About the Author

REBECCA RAISIN is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.

Readers love Rebecca Raisin

‘Absolutely fantastic book, had me hooked from the first page’

‘I absolutely loved everything to do with this book’

‘Rebecca Raisin has a way of writing that is so evocative, it brings each and every scene to life’

‘Romantic, emotional, hilarious in places but most of all beautiful’

‘Full of anticipation, a real page turner. Loved it!’

‘A good holiday read’

‘Be whisked away on a beautiful adventure and pick up a copy today!’

Also by Rebecca Raisin

Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

The Bookshop on the Corner

Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café

Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm

The Little Bookshop on the Seine

The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower

The Little Perfume shop off the Champs-Élysées

Celebrations and Confetti at Cedarwood Lodge

Brides and Bouquets at Cedarwood Lodge

Midnight and Mistletoe at Cedarwood Lodge

Christmas at Cedarwood Lodge

Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop
REBECCA RAISIN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Rebecca Raisin 2019

Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

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

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

Source ISBN: 9780008330842

E-book Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008282165

Version: 2019-02-26

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Rebecca Raisin

Also by Rebecca Raisin

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

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For the hero in my very own love story.

This one is for you Ashley.

Chapter 1

‘You’re just not spontaneous enough, Rosie …’

I’ve misheard, surely. Fatigue sends my brain to mush at the best of times but after twenty hours on my feet, words sound fuzzy, and I struggle to untangle what he’s getting at.

It’s just gone 2 a.m. on Saturday 2nd February and that means I’m officially 32 years old. By my schedule I should be in the land of nod, but I’d stayed late at work to spontaneously bake a salted caramel tart to share with Callum, hoping he’d actually remember my birthday this year.

He’s never been a details man – we’re opposites in that respect – so I try not to take it to heart, but part of me hopes this is all a prelude to a fabulous birthday surprise and not the brewing of a row.

‘Sorry, Callum, what did you say?’ I try to keep my voice light and swig a little too heartily on the cheap red wine I found in the back of the cupboard after Callum told me we needed to have a chat. Surreptitiously, I glance to the table beside me hoping to see a prettily wrapped box but find it bare, bar a stack of cookbooks. Really, I don’t need gifts, do I? Love can be shown in other ways, perhaps he’ll make me a delicious breakfast when we wake up …

My eyes slip closed. With midnight long gone, my feet ache, and I’m weary right down to my bones. Bed is calling to me in the most seductive way; come hither and sleep, Rosie, it says. Even the thought of a slice of luscious ooey-gooey birthday tart can’t keep me awake and compos mentis. But I know I must focus, he’s trying to tell me something …

‘Are you asleep?’ The whine in his voice startles me awake. ‘Rosie, please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be,’ he says, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse.

Make what harder – what have I missed? I shake my head, hoping the fog will clear. ‘How am I not spontaneous? What do you even mean by that?’ Perhaps he’s nervous because he’s about to brandish two airline tickets to the Bahamas. Happy Birthday, Rosie, time to pack your bags!

He lets out a long, weary sigh like I’m dense and it strikes me as strange that he’s speaking in riddles at this time of the morning when I have to be at the fishmonger in precisely five hours.

‘Look …’ He runs a hand through his thinning red hair. ‘I think we both know it’s over, don’t we?’

‘Over?’ My mouth falls open. Just exactly how long did my power nap last for? ‘What … us?’ My incredulity thickens the air. This does not sound anything like a birthday celebration, not even close.

‘Yes, us,’ he confirms, averting his eyes.

‘Over because I’m not—’, I make air quotes with my fingers, ‘—spontaneous enough?’ Has he polished off the cooking sherry?

My husband still won’t look at me.

‘You’re too staid. You plan your days with military precision from when you wake to when you sleep, and everything in between has a time limit attached to it. There’s no room for fun or frivolity, or god forbid having sex on a day you haven’t scheduled it.’

So I’m a planner? It’s essential in my line of work as a sous-chef in esteemed Michelin-starred London restaurant Époque, and he should know that, having the exact same position in another restaurant (one with no Michelin stars, sadly). If I didn’t schedule our time together we’d never see each other! And I wouldn’t get the multitude of things done that need doing every single hour of every day. High pressure is an understatement.

‘I … I …’ I don’t know how to respond.

‘See?’ He stares me down as if I’m a recalcitrant child. ‘You don’t even care! I’d get more affection from a pot plant! You can be a bit of a cold fish, Rosie.’

His accusation makes me reel, as if I’ve been slapped. ‘That’s harsh, Callum, honestly, what a thing to say!’ Truth be told I’m not one for big shows of affection. If you want my love, you’ll get it when I serve you a plate of something I’ve laboured over. That’s how I express myself, when I cook.

It dawns on me, thick and fast. ‘There’s someone else.’

He has the grace to blush.

A feeling of utter despair descends while my stomach churns. How could he?

‘Well?’ I urge him again. Since he’s dropping truth bombs left, right and centre, he can at least admit his part in this … this break-up. Hurt crushes my heart. I hope I’m asleep and having a nightmare.

‘Well, yes, there is, but it’s not exactly a surprise, surely? We’re like ships that pass in the night. If only you were more—’

‘Don’t you dare say spontaneous.’

‘—if only you were less staid.’ He manages a grin. A grin. Do I even know this man who thinks stomping over my heart is perfectly acceptable?

He continues reluctantly, his face reddening as if he’s embarrassed. ‘It’s just … you’re so predictable, Rosie. I can see into your future, our future because it’s planned to the last microsecond! You’ll always be a sous-chef, and you’ll always schedule your days from sun up to sun down. You’ll keep everyone at arm’s length. Even when I leave, you’ll continue on the exact same trajectory.’ He shakes his head as though he’s disappointed in me but his voice softens. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I really am, but I can see it playing out – you’ll stay resolutely single and grow the most cost-effective herb garden this side of the Thames. I hope you don’t, though. I truly hope you find someone who sets your world on fire. But it’s not me, Rosie.’

What in the world? Not only is he dumping me, he’s planning my spinsterhood too? Jinxing me to a lonely life where my only companion is my tarragon plant? Well, not on my watch! I might be sleep-deprived but I’m nobody’s fool. The love I have for him pulses, but I remember the other woman and it firms my resolve.

He sighs and gives me a pitying smile. ‘I hate to say it, Rosie. But you’re turning into your dad. Not wanting to leave the …’

‘Get out,’ I say. He is a monster.

‘What?’

Cold fish, eh? ‘OUT!’ I muster the loudest voice I can.

‘But I thought we’d sort who gets what first?’

‘Out and I mean it, Callum.’ I will not give him the satisfaction of walking all over me just because he thinks he can.

‘Fine, but I’m keeping this apartment. You can—’

‘NOW!’ The roar startles even me. You want to see me warm up? ‘LEAVE!’

He jumps from the couch and dashes to the hallway, where I see a small bag he’s left in readiness, knowing the outcome of our ‘quick chat’ long before I did. With one last guilty look over his shoulder, he leaves with a bang of the door. He’s gone just like that.

As though I’m someone so easy to walk away from.

Laying down on the sofa, I clutch a cushion to my chest and wait for the pain to subside. How has it all gone so wrong? There’s someone else in his life? When did he find time to romance anyone?

Sure, I don’t go out much, other than for work purposes, but that’s because there’s no bloody time to go out! I’m not like my dad, am I? No, Callum is using that as ammunition, knowing how sensitive I am to such a comparison.

The sting of his words burns and doubt creeps in. Am I not spontaneous enough? Am I far too predictable?

Admittedly I’d been feeling hemmed in, ennui creeping into everything, even my menu. Each day bleeding into the next with no discernible change except the plat de jour. Sure, my professional life is on track but lately even my enthusiasm for that has waned. I’ve had enough of tweezing micro herbs to last a lifetime. Of plating minuscule food at macro prices. Of the constant bickering in the kitchen. The noise, the bluster, the backstabbing. Of never seeing blue skies or the sun setting. Of not being able to sit beside my husband on the couch at a reasonable hour and keep my eyes open at the same time.

Is this my fault? Am I a cold fish? I like routine and order so I know where I fit in the world. Everything is controlled and organised. There’s no clutter, mess, or fuss, or any chance I’ll lose control of any facet of my life. That need to keep life contained is a relic of my childhood. Is my marriage now a casualty of that?

But he’d promised he’d love me for better or worse.

Am I supposed to hope he comes to his senses or to beg him to come back?

Sighing, I place a hand on my heart, trying to ease the ache. I could never trust him again. I’m a stickler for rules, always have been, and cheating, well … I can’t forgive that.

But bloody hell, our lives had been all mapped out. Our first child was scheduled for conception in 2021. The second in 2023. And he’s just blithely walking away from his children like that! Didn’t he understand I would have given up my career for our future family? The career I’d worked so hard for! And I would have done it gladly, too.

Now this?

The gossip will spread like wildfire around the foodie world. My name embroiled in a scandal not of my choosing. It’s taken me fifteen years to get to where I am in my career, and that’s meant sacrificing a few things along the way, like a social life, and free time, real friendships. But that was all part of the bigger picture, the tapestry of our lives.

It hurts behind my eyes just thinking about it all.

And I mean to cry and wail and torment myself about the ‘other woman’, or force myself up off the couch and throw my lovingly baked birthday tart at the wall, or eat it all in one go as tears stream down my face – something dramatic and movie-esque – but I don’t. Instead, I fall into a deep sleep, only waking when my alarm shrills at stupid o’clock the next day, and with it comes the overwhelming knowledge that I must leave London. At 32, this could be my rebirth, couldn’t it?

Not spontaneous enough? Cold fish? Spinster? Like my dad?

I’ll show you.

Chapter 2

At Billingsgate Market the briny smell of seafood hardly registers. I dash to the fishmonger, rattle off my order, too distracted to make the usual small talk. John, the guy with the freshest seafood this side of Cornwall, notices my jittery state.

‘What’s up, Rosie? There’s something different about you today.’ He gives me a once-over as if trying to pinpoint the change.

‘Oh,’ I say, mind scuttling. ‘I haven’t had any tea.’ My other great love. Making hand-blended teas for various moods. Wake-me-ups. Wind-me-downs. And everything in between. If I ever leave my job, I have a backup plan at least … tea merchant!

John cocks his head. ‘You don’t look like you need it though, Rosie. You look alive.’ He shrugs. ‘And utterly different from this fella.’ He points to a dead flounder whose glassy eye stares up at me as John lets out his trademark haw, while I flinch slightly at being compared to deceased marine life. He bags my order, promising to courier it on ice to Époque immediately.

Do I look alive?

As I make my way to the butcher to confirm my weekly order, it occurs to me. Shouldn’t I be puffy-faced, red-eyed, fuzzy-headed from tossing and turning all night? Instead, I feel this sort of frenetic energy because I realise that I’m about to do something very out of character, bold and brave, and completely unexpected – what that entails, I’m still not quite sure, but the desire is there and I’m about to implement a huge change. Shriek.

I’m steadfast Rosie, I don’t do change.

I’m going to prove to the world that I’m not staid. Not stuck in a rut. I’m going to surprise even Callum, by doing the opposite of what he expects because I know if I don’t move on fast, I never will.

Being predictable has its disadvantages, and it’s time I shook things up a bit. Jumped, as it were, into a new reality.

What that is though exactly, remains to be seen …

When I think of my once heart-melting, lovely, red-headed husband my lungs constrict, so I push him from my mind as quickly as possible. As I walk, I repeat the mantra do not fall apart, hold yourself together, and promise myself I can wail in privacy later.

I visit the butcher at Borough Market, then the French boulangerie, and finally our fresh produce supplier before all my jobs are done and I’m ready to prepare for lunch service.

When I arrive at Époque, I find the restaurant manager crunching numbers, a steaming espresso in front of her untouched. I’ve always liked Sally; she’s a sassy, funny Glaswegian, who chain smokes and is fantastic at her job.

‘Coffee?’ she says absently, fiddling with paperwork.

‘And a chat,’ I say, dumping my bag on the bench and joining her at the table.

‘That sounds ominous.’ Her eyes dart to me before she bustles to the coffee machine, which spits and hisses under her hand.

A headache looms. Am I about to make a huge mistake? I’ve been yearning for change for such a long time, but it’s hard to tell if it’s a lie I’m selling myself. Callum might have pushed me to act, but I’m not being impetuous, am I?

As worry gnaws away at me, outwardly I remain calm and busy, unwinding my scarf and taking in the restaurant. It’s not often that I’m front of house. When I first started at Époque the décor was art nouveau, then it went on to have various makeovers, and right now it’s industrial chic. Any successful London establishment must move with the times, so the in crowd doesn’t become the out crowd.

And the kitchen is no different. I’m always looking for the next foodie sensation, the dish that will blow patrons’ minds, get us write-ups and reservations booked solid for the next six months.

You name it, I’ve tried it. Molecular gastronomy, sensory gastronomy, multi-sensory gastronomy. While it’s all very theatrical, and a feast for mind, body and spirit, there’s times I just want to cook up a big, hearty bowl of comfort food without any flourishes – real, honest meals that will fill your belly and warm your heart. Alas, that’s never going to happen in a Michelin-starred establishment like Époque.

Sally returns and places my tiny cup down. ‘So, talk,’ she says, staring me down. It’s her no-nonsense attitude I love. She doesn’t mince words, and you always know where you stand with her. Do her right, and you’ll have a friend for life. Cross her and forget working in London again. Sally’s been around forever and knows everyone there is to know in the industry. We get on well because she accepts me for who I am, a cookery nerd. That, and she’s partial to my twice-cooked fromage soufflé.

‘I’m officially handing in my notice,’ I say, surprised by the confidence in my tone. With that sort of voice, I could almost fool myself into believing I know what I’m doing! What the hell am I doing?

Handing in my notice?

I hope my brain will catch up with my mouth, sooner rather than later.

Sally purses her lips and nods. ‘And you don’t think this is a knee-jerk reaction to what that despicable excuse for a husband has done to you?’

‘You’ve heard already?’ That’s got to be a record, even for the likes of the London cookery establishment.

With an airy shrug, she tries to downplay it. ‘You know what it’s like. There were whispers about him a while back, but I didn’t think they had any substance, hence why I never said anything.’

Just how long has the affair been going on? Were they having mad, passionate, unscheduled sex, while I worked? My heart bongoes painfully inside my chest as though it’s preparing for an attack. I will myself not to give into it. He doesn’t deserve that. The rat. The pig. The cheating no-good husband. But oh, how it hurts.

‘So who is she?’ I hate asking but I need to know who he’s replaced me with.

Sally takes a cigarette from her purse and lights up, despite the restaurant being a strictly non-smoking venue and the fact there’s enough smoke alarms installed to have half of the London Fire Brigade here within minutes if they’re set off.

When she doesn’t answer I urge her on. ‘It’s OK, Sally, honestly.’

With a tut, she says, ‘I want to wring his scrawny neck! The things that guy has put you through.’

I’m not a fan of wandering down memory lane. What point does looking back serve? Sally’s never been keen on Callum; she’s of the opinion he rides on my coat-tails. And I suppose for a while he did. And once, early on before we were married, he did sort of try to steal my job from under me and Sally hasn’t forgotten that. I had until this very moment. Clearly I’ve used poor judgement in the whole choosing my husband department. Back then I had love hearts for eyes, and the world was a wondrous place.

‘Who is she?’ I prod.

‘Khloe,’ she says, with a reluctant sigh.

I shake my head. ‘Why is it always the chef de partie? What a cliché. And Khloe with a K, for god’s sake.’ I’d met the exotic-eyed vixen at an industry party, and she actually introduced herself as ‘Khloe with a K’. Who does that? Kardashians and husband-stealers, that’s who.

That means Khloe worked under him, literally and figuratively. The thought leaves a bad taste in my mouth so I sip the bitter coffee to wash it away.

Sally leans closer, surveying me, as if waiting for me to cry, for one solitary tear to fall, or my bottom lip to wobble, something – anything – that shows her I’m not a robot, but I use all my willpower to remain calm and keep telling myself he does not warrant such histrionics. I’m a professional, dammit, and I won’t be a sobbing mess at work. I suppose this control is what makes people think I’m aloof, steely, strange, when in fact it’s the opposite, it’s purely a protective instinct.

Inside my heart twists and shrinks, this pain probably doing me lifelong damage. Will my heart shrivel up altogether, leaving me as predicted – a lonely old spinster? Is rebound sex the answer? No, I will fall in love, not lust.

Hearing about Khloe firms my resolve. London is too toxic for me right now. I need to put some space between me and the city I’ve loved for so long.

Sally rubs my arm affectionately. ‘The whispers will die down, you just need to keep focused, keep working and ride out the storm. Don’t give up your career because of that snake in the grass. Please. You’ve worked harder than anyone I know. Don’t let that go to waste.’

I take a moment to decipher my feelings. Eventually I say, ‘It’s not just him, Sally. It’s everything. I’ve had this nagging feeling life is passing me by for a while now. I’ve been slogging it out here since I was seventeen. I’m in the prime of my life, and if I don’t look up, I’ll miss it. What Callum did might have been the catalyst, but it’s not the entire reason. I promise I’m not making this decision lightly or just because of him.’ As the words rolls off my tongue, I feel the truth in them. I’ve been unhappy for such a long time but put it down to overwork, life fatigue, the daily grind.

‘Listen, you’re giving me four weeks’ notice, right?’

I nod.

‘Take that time to think it over. I mean, really consider it. Instead of interviewing for a replacement straight away, Jacques can hold the fort alone for a month while you decide.’

Jacques is the celebrity chef de cuisine and won’t like having to wait in limbo for my decision. He’s an ogre to work under. In actual fact, I do his job so he can sashay about front of house before returning to the line and barking orders and cursing. As his star rose, I worked my way up behind him, and we have a sort of grudging respect for one another. While he has an ego the size of the Titanic, he lets me control the menu and I have complete freedom in the kitchen, even if he does take the credit.

‘Thanks, Sally. I appreciate that. But I’m quite sure, so you can start interviewing.’ No point pretending. They’ll need a sous-chef so things run smoothly, and while I’m not super friendly with Jacques, I do like the other staff and would hate for them to have to carry the extra weight of my absence.

After one of Sally’s breath-stealing hugs, I leave her and go to the kitchen to shuffle the fresh produce around and prepare the day’s menus, hoping the kitchen staff won’t pry, even though I bet they’ve woken up to gossipy text messages about me and Callum.

That’s the culinary scene for you.

Chapter 3

After a strangely quiet Sunday shift, I’m home earlier than usual, giving me time to mull over whether I’ve taken leave of my senses. Who quits their job on a whim like that?

My phone beeps constantly with messages like:

Darling, that swine didn’t, did he? Text me back. Kimmy x

I wrack my mind wondering who Kimmy might be and come up blank. There’s another from Leroy who I vaguely recall works with Callum.

So are ya leaving then? If y’are can you put in a good word with Jacques for me?

The rest are of a similar ilk; people wanting the inside scoop. No one actually offers to help me drown my sorrows or bring cake over so I can eat my feelings. And seeing as they’re all chefs, it hurts.

They want the gossip or my job. The vultures.

I don’t dwell on it much – just every hour, on the hour, or so. Still, if there’s one thing I’m good at it, it’s making a plan. New life scenarios. What not to do, kind of thing. I write down various possibilities – stopping just before what if the sky falls down – and realise for once in my life I have absolutely no idea what to do, or where to go when my notice is up.

It’s a scary thought. Yet somehow liberating.

No one gives up a sous-chef position at Époque unless they’ve married royalty or won the lottery, and that’s exactly why I’m relishing the thought. No one, absolutely no one, including my husband (do I call him ex at this juncture?), thinks I’ll react.

The whispers in the kitchen were that I’d work even longer hours and virtually chain myself to the line with some kind of mad zeal, avenging myself by doing the job of three until one day when I’m a lonely old crone someone has to drag me kicking and screaming out of the kitchen. So nothing new there then.

The wine helps clear my mind and I drink steadily, delighting in the rich Shiraz, a gift from Sally, thrust into my hands at the end of my shift with the words: enjoy your day off tomorrow, but think things through …

Inexplicably the bottle empties, so I open one of my cheap quaffers as I skim through various blogs online, hoping to find an idea, or something to give me perspective. Those uplifting, let-the-breeze-blow-you-here, change-your-life type of blogs.

As I sip, I read so many wonderful stories of transformation, of risking it all. Families who’ve wrenched their kids from school to live life on the road. Single women (just like me now!) who’ve thrown their spatulas down and taken the reins and live by their own rules. People with pop-up food vans. Campervan pottery shops. Musicians who play from tiny homes. Artisans who make jewellery by the sea, sell their wares and follow the sun. I shake my head. There’s a whole community of people out there living their best life …

Could I be that person? Probably not.

So it can’t hurt to look at campervan prices, can it? I’m only looking, I’m not buying. Even if I were to go out on a limb and envisage a totally new way of life, I’d have to commit to months of research to see if it’s viable. Then there’s the flat to consider. My possessions. Money. I’m stuck, really, aren’t I? It strikes me that we humans build these lives for ourselves that have the tendency to trap us. I guzzle more wine and wonder how I can fix the mess I’ve found myself in …

* * *

The next day, I wake up with a screaming headache. The pounding in my head is in staccato with the buzzing of the doorbell. My one and only day off from the restaurant, and my most relished lie-in has been ruined. By me, and the copious amounts of wine I’d put away, and by whoever deems it acceptable to visit at – I scan the clock – barely eight o’clock. It should be a criminal offence. I silently berate myself for drinking so much red on an empty stomach. But cooking for one, well, I’m not used to it.

The buzzing continues and it dawns on me. It’s Callum come to his senses and seen the error of his ways. He’ll wear that apologetic gap-toothed smile of his, his too-long red hair hanging over one eye, so he can hide behind his mistake. And I shall relish telling him to spin on his heel and go back the way he came!

I dash out of bed, as the world spins on its axis. Bloody hell, just how much did I drink last night? Don’t tell me I’m going to be one those tragics who drink their life away and use the empty wine bottle as a microphone for an impromptu concert? A memory forms; did I karaoke the night away strutting my stuff for my own reflection in the window? As alarming as the thought is, the doorbell buzzing makes my hangover worse so I hurry along to answer it.

Hand on wall, I steady myself and wish I’d brushed my teeth and had some painkillers on hand. Urgh. Quickly, I pat down my bed hair and open the door with a grimace.

It’s not Callum.

And suddenly it occurs to me I’m braless in a teeny tiny singlet wearing a pair of Callum’s old tracksuit bottoms, so big they gape at the front. So not appropriate. With a wild grin that I hope masks my discomfort, I grasp desperately at the coat rail to my right, while pondering who this stranger is, as my fingers finally make contact with my jacket and I fling it on.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

Confusion dashes across the elderly man’s face. He’s dressed in a worn duffel, denim jeans and has a kind smile. He doesn’t look like a Londoner, somehow – his features are too soft, too amiable, his face too open, like a doting grandparent. ‘Erm,’ he says scratching the back of his neck. ‘You said you’d pay extra if I got here early.’

Oh bloody hell. Pay extra? Is he some kind of gigolo? He looks a bit too old for that caper. Not that I’ve had any experience with such a thing, but still. Was I so inebriated last night I thought that was the answer? I’m losing my damned mind!

‘Excuse me, sorry, it’s been such a long day …’ Oh, hell, it’s only 8 a.m. ‘I mean, a long night—’, I cough loudly, ‘—the night before, I mean. As in last night.’ Stop talking!

He nods, but worry flashes in his eyes. ‘Well, do you want to come and have a look at her?’

Relief washes over me. Her? I’ve bought a puppy? Or even better a 10-year-old rescue hound who needs some love after too long in the shelter! Forget my 2021 child, I’ve adopted a fur baby who’ll cuddle me better than Callum ever did. It makes sense. There are so many animals out there that need adopting and I mentally give myself a pat on the back for being so forward-thinking.

‘Ah, sure,’ I say and tighten the coat around me, holding the voluminous pants with my other hand. Note to self: wear own pyjamas in this time of drastic change.

I stumble down the steps after him, thinking just how perfect an animal companion will be. Snoopy can snuggle with me at night, be my best friend, my most faithful …

‘Here she is.’ He points but nothing jumps out at me. There’s a great big fuchsia pink van parked on the side of the road blocking my view. I scan parked cars up the length of the street, expecting to see a furry face peeking out, a wet nose fogging up the glass but don’t see a single animal.

Just when I’m about to question him he hands over a set of keys. ‘The credit card payment has been approved so she’s all yours. Let me show you around.’

The credit card.

The what?

What the hell have I done!

The con artist and stealer of my money opens the pink campervan door to reveal a very tidy tiny home complete with small kitchen, doll-sized sink, an electric hotplate and oven. A wave of claustrophobia runs down the length of me. It’s so compact, how anyone could live in such a space is beyond me. However, there’s a faint aroma of cinnamon sugar in the air that makes me smile, as if whoever cooked here last, made comfort food.

‘This here’s the dining room,’ he says, pride in his voice as he motions to a fold-down plank of wood with two padded bench seats on each side, which he lifts to reveal deep storage cavities. Everything seems to have a double function.

Next to the dining area is a one-person sofa with pink storage nooks above. I spy a bedroom off at the back and take a peek in. The bed is made up with fine linen and one rose cushion sits lovingly in the centre of the bed. It makes my heart tug for some reason I can’t pinpoint.

A gauzy floral chiffon curtain separates the living and sleeping quarters. There’s a bathroom, which is so narrow I have to crab walk in sideways, but it’s neat and sparkling clean. Of course, the tiles are pink, and they slowly grow on me as I understand the need for décor to match. There’s no excess, everything here serves a purpose. It’s not chintzy, it’s homely, as if someone put a lot of care into making things pretty and comfortable for long, slow journeys.

But I don’t do things on a whim. I most certainly don’t buy campervans for … the full weight of winter runs right through me from my head down to my toes.

‘Excuse me, how much was erm … the approval?’

He frowns. ‘Five thousand pounds like we agreed and an extra five hundred to get her here by 8 a.m. I drove through the night.’

Flip. Fluck. Fugger.

What the hell am I supposed to do with such a thing? Live in it? Is it even roadworthy? Can I drive such a big, long, hulking thing? And pray tell, where the bloody buggery am I meant to be going in … her. Urgh. How do I know I even spoke to this guy? He could be one of those internet stalker, hacker types. Really, this is very out of character for me.

A scream echoes through my brain.

‘I’m sorry about Callum,’ he says. ‘But you’re doing the right thing. Leaving the big city toxicity behind and heading out on the open road. You’ll find yourself there, Rosie.’

Oh god. I did buy this fuchsia pink monstrosity. I’m never drinking again.

‘Yes, well, I’m lost quite a lot of the time,’ I say, swallowing back panic. ‘So finding myself will be a real bonus.’

He waxes lyrical about hidden storage, and petrol mileage, permits, parking and a bunch of other stuff, I stop listening, as I find it hard to catch my breath. Five thousand five hundred pounds! That’s almost the entirety of my savings. I’ll have to repay my credit card. I’ll have to sell this on. I’ll have to …

‘The trailer hitches on very simply, and inside that are all your tables and chairs, and even a little fire grate for those cold days, customers just love milling about that, warm cocoa in hand.’

‘Customers?’

He gives me that same look as if he’s worried I’m unhinged which I clearly am. ‘Yes, your pop-up tea shop customers, remember?’

‘Erm …’

‘You want to go back to making comfort food, big portions made with love, not a micro herb in sight. Served up with steaming pots of gourmet hand-blended tea. Cream tea Sundays. You are Rosie, aren’t you?’ Uneasiness lines his face.

‘Yes, yes, I’m Rosie. And yes, my very own pop-up tea shop, of course I remember. I haven’t had any tea yet myself you see, that’s all.’ My calming blend would go down a treat right about now, there’s not much that marshmallow leaves, camomile, and mint can’t fix. Well, except making big life decisions while under the influence of Shiraz. I haven’t blended a tea to fix that just yet.

I glance once more at the van and a murky idea takes shape. A pop-up tea van could work. Hadn’t I wanted to go back to my roots, cooking big batches of cookies, apple crumbles, and layer cakes laced with rum? Scones with lashings of home-made jam and thick luscious cream. Rib-stickers, nourishing food that warmed you from the inside out like big bowls of hearty stew, and rich rustic soups. Or cinnamon rice porridge, dishes that filled your belly and kept you warm on those cold wintry nights.

Coupled with my hand-blended exotic teas, maybe inebriated me had a plan and I just had to remember it. Rosie’s travelling tea shop …

‘So …’ The man takes some paperwork from his bag. ‘We just need to fill these out and Poppy is all yours.’

‘The van’s name is Poppy?’ I think of the pink cushion, proudly sitting on the bed, like it should mean something to me, but what? Why?

He laughs and his cheeks pink. ‘My wife chose it. We ran Poppy round for some time before she was taken ill.’

‘I hope she’s feeling better.’ As soon as I say the words I understand, but it’s too late to snatch them back.

He thrusts his hands in his pockets and his eyes cloud. ‘Sadly she passed, but you know, Rosie, she was an eccentric like you …’

An eccentric? I’d been called worse.

‘… and I think she’d be very happy that Poppy is going to be in such …’ He blushes and mumbles something incoherent before recovering and saying, ‘in such good hands.’

I forgive him for stumbling on the words. I’d be a little dubious handing over Poppy to me too, with all those memories attached from the trips they must have undertaken together.

The poor man, you can see the loss in the lines of his face once you know. ‘I’m incredibly sorry to hear about your wife. I promise I’ll take good care of Poppy.’ Curiously, I feel a bond with this elderly fellow. With Poppy. As if his wife left me clues to say: follow your heart!

‘We’re going to have a lot of adventures.’ As I drive straight into a town called Losing-My-Damn-Mind – Population: One.

His face softens, and he swipes at his glassy eyes. ‘Rosie, take it from me – life is so fleeting. Being on the road is full of challenges but nothing comes close to the simple joy you’ll find in some remote corner of the globe. Keep safe, and keep your mind open to possibilities …’

My spine tingles with recognition and a slow smile settles across my face. Who says I’m not spontaneous? Poppy and I are going to embark on an epic journey, one long overdue … But how to afford it? And where to go?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.