Jennifer Joyce - The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

I’ve known Nicky for just over a year. We met as I stood on the pavement, staring into the grimy window of Sweet Street Teashop (which wasn’t actually Sweet Street Teashop back then. It was Val’s Caff – though only in name. Val had packed up and gone. Without cleaning her windows, it would seem). It was a decent size; not exactly large but reasonable for the asking price. There was already a counter in place, which was handy, and I could probably fit five or six tables in the available space. I adored the façade, with its creamy rendering and bay windows either side of the glass-panelled door. The paint was peeling on the frames, but it wouldn’t be difficult or too costly to fix.

‘It’s a shame, isn’t it?’ a voice asked as I squinted past the filth. ‘About Val?’

‘Sorry?’ I stepped away from the window, my stomach churning with guilt. Had the previous owner died? Is that why she hadn’t cleaned her windows?

‘I said it’s a shame about Val.’ The voice belonged to a woman wearing a hot pink tunic and matching, slim-fitting trousers. She was beautiful with smooth brown skin, large dark eyes and full, glossy lips. Her thick black curls were pulled off her face in a high ponytail with twisty tendrils framing her face. ‘She did the best full English breakfasts. So greasy but so delicious.’ The woman sniffed the air, deep and long. ‘Nope, doesn’t even smell the same without Val around. Lucky cow though, eh?’

‘Sorry?’ It seemed that one word was my entire contribution to the conversation.

‘Winning that cruise. Meeting Arnold. Mega rich Arnold . Marrying him and retiring to the south of France.’ She sighed and gave a slow shake of her head. ‘Some people have all the luck. I can’t even find a date for Friday night and Val’s hit the jackpot.’

‘I didn’t know Val,’ I admitted. ‘I’m waiting for an estate agent. I’m viewing the teashop and the flat upstairs.’

‘You’re buying Val’s?’ The woman’s eyes grew even larger. ‘How’s your full English?’

I shrugged. ‘Okay, I guess. But it won’t be that kind of teashop.’

Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head to one side. ‘What kind of teashop will it be?’

I explained the idea behind Sweet Street Teashop, where I’d serve freshly baked desserts, biscuits and pastries. There would be no full English breakfasts on offer but would fluffy, American-style pancakes do instead?

‘Are you kidding me?’ A pair of arms were suddenly thrown around me and I was being squeezed tighter than was comfortable. ‘You’re my new best friend!’

‘Whoa, there.’ Nicky now takes a step back from Victoria, hands raised and palms out. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’

‘Sorry. I need to text Nathan.’ Sidestepping Nicky, Victoria dashes out into the teashop, where she’s left her mobile under the counter.

‘Young love, eh?’ Nicky sighs as she joins us in the storeroom/office. ‘Not that I’d know how that feels. I’ve been single for ever .’

Nicky’s been single for a couple of months, though her last three relationships have hardly been long-term and the word ‘love’ wasn’t mentioned by either party. Nicky doesn’t have much luck with men. She has no trouble finding dates (she’s gorgeous ) but she always seems to pick the wrong kind of men. The kind that are after a quick fumble and won’t even remember your name – never mind your phone number – the next day.

‘Love is overrated anyway,’ Mags says. ‘I’ve been happier since the divorce than I ever was while I was with Graham.’

‘Surely the beginning was good?’ I ask. ‘Why else would you get married?’

‘I was pregnant and Mum is very old-fashioned about that sort of thing. She swore me and Graham to secrecy until after the wedding so my grandmother wouldn’t find out. She left it a month before she told Abuela that I’d had Brian and she said he was two months early. By the time Abuela and Tito made it over from Spain, Brian was six weeks old but supposedly a two-week-old prem.’ Mags – or Magdalena – is half Spanish, but she’s lived in Manchester all her life and is as northern as Blackpool Tower – and as Spanish as a supermarket frozen paella. ‘If Abuela suspected, she didn’t say anything. Brian still has to wait a month for his birthday cards from our Spanish relatives.’

‘I can’t wait to get married,’ Nicky says. She’s joined us in the ‘office’ and is leaning against the chest of drawers that houses both the business files and my recipes. ‘I want a massive wedding, with a dozen bridesmaids.’

I don’t even know a dozen women I like enough to be part of my wedding. Not that I’ll ever have a wedding. I’m with Mags’s ‘love is overrated’ view.

‘I want the whole puffy-white-dress, horse-and-carriage-to-the-church affair and an eight-tier cake, which you’ll make, of course.’ Nicky grins at me. ‘And I want to do the Dirty Dancing routine for my first dance.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got it all planned,’ Mags says and Nicky nods.

‘Pretty much. Just need the husband now.’

‘Ah, the hard part.’ Mags turns to me. ‘What about you? Have you mapped out your wedding?’

I feel betrayed. As though Mags has turned on me. What happened to our shared ‘love is overrated’ view?

‘Maddie doesn’t believe in marriage,’ Nicky says as I squirm awkwardly. ‘In fact, I don’t think she even believes in relationships full stop.’ Nicky purses her lips as she observes me. ‘No, she hasn’t had one date in all the time I’ve known her. Me, I’ve had tons of dates in that time. Not that any of them have been worth it in the long run …’

‘And you wonder why I don’t bother with men.’ I haven’t told Nicky about Joel. I haven’t told Mags or Victoria either, as I try to block the whole episode from my mind and not talking about it helps a lot. Mum tries to talk about it (which is probably why I don’t see her as often as I should, if I’m honest) and Penny tried in the very beginning, but I refused to hear a word of it.

Victoria scuttles into the room, squeezing between Nicky and a sack of self-raising flour, and I’m glad of the distraction. ‘Nathan loves the idea! As long as you pick a date where everyone’s free, we can play at the party!’

‘What party?’ Nicky asks so I explain about our plan to host a summer-themed party to entice more customers into the teashop.

‘And your band is going to play?’ Nicky asks Victoria, who attempts to do a little dance in the cramped space while nodding her head. ‘But where? I hate to break it to you, hun, but you’re not going to fit in the teashop. Not if you want customers inside at the same time.’

Victoria’s animated jig freezes. She frowns, trying to work out the logistics, her shoulders slumping when she realises Nicky’s right.

‘We can’t play at the party then.’

‘Maybe you can,’ Nicky says with a shrug. ‘Just not inside the teashop.’

‘Then where?’ Victoria asks. ‘On the roof?’

Nicky ignores Victoria’s sarcasm. ‘If you’re going to have a party, why not make it big? Have it out there, in the garden.’

The garden! Of course! Opposite the teashop, running the length of the Kingsbury terrace of shops, is the little community garden. When I’d viewed the teashop all those months ago, I’d assumed the gated garden would encourage families onto Kingsbury Road. I thought that employees from the town centre would wander over on warm days to sit by the fountain or picnic on the grass. And once they clocked my teashop and its sweet treats on offer …

I’d been wrong. Nobody uses the poor, neglected garden. But perhaps we can. Perhaps the garden across the road is the answer to all my problems.