The Café on the Corner
LILLY BARTLETT

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One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain as The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Lilly Bartlett 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover illustration © Dawn Cooper/The Artworks Illustration Agency

Lilly Bartlett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008226602

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008226596

Version: 2020-06-16

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Lilly Bartlett

About the Publisher

The book is dedicated to my friend, Fanny Blake – author, editor, unerring support and amazing woman. It was your idea to unleash Lilly Bartlett. Thank you, and here’s to many more years together in the park.

Chapter 1

I can’t keep my hand from shaking as I reread the crinkled notice. What a complete load of rubbish! Criminals?! They’re only children, for heaven’s sake. Most of them haven’t even been to court yet. Intimidated grannies? Have you seen the old-timers around here? I wouldn’t fancy my chances against any of them down a dark alley.

This really is the last straw.

All publicity might be good publicity, but the leaflet that’s been pushed through every letterbox on the square won’t exactly bring the punters in for a cuppa, will it?

‘They were up all over the main road too,’ says Lou, chewing on the end of her pale blue hair. She knows it’s not attractive – or hygienic – when she does that, but who can blame her? She’s only worried for me. For all of us.

‘You want me to send the lads round to ’ave a word?’ she asks. ‘You know it’s her behind it.’ She punches her fist into the palm of her hand, like I wouldn’t catch her meaning otherwise. Fat chance of that. Lou’s about as subtle as an armed robbery. The last thing we need now is for her to go over there and prove everyone right.

Of course I know it’s her behind it. It’s been her behind it ever since we opened the café. But sending the kids around is only going to make the situation worse. And Lou knows that as well as I do.

I can feel tears welling in my eyes as I scan the leaflet again. It’s not sadness, though. It’s pissed-offness. I stare hard at the strings of calico bunting that criss-cross the ceiling until I’m sure I won’t weep in front of my employees. Every single person in here, I remind myself – sipping their hot drinks, chatting, laughing or quietly enjoying the warm cosy ambiance – loves our café. So get a grip on yourself. Sticks and stones and all that.

One of the walkie-talkies crackles to life on the countertop. ‘Emma, Emma, come in, Emma.’

I’m not sure why I ever thought it would be clever to let the customers upstairs give us orders over those things. Most of the time they use them to ask the answers to stupid trivia questions that they’re too lazy to look up on their phones.

I’m in no mood for trivia right now. ‘What is it, Leo?’ I’m sure my annoyance comes through loud and clear despite the static.

‘We need you upstairs.’

‘Do you actually need me to bring you something or is this your usual afternoon plea for attention? Because I haven’t really got time right now.’

There’s a pause. ‘It’s just my usual plea for attention. Sorry to bother you. Over and out.’ The walkie-talkie goes dead.

Now I’m cross and I feel bad. I’m absolutely definitely not treating Leo any differently than usual. I’d have been just as short with him yesterday. It’s the situation that’s changed, not me. And definitely not my feelings.

Something tells me today should have been a duvet day.

Two months earlier…

I’m sitting at our solid old dining room table, oblivious to the fact that I’m about to make a mortal enemy. I don’t even know Leo yet, or Lou or Joseph or most of the customers who will become my friends. Morning sun streams through the wide bay window in the front room, throwing a long rectangle of light along the floor. It’ll reach my chair in another hour, but I’ll be long gone by then.

That window is my favourite part of the whole house. It’s where Daniel and I looked out over our wedding reception at everyone in the world we love. It’s also where we took Auntie Rose’s advice not to wait till after the party to christen our new marriage. While it’s beyond mortifying to hear bedroom suggestions from your seventy-something great aunt, she was right. And there wasn’t even a sofa there yet. We used to live life on the edge.

Now our edges are blunt and you don’t really get any view from the window unless you stand up to look out over the window boxes – crammed full of colourful pansies and winter primroses – past the wrought-iron fence and over the quiet road into the garden square beyond.

I can’t claim credit for the flowers. Mrs Ishtiaque comes over every few months to plant new ones after I’ve killed the previous lot. It was involuntary plant slaughter, Your Honour.

Mrs Ishtiaque has lived next door to my parents my whole life. She looks out for me like I’m one of her daughters. She says that newly-weds should always have blossoms in their lives. Blooming flowers, blooming love, she claims. Though we’re not technically newly-weds anymore. I’ll have been married to Daniel two years in July. Sometimes it feels like two decades.

The twins are in lockdown in their high chairs, happily finger-painting stewed apples over everything. They’re a couple of Picassos, those two.

It’s a surprise to see them both painting, actually. They almost never do the same thing at the same time. If one is sleeping, the other’s awake. One’s breakfast is the other’s playtime. The only things they seem to synchronise are tantrums and bowel movements.

I wouldn’t believe they were related if they hadn’t put me through thirty hours of labour.

‘Mama! Mamamamama‌mamamamama!’ screams Grace, blinking fast to dislodge a bit of apple from her eyelid. She couldn’t care less about the smears all over her face. It’s the attention she wants.

‘Have you made a mess, my love?’ She squirms but lets me wipe her chubby cheeks. By the time I’ve got most of the stewed fruit off her, the cloth is filthy.

‘Grab another wet cloth for Oscar, will you?’ I call to Daniel as I spot him weaving his way towards us through the piles of laundry and strewn toys.

Changing direction, he calls, ‘Clean-up in aisle six,’ from the kitchen.

‘Clean-up in aisles one through five as well,’ I mutter, looking around.

No one would ever call me house-proud – Mum holds that title every year running – but even I’m getting fed up with the mess. ‘Could you please fold the laundry while I get them cleaned up?’ I ask Daniel. ‘It’s the pile on the sofa.’ As opposed to the ones on the floor, the chair or the coffee table.

He plants a swift kiss on top of my head and plonks a soaking wet cloth into my hand. That’ll need wringing out before I assault our child with it. I want to clean Oscar, not drown him.

‘Can’t I have my brekkie first? I’m rahly running late for work,’ says Daniel.

My lips twitch when he says brekkie. And rahly. He’s still trying to speak commoner like the rest of us do around here, but his posh accent really shows up the difference in our upbringings.

He didn’t need to utter a word the first time I saw him for me to know he was different. Picture the scene: I’m twenty-five and it’s our first day of class – an architecture course at City Lit in Central London – and everyone shuffles in to find a seat. The classroom is functional and bare aside from the battered plastic chairs and scarred desks – no oak-panelled walls, antique tomes or dreaming spires for us mature students. Most of us are huddled into wool coats against the bite of January, laden with satchels and rucksacks and nerves.

It wasn’t Daniel’s strong jawline or wavy blond hair that I first noticed, or his broad shoulders or long legs or the way his face crinkled into a friendly smile every time he caught someone’s eye.

It was his vivid green trousers as he stood to take off his duffel coat. Then he pulled off his dark V-neck jumper to reveal a bright yellow striped work shirt underneath. By the time he’d tied the jumper around his shoulders, the rest of us – clad in T-shirts or sweatshirts and jeans – were staring at him.

Mistaking our curiosity for friendliness, Daniel did what no one ever did on the first day of class. He started talking to strangers. You’d think he was catching up with old friends the way he asked everyone how far they’d travelled and whether this was their first course. Daniel was on a first-name basis with everyone within a few hours.

And that sums him up, really.

It’s not his fault he dresses the way he does. He grew up in one of those five-story white-fronted mansions in West London, with rooms stuffed full of masterpieces and precious artwork and a pond in the back garden. They had people who answered the door for them and made them their meals. They count most heads of state as friends and Daniel’s godfather is a lord. It took me a while to realise that his parents are very nice people, despite sounding like the upstairs family from Downton Abbey. What a world away from the council house where I grew up with Mum and Dad. Our furniture is more Ikea than iconic and our friends drink pints, not Dom Pérignon. I don’t run across many poshies in my day-to-day life, except for the ones who occasionally come this way to stuff fivers into G-strings at the local strip club. And I don’t date them.

With such an upbringing, Daniel sounds like he should be spoiled or at least a bit of an arse, right? It’s hard not to make assumptions when you hear about someone’s giant house and their servants and gap year holidays. But like I said, he’s kind and easy-going and generous, totally unflashy and not the least bit judgmental. It helped that I got to know all these things about him before I found out he was stonking rich. Otherwise, naturally I’d have presumed he was a wanker.

That doesn’t mean we’re not from different worlds, only that the differences are more about our accents and experiences, not the things that really matter. That’s why I do give him full marks for trying to fit in, even if the slang sounds wrong with his plummy pronunciation. Besides, he totally ruins it with his next remarks.

‘I’ll just put the seeded bloomer in to toast, yah? It’s the last of the loaf before Waitrose delivers again. I think we’re out of hummus too.’

He sounds straight off the estate, doesn’t he?

I stop wringing the sopping cloth into my half-drunk coffee cup. If I’m ever kidnapped, the police will be able to trace my last movements through the string of unfinished hot drinks I’ve left behind. ‘Having your seeded bloomer toast before or after you fold clothes won’t make a difference to your lateness, you know.’

When his face breaks into a cheeky smile, one dimple appears on the left side. That dimple! It hints at a mouth that’s usually lopsided with merriment. He can make me laugh at myself like nobody else. It’s one of the things that’s always charmed me. It would probably work now, but I’m too tired. ‘I think I’ll be more efficient, energy-wise, if I eat first,’ he says, glancing at his phone. ‘You’re right as usual, though. Just let me answer this one email. I’ll be quick.’

But he’s not quick enough. By the time he finishes his toast I need him to change Grace while I do Oscar. Our children are messy at both ends. So the laundry will sit in a heap for another day as my award for Homemaker of the Year slips further away.

Daniel waits till he’s at the front door to break his news casually to me. He thinks it cushions the blow to kiss me when he does it. Kisses or not, it feels like an ambush.

‘I’ve got to meet with Jacob quickly after work tonight.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘Are you wearing a new perfume? It smells so good.’

That would be the tea tree oil for the spot that’s come up on my forehead. ‘But you were out just the other night.’

‘That was last week, darling.’

‘Was it? Still, do you have to? I’ll be working at the café all day with Mum. I thought you could do tea for us tonight.’

‘Yah, I could have if you’d told me before now, but I’ve already said yes to Jacob. He says it’s rahly important, otherwise I’d cancel. I won’t be late, though. And don’t worry about supper for me. If it’s easier, I can grab a bite with Jacob while I’m out. I love you!’

Yeah, sure it’s easier. Easier for him. ‘Love you too,’ I say quietly.

And I do. I’m crazy about him. I just wish he was, I don’t know, more helpful. No, that’s not the right word, because he is almost always ready to help. It’s his follow-through that needs work.

When the twins were tiny we were such a solid team: cuddling, changing, feeding, fussing, staring for hours in wonder and bewilderment. We did it all together. Even though he hasn’t got the feeding equipment to be of much practical use, he’d sit with us while I nursed our babies so that I wasn’t the only one awake.

Now that they’re toddlers, he sleeps through the night even when we don’t. He will do what I ask of him, usually without grumbles. But I’ve become more of a lead singer to his backing vocals and the thing is, I never wanted a solo career.

Grace raises her arms and mewls for a cuddle as soon as Daniel leaves, fixing me with the same long-lashed blue-eyed stare that he has. She’s as irresistible as he is, with her golden hair and dimples. Oscar’s got my family’s red tinge, which thrills Mum. It would be nice, though, for one of my children to have my dark hair or even the cowlick at the front that I can’t do anything with. Not that one should ever wish a cowlick on their children.

There’s no time on the walk to my parents’ house for a proper grizzle about Daniel getting to go out tonight. Even walking slowly, it only takes fifteen minutes, plus time to stop for the toys, dummies and shoes the twins jettison from the pushchair along the way.

It’ll be no use whinging to Mum when I get there either. She didn’t manage to hold our family together – raising me, making ends meet and looking after Dad while working her cleaning jobs – by being soft. She’ll only be her usual sensible self and tell me that I’m overreacting. It’s not like Daniel is out every night or comes home pissed. You heard him. It’s a once-a-week thing at most. And the world won’t end because he didn’t fold our pants. I’m just overtired. Looking after the children is a lot harder than I imagined.

Says every parent in the world. Still, I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Well, maybe I would, just for half an hour so I could have a bath without an audience. I’d want them back, though, as soon as I was towelled off.

‘Good morning!’ I call into Mum and Dad’s house as I let myself in with my key. ‘You have a special delivery: two toddlers, fairly clean and ready to play!’

They’re all in their usual spots in the lounge – Mum and Auntie Rose on the settees and Dad in his old reading chair that Mum has tried to get rid of for years.

Dad’s face creases into a broad smile when he sees his grandchildren. ‘Come ’ere, me loves!’

It’s hard to unbuckle them with all the wriggling. They’re in Dad’s lap as fast as their little legs will carry them across the lounge floor. ‘There’s me angels,’ he murmurs as he kisses the tops of their heads.

‘Hah, you should have seen them at breakfast.’

‘They’re angels to me.’

He means it too. I don’t know what happened to the strict father I had to deal with growing up. He’s turned into a giant marshmallow of a man. ‘How come you never spoiled me like that?’

‘I would have if you’d smelled like biscuits,’ he says.

‘That’s not what they smelled like an hour ago.’

You’d have thought Mum and Dad had won the lottery when I asked if they’d look after the twins for a few hours a day till I can get the café ready to open. Mum had the whole house baby-proofed, including Dad. She saw her chance with his chair, reciting a litany of childhood diseases that might lurk in its nubbly striped fabric. But Dad offered to get it cleaned and she hasn’t thought up a way around that. If she ever does manage to get rid of it, I just know Dad’s going to go too.

He glances up. ‘How are you, love?’

‘Okay. Just tired, Dad.’

‘She’s burning the candle at both ends,’ Auntie Rose says. ‘It’s too much, if you ask me. Not that anybody ever does.’

Auntie Rose likes to say that, but she knows how important she is in our family. We joke that that’s why we keep her under lock and key. It’s not really the reason. It’s just nice to have a laugh about it with her. Otherwise it’s a bit sad. ‘You’re right, Auntie Rose, but I can’t stop now. Besides, it’s not for much longer. Mum and I are stripping the tables and chairs today. We’re nearly there.’

‘You’ll be just as busy after the café opens, you know,’ Mum reminds me as she goes to tidy up around Dad’s chair. She never sits still for long. ‘You keep talking like it’s all going to calm down suddenly. I just hope it’s not too much.’

Of course it’s too much, but Mum knows what it means to me to open this café. I didn’t spend five years getting my degree not to use it just because my uterus decided it suddenly wanted to play host to a couple of embryos. There’s a lot at stake. Not least of which is the wodge of my in-laws’ money that’s going into the business.

Being as rich as they are, they invest in all sorts of things, though Daniel doesn’t like to rely on them. We didn’t even accept help from them for our wedding. But that’s another story.

When they offered to loan me the money for the café officially, there was a lot of discussion about it before Daniel and I agreed. I thought it would be better to borrow money from family instead of an impersonal bank. Now I’m not so sure.

They’re not putting pressure on me or anything. I’d feel better if they did. But every time I promise to pay them back, Philippa waves me away with a cheerful ‘Don’t worry about that’, like they’ve already kissed their investment goodbye. Sometimes I think I should have risked the bad credit rating with the bank manager. At least I wouldn’t have to spend every holiday at his house worrying that he thinks I’ll never come good on the business.

I know I can do this. I’ll have to, won’t I? A year ago I wouldn’t have thought I could handle having twins and look at me now. Frazzled, exhausted and barely managing, but I haven’t screwed them up too badly yet.

When we hear the knock at the door, Auntie Rose says, ‘That’ll be Doreen.’

Mum opens it with the key from around her neck. I wasn’t kidding about the lockdown around here.

‘Where are the babies?!’ Doreen exclaims, not waiting for an invitation inside. ‘’Ere, for elevenses.’ She hands Mum a carrier bag full of biscuits. ‘They were on special, two-for-one. Ha, like these two!’

Doreen is one of Auntie Rose’s lifelong best friends. She smokes like a wet log fire and there are questions over exactly what happened when her husband disappeared back in the eighties, but beneath her over-tanned cleavage and lumpy wrap dresses there beats the heart of an angel. Just don’t cross her or try cheating at cribbage.

There used to be four of them, till my gran died eight or nine years ago. She was Auntie Rose’s sister. Now it’s Auntie Rose, Doreen and June, whose husband hasn’t disappeared, so she mostly does her visiting with everyone in the evenings at the pub.

Both twins scramble off Dad’s lap to see what Doreen’s got to offer. Oscar doesn’t come empty-handed, though. Shyly, he holds his stuffed duck out for Doreen’s inspection.

‘He’s just like you, Emma,’ Auntie Rose says.

‘Not Grace too?’ I say, though I’m just fishing for compliments. Greedy me, wanting credit for all the best traits of my children. But Grace has Daniel’s outgoing nature.

‘Nah, she’s a tearaway like your mother. It skipped a generation.’

Mum ignores my questioning smile. I love when Auntie Rose lets slip about Mum’s younger days. When I was a child it gave me useful ammunition against her rules. Now I’m just curious to know more about my parents.

Auntie Rose gathers Grace up onto her ample lap while Doreen settles next to her with Oscar, and Dad tries not to look too jealous that they’ve got his grandchildren. ‘Off you go now,’ Auntie Rose says to Mum and me. ‘That café ain’t opening itself. We’ll look after the wee ones.’

‘Okay, but we’ll be back at lunchtime,’ I say as Mum hands me a bag full of paint stripper and brushes. ‘I’ve got my phone if you need me. Mum does too.’

Mum manages to get me into the car after I kiss my babies about a hundred times and remind everyone about the nappies, bottles, extra clothes, extra nappies and the bottles again.

‘It’s only for a few hours, Emma,’ Mum reminds me on the short drive back to Carlton Square.

‘You were probably just as bad when you had to leave me.’

‘I couldn’t get away fast enough,’ she says, smirking into the windscreen.

‘Liar. I remember Gran telling you off for being a hover mother.’ My gran was cut from the same no-nonsense cloth as Auntie Rose and my mum.

‘Oh, she was a great one for repeating whatever she read in the Daily Mail,’ Mum says, still smiling.

‘The skip’s arrived,’ she notes as she carefully manoeuvres the car into the free spot just behind it. ‘Let’s take up those carpets before we do the furniture.’

Chapter 2

The café isn’t much of a café yet, but it’s perfect in my imagination. In reality it’s still just the old pub that sits across the square from our house. It did have a brief life as a café before I took it over, but the owners never really got rid of its pubness. That’s a blessing and a curse.

The waft of stale beer hits me as usual when I unlock the double doors at the front, though it looks better than it smells. There’s a big wraparound bar at the back and shiny cream and green tiles running waist-high along all the walls. It’s even got two of those old gold-lettered mirrored advertisements for whisky set into the walls at the side of the bar. When we first came to see inside, Mum climbed up the ladder to inspect the ceiling. It’s pressed tin, though like the rest of the place, stained by about a hundred years of tobacco smoke.

She throws a pair of work gloves and a face mask at me. ‘Put your back into it. Start in a corner where it’s easier to get it up.’

That’s easy for her to say when she’s got muscles on top of muscles from all her cleaning jobs. She can even lift Dad when she needs to. Luckily that’s not too often these days.

The carpet pulls away – in some places in shreds – setting loose a cloud of God-knows-what into the air. ‘Open the windows, Mum!’ I shout through the mask.

When the dust settles, there’s no beautifully preserved Victorian parquet floor underneath. This isn’t one of those BBC makeover programmes where gorgeous George Clarke congratulates us on our period features.

The floor is made up of rough old unfinished planks.

‘That’s even uglier than the carpet,’ I tell Mum when she comes over for a look. ‘We can’t afford a whole new floor.’ Even if we had the extra money, there’s no way I’d hand that capital improvement to the council, who owns the lease.

‘Let’s have a think about this,’ she says, leading me to one of the booths by the open window where, hopefully, the slight breeze is clearing away whatever was in that carpet.

The booths are as knackered as the rest of the pub, but at least they’re wooden so they won’t need re-covering. Unlike all the chairs piled in a heap upstairs. I don’t even like to think about what’s stained their fabric seats over the decades.

Suddenly Mum reaches into my hair. ‘Hold still, you’ve got something– It’s a bit of… I don’t know what it is.’ Then she squints at my head. ‘Is that a grey hair?’

My hand flies to my head. ‘NO! It can’t be.’ I’m only twenty-seven.

‘It’s only because your hair is so dark that I noticed it. I started getting them at your age. Don’t worry, it’s only one…’ She reaches for my head again. ‘Or two. ’Ere, I’ll get them.’

‘Ow, don’t pull them out! You’ll make more.’

‘That’s an old wives’ tale. Let me just get–’

‘Get off me!’

As I twist my head away from my mother’s snatching fingers, I look out the window and straight into two strange faces. They look about as old as God and his secretary and as surprised to see us as I am to see them.

‘Oh! Excuse us,’ says the man. ‘We thought we saw someone inside…’ He grasps the woman’s hand. ‘We’re terribly sorry to disturb you.’

‘No, no, don’t be sorry,’ calls my mum through the window. ‘We’re renovating the pub.’

The man hesitates. ‘It’s been decades since we’ve been inside.’

‘It smells like it,’ I murmur, then realise how rude that sounds. ‘Since it’s been open, I mean.’

‘Would you like to come in?’ Mum asks. ‘You’re very welcome.’

‘We shouldn’t bother you,’ says the woman, but I can see that she’s dying for a snoop.

‘It’s no bother, really, come in. Just a sec, I’ll open the door.’

They’re even older than they looked outside, but they come nimbly through the door like they own the place. They’re both wearing long dark wool coats against the February cold snap.

‘I always hated that carpet,’ says the woman, seeing the pile I’ve made in the corner. ‘It stank to high heaven. But then so did a lot of the men who drank ’ere.’

‘Present company excepted.’ The man removes his flat cap and bows, showing me the top of his balding, age-spotted head. ‘Carl Brumfeld. Pleased to meet you. And this ’ere’s Elsie.’

Their accents are as local to East London as my family’s is. After I make introductions, Elsie asks, ‘Are you the new landlord?’ Her face is nearly unlined, but her hair is snowy white, spun into an intricate sort of beehive on top of her head. Auntie Rose would say she’d look younger with it coloured, but she says that about everyone because she does hair.

‘It’s going to be a café,’ Mum tells them. As she relays this, her pride even tops her bragging about me going to Uni. And that was monumental.

‘Oh,’ they chorus. ‘That’s a shame,’ Carl says. ‘We were hoping to get the old place back. This is where we met, you see.’

‘When was that?’ I ask. Just after the dawn of time, I’m guessing.

‘Nineteen forty-one,’ says Elsie. ‘We were children during the war. We used to sit together in that booth right there.’

‘Wow, seventy-five years.’ Mum whistles. ‘What’s that in anniversaries? Diamond is sixty. Of course you couldn’t have been married so young!’

‘We’re not married now either,’ Carl says.

‘Carl is my brother-in-law,’ Elsie adds.

Which does make me wonder why they’re holding hands. ‘You’ll come back when we’re open, won’t you?’ I ask. ‘Maybe you’d like to sit in your old booth for a cup of tea.’

Where I’ll be able to winkle their story out of them. A café is the perfect business for a nosey person like me to run.

‘We’d like that, thank you,’ Carl says. ‘You’re keeping the booths, then? It would be nice for someone to take account of history around ’ere instead of tearing everything down to build flats.’

‘The booths are staying,’ I assure them.

Carl’s words stay with me after they leave. It would be a shame to strip the pub of its history if we don’t have to. Except for the carpet. The history of spilled pints and trodden-on fag ends will have to go.

‘Daniel’s out tonight,’ I tell Mum as we pull up the rest of the carpet together. Despite my promise to myself, the words are out before I can stop them.

She halts her ripping to glance at me. Her gingery bob has come loose from its hair tie and she keeps swiping it back behind her ears. She is pretty, though she doesn’t usually wear much make-up. Only when she’s doing things like trying to impress Daniel’s parents. Then she goes for full-on slap, even though my mother-in-law doesn’t bother with it herself.

‘And you hate him a bit, right?’ she asks.

Instinctively I want to deny it, even though I’ve just brought it up. ‘I’m trying not to, Mum, and I know you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t.’

But Mum shakes her head. ‘I was going to say that I understand. After you were born, when your father got to go out in his taxi every day, I wanted to puncture his tyres. I wanted to puncture him sometimes. He used to complain about how hard it was driving around all day. I would have bloody loved to trade places. Believe me, you ’aven’t got the monopoly on resentment.’

Resentment. Is that what I’ve got? ‘It’s just so hard,’ I say.

‘I know, love, but it gets easier when they’re in school.’

‘Nursery?’

‘University,’ she deadpans.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Mum understands. She and Dad didn’t wait long after their wedding to have me either. Everyone keeps telling us how lucky we are to be young parents. We’ve got more energy, they say. We’ll still be youngish when the children are grown. But what about the decades in between? At the moment, it looks like a long time between now and then.

Mum gathers me into a carpet-dust-filled hug. ‘It’s always harder than you think it’s going to be. Thank goodness I had your Gran and Auntie Rose. Your Granny Liddell was no help.’

‘Thank goodness I’ve got you and Dad and Auntie Rose now,’ I say.

Mum nods. ‘Your Dad’s a dark horse, isn’t he? He’s so much better with the twins than he ever was with you. He’s got more confidence now than he did then. He was terrified of making a mistake with you.’

‘Weren’t you terrified?’ I’m constantly worried that I’m doing it all wrong or that I’ll damage the twins somehow. I could be feeding them too much, or not enough, leaving them to get too hot or too cold, smothering them with cuddles or not paying them enough attention, pushing them to learn new things or being too laid back, letting their faces get too dirty or wiping them so much that they’ll end up with allergies. They might be underdressed or overstimulated, under-cuddled, over-coddled, disgruntled or disappointed. Just off the top of my head. I could give you another ten lists like that every single day.

‘Of course I was afraid to mess up,’ Mum says, ‘but I didn’t have a choice. You had to eat and be held and changed. If I didn’t do it, who would?’

That’s exactly how I feel. It’s not that Daniel can’t do it too. He’s just not as good at it as I am. And lately he’s seemed to leave more and more to me while he gets on with his life.

I always seem to have toddlers hanging off me when I try getting on with my life. Just try being glamorous with ladies who lunch when you’re saying, ‘Get that out of your mouth,’ every two minutes.

Not that I’ve ever been glamorous. And my friends aren’t ladies who lunch, but you see my point.

Today it’s my turn to host everyone at the house, so despite having had to shove most of the toys under the sofa and the unfolded laundry into the closet, I’ve got the easy part. Just try going anywhere with the twins. Trying to move a circus is less challenging.

‘Maybe if they didn’t act like they’d invented nuclear fusion every time they changed a nappy, I wouldn’t mind so much,’ my friend Melody says, talking about husbands as she shifts her child to her other breast. Speaking of having children hanging off you.

Melody and Samantha, Emerald and Garnet – four women who at first had no more in common with me than leaky boobs and sleepless nights – are the reason I’m holding on to my sanity. But when your world has shrunk to leaky boobs and sleepless nights, that can be enough.

We’re covering our usual ground – what we’ve done since we saw each other last week and who’s aggrieved about what – and, also as usual, I’ve got to keep my eyes glued to Melody’s face and away from her feeding daughter. Not because breastfeeding embarrasses me. Not at all. When I was breastfeeding my boobs came out anywhere the twins needed to feed, and we’re only in my house anyway. When they legislate against boys wearing their jeans so low that you can see their bollocks from the back, I’ll agree that we should be hiding feeding babies under tea towels and tablecloths to protect the public’s sensibilities.

It would be perfectly normal for Melody to feed her toddler, Joy. Which she does. She just happens to also like to feed her five-year-old, who’s not even sitting in her mother’s lap. She’s got her own chair. Her feet nearly touch the floor.

‘Because it’s such a huge favour to care for his own child,’ Samantha throws in.

I’m not the only one who thinks that nearly school-age children really ought to be drinking milk from cups. Samantha doesn’t bother trying to hide her eye roll. Melody doesn’t bother pretending to ignore it. Samantha won’t say anything with Melody’s daughter here, though. She may be one of the toughest women I’ve ever met, but she’s never cruel.

‘Well, that’s not really fair,’ Emerald points out, brushing a non-existent speck of something from her pristine top. Not that a crumb could have come from any of the food on the table. She never eats the buttery croissants or packets of biscuits that the rest of us scoff. ‘The men do work all day.’

I wince at her terrible choice of words. What is it that we’re doing all day – and night – if not working? But Garnet, Emerald’s sister, nods, adding, ‘My Michael works late into the night sometimes.’

‘Boo hoo,’ Samantha bites back.

‘Not to mention weekends.’ Emerald ignores Samantha’s dig at her sister. ‘Anthony’s a workhorse too.’

When Emerald and Garnet sit beside each other they look like someone has taken the same drawing and just coloured them in differently. Their eyes are almond shaped and they have identical long slender noses, angular faces and full lips. But Garnet’s got nearly black eyes and her thick straight shoulder-length hair is cut in a heavy blunt fringe and coloured a russet red. Emerald has the same haircut but her colour is even darker than mine – almost a true black – and her eyes are nearly black too. It’s very striking against her pale skin.

‘Poor Michael has even had to cancel holidays,’ says Garnet.

Melody covers her daughter’s ears when she catches the look on Samantha’s face. Samantha doesn’t disappoint. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, at least they get holidays,’ she replies. ‘Not to mention sick days and bonuses and at least some bloody idea about all the hours they’ll have to work. I’d trade places in a heartbeat. They’re not sitting around with their friends feeling sorry for us, are they?’

When I first met Samantha in antenatal class I mistook her abruptness for rudeness, but she’s just very honest and efficient. She used to be a high-powered consultant before having her first child and she never really lost the drive. It was her job to go into companies and restructure them (efficiently, of course). Now she hasn’t got anywhere for all that energy to go so she channels it into everyday life and her marathon yoga sessions. The rest of us might dress to camouflage the baby tummies we haven’t quite lost yet. Samantha’s got thighs that could crack walnuts.

Naturally, it gets Samantha’s back up when Garnet and Emerald try excusing their husbands, which happens a lot.

It’s not just Samantha’s lack of employment that frustrates her. It doesn’t sound like her husband appreciates her thighs, walnut-cracking or not, any more than all the work she does. Like I said, she channels a lot into yoga.

And Garnet and Emerald are very nice women once you get used to their rivalry. They only ever turn it on each other and have a long-running disagreement over which precious stone their parents think is more precious. That sums them up, really.

Not only were their first babies due within days of each other, but their husbands work for the same bank and their houses are one road away from one another. Both think theirs is the better neighbourhood. And the better husband.

Garnet was over-the-top smug about getting to the finishing line first in the maternity ward, pushing out her ten-pound daughter a day and a half before Emerald. But Emerald had the better time when her son was born in under six hours, and they’ve been competitively parenting ever since.

The sisters are closest in age to me, twenty-seven and twenty-eight, and both think they’re the perfect age. Samantha is in her mid-thirties and Melody’s age is anyone’s guess, so of course we all do. I think she’s well over forty because of her long frizzy brown and grey hair, but since I’ve got a few greys too (thanks to Mum for pointing those out), maybe she is younger.

‘It will be all right, you know,’ Melody says, fixing me with her pale blue, wide-set eyes. Combined with a longish face and big-toothed smile, they make her look a bit like a goat. I don’t mean that in an insulting way. It’s just so you can picture her. Because her hair is salt-and-pepper, though, instead of goat-coloured, the resemblance ends there.

Melody is even more of a tree-hugging yogurt-knitter than I thought when we first met, the kind of person who makes her own baby food and sews up holes in socks even though there’s usually an uncomfortable lump in your shoe after, instead of just buying another pack of twenty for a fiver.

You won’t be surprised to know that she gave birth to her daughter in an inflatable paddling pool in her lounge, with the sound of wind chimes and whale noises for pain relief. All her friends were there to see it and it sounds like it was a bit of a party between contractions. She claims it was the most magical three days of her life, especially when her then four-year-old cut the umbilical cord and her husband made an afterbirth smoothie for Melody. I imagine the other guests stuck to the hummus and kale chips.

I wouldn’t have been much of a hostess at my own birth party. I cried through most of my labour because, holy hell, it hurt. Daniel did too, come to think of it, in solidarity and helplessness at seeing me. We were basically that nightmare couple in labour for the first time. But anyone who tells you it’s not that bad is either lying or has had their memory erased by those post-birth hormones.

‘I hate to be the one to break this up,’ Samantha says, ‘but I’ve got to pick up Dougie. It’s been fun as always. Same time next week at my house?’

She doesn’t need to ask because I wouldn’t miss these get-togethers even if I ended up in hospital with appendicitis. I’d crawl on all fours with tubes hanging off me and a packet of biscuits clenched in my teeth. And to think that when I first had the babies I thought I didn’t need the mums I’d met in antenatal class. Naïve, deluded Emma.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I say. ‘Sorry we were out of milk.’

Everyone starts to shift as Samantha perfects her lipstick without looking and pulls out her hairbrush to give her chestnut tresses a swipe. Which reminds me that I forgot to brush mine this morning. At least I cleaned my teeth. I’m a winner.

‘We should be going too,’ Garnet says to her sister.

Their toddlers are already in day care, though that’s not what they call it. ‘It’s pre-Montessori, like Eton is a feeder for Oxbridge,’ they explain.

‘I bet you’ll be excited to start school in the autumn, Eva,’ I tell Melody’s five-year-old, who is busy drawing orange trees on her sketch pad. She’s got her mum’s clear blue eyes and long face.

‘I can’t wait for school!’ Eva says, but Melody looks troubled. I’m not sure what she’ll do then. Will she turn up at snack time in her nursing bra?

Chapter 3

Talk about putting the cart before the horse. Or the staff before the café, in this case. My glance falls on the stack of boxes leaning precariously beside the bar. One more thing to put away. It looks messy, unfinished and unprofessional. Ditto the half-painted walls, filthy window glass and stripped but yet-to-be refinished tables and chairs. It looks like a building site.

It is a building site. But in four weeks it needs to be a welcoming café. With staff.

So far none of this has seemed altogether real, despite the loan from Daniel’s parents or the official two-year extendable lease from the council. Just paperwork, I’ve convinced myself. If it all goes pear-shaped for some reason, I can always find a way to pay my in-laws back and cancel the lease. No real harm done to anyone but me.

Until now. As soon as I put teenagers into the training positions they’ll be depending on me for the job. And they deserve the chance to do something that could give them a leg-up in life. Lots of charities do after-school programmes and run youth centres and activity groups, not to mention everyone campaigning to get more funding. But training programmes are harder to come by.

I never imagined I’d set one up myself, yet here I am fidgeting over a stack of CVs and notes from Social Services, checking the door every two seconds for my first interviewee.

The lady at the council who has been helping me was uncomfortably vague about the applicants’ details. I know they’ve all had reason to catch the attention of the authorities, which is why they’re being put forward as potential trainees. But when I asked her what they’d done – just to know whether I’d be dealing with someone who’s run red lights or run drugs – she went tight-lipped. And she wasn’t exactly chatting like my BFF to begin with.

‘We can’t disclose any details about the cases,’ she’d said, rapidly clicking the top of her pen. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

I nodded like I did. ‘When you say cases, do you mean their Social Services cases? Or their court cases?’

‘Both,’ she said. ‘Either.’

‘Uh-huh, I see. Would those be criminal cases or civil ones?’

She just stared at me over her reading glasses. ‘Everyone we’re referring has needed intervention by Social Services, and in each situation we feel that the opportunity to work, to get training, will benefit them.’

I felt like such a dick then. Here was this lady, working with troubled kids every day, probably for little pay and little thanks, and I was swanning in sounding like I only wanted the cream off the top of the barrel. ‘Yes, of course, of course, that’s why I’m here,’ I said as my face reddened. ‘To offer them that chance.’ I took home every one of the files she’d prepared for me to consider.

Just the bare bones information I’ve got is enough to break your heart. A catalogue of foster care, school disruption and instability. I wanted to hire them all, so how was I supposed to choose between them to make a shortlist? I’m not exactly opening Starbucks nationwide. I’ve only got room, and money, for two trainees at a time.

I’m not looking for the best candidates, per se, like you would for a regular job. I’m looking for the ones who most need the help, and the ones who most want it. It’s like going into a bakery and asking which cakes taste okay. No, no fancy decoration or mouth-watering icing. Someone else will gladly have those. I’ll take the ones that are irregularly shaped or might have fallen on the floor, please. They’re still perfectly good, just not as obviously appealing as the perfect ones.

A hulking form suddenly blocks most of the light from the open doorway. ‘Yo. This for the interview?’ his deep voice booms.

‘Yes, in here. You must be Martin. Hi.’

He doesn’t look like a Martin. He walks in with a sort of half-skip, half-lumber, as if he’s got a bad limp on one side. ‘Yo, I’m Ice,’ he says, putting his fist in front of me for a bump. I must not do it right because he sucks his teeth at me. The kids are always doing this to me – when I don’t get out of the way fast enough at the Tube station, or dither over the bowls of fruit at the market or hold up the queue in the local Tesco. Basically, whenever they judge me hopeless, which is a lot. ‘Wagwan?’ he asks.

He means what’s going on. ‘Well, we’re renovating the café to get it ready for the opening, as you can see!’

He looks around as I look at him. His file says he’s fifteen, and his face looks babyish, but he’s huge, man-size. There’s a thick metal chain snaking into the front pocket of his jeans, which are so low they’re nearly around his knees, and his mini Afro looks too old for his spot-prone brown face.

I know he’s trying to be intimidating, but it’s so clearly bravado that I just want to say ‘Aww!’ and pinch his babyish cheeks. Though he might break my arm if I did.

He keeps looking around as I explain about the six-month training scheme and what would be expected of him. Eventually he says, ‘Why you making it a café, not a pub? It’d be banging working in a pub.’

‘Aren’t you a minor? You can’t work in a pub.’

He sucks his teeth again. ‘True dat.’

‘Maybe you could tell me why you’d like to work here?’ He shrugs his answer. ‘Can you think of any reason you’d like to work here?’

‘It pays, yeah?’

‘Right, yes. Any reason beyond the money?’ Though at trainee rates he wouldn’t really need that chain on his wallet.

‘Nah, man, my social worker say I got to come.’ He pulls a crumpled paper from his non-chained pocket. ‘She said sign this.’

I take the short, photocopied statement from him and add my signature to the bottom.

Ice snatches it off the table and leaves without a backward glance.

By mid-morning my hand is starting to cramp from signing so many attendance forms. Some of the kids bother to sit down and a few even humour me by answering a question or two. Others turn up with their paper already in hand, waving it for a signature.

I’m in so far over my head that I should be in a submersible. I may have grown up in a tough part of London and be on first-name terms with PC Billy Bramble. I may have seen the fights break out down the market when the gangs kick off. But I’ve never lived that life myself. I like to think I’m street. I’m really just street-light.

Take the kid who rumbled me for gawping at the purplish blood droplet tattooed on his arm. It had a triangle above it, like a gang symbol. ‘You starin’ at my tatt?’ he’d said.

I could feel my face go red. ‘Erm, sorry, I was just interested. Is it supposed to be blood, or a gang sign of some kind?’ I couldn’t sound more lame.

‘Teletubby,’ he said.

I’d never heard of them. The Teletubby Massive? I didn’t want any gang members in my crew.

He pointed to the red blotch beside the drop. ‘Tinky Winky.’

‘You mean it’s an actual Teletubby?!’ I tried to bite down my smile.

‘Joker blud did it to me.’ He shrugged. ‘I wanted a stopwatch.’

Just as I was starting to wonder if this boy with a children’s character on his arm might be worth another look, I asked him why he wanted to do the training programme.

‘Everybody likes coffee, yeah? I can drink that shit all day.’

‘Well, yes, but you’d actually be working, not drinking coffee. And hopefully it won’t be shit.’

‘I can slip it to my bluds though, yeah?’

He really thought I’d pay him to hand out free coffee to his mates all day.

‘I can let you know by next week, okay?’ I said, scribbling my signature on his form.

Mum and Dad would have cuffed him on the side of the head for answers like that. I can hear Dad now. Lazy sod. My parents were working by the time they were teens, and not just making their beds for pocket money, either. Mum cycled all over London to pick up and drop off clothes for my gran’s tailoring customers. ‘Join a Union if you don’t like the deal,’ Gran used to say of the sweatshop wages she paid her daughter, but she bought Mum off by letting her keep any tips. Mum was slightly easier on me, and she’d never let me cycle across the city. She often took me with her to help when she cleaned houses, though. There was less risk to life and limb but the wages were still crap.

On his way out, my latest applicant passes a boy just coming in. ‘Yo, Tinky Winky, ’sup?’ says the boy.

‘Fuck off, dweeb.’

‘That’s Professor to you,’ he says.

I watch this brief exchange with interest. Not because the new boy, with his tall lanky frame, looks as if his brain has no idea what his arms and legs are doing, or that he doesn’t seem frightened by his tattooed rival. His close-cropped wavy black hair and mixed-race complexion don’t differentiate him from most of the other kids.

It’s his three-piece suit and the fatly knotted blue tie round his skinny neck.

And his briefcase, which he sets on the table between us.

‘I’m Joseph.’ He sticks his hand out for me to shake. His long-lashed brown eyes are the first to look directly at me all morning. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ he says. ‘You can cancel the other punters, because you’ve found your future employee.’

‘Well, I hope I have, but I’ll still need to ask you some questions, okay?’ Who told him to be so cocky in an interview? I glance at his file. Lives with his mum and older brother, who seems to be mixed up with one of the local gangs. ‘You’re seventeen?’

‘Yeah, but don’t let that fool you. I can do anything you can, and I’m really good.’

His suggestion is unmistakable.

That won’t do him any favours and the sooner he realises it, the better. Just to prove the point, I ask him if he can drive. No? What about buying alcohol legally? Are you registered to vote? No again? ‘Then you can’t quite do anything I can,’ I say, ‘so let’s stick to the interview, okay? Why would you like to do this training?’

There’s a scattering of hairs on his face where he’s been trying to shave, and his suit sleeves cover his knuckles. I bet he’s borrowed it from his big brother. He might have borrowed the razor too.

Joseph clears his throat. That doesn’t stop his voice from cracking. ‘I see the position as a stepping stone for my future as a CEO.’

‘A CEO… here?’ We both look around the pub. ‘That’s not really the position I’m recruiting for.’ Unless CEO stands for Chief Egg-on-toast Officer.

‘Well, then, what are you going to do for my career progression?’

‘It’s a six-month traineeship, so you’ll learn all aspects of working in a café. Working with colleagues, serving customers, making coffee and tea…’ I sort of run out of steam. It’s just a café, not Microsoft.

He sits forward in his chair. ‘Sales and marketing?’

I thought I might put up a few posters around the bus stops. ‘Sure.’

‘How ’bout customer complaint resolution?’

‘I expect so. Tell me, Joseph, what would you like to be a CEO of?’

‘A company with good benefits,’ he says right away.

‘Any particular kind?’

‘Definitely stock options. And a gold-plated pension.’

‘No, I mean any particular kind of company?’

‘I’d be happy at Apple. Or Xbox.’

I like that he’s dreaming big. My most ambitious goal at his age was getting a real pair of Dr. Martens. ‘Well, maybe you’ll get there. It would have been easier if you’d stayed in school, you know.’ He finished secondary school but doesn’t want to go on for college.

‘I like to think of myself as a student of life,’ he says. ‘Steve Jobs dropped out. So did Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, and they all became CEOs.’

‘Mark Zuckerberg dropped out of Harvard,’ I point out. ‘If you get into Harvard, then you can feel free to drop out.’

‘That’s what my mum said.’

‘I think I’d like your mum.’

Who can blame Joseph for not wanting to be in school? Not everyone is a swot like I was. I only left at sixteen because I needed to help Mum and Dad with the bills. And I went back to graduate from Uni.

If it hadn’t been for the twins’ unplanned arrival scuppering the job plans I had after university, I’d be the one on the other side of the interview table now, trying to get a charity to hire me and probably sounding as naïve as Joseph does.

There but for the grace of god, and my in-laws…

Joseph’s heart seems to be in the right place, underneath the cocksure attitude. He needs a lot of help with his interview technique and he’ll have to learn that people aren’t just going to hand him a job as CEO because he asks for it.

He might not know a teabag from a tea towel, for all I know, but that’s the point, isn’t it? If he can already do the job, then he doesn’t need the training.

‘You’ve got the job if you want it,’ I tell him. ‘Congratulations. We’ll open in four weeks.’

His face splits into a beaming grin. ‘Yeah, that’s well good! Are you for reals?’

‘I’m for reals. You’ll need to come in for training and stuff before the opening.’ I consider my very first employee. My employee! ‘Can I ask you a question before you go? Your briefcase. You didn’t open it. What’s in there?’

Joseph takes a second to answer. ‘My lunch. Mum packed it for me.’

And just like that, the CEO-in-the-making becomes young Joseph again.

I’ve just finished putting away all the boxes piled near the bar when Dad turns up with Auntie Rose wheeling the babies in the pushchair. ‘I’m glad the ramp works!’ I shout to them as they come through the door. We just had it installed last week and it’s only about three inches high, but it means Dad can come through in his wheelchair without having to pop a wheelie.

‘I’ve actually hired someone!’ I tell them.

‘Wayhey!’ Dad whoops, meeting me halfway for a hug. ‘You’re on your way now, me girl. Mind the wheels. This deserves a proper stand-up job.’ Slowly he lifts himself from his wheelchair so I can throw my arms around him.

The twins stop their babbling to stare. They’re not used to seeing my dad standing, and especially not without the crutches he uses to walk. ‘Look at them,’ I say. ‘Astounded.’

‘It’s a bloomin’ miracle, me angels.’

What a difference a generation makes. When Dad first came down with the multiple sclerosis that keeps him mostly in the chair these days, I was fourteen and mortified at having a disabled family member.

Typical teenager, thinking about myself instead of Dad, whose whole life changed in a matter of months. He’d had tingles in his arms and legs for a while but assumed it was from driving round in his cab every day. He might not have said anything if his vision hadn’t started going funny, and the disease had already taken hold by the time he got the diagnosis. He stayed out of the wheelchair for a few more years – a few more years than he should have, really, but he’s stubborn like that. Now he uses it most of the time, and it’s completely normal for Oscar and Grace.

He sits down again. ‘Let ’em loose, Rose. Emma, love, Kelly’s right behind us with fish and chips.’

His announcement makes my mouth start watering. It’s one of the advantages of having a fishmonger for a best friend. Kelly’s worked a deal with the local chippy who fries up her leftover fillets sometimes. She throws the owners a few free portions of fresh fish to cook her tea for her, and they throw in the chips.

‘Mum’s gone to work?’ I ask, reaching for my babies. I might have fantasies about child-free baths and cups of tea that I actually get to finish, but a few hours away from them starts the longing that pulls from my gut and makes me feel breathless.

That was a rhetorical question about Mum anyway. She cleans every weekday afternoon and evening. They’re mostly commercial office contracts, with a few houses whose owners she liked enough to keep as clients over the years.

Just in case Daniel wants some fish too, I ring his mobile but it goes straight through to voicemail. He’s probably in the Underground on his way home. I know Kelly. She’ll have a portion for him when he gets here.

My best friend comes through the door, as usual, with about as much grace as a tipper truck. Kelly’s not a big woman. She just makes big entrances. That sometimes tricks people into assuming she’s tough, so they’re not always as considerate as they could be. A perfect example is when her family decided she should be the one to take over the fish van instead of her sisters. They just assumed she’d do it, like a sixteen-year-old would naturally want to give up any chance of living a life that’s wider than her local market.

‘I figured you needed this after dealing with the little bleeders all day,’ she says, clearing one of the booths to make room for our meal.

Kell takes a different view than me of the hoodies who hang around the market where she works. I can understand why, when she sometimes gets caught up in their skirmishes. She’d like to fillet them and I’m trying to save them.

‘I’ve hired one of the little bleeders,’ I tell her. ‘You should see him, Kell, he’s adorable. He wants to be a CEO.’

‘Just watch the till. Rose, I got you extra chips.’

‘That’s kind, but I really shouldn’t,’ Auntie Rose says, looking up from where her hand is already elbow-deep in the carrier bag. ‘I’m watching me girlish figure.’

Auntie Rose pats her hip with her free hand as she chews on a chip. She’s a generously proportioned lady, in stark contrast to her sister, my Gran, who was always skinny like Mum. She’s got the same smiling eyes and sharp mind, though. Except when she wanders.

That’s why our doors are all locked from the inside and why we can’t leave her alone anymore. For years, she’s had little strokes that make her mind skip sometimes, which was okay when she stayed in the neighbourhood. But we had to take drastic measures after she turned up on the A12 with no idea how to get back home.

She’s pretty relaxed about being incarcerated. She and Dad do everything together these days and she’s as much a help to him as he is a minder for her. At least Mum doesn’t have to worry about either of them when she’s at work.

By the time we lock up the pub we’re full of fish, salt and vinegar. Daniel’s portion is soaking through the bag under the sleeping twins’ pushchair. His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.

‘Are you worried about him?’ Kell asks, walking beside me.

‘No, not worried,’ I say, rubbing the phone in my pocket. ‘More like disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, Kell. I don’t begrudge him having a night out. Lord knows, I wish I could do it any time I wanted too. It’s just that, I feel like–’

‘He’s having his cake and eating it, the bastard,’ she finishes for me. ‘I’d be pissed off too.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Kell. I didn’t say pissed off. I said disappointed.’

‘Really? Not pissed off when he gets to have these gorgeous children, the perfect family, plus you to look after it all while he goes out on the lash whenever he feels like it. Why does he get to be the only one? Shouldn’t you get to do it too? I say hand the twins over to Daniel for a few hours and let him be the one to sit at home covered in sick, being jealous of you while you dance on the tables.’

‘Kell, when have I ever in my life danced on a table?’ She is right, though. He should be the responsible parent for once. At least for a few hours. ‘You know what? I will.’

‘Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We’ll go out.’

‘I can’t tomorrow. I’m not sure what Daniel has on after work.’

‘You mean like he didn’t know what you had on tonight, yet just assumed you’d be there to look after the twins? Have I got that right?’ Her stare challenges me to disagree.

‘Fine, tomorrow night then. I’ll tell Daniel.’

Chapter 4

Daniel was home by eight o’clock. Not out on the lash, just working late with a dead phone. But I’ve avoided Kelly’s questions anyway. She’s been too prickly about him lately. Besides, I’m supposed to be having fun tonight, not whinging about my marriage.

It’s crowded as usual at the Cock and Crown, with Uncle Colin and Uncle Barbara pulling pints behind the bar. The vicar is tinkling sing-a-long show tunes on the piano and we’ve squeezed on to the end of a table where a couple around our age are either on their first date together or having a job interview. It’s kind of hard to tell. So far there’s no sign of a CV, but he just asked her where she thinks she’ll be in a year.

‘What’s that for?’ asks Kell.

‘What’s what for?’

‘That sigh?’

‘Oh, did I? Just happy to be here, I guess.’

The pub has been my home from home literally since I was born. Every picture, poster and random piece of football memorabilia on the walls is familiar, and I could sing most of the jukebox songs in my sleep. Like the green swirly carpet, they haven’t been updated since the eighties.

Uncle Colin took over the business from old Fred nearly twenty years ago when he retired without an interested heir or successor. Colin had paid his dues behind the bar for years by then. The only consistent thing about Fred’s managerial style was his bad mood. It seemed to be a trait he carried home too, judging by how few people turned up at his funeral, even with the free beer on offer.

Mum and Dad had their wedding party here. Uncle Barbara did too (before he started wearing dresses, when he was still Uncle Mark). And I used to fall asleep in Mum’s arms transfixed by the blinking lights on the fruit machines.

This is exactly the kind of atmosphere I want the café to have – where people will feel a connection. They can stroll in with friends or on their own and always find someone for a conversation or at least a smile.

Not that most of the punters in here are what you’d call fans of the café culture. Somehow, I can’t picture Uncle Colin or the vicar sipping skinny soy lattes from dainty cups. And the men downing pints along the bar probably won’t trade their ales for Assam tea. But the atmosphere. That’s what I want.

‘Feckin’ hell, will you watch it!’ Kelly shouts at a shaven-headed man who’s just jostled the pint in her hand.

Without the language, ideally.

‘So, how’s Daniel doing?’ she asks.

I check my phone. ‘Twelve minutes since the last text. I guess he figured out how to open the talc.’ Just as I say it, my phone buzzes in my hand.

Sorry! Does it matter which twin gets which onesie? Dx

I sigh again. This time it’s not from happiness.

They have their own clothes. Get one from each of their drawers. x

Which drawer is which? Dx

I turn my phone for Kell to read. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, snatching it.

Figure it out and stop bloody texting, Daniel!

She presses send.

‘He’ll think that’s from me.’

‘Puhlease, when do you ever swear? You’ve got to put your phone away. It’s up as loud as it can go. You’ll hear it ring. Because you know it will,’ she murmurs.

I tuck it into my bag. ‘Is Calvin meeting us?’

I watch the bashful smile sweep across her face. A boyfriend has never had that effect on her before. No one would accuse Kell of being a romantic. Where I’ve always jumped head first into the deep end, she wades around with the water around her knees. Sometimes she doesn’t even bother getting wet.

‘Nah, it’s just you and me tonight,’ she says. ‘I can see him any time I want. Who knows when I’ll get you to myself again?’

‘That’s not fair, Kell. I see you almost every day.’

‘Not like this, sans children, like the old days.’

She’s right. We hardly ever get to talk now without the children. Which means we hardly ever finish a conversation. Sometimes we don’t even get to start them. Dancing on tables. Hah! Falling asleep under them, more like. I’m yawning into my beer and it’s not yet 9 p.m. It’s not exactly like the old days, and don’t think I don’t miss them too. I can’t remember the last time I felt like my normal self. I might look like any other twenty-something woman sitting in the pub with her best friend. I’ve even got make-up on and my top has no visible stains. But it’s a façade. My head is back at our house worrying about whether Daniel will remember not to pull down the blinds all the way in the twins’ bedroom or that Oscar sleeps with a blanket but Grace doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about them. And Daniel’s texts aren’t helping.

When do mothers get to turn off their worry? Just give me some kind of time frame, so I’ve got something to look forward to.

‘Things are good between you and Calvin?’ I ask, as if the smile hasn’t already told me.

Calvin came like a bolt from the blue thanks to his gran, one of Kelly’s most devoted customers at the fish van. He had moved from Manchester to live with her for a year, because she’s not as steady on her feet as she used to be. He took one look at Kell – with her white coat smeared in fish guts and her no-nonsense ponytail tucked up under the dorky white fishmonger’s hat her father makes her wear – and now he’s most devoted to her too.

Kelly blushes, again out of character. She’s never been a girly girl, and not only because she wears jeans all the time and doesn’t usually bother with make-up. Being the youngest of four daughters, all a year apart, she didn’t get the luxury of being the pampered baby of the family. There wasn’t a big enough age difference to make her siblings feel like protecting her, or enough attention to go around. She had to hold her own early on, and that means she doesn’t show her soft side to many people. I only get to see it because we’ve known each other all our lives.

‘He’s been really over-the-top lovely lately,’ Kell says of Calvin. ‘You know, flowers and surprise dinners and stuff. Now he’s talking about meeting my parents.’ She takes a big gulp of her pint. ‘But if he meets them, then he’ll have to meet my sisters too, because they’re such twats like that. And you know they’ll just take the piss out of me till they turn him off me.’

‘No, they won’t.’ I’m just being nice. They totally will. ‘You’ll let them meet, won’t you? You can’t put it off forever.’

‘Probably. I think he might be working up to a big question,’ she says.

‘YOU’RE KIDDING! Sorry, sorry. I just mean that that’s fantastic. You’re nuts about him. You mean the big question? You’d say yes, right?’

She laughs. ‘I don’t know! I haven’t known him long.’

‘Daniel and I were engaged in six months. You’ve known Calvin that long.’

‘Nine, actually.’

‘So you’re counting. Is he still planning on Spain?’ He postponed his job abroad to help his gran, but his sister is coming to take over sometime in the summer. Calvin’s question might change his plans, though. If he’s thinking marriage, then hopefully he’s thinking of staying in London too.

My phone starts ringing before she can answer me. I snatch it out of my bag. ‘Daniel, can’t you leave me in peace for two minutes?!’

… Daniel’s voice is far away. ‘Say it, sweetheart, go on, like we said, remember?’

‘Nigh’, Mama,’ comes Grace’s little voice as Oscar giggles.

I’m a horrible mother.

‘I’ll be home in twenty minutes,’ I tell my husband, making a sorry face at Kell. At least we nearly got to finish our pints, if not our conversation.

I get home to find talc all over the bathroom floor and a knife on the side of the bathtub.

‘I’ll clean that up,’ Daniel says. ‘I was going to but then… the twins. I don’t know how you do it every day.’

‘I don’t have much choice.’ I don’t mean it to come out quite so snappy.

He pulls me into a hug, tipping my face up for a kiss. ‘I suspected it before but now I’m sure: mothers are superhumans. You’re doing an amazing job.’

This superhuman will need to pick up some more talc tomorrow. ‘Did they go down okay after their book?’

‘Book?’

He leads me by the hand into the lounge so we can cuddle on the settee. I throw my legs across his lap and he curls me into his arms. The blinds on the bay window are open to the old-fashioned streetlamp outside. It throws a gorgeous glow over us.

‘Didn’t you read to them?’ I ask, feeling myself start to tense up. I’d better check that he’s put the right clothes on them too.

‘Oh, I did. I read them about a dozen books. They kept pointing to more. They’re extortionists.’

‘They’re East Londoners, Daniel. They know a soft touch when they see one.’ I yawn. ‘Can you take the morning shift tomorrow? I’m exhausted and I’ll have to do interviews all day.’

He nods. ‘Of course, darling, I’m happy to, but do you think it might be time to talk again about getting a nanny? It would make things so much easier for you, especially now that they’re mobile.’

Not this again. Just because his parents had cooks and maids and nannies doesn’t mean that it’s right for our family. Besides, not even Mary Poppins would work for free and the last time I checked, our bank account balance doesn’t have many zeros on the end. It has, occasionally, had a minus at the start, though.

I swing my legs off his lap. ‘I’ve told you, Daniel. I don’t want to outsource our childcare. I’m just asking you to take the occasional morning. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.’

‘Of course it’s reasonable, Em, and I said I’m happy to. I loved having them to myself tonight. Don’t misunderstand me, but isn’t that still outsourcing, if I’m doing it instead of you? Next month I’ll get my raise and then I think we can just about afford to get someone in for a few hours a day. So you could have help. I mean proper help.’

My blood might actually be starting to boil. ‘How is it outsourcing to have you look after our children, Daniel? In case you’ve forgotten, the twins have two parents. Why shouldn’t it be your job as much as mine? And the only reason I don’t have proper help is because you’re so… Never mind, I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll put everything they’ll need out on the table. Wake me by seven, please, if I’m not up.’

It’s not that he doesn’t try. He does. Then he thinks he’s a contender for Father of the Year because he’s changed a nappy. Meanwhile, I’m the mother every minute of every bloomin’ day and I don’t see anyone pinning a medal on me.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t feel like such an overworked hamster on a wheel. The twins need me and there’s no time off for good behaviour, or because Mummy might have a breakdown. My brain is mushier than the children’s strained carrots and I need an oxygen tank to ascend the dirty laundry pile. They don’t tell you that along with the high-inducing, all-consuming love comes work that just goes on and on.

The next morning, I wake with a drooly snort from a deep slumber. That hasn’t happened since before I was pregnant.

Pregnant. The twins! But I can hear them babbling away downstairs, and Daniel’s side of the bed’s empty, so either they’ve kidnapped him or he’s feeding them their breakfast.

Just two more minutes. I snuggle down into the bed. Daniel can call it outsourcing or whatever he wants to. This is bliss.

Until my phone starts ringing. ‘Hi, Philippa.’ My mother-in-law.

‘Hellair, darling!’ she says in her booming posh voice that makes everyone think she’s really stuck up when actually she’s just the opposite. ‘I just had the most amahzing idea and I knew you’d be up already with the children.’

‘Actually–’

‘Picture this, darling: live birds for your café! You could have gorgeous little cages hanging everywhere. Right, I’ve already found an exotic bird handler who can get us anything we want.’

I picture the plants in our window boxes that I kill every few months. Those birds wouldn’t stand a chance. ‘That’s an interesting idea, Philippa, but I’m not sure we should be using live birds as decorations.’

‘Of course, darling, whatever you say. It’s just an idea. I’ll keep thinking, yah? Must dash. My masseuse is due any minute.’

These calls are my fault, really. I let her have her way with a baby shower for the twins and the live storks went to her head.

So much for a lie-in.

‘Morning,’ I call to my family on my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. A cup of tea that I might be able to finish!

If I can find the kettle, that is. It looks like a bomb’s gone off in here. There are eggshells and banana peels in the sink. Oats cover the worktop and the floor, every cabinet door is open and two of the pans are burnt on the hob. The remains of Daniel’s bloomer lies mutilated on the cutting board and as I go to the fridge for milk, my left sock becomes soaked with… I hope that’s orange juice.

‘Look, Mummy’s up!’ Daniel sings.

‘Have we been under attack?’ The twins are smeary with breakfast as usual.

‘Hmm?’ He aims a porridge-filled soup spoon at Oscar’s mouth and mashes it into his cheek when he turns away. ‘Sorry, darling.’

‘The kitchen? How many people have you been trying to feed?’

‘Right, yah, sorry, it’s a mess, I know. I wasn’t sure what they’d eat, so I tried to do a bit of everything.’

‘I don’t think he can get that ladle into his mouth.’ I dig out the colourful spoons from the cutlery drawer, but Grace is happier with her hands plunged into her porridge bowl. ‘Suit yourself,’ I tell her. She burbles at me.

‘Actually, now that you’re up,’ says Daniel with a mad look in his eye, ‘could you take over for a minute? I need to, erm, badly…’

‘Ah, you’ve discovered that your bowels are not your own when you’ve got to look after children. Go ahead, I’ll finish them up.’

I get a fleeting kiss before he disappears into the loo. ‘Daddy needs a poo,’ I tell our children.

But they’re not interested in anything I’ve got to say. Oscar twists around to see where Daniel’s gone, and Grace starts to whimper. ‘What’s the matter, babies? I’m here. It’s okay.’ But the more I cuddle them the more they squirm, till Daniel emerges from the bog. They crow at him with excitement.

‘Aw, they’re so sweet,’ he says, kissing the twins’ downy heads as they clamour for his attention. ‘We’ve rahly had so much fun together.’

Sure, he’s the main attraction at the circus for one night and suddenly I’m demoted to the one in the dungarees following behind the elephants with a shovel.

I’m feeling completely sorry for myself by the time I drop off the twins at Mum and Dad’s house. It’s the way they escape their pushchair to launch themselves on Dad, like they can’t get away from me fast enough.

Mum notices, so I have to blame my grump on PMT. Then she points out that of course the twins are excited to climb into a wheelchair. It’s the chair, not the person. Which just makes Dad feel bad too, so now we’re both feeling like we don’t measure up to the expectations of toddlers.

I guess Dad clocks my mood too, because just as I’m leaving he decides that he needs more Weetabix from the shop. ‘Can you hang on to the children, love?’ he asks Mum. ‘I’ll go up with Emma.’

Neither of us says anything as we leave the house.

‘Give me a push, will you, love? My arms aren’t awake yet.’

Now I know he wants to talk. He wouldn’t let me push him otherwise.

We round the corner out of the estate on to the main road. It’s noisy with morning traffic and people rushing to work.

‘What time do you need to be at the café?’ Dad asks. ‘Let’s go along the canal for a bit. The sun feels nice.’

I stare at the back of his head. Dad’s not usually a nature-lover. And he’s not a man for spontaneous chit-chat. Which means he has something important to say.

I just hope he’s not sick again. It’s been almost two years since his last MS relapse. I’ve been daring to think that the medicine is keeping it under control. I hope that hasn’t tempted fate.

‘Everything okay, Dad?’ I finally ask when we’ve gone down the ramp to the canal towpath. Colourful narrowboats are moored along the path and the tang of woodsmoke fills the air. It’s a pleasant smell, though. Dad’s right, this is nicer than swallowing bus fumes on the main road. A lot quieter too.

‘I’ll ask you the same thing,’ he says, twisting in his chair as I push him along. ‘What’s up, Emma? You can talk to me as much as your mum, you know.’

I let out the breath that I’ve been holding. It’s not a relapse. ‘I know.’ He’s got enough to worry about without having to take on my problems too. Though I can’t tell him that. He hates being treated any differently because of his health. ‘I’m finding it harder than I thought with the children. It’s better with you and Mum and Auntie Rose helping, but it’s still a lot to deal with.’

‘You know it’s okay to ask for more help,’ he says gently.

‘Thanks, Dad, but you’re already doing so much. It’ll settle down once the café is open and we get into a routine.’

He reaches over his shoulder to grasp my hand on the wheelchair handle. ‘Stop for a sec. I don’t mean from us, love. I mean from Daniel. Is that the trouble?’

How does he know that? I’m sure Mum hasn’t said anything. She doesn’t like to burden him any more than I do. ‘It’s not been easy,’ I finally say.

‘Do you want me to ’ave a word with him?’

‘Oh god, no!’

‘Then maybe you should do it.’

‘I know, Dad.’ It’s on my to-do list. ‘I never seem to say the right thing, though.’

He laughs. ‘That’s a family trait you got from me. You’d better ask your mum for advice there.’

‘You usually do okay.’

‘Only because your mum’s trained me. I’d be hopeless without her.’ He starts pushing his wheelchair along the path. I guess his arms have woken up. ‘We’d better go to the shop or your mum will start wondering what’s happened to me.’

There’s a girl waiting in front of the pub when I get there to open up. She’s hunched into her black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, her hands tucked deeply into the pockets.

‘Louise?’ I ask, even though I know it must be her. There’ve been mostly boys on my interview list. The only other two girls came yesterday. One popped her gum at me for five minutes straight and the other one grumbled about how much she disliked espresso machines. Not espresso itself, just the machines. Something about the steam being bad for her nail extensions.

Louise nods but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t offer to shake my hand, but she does sit opposite me in the booth and look me in the eye. That automatically puts her above Tinky Winky and Ice Lolly from the other day.

‘Don’t you want to take your coat off? The heat in here’s pretty intense with those old radiators.’

‘Nah, I’m all right.’ But she does pull her hood down.

Her hair’s blue. Smooth, shiny, pale silvery blue. It doesn’t quite go with her girl-next-door, slightly freckled face, though the stud in her nose toughens up the look.

Not as much as her body language does, though. It’s so obvious that she doesn’t want to be here. From her frown to the way her shoulders are squared up to me, she’s ready for a fight.

I glance through her file to jog my memory. That’s right. She’s the girl in foster care. ‘So why do you want to do this traineeship?’

She doesn’t return my smile. ‘I need the money,’ she says, ‘and I’m used to looking after people.’

‘Have you worked in a café before? Or retail maybe?’

‘No, I mean at home,’ she snaps. ‘It’s me that does their meals and that.’ Her eyes slide away towards the window. ‘It’s nothing official. I just do.’ She crosses her arms.

‘That’s all right, real-life experience is great.’ Somehow, I can’t picture Louise serving customers. Shouting at them, maybe. Giving them the cold shoulder, for sure.

I look again at her file, although I don’t need the notes. I know what I’ve got to ask. ‘Erm, about the referral. It says you’ve had some trouble lately? That you were arrested? Do you want to expand on that at all?’

Her eyes challenge mine. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Oh, well, no, of course not. It’s just in case you wanted to explain the… the theft? The alleged theft?’

Did you do it?! I’m dying to ask. What did you steal? Where on the morality scale is the crime? Was it a lipstick from Boots or the life savings of a pensioner? Should I be watching my handbag?

‘Next question?’ she says.

I can’t force her to tell me. Social Services was very clear about that. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl I could force to do anything. ‘You’re seventeen? But you’re not in school?’

‘No, I’m finished with all that. Last year. But I’ve got to be in work or training. I thought I’d try something that uses my great people skills.’

Her eyes widen just a tiny bit and I see the shadow of a smirk.

‘They do seem impressive,’ I say with a slight shrug. ‘You’d put anyone at ease.’

She finally allows herself to smile. ‘Look, I need to work. I need the money and the government says I have to. I’ll do a good job if you’ll let me. I just need the chance.’

Well, what’s the point of the café if I don’t give kids the chance when they need it? ‘I’m sure you will.’

I extend my hand over the table. Warily she shakes it.

‘You’ve got the traineeship. Congratulations, Louise.’

‘Call me Lou,’ she says, standing to go. ‘I hate Louise.’

Daniel meets me at our front door. There’s a giant bouquet of pink roses hiding his face.

‘What’s this for?’

‘It’s for you, because you deserve flowers and I love you,’ he says, helping to wheel the pushchair inside. ‘Doesn’t she deserve flowers?’ he asks Grace and Oscar, who seem to agree. ‘Just because you’re amahzing.’

I smile. ‘You must still be feeling guilty about not answering your phone the other night. Do you want to put those in water?’

‘I would have, but I could only find the washing up bowl under the sink. I can get the twins out for you, though. Do they need feeding?’

‘No, Mum fed them before I picked them up.’

‘Good. Then we can relax.’

It’s like he’s never been in this house before. ‘Yeah, right.’

Oscar wants a cuddle while he recites every word he’s ever heard in his very own language, and Grace starts pulling all the toys out of the box in the lounge to show us.

‘Glass of wine, Mummy?’ Daniel says above the increasing din as I sink into the sofa with Oscar on my lap.

As soon as Daniel sits next to me, Oscar decides he’d rather straddle both parents than choose just one.

‘I found my other trainee today,’ I tell him, keeping my wine glass well clear of the twin tornados. ‘She’s going to be tough, but I think she’ll work hard. Yes, darling, that’s a lovely bunny. She’s not going to take any crap from anyone, though.’

‘She’ll have to take crap from you,’ he says, nodding along to Oscar’s monologue. ‘You’re the boss.’

I wonder how that’s going to work. I’m not really the authoritative type. I’d rather have everyone like me.

He shifts to face me. ‘I’m so proud of what you’re doing, darling. This is rahly something special and you’re going to make such a difference in people’s lives. You do know you’re remarkable, right? I’m very lucky to be married to you.’

‘You too,’ I say. I love when he says things like this. Daniel can make me feel like the most important person in the world.

I do get a little embarrassed sometimes, though. He’s so eloquent with his feelings, and while my family’s never been one of those stiff-upper-lip, sweep-things-under-the-carpet type of families, we’re not overly emotional sharers either. I’m still getting used to hearing Daniel talk like this.

His hands cradle my face. ‘I’m rahly proud.’ His kisses veer from appreciative to deep and urgent. ‘Rahly, so proud.’

I kiss him back. How long has it been, actually, since we’ve had sex? Too long, if I can’t remember.

‘Sir, calm yourself in front of the children,’ I tease. ‘There are impressionable minds in the room.’

‘We’re good role models for them,’ he says. ‘Mummy and Daddy love each other. Let’s put them to bed so I can show you how much.’

Grace releases a noise that makes us both turn to our daughter. She’s squatting, sumo-style. It’s her favourite position when she really wants to cut loose.

Oscar points at his sister, as if we don’t notice her filling her nappy.

‘Do you want to flip a coin for it?’ I ask.

‘I did get flowers. And wine,’ he says.

Patting his knee, gently I shift Oscar to his lap. ‘I’ll do it.’

As I lift Grace into my arms, Daniel says, ‘I shouldn’t be jealous of my own children, should I? That’s not nice to admit.’

‘It’s just that they need me.’

‘I need you too.’

That’s pretty obvious from the way he’s shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, but they need me to wipe their arses. It’s a bit more urgent, don’t you think?’

Does he think I like being at the beck and call of these mini tyrants? ‘This isn’t my first choice for entertainment either. We may as well get them into the bath,’ I say, and the first spark of romance we’ve had in months goes out with a soapy wet fizzle.

‘Romance? You are joking,’ Melody says the next afternoon at Samantha’s. ‘With Eva and Joy sleeping with us?’

We’re sitting on Samantha’s pristine leather sofas in her minimalist white cube of a house. I’ve often wondered what these old warehouses looked like inside, but Samantha’s isn’t a good example since they wanted all the space but none of the original features.

‘Just be glad he’s trying,’ Samantha says, reaching for another chocolate croissant as I pull Oscar onto my lap. ‘What I wouldn’t give for those days again.’

This is the only time we ever see Samantha vulnerable, though she tries to turn it all into a joke – how she once wore a net body stocking under her dress to dinner and ended up looking like she’d been sleeping on a bed of tennis rackets. Her husband had teased her so much about the all-over red diamond pattern that the moment totally vanished. None of us can understand what’s wrong with him, especially since Samantha will try anything to get him to sleep with her. What’s great for our weekly conversations isn’t so great for our poor friend’s self-esteem.

‘Couldn’t you have taken care of the children and then gone back downstairs to Daniel?’ Emerald asks. ‘I mean, as long as the oven was already pre-heated, so to speak.’

‘That’s what I would have done,’ says Garnet. ‘Though I don’t have to worry too much about missed chances with Michael.’ Her smile is filthy, just in case we don’t get her meaning.

‘I know what you mean,’ Emerald counters. ‘Sometimes I wish Anthony wasn’t so romantic.’ Always a gold standard humble-bragger, she is. ‘But we’ve got to remember that this isn’t about us, Garnet, it’s about Emma. We know we’re okay. Are you okay, Emma?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ I tell them. ‘It was just disappointing, that’s all.’

‘Ha, welcome to my world,’ Samantha says, reaching for another croissant that, along with her frustration, she’ll work off later at yoga.

Chapter 5

What do you get when you cross a vain Italian with someone who’s probably drunk coffee from his baby bottle? Hopefully someone who can teach us how to use an espresso machine. The gleaming Gaggia has been hogging up bar space ever since the catering company delivered it last week. So far I’m hiring a machine to mock me in my own café.

I sneak another glance at Pablo, but he’s too busy gazing at his reflection in the advertising mirror beside the bar to notice. Flick, flick, his hand tweaks another lock of expertly gelled dark hair till he gets the exact quiff he’s going for.

Before Pablo turned up this morning, I’d never seen a man who plucked his eyebrows. Or one with such flawless skin. He looks like he’s been airbrushed.

I really don’t mind that he’s so much prettier than me, as long as he’s as good at coffee as he is at grooming.

‘About those coffee supplies we’ll need,’ I say. ‘You will have everything delivered in time? Because we open in–’

‘Do not worry,’ he says, smoothing the front of his perfectly ironed shirt.

Wrong answer, Pablo. I do not worry if I’m sunning myself on holiday in the Med. I do worry when I need coffee to serve to my customers in less than three weeks.

‘Okay, I won’t worry… But you will have everything delivered?’

‘Carina mia, you should listen to the great Ravi Shankar. “Worry is the enemy of love.”’

Yeah, well Ravi wasn’t about to open his café without any coffee. ‘I don’t need to love coffee, Pablo, I just want to make sure it’s delivered in time.’

His smile makes the Mona Lisa look like an open book.

‘Well, anyway, Lou and Joseph should be here soon,’ I tell him, checking my phone. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea while we wait? Sorry there’s no coffee. That’s why you’re here!’

‘I am fine, thank you.’ He runs his index fingers along his eyebrows, in case a hair has dared to move out of place.

‘You probably don’t drink tea,’ I say.

‘I am Italian.’ He couldn’t sound more insulted by my offer.

All right, steady on, Pablo, I’m only suggesting tea.

He goes back to staring at his reflection and I go back to panicking.

This sounded easy when I first thought of it: open a café, train kids to serve good coffee, tea and food. Now I’ve got the café. I’ve got the kids, when they turn up. There’s just the small issue of the coffee, the tea and the food.

The catering company that’s supplying the Gaggia is also supplying Pablo. The days of sprinkling a few granules into hot water are long gone. Now, everyone supposedly wants fancy coffee from the other side of the world. If it’s not harvested from an Indonesian cat’s poo or a Thai elephant’s dung or from a tiny volcanic island visited by Napoleon (though presumably not pooed by him), they don’t want it.

I can’t see Auntie Rose and her ladies enjoying coffee that’s already gone through one digestive tract before it gets to theirs. But obviously I needed help, so I’ve got Pablo.

I’ve asked him to stick with Italian coffee, which pleased him down to the ground. Ha ha. Ground. Get it?

At least it’s starting to look more like a café than a boozer in here, with all the furniture painted in mismatched pastels and the chairs covered in flowered oilcloth (thanks to Mum). Out of respect for old Carl, Elsie and history, I’ve left the booths stripped back to the bare wood, but we ended up staining the ugly rough floorboards throughout. Now they look like ugly rough stained floorboards, but no one will notice as long as there’s lots of foot traffic.

‘Yo, am I late?’ Joseph calls as he saunters through the door in front of Lou. ‘It was ten o’clock, yeah? Wassup, I’m Joseph.’ He pumps Pablo’s hand. ‘You’re the coffee dude? Sick job, bruv.’

He’s still in his brother’s suit and tie, which makes it seem odd that he’s speaking like that and flicking air snaps at us.

‘Lou, Joseph, this is Pablo. He’s our coffee consultant.’ I’ve got to bite down my smirk as I say this, but, really, it’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?

‘How come you’re dressed like an undertaker?’ Lou asks Joseph, assessing him from beneath her blue fringe.

Joseph clearly doesn’t think much of Lou’s dress sense either. ‘Yo, this is how professional people dress. Take lessons from the master.’ He straightens the fat knot on his tie. ‘No-hopers need not apply.’

Lou doesn’t shift expression but shoves her hands into her sweatshirt pockets.

‘Besides, I dress like a professional because I’m the Professor,’ he says.

Lou scoffs. ‘You can’t give yourself a nickname, you muppet.’

‘Do you two know each other already?’ They shake their heads. ‘Really? Because I usually like to know someone for at least ten minutes before ripping into them. You can both wear whatever you want, as long as it’s clean and presentable.’

It’ll be hard enough training them without enforcing a dress code too. I don’t care if Joseph wants to look like an undertaker or a professor or a circus clown, frankly.

‘We can start whenever you’re ready,’ I tell Pablo.

He tears his eyes away from his reflection to say, ‘So now we begin. Today I will open your eyes and your hearts. You will learn to love the coffee, to speak its language, to listen as it whispers its secrets to you. It will dance for you, it will caress you, it will transport you to another world. There is a sacred bond between the barista and his machine. You love it and it will love you back. But only after you have mastered the bean. Today we begin the journey together.’ He aims his prayer hands at each of us and bows.

Lou’s mouth hangs open. ‘Mate, it’s only a hot drink.’

She sounds challenging, but I can see the flash of humour in her expression. I wonder how many people look that closely, though?

Pablo puts his hands over his heart. ‘It hurts me to hear these things. If you do not trust the process, the machine will not dance for you. It will not share its secrets. I cry for the bean.’

Puhlease. He’d never cry for the bean. He couldn’t stand the puffy eyes.

At two hundred quid for Pablo’s instruction, that machine had better dance for us. It doesn’t have to win Strictly, but it should at least give us a tango that would make Len Goodman proud.

Pablo steers us to the Gaggia. Its buttons, knobs and handles are just as intimidating as when I last looked at it. ‘Have you ever made coffee before?’ he asks.

Lou says, ‘Only instant. That Nescafé’s not bad.’

Pablo shudders for his whole culture. ‘I don’t mean…’ He closes his eyes in pain. ‘… freeze-dried coffee. I mean proper espresso. THIS is real coffee.’

With a dramatic wave of his hand – actually, you can assume everything Pablo does is going to be dramatic – he pulls several sacks of beans from his satchel. Looking faintly orgasmic as he inhales from the first sack, he says, ‘Smell the potential. Do you smell it?’

‘I smell it,’ Joseph says with a noisy sniff.

The beans do smell delicious, and I’m sure Pablo has a process, but I’m anxious to get to the part where coffee comes out of the little metal spout. We can’t serve our customers coffee smells.

But Pablo will not be rushed. He explains all about the proper grind, steam temperature and exactly how many grams of beans go into each shot. I’m starting to nod off when, finally, he wants us to touch the machine.

He demonstrates. ‘It is not that difficult,’ he says, grinding the beans. Then he spoons the grounds into the filter, levels it off and tamps it down. He does this all with the kind of precision that makes the space shuttle look easy to launch. And we haven’t even started on the milk yet.

We try copying him.

‘Like this?’

‘No, carina mia, like this.’

‘Like this?’

‘No, no, try again, like this.’

‘Like this?’

‘No, like this.’

‘Like this?’

‘No, like this!’

We go on (like this) for two hours. Pablo looks like he’s about to risk those puffy eyes having a little sob in the corner, but finally we manage to coax out something that tastes like espresso.

By the time Pablo leaves, we’ve made enough coffee to fuel an army marching into battle. He’s promised to return if we need him, like an over-caffeinated Nanny McPhee. And I get the feeling we will need him. I wouldn’t say the Gaggia and I are friends yet, but we’ve got a tentative understanding.

‘Well, that was fun,’ Lou says, shrugging into her sweatshirt. ‘Let’s be sure to do it again sometime.’ She pretends to stab herself in the tummy.

‘We aren’t finished yet,’ I say. ‘We have to practise. Don’t we want to be sure we can do it when we actually open?’

‘Yeah, Lou, don’t be so lazy,’ Joseph says. ‘I’m here for you, boss.’

‘You don’t have to call me boss.’

‘We can always keep some Nescafé out back,’ Lou suggests. ‘Honestly, it doesn’t taste bad.’

Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. ‘Hopefully we won’t need it. Lou, do you want to be the customer or the barista first? We’ll take turns taking the orders and making and serving the coffee. You remember how Pablo did it?’

‘I do!’ Joseph says. ‘I’ll go first. Can I? I can be first, yeah?’

Lou shrugs. ‘Knock yourself out.’

I’m intrigued and a little scared by her. She seems so self-contained, older than her seventeen years. I know she needs this job – she said so in her interview – but the question is: why? Does she just need the money like any other normal teenager, or is there something else?

I know it’s still early days, but already the differences between them are stark. Joseph’s got all the enthusiasm and Lou’s probably got all the skill. I just hope they draw even by the time we open.

Joseph goes behind the bar to wait for instructions. ‘Lou, pretend you’re a customer,’ I say, ‘and order anything we’ve practised today. Joseph, treat Lou like a real customer, not like Lou, okay?’

‘Yes, madam, what would you like?’ he says, imitating Pablo’s prayer hands.

Lou thinks for a moment. ‘A half-caff double-shot no-foam fat-free latte.’

‘Boss!’ Joseph whines. ‘Tell her she can’t do that.’

‘Sorry, Joseph. She’s the customer. Did you write it down? Lou, that’s cruel.’

‘The customer is always right,’ she says.

I go behind the bar to help Joseph, who’s starting to sweat. ‘Lou, find a table, please. Joseph will bring your order when it’s ready.’

She looks doubtfully at all the pastel before scooting into a booth. ‘Those are nice.’ She takes one of Mum’s fancy teapots off the shelf above her head, turning it over to look at the maker’s name. ‘You’ve got a lot of these.’

‘More than twenty. They’re all my mum’s. She’s got a thing for old Staffordshire teapots. There’s not really room for them at home so she’s letting me use them to decorate in here. I’m not sure about using them for the customers, though. I’d hate to break one.’

‘Why have them if you don’t use them? You may as well sell them otherwise. They’re probably worth something. Have you checked? I could look online for you.’

Alarm bells start ringing. I don’t want Lou valuing my mother’s teapot collection. What if that’s why she’s in trouble with the Old Bill? She might have been arrested for fencing fancy teapots. And I’ve plonked her right in the middle of another potential heist. ‘They’re quite fragile,’ I tell her. ‘I promised Mum we’d keep them on the shelf.’

That’s a lie, but she takes the hint and puts the teapot back. Now I’m worried they’ll get nicked.

Joseph finally gets the coffee right after the third go, but the whole order takes about ten minutes. Which is fine if we’re only planning to have one customer at a time in the café. ‘Good,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll work on that some more, okay? Go give Lou her coffee.’

Carefully he carries the cup to her table.

She sends him back for a spoon.

‘Certainly, madam, anything you want.’ He gives her the spoon with a flourish.

‘And a serviette? You’ve spilled a drop here.’

He trudges back to the bar for serviettes. ‘Anything else?’ he calls.

‘No.’

He brings the serviette.

‘Except sugar.’

‘Boss!’

‘Lou, thank you for making the important point that we’ve got to anticipate the customer’s needs. Now it’s your turn. Up here, please.’

Joseph can’t stop grinning about their role change.

‘What do you want?’ Lou asks him.

‘That’s how you ask a customer for their order?’ I say. ‘I thought you said you were used to looking after people. Maybe you could be nicer.’

‘This is me being nicer.’

‘Then pretend you’re talking to Father Christmas. Be that nice.’

‘I’ll have the same as you,’ Joseph says. ‘Half-caff no-foam fat-free latte, only don’t make the coffee too hot and I’ll have a triple shot. I’ll just be over here when it’s ready.’

He strolls to a table, brushes off the seat and sits down.

Lou’s just about to start the grind when her phone starts ringing. ‘Yeah? Okay. No, don’t. I will.’ Hanging up she says, ‘I’ve gotta go.’

‘But we’re not finished yet. We’re still training.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to. Really, I’m sorry.’

‘Are you okay, Lou? You look a bit–’

She rushes from the café.

Frantic.

‘I hope she’s not going to do that all the time,’ says Joseph. ‘It’s hard to keep good help these days. But I can still get my coffee, yeah boss?’ He nods towards the Gaggia, sending me off to make my trainee’s half-caff no-foam fat-free not-too-hot triple-shot latte.

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