to resist Zak sweeping her off her feet at a zillion miles per hour.

I drove my yellow Mini back through Laventon, a chocolate-box village with its cobbled pavements and window boxes. We trundled past The Coffee Club, a new café that had opened last year. Before that, the little village had only had quaint teashops, whereas this one specialised in all things caffeine, like powerful espressos and artistically decorated lattes.

‘Shall we pick up a latte for Daddy?’ said April, as if reading my thoughts. ‘He doesn’t believe the ones at The Coffee Club could be better than Starbucks.’

I smiled. The shop’s owner, Noah, might have taken umbrage at that. He lovingly nursed each cup, creating appealing designs on top. I didn’t know him well, but could tell he was passionate about coffee. He’d get this boyish grin on his face when a customer told him they’d thoroughly enjoyed their cuppa.

In fact, in keeping with his shop’s name, he ran a monthly club for regulars to taste new flavours for free. Chanelle and I had attended several of these sessions and I’d sat in awe as Noah talked about roasting methods and the quality of different beans. He ordered them in from every corner of the globe.

‘You know Daddy – he likes to stick to well-known brands.’

‘Skye’s gran goes in for one every day. The heart pattern is her favourite.’

I grinned. Once Noah had let slip that it had taken him weeks to learn latte art. Yet now he could magic leaves, footballs, teddy-bear faces, and all sorts out of steamed milk. And whilst a pure, simple black Americano was his personal favourite, he apparently spent hours researching the latest flavoured syrups that younger customers loved.

‘So, how was the party food?’ I said, as we continued to drive past.

‘We ate cans of peas,’ she said proudly.

I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Canapés? Very grown-up. What sort?’

‘Um, this pink fish and … and I’m not sure. Cheesy bits and coloured pastes.’ She grimaced. ‘And tiny black eggs that tasted of the sea.’

‘What about fairy cakes?’

A tut wafted my way. ‘No one calls them that any more, Mummy. We had skinny muffins – with soya ice cream. They were yum.’

‘Well, I’m glad you had a nice time. And to make it an even more fab-u-licious weekend …’ April giggled ‘… how about you and me go to the pool tomorrow morning?’ I said. ‘You never go outside of your swimming lessons. Laventon leisure centre is holding a big inflatable session. Daddy is playing golf but we can all meet up for a nice Sunday roast. You know how he thinks the earth will stop spinning if we don’t keep up that Sunday tradition. Dot said she’d even make your favourite Yorkshire puddings and her lovely apple and bramble crumble. Skye could come if you want.’

I smiled to myself. No point asking Chanelle, who wouldn’t dip a single one of her perfectly pedicured toes in a public bath.

April slotted a CD into the music player and within seconds Beyoncé’s confident tones rang out. ‘Nooo. We’ve just had our hair done. Swimming will mess it up for school next week. Skye says we should try and keep it nice until then. Everyone will be well impressed. And she wouldn’t want Yorkshire puddings tomorrow – or dessert. Just chicken and vegetables. Me too.’ Her voice sounded kind of sad.

‘You love desserts!’ You used to, I thought, her subdued tones pinching my stomach.

‘Chanelle says it’s never too early to start being careful about satchel-ated fat.’

‘Do you know what that is?’ I said, as we turned into our drive. I shot a look at the passenger seat before pulling up in front of our triple garage. My stomach pinched tighter. Was her dress baggier than usual? Since she’d been hanging around with Skye’s clique I was worried April had developed a concern about her size.

‘Remember that chef she once had,’ April continued. ‘He used to work for Victoria Beckham.’

My lips upturned. I knew. Chanelle had rung me after hiring him, fizzing with excitement, like an opened can of shaken lemonade. This was before her divorce and financial straits. I pressed the remote control so that the garage door lifted.

‘Why can’t we have a chef who makes sushi and healthy stuff like that?’ she asked as I parked up inside.

I unfastened my seat belt and through the dim light, turned to face April. Her lips pursed together and she suddenly looked her age, innocence radiating from eyes that knew little of life’s dangers. Or was Zak right, that my biggest problem was worrying too much? Was I looking for flaws that didn’t exist in the diamond that was our life?

‘Well, we could – but wouldn’t you miss Dot?’ I asked, softly. ‘She’s been cooking for you – for us all – since you were knee-high.’

April cocked her head and nodded. ‘ And …’ she lowered her voice ‘… I didn’t say anything to Skye, but sushi is yuk. This seaweed roll made me gag.’

‘So, the pool, Yorkshire puddings, and crumble tomorrow?’ I said. ‘You can borrow my swimming cap. And we mustn’t forget your asthma inhaler.’

April pulled a face. ‘But I hardly ever need it in the summer.’

‘Sometimes your chest doesn’t like chlorine.’

‘Okay. Yes. Just you and me, then.’ She leaned over for a cuddle. I almost choked on the strong floral whiff but suffered it for the sake of holding her tight. I gave a big sniff.

‘It’s Chanelle’s new perfume. She saves it for special occasions. Epic, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I managed, but couldn’t stop myself from sneezing.

‘Let’s go inside, so I can show you and Daddy my goody bag! Skye says it’s filled with amazing stuff, just like the gifts at those parties movie stars go to.’

We headed into our house, called The Willows. Okay, scrub house. Think mansion. It boasted eight bedrooms, six en suites, two living rooms, a giant kitchen, and a massive nursery, which we’d now converted into a cinema room. Dot helped me run the household, along with her husband who could mend shelves or prune anything in the garden. It hadn’t felt like home for a long time, after I’d first moved in. Too much space and not enough clutter, I used to think.

April grabbed my hand and pulled me into the smaller living room, the one we used most when we didn’t have guests – the one in which I felt truly comfortable, with furniture that didn’t quite match and ramshackle bookshelves. I sat down on a floral sofa, whilst April ran over to Zak and gave him the biggest hug, almost knocking his laptop onto the floor. My chest swelled as I observed the little family I’d nurtured and helped to grow. She collapsed onto a fringed rug. He shook his head from his favourite brown leather armchair.

‘Whoa, my little princess, talk about a whirlwind.’ He gave me a tired smile, not one of his killer ones that made my insides melt. After all these years, I still admired the breadth of his shoulders under his crisp white shirt and the solid legs shown off by denim jeans. He ran a hand through chestnut hair that always looked as if he’d just showered and styled it. Slicked back, it showed off his face – the strong chin, dark eyes, and generous lips that promised – and delivered every sort of pleasure a woman could want.

My cheeks flushed at the thought. The sizzling chemistry between us had always surmounted any problem, though recently it had lost a little of its fizz, like champagne that had been uncorked too long. Zak worked hard – too hard, of late.

‘How did it go?’ he asked and stared once again at his laptop.

‘April wants to show you her goody bag,’ I said pointedly. He caught my eye. I winked and jerked my head towards our daughter. Zak was a busy man, so sometimes I prodded to let him know that little bits of attention meant so much to her.

He pushed his laptop to one side and raised both eyebrows. April grinned, crossed her legs, and dipped into the silver bag, to pull out item after glossy item.

I should have been used to the excess, after ten years of being married to a millionaire. What a difference from the party bags my mum and I used to put together for my birthday bashes. They usually contained homemade fudge, crayoning books, and pretty pens.

That’s another thing. When you have kids, you can’t help but compare their childhood to your own. And you try to remedy all the things that, over the years, you felt your parents did wrong. Yet the biggest shock is to realise that most of the time, they had it right. I used to hate Mum’s strictness over bedtimes but now saw how ratty April got if she had even one late night.