The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square Read online

  I probably never gave him enough credit then. His street slang and teeth-sucking and the fact that we’d been in school together nearly our whole lives bred familiarity. And while familiarity didn’t breed contempt, it didn’t exactly breed respect either.

  ‘Hiya,’ he calls from in front of the café. ‘Aiight?’

  ‘Yes, not bad for the middle of the night,’ I say, unlocking the door.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that, but classes start at ten.’

  Zane’s in his last year of catering college, and now that he’s perfected his white sauce and learned a hundred and one uses for a rolling pin, he’s branching out. The rest of his classmates might be jobbing as kitchen help. Zane’s come up with another plan.

  Which is lucky for us, though I’m not asking too many questions about the details. When he told me that he and some of the other students could use our kitchen to bake them, I said yes. When he offered to charge less than the Mad Batter, I said yes please. When he said he was skimming students from the catering college, undercutting their class fees to run his own bootleg cake-making courses, I asked him not to tell me anything else.

  The important thing is that we’ve got our own source for cakes.

  ‘I bought all the things you asked for, and you can let me know what else you need as you go along.’ I set the keys on the kitchen worktop. ‘Take them. You can let yourself in.’

  He flashes his megawatt smile. ‘You trust me?’

  ‘What are you going to do, steal the bunting? I don’t want to get up at five o’clock every day, thank you very much. Just be sure to lock up when you leave.’

  He sticks his head inside the big fridge. ‘You need more milk,’ he says. ‘I’ll use up most of what’s there for the cakes.’

  ‘Go ahead and use it. There’s more being delivered.’ If it’s not there when I come back to open up, then I’m going to the Other Half Caff to find out why. I have had it with things going missing around here, and I know Barb is behind it. Pablo finally rang back about our coffee order. He claims I rang the distributor to cancel it. Someone cancelled it, but it wasn’t me. They reinstated the order without any trouble and now they’ll ring my mobile whenever there’s an order change, just to make sure it’s not a mistake.

  Mistake. That’s what we’re calling it. It sounds better than sabotage.

  I don’t expect the milk to be there when I get back to open the café later, so I’m not disappointed. Just royally pissed off. It’s such a childish thing to do, stealing our milk. Barb is at least my mum’s age. Old enough to know better.

  Lou arrives a few minutes after me. ‘Want me to go buy some?’ she offers when I tell her the delivery’s gone missing again.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ll go.’

  She grins. ‘Gonna kick some heads in?’

  ‘No head-kicking. I’m just going to talk to her. This has to stop.’

  But I start to lose my nerve before I even get off the square. I’ve never been great about confrontation. Example: faking an entire society wedding instead of just telling my mother-in-law we didn’t have enough money. Kelly’s the one who isn’t afraid to stand up to people. I’m the coward who urges her on from safely behind her back.

  I’ve got to pull on my big girl pants now, because the café is too important. They might be small setbacks that we can overcome, but small setbacks can chip away at a business. I can’t let them fester and grow. That’s what I keep telling myself as I walk to the Other Half Caff.

  It’s full. They’re mostly tradesmen in work boots and spattered clothes, with a few businessmen dotted around the tables too. Barb is busy at the till behind the counter and as I get inside, I realise how small the caff is. I’m going to have to do this in front of a closely-packed live audience.

  She catches my eye while I’m still in the doorway. Instead of looking embarrassed or sorry in any way, she squares her shoulders. She’s washed out and rough-looking under the fluorescent lighting. You just know she was the girl at school who’d pin weaklings to the ground and steal their tuck shop money.

  ‘I’m Emma from the Second Chance Café,’ I say over the counter. My voice doesn’t sound nearly as shaky as it should, given that I’m cacking myself.

  ‘I know who you are.’ Her hard blue eyes narrow.

  ‘Then would you like to explain why you’re stealing my milk and cancelling my coffee orders?’

  Her clientele isn’t about to miss a second of this. Chairs scrape as they position for the best view.

  ‘I’m not doing nothing,’ Barb says. ‘If you ain’t doing well, it’s nothing to do with me. Now I suggest you leave my caff and go back where you came from.’

  At first I think she means the café, but then I don’t think so. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m from here just like you are.’

  She snorts. ‘You’re nothing like me, with your fancy cakes and your chai tea.’

  Both our glances fall on her display case. ‘Whose fancy cakes are those, then?’ I’d recognise the Mad Batter’s icing swirls anywhere.

  She smirks. ‘A little bird told me about a good baker, is all. They were right. I can’t keep them in stock. The brickies have a huge sweet tooth.’

  ‘Well, enjoy them. We’ve got our own in-house bakery now, so we don’t need them.’

  That throws her for a split second. ‘It don’t matter. You’ll be out of business by the end of the year.’

  That’s what the spy said too. ‘What is wrong with you? Why do you want to see the café fail? You can’t be that mean.’

  She shrugs. ‘I ain’t mean. I’m the caff owner around here. Now I think you should get out.’

  I’d love to slay her with a witty comeback right there, but nothing comes to mind so, instead, I turn and stride from the caff like it was my idea to go anyway. What a spiteful, petty, thieving woman she is.

  I can’t hire security to watch my milk, can I? Unless I get there to take it in before she gets there to steal it, there’s not much I can do except cancel the milkman. Which would mean going to the shop for milk and lugging it back. I know it wouldn’t be the end of the world. We’re not exactly having to milk the cows ourselves. But it’s just one more thing to have to worry about.

  The bigger question is: why is she doing it in the first place? I’ve got no answer for that.

  By the time I’ve stopped at the shop for the milk and waited for the organic one to open for the freelancers’ almond milk, my hands have unclenched a bit. If Barb wants a fight, she’s going to get one.

  The café is in full swing for the day when I get back. Its warm cosiness and the lovely scent of freshly baked cakes only makes Barb’s determination to hurt it more poignant. It’s like when your boyfriend looks extra hot and loveable as he’s about to ask you to delete his number.

  I do a double-take when my eyes naturally go to the freelancers’ table and see strangers there instead. Right. They’re upstairs charging their laptops in peace and quiet before the teens get here.

  There’s no peace or quiet downstairs. As nice as it is to put loads of children together, it does guarantee that at least two will be crying at any time. That’s making everyone else have to talk louder to be heard, and it sounds like a madhouse.

  ‘Everything under control?’ I ask Lou as I scoot behind the bar to help.

  ‘It’s all good,’ she says, pointing to the cake stands where there are already slices missing. ‘The new cakes are popular.’

  Zane’s students have made a pineapple upside-down cake, all gooey and dripping with caramelised brown sugar. It makes my mouth water just looking at it. And a lemon cake topped with fresh lavender, judging by the yellow icing and little purple bits on top. There’s also a Victoria sponge that’s a bit crooked, but I’m sure it tastes delicious.

  ‘Did they leave a mess in the kitchen?’

  ‘No, it’s all wiped down and the bowls and pans are washed. That was a good call, getting them in. Ditto putting the freelancers upstairs.’ Her silvery-blue hair shim
mers when she nods her approval.

  Maybe I feel so proud because Lou is as careful with her praise as she is with everything else. Well, why not? We have come a long way from a disused pub and no idea how to use the espresso machine. Lou can run the café on her own now. I can’t say the same about Joseph and probably wouldn’t put him in charge, though he did ask the other day if he could be the Chief Closer. As long as that just means turning the key in the door when we all leave for the night, I’m fine with his new job description.

  ‘But you’ve got to do something about those prams,’ Lou continues. ‘It’s out of hand. We need NCP parking for pushchairs out there.’

  That is our biggest problem right now. More customers would fit on the tables if the prams weren’t blocking all the aisles. ‘Let me check again out front.’

  It’s while I’m wondering if we could get the council to suspend the parking spaces in front of the café (not likely) that I notice the window boxes.

  Philippa’s flowers! The foliage is as wilted as the bagged lettuce in my fridge and nearly all the blooms are droopy. Yet I’m sure her company has been coming to water them. I’ve definitely seen the truck with the long watering hose they use. Sure enough, when I stick my finger into the soil, it’s damp. I’m afraid my gardening skills end at chucking some water into the pot and hoping for the best, so I have no idea what’s wrong.

  Somehow I’m managing to kill an entire wall of flowers without even touching them.

  I ring Philippa to confess. Maybe it’s not too late for her to save them. ‘I’m really sorry to tell you this…’

  ‘What is it, darling, is it the children? You? Is something wrong with Daniel? Your parents?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that! It’s your flowers. In front of the café.’ I feel a bit silly now. Nobody should ever start a conversation sounding so doomy. ‘They don’t look very good. I’m afraid I might have killed them somehow.’

  Philippa laughs. ‘Oh, darling, I won’t let you give it a thought. I’ll send someone around for a look later. I’m sure they’re fine, rahly. As long as Daniel and you and the children are all right. We can always plant new flowers. You’re irreplaceable!’

  My mother-in-law’s attitude is a relief. Hopefully she won’t mind too much either about the two teacups I’ve broken. She insisted we keep them (I wouldn’t dream of using them, darling, when we’ve got those lovely photo mugs you gave us for Christmas!). Of course, we haven’t broken any of the cheap ones we got off eBay. Sod’s Law.

  Philippa must be as worried about the flowers as I am because she sends her gardeners round in the afternoon. ‘Right, we’ve tested the soil in the boxes,’ the gardener tells me. She’s the same one who installed them in the first place. She probably left here that day assuming she could trust me with her plants. ‘Has anyone been using mop water or anything like that to feed the plants?’

  ‘No, we always put that water down the grate in the road just there.’

  She nods. ‘It was a long shot anyway.’ When she wipes her hands down the front of her blue jumpsuit, she leaves a streak of soil behind. ‘The chlorine levels in the compost are too high for that, really. That’s what’s killing the plants. We’ve tested the water in our truck and it’s not coming from there. Also, it’s only on ground level. The flowers on the first floor and above seem fine.’

  ‘So you’re saying the flowers have been… poisoned?’ That’s bloomicide.

  She nods. ‘In a way, yes. The chlorine is killing them. Whether it’s an accidental contamination or intentional, we’ll have to change over the compost and put new plants in. We can come back tomorrow, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Yes, but… Do you have any plants that are immune to chlorine? In case this happens again?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s best to leave the ground floor window ledges bare for now.’ Otherwise I might be condemning hundreds of flowers to their deaths. I don’t want that on my conscience.

  If Barb is behind this, then it’s no mere business rivalry. This is starting to get dangerous. What kind of monster poisons innocent begonias?

  ‘Emma, Emma, come in, over.’ Back inside the walkie-talkie squawks and crackles on the bar.

  ‘Yes, Leo, can I help you?’ The freelancers just love this new mode of communication.

  ‘Come upstairs, please. Over and out.’ The handset goes dead. They haven’t got the hang of the time-saving element, though.

  Glancing at the play area, I catch Dad’s eye. Oscar is asleep on his lap and Grace is stuffing the play oven with books. He nods when I jerk my thumb to the ceiling.

  ‘You know that the whole point of the walkie-talkie is to tell me what you need while I’m downstairs to save me a trip,’ I tell Leo as he grins at me.

  ‘This is definitely a better setup,’ he says, ‘but we miss seeing you.’

  The other freelancers do twinkles. They think it’s hysterical that I didn’t know what that was. So sorry to disappoint them, but I was busy working full-time and going to school and looking after Dad and Auntie Rose while they occupied St Paul’s chanting ‘We are the 99%’ and having consensus meetings about what to cook for dinner.

  ‘Did you call me up here to tell me that?’

  ‘Everyone likes to feel appreciated,’ he says.

  I try my best to look annoyed at the interruption of my otherwise very important day, but I can’t help smiling when I go back downstairs.

  Chapter 18

  It’s a Tale of Two Cafés around here. On the ground floor a messy stew of motherhood bubbles away. People come and go throughout the day, working around school runs and errands, nap times and meals. At any given point someone’s in tears – and it’s not always a child.

  Upstairs there’s a thick layer of East London life, slightly quieter, less chaotic and with fewer tears, where hipster freelancers rub along with most of the neighbourhood’s teenage population. Despite inhabiting the same space, though, they don’t seem to be in the same world. Everyone is focussed on some kind of electronic device – the freelancers peering into their laptop screens and the kids on their phones ‘talking to each other’ on Snapchat. The things they all have in common is a taste for coffee, an obsession with electronics and an aversion to the mothers and children below them.

  That seems to suit the customers on the ground floor just fine.

  Elsie is back, but she doesn’t look fully recovered. Her face is drawn and pale and she’s not moving as steadily as usual. She looks happy to be out of the house, though, as she and Carl sit in their usual booth holding hands, talking between sips of tea. Now that Carl’s told me some of their story, of course I want to know more. Well, who wouldn’t?

  When she mentions that it’s their ten-year anniversary next week, I grab my chance with both hands. ‘That’s worth celebrating, especially since Carl mentioned that you two had a… delay in your relationship.’

  She laughs. ‘Forty-five years. I’ll say it was a delay!’ She goes on to tell me the same story that Carl did and I pretend I’m hearing it for the first time, even though I’ve just told her I already know. Auntie Rose tells the same stories over and over too. The pleasure is in the telling, and I never mind humouring her.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like to give up the love of your life,’ I say when Elsie’s finished. ‘I mean, it’s not as simple as handing over a favourite pair of shoes, is it?’ Though I’d probably resent that too.

  Elsie smiles. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and Carl didn’t help matters.’

  ‘What did you expect?’ he says. By the way he’s smiling, I know that this is a well-worn exchange, the kind of gentle argument that comes from a deep understanding. Whether in-laws or lovers, their connection must have always been there. ‘It was a complete about-face, me girl. One minute I’m planning our wedding and the next you’re asking me to spend the rest of my life with your sister.’

  She pats his gnarly hand. ‘I know, dear, it wasn’t
easy for any of us, but it was the right thing to do. Today we wouldn’t dream of it. People are surprised when you have a baby in wedlock, but times were different then. It was the most sensible thing.’ But she doesn’t look sad when she says this.

  ‘What I don’t understand, Carl, is how you were able to transfer your love to Elsie’s sister.’ I hope he doesn’t mind me saying that, but think how hard it must have been. ‘Love isn’t something you can turn on and off just because circumstances say so.’

  He laughs. ‘I didn’t transfer my love. I still loved Elsie. I loved Hettie too, just not in quite the same way. She was a great girl, though. She had the same sense of humour as Elsie, but she was the live wire. You have to look harder to see it with Elsie, but if you know where to look, it’s there.’ They smile at each other. ‘I did love Hettie very much, though, and her daughter – our daughter – so don’t feel sorry for me, love. It’s really Elsie who suffered.’

  ‘Now, Carl, it was my decision and I never regretted it.’

  ‘You didn’t marry anyone else,’ I say. When she shakes her head I wonder, ‘Did you two carry on, then? I mean, if Carl and Hettie were married in name only, and Hettie knew how you felt for each other.’

  But Elsie says no. Somehow I knew she would. I’ve only known her a few months, but already I can see how strong she is. ‘We made a decision. Once you do that you have to carry through. It wasn’t a sham marriage, just a convenient one.’

  ‘And she died ten years ago?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard for you both.’

  Elsie nods. ‘It wasn’t a nice time. Hettie got ovarian cancer, you see, like our mother. It wasn’t very far advanced, but she died in treatment.’ Carl squeezes her hand. ‘I’m lucky. Hettie wasn’t yet eighty when she got hers.’

  It takes me a second to understand what she’s saying. ‘Elsie, have you got cancer?’