Jennifer Joyce - The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

While I’ve inherited Dad’s auburn hair, I don’t have his perma-pale skin tone. All our family holiday snaps show Mum and I beaming at the camera, our teeth a flash of white against golden flesh while Dad grimaces, his skin painfully raw with sunburn. It doesn’t matter how frequently he applies his Factor Fifty, Dad will always, always burn to a crisp. It was one of the reasons he refused to holiday abroad and why Mum makes up for it now with Ivor, jetting off at least twice a year. I have a postcard from their latest trip to Hawaii on my fridge.

‘I haven’t seen her since they got back,’ I tell Dad. I hope that this will offer some comfort to Dad. To know that while I visit him often, I’m not off playing happy families with Mum and Ivor the rest of the time.

‘You should see your mum more often. I bet she misses you.’

‘I saw her just before they went away,’ I say, though this isn’t technically true. It was a month before they left but we’ve both been busy – Mum with planning her trip and me with trying to keep the teashop afloat – and we don’t have the same easy relationship I have with Dad. Not any more.

‘This is good apple crumble,’ Dad says as he scoops a giant spoonful towards his mouth. ‘Just like Gran used to make.’ He wedges the spoon into his mouth and closes his eyes. This is the best compliment I could ever receive. Gran baked the most delicious desserts and if my own creations taste nearly as good as hers, I’ll be very proud of myself.

‘How’s the teashop going?’ Dad asks once we’ve finished eating. He usually pops in at least once a week but I haven’t seen him since my visit home last weekend.

‘Great.’ I force a smile on my face and nod my head like Churchill the dog. ‘Really great.’

There are some things I can’t lie about. I’m truthful while telling Dad week after week how happy Mum is without him or while telling my friend Nicky that the guy she’s been bombarding with unanswered texts probably isn’t interested in her. I don’t lie about these things, no matter how difficult it is to tell the truth, but I do lie to Dad about the teashop. I can’t tell him that it’s failing. That I’m failing. That the money Gran left me in her will may have been wasted on a dream not come true.

‘It’s no wonder it’s doing so well if you keep making desserts like these.’ Dad gathers our empty cups and dishes and carries them over to the sink to wash up. When the doorbell rings, he holds up his wet, soapy hands. ‘Would you get that? If it’s those energy people, tell them to bugger off. I’m happy with the service I’ve got.’

‘Will do,’ I say, though I know I won’t. I’ll stand there while they blather on about the better deals they can offer and then I’ll politely decline, apologising as I gently close the door. I don’t do confrontation. Ever. Luckily it isn’t a door-to-door ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything’ salesman. It’s a woman (without a clipboard, ID badge or charity tabard), who takes a startled step back when I open the door.

‘Oh.’ Her eyes flick to the door, checking the number, checking she has, in fact, got the right house. ‘Is Clive in? I’m Jane? From next door?’ She poses the last two statements as questions, as though I may have an inkling who she is.

‘Jane?’ Dad booms from the kitchen. ‘Come in!’

I open the door wider and Jane-from-next-door takes a tentative step over the threshold, the corners of her lips twitching into an awkward smile. She follows me through to the kitchen, where Dad is drying his hands on a tea towel.

‘I’ve brought your screwdriver back.’ Jane reaches into the handbag looped over her arm and pulls the tool out, holding it out to Dad between finger and thumb, as though it could burst into life and attack at any given moment.

‘Did it do the trick?’ Dad asks as he takes the screwdriver and places it on the table.

Jane nods, the awkward smile flicking at her lips again. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Thought it would.’ Dad moves towards the kettle, plucking it from its stand. ‘Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?’

Jane’s eyes brush over me, the smile flickering on her lips again. She looks like she’s got a tic. ‘You’ve got company.’

‘That’s just Maddie.’ Dad fills the kettle and flicks it on. ‘My daughter.’

‘Oh!’ The smile is wider now, more genuine. I try not to feel offended by the ‘just’ in Dad’s introduction. ‘I see! Of course. Hello, Maddie.’

I raise my hand and give a little wave, the awkward bug having been passed on.

‘So,’ Dad says. ‘Tea?’

Jane eyes me briefly before she turns to Dad. ‘I have to dash, actually. Maybe another time? Tomorrow?’

Dad nods, already striding across the kitchen so he can see Jane-the-neighbour to the door. ‘Sure.’

Jane beams at Dad, placing a hand on his arm now he’s reached her. ‘Thank you again for the screwdriver.’

‘Any time.’

I watch as Dad and Jane disappear into the hall, hear their muffled voices as they chat at the door. The kettle’s boiled by the time Dad returns to the kitchen.

‘What was that all about?’ I ask Dad, indicating the screwdriver still on the table.

‘Jane asked to borrow it yesterday. Asked me if I knew anything about plugs. She needed to replace one of hers so I wrote down some instructions and let her borrow the screwdriver.’

I want to drop my face into my hands. ‘ Da-ad . She didn’t want to borrow a screwdriver! She wanted you to go over.’

Dad shakes his head. ‘Nah. Jane’s not like that. She’s very independent. Capable, like.’

Facepalm, round two. ‘She didn’t want you to go round to replace the plug.’ If there was ever a plug in need of replacing in the first place.

Dad grabs the tea caddy and pulls a couple of bags out. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘She fancies you.’ I am almost giddy. With relief. With hope. A woman fancies my dad. He doesn’t have to be alone any more! ‘Jane-from-next-door fancies you and she was trying to lure you round to her house.’

Dad shakes his head as he plops teabags into two cups. ‘Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Jane’s friendly, that’s all. A good neighbour.’

I’m not convinced. I fling myself at Dad, wrapping my arms around his middle and planting a noisy kiss on his stubbly cheek.

‘Jane-from-next-door has a crush on you. I’m sure of it.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Dad scoffs. ‘People our age don’t have “crushes”. And I’m not interested anyway. I’m too old for all that nonsense.’

By nonsense, I assume Dad means having fun and being happy with somebody other than Mum.

‘You’re never too old for love. Besides, you’re sixty-two and sixty is the new fifty, which is the new forty, so you’re practically a spring chicken.’

Dad grabs the kettle and pours boiling water into the cups. ‘I don’t think your logic pans out quite right there.’

‘Oh yes it does.’ I open the fridge and take out the milk, passing it to Dad. ‘I want you to be happy.’

‘And you can’t be happy and single?’ Dad raises his eyebrows at me and I feel myself squirm.

‘You can. Of course you can.’ I’m an example of that. I’ve been single for a year now and I’ve never been happier. I push the thought of waking up wrapped in Joel’s arms away, of feeling safe and loved. ‘But aren’t you ready to move on? To find someone new?’

Dad places the fresh cups of tea on the table and looks pointedly at me. ‘Are you?’

I’d been working at the Blue Llama – a super-pretentious, celeb-chef-endorsed restaurant – for three weeks when I first met Joel. The tips were amazing (super-pretentious people can be pretty free with their wads of cash when they’re tipsy, full of good grub and showing off in front of their friends, colleagues or dates. Especially when they’re showing off in front of their dates), but I was fed up. Fed up of blisters on my feet from the compulsory heels. Fed up of being patronised by the diners and yelled at by the chef.