Jennifer Joyce - The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

I get a whiff of the welcoming smell of Dad’s cooking as soon as he opens the door. Dad wasn’t much use in the kitchen when he was married to Mum. He could knock together a shepherd’s pie if absolutely necessary and his omelettes were pretty good, but it’d been Mum who provided most of my nourishment growing up.

When she first left, I took over most of the culinary duties but once I moved in with Penny, Dad either had to roll his sleeves up and learn to cook a few more meals or exist on a rotating menu of shepherd’s pie, omelettes and tinned soup. Luckily, he went with option one and he’s now pretty proficient when it comes to rustling up meals. He uses a lot of the fresh produce from his allotment, which is a bonus.

‘Something smells good.’ I kiss Dad on the cheek before stepping inside and heading straight through to the kitchen and the source of the delicious smells.

‘We’re actually in the living room.’ Dad reaches out and steers me away from the kitchen.

‘We?’ I ask a split second before I’m nudged into the living room. I pause on the threshold, my jaw slowly journeying to the carpet. ‘Birdie! Hello!’ I’m gobsmacked to see one of my customers sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea. I knew they’d been getting along but I had no idea just how well. This is further proof that my cake-dating service can – and will – work.

‘Hello, dear.’ Birdie smiles and pops her cup of tea on the low table in front of her. ‘You look surprised to see me.’

‘Not at all,’ I say, which is ridiculous as my bottom lip is in danger of getting carpet burns. ‘Well, maybe a little. Dad never said you’d be here. Good job I brought this for pudding.’ I hold up the plastic tub I’ve brought with me.

Birdie’s eyes light up. ‘Is that apple crumble?’

‘It is. I’m just going to put it in the fridge. I’ll be back in a minute.’ I flash Dad a follow-me look, which thankfully he picks up on and he shuffles after me into the kitchen. I take a quick scan of the room, hunting out signs of Mum but other than the wine, which Birdie won’t know aren’t for Dad at this stage, we’re okay. I do need to slip the wedding photo discreetly from the mantelpiece in the living room though and I’ll nab her dressing gown from the bathroom in a moment.

‘You never told me Birdie was going to be here,’ I whisper as I place the tub in the fridge.

‘Didn’t I?’ Dad frowns. ‘Is it a problem?’

Is it a problem? I almost hoot with laughter. A problem? It’s the best bloody thing I’ve seen in ages. Dad has invited another woman round for tea! I’m almost giddy.

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ I say, closing the fridge and heading for the kettle. I need a calming cup of tea before I start performing a jig on the lino.

‘Is it?’

‘ Yes. ’ I turn back to Dad and grasp him by the sleeves of his cardigan. ‘I’m so happy that you’ve found someone.’

‘Found someone?’ Dad frowns again before his eyes widen. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s not like that with me and Birdie. We’ve become friends, that’s all.’

‘Hmm, friends.’ In my head, I’m using air quotes around the word. ‘Of course. How many friends have you invited round for tea lately then?’ I don’t let Dad answer as I know the answer is a great big zero. Who knows, maybe Dad will be whipping the wedding photo off the mantelpiece himself soon. ‘What are we having for tea, by the way? It smells lovely.’

‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Dad says as I fill the kettle. Ah, an old favourite. ‘With peas, carrot and spring cabbage. The cabbage will taste even better than usual because I swiped it from Gerry’s plot.’

‘Dad,’ I sigh.

‘What? He’s a smug old git. Thinks he’s better than me because his beetroot won second place at the Woodgate Grows competition. And he started all this pinching crops business, remember. He hasn’t got green fingers – he’s got sticky fingers, the thieving sod.’

I raise my eyebrows at Dad. ‘And what about your fingers?’

Dad shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets on the front of his cardigan. ‘Like I said, he started it.’

I’m about to point out the playground-ness of this conversation when the back door swings open and Franklin waddles into the kitchen, followed closely by Birdie’s grandson. I look at Dad but he’s already dropped to his knees so he can make a fuss of the dog. I always wanted a dog when I was growing up, but my requests were always met with a firm no from the parents. Now I know which parent was steering that ship.

‘Hello again,’ I say, feeling incredibly awkward. It isn’t because I fancy Caleb or anything. It’s because I’m standing in Dad’s kitchen with a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger that I’m quite possibly going to be sitting across the table from while I tuck into Dad’s hearty shepherd’s pie and seasonal – and in some cases, stolen – veg. ‘I didn’t know you were here. Cup of tea?’

‘Yes please.’ Caleb rubs his hands together. ‘I know it’s supposed to be summer but it’s freezing out there. I’ve been outside for fifteen minutes with that dog and he hasn’t done a thing.’ Franklin toddles over to me, sniffing at my fingers when I stoop to scratch behind his ears. He’s obviously in search of his usual doggy treats but, not knowing he was going to be here, I haven’t brought any with me. ‘I see you’re a fan of dogs.’

‘Aren’t you?’ I look up sharply. How can you not be a fan of dogs?

‘Franklin’s okay, I suppose, but in general, no.’ Caleb holds out a hand. ‘A dog took a chunk out of my hand when I was eleven.’

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