Katey Lovell - The Café in Fir Tree Park

Kelly, however, looks doubtful. “I don’t know. I’d have to come back sooner or later, and without a degree I’d struggle to get a job.”

“For as long as I own this café, there’ll be a job here for you. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.” I cup my daughter’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “Just have a think about things, that’s all I’m asking. Why don’t you head off home? Fern will be here shortly, and I can manage till then.” I nod towards the café door and the sprawling green park beyond. “Go and hit those books.”

Kelly reaches for her black leather satchel and slings it across her body. “Thanks, Mum. And I’ll think about it, the travelling.”

I’m sure she’s only saying it to placate me, but I humour her back, leaning down and kissing the baby-soft skin of her cheek. They’re growing up fast, her and Josh. If only I could slow it down a touch before they’re gone for good, lost to significant others and the daily grind.

“Do. There’s more to life than exams. I may not have got here by the most direct route, but I’m happier now than I’ve ever been before.” I can’t help but smile with a quiet satisfaction. “It took me the best part of forty years to achieve what I wanted, so don’t you go beating yourself up for not having your life mapped out at your age. You’ll get there soon enough. I’ve got everything I want now. It just took a bit longer than I thought it would, that’s all.”

Kelly makes for the door. “Everything you want except a man,” she says cheekily, quickly closing the panelled door behind her whilst I stand agog, wishing I was a bit sharper.

She’s right though. It’s the sad truth that I do wish I had a bit of male company once in a while. I don’t need a man in my life, but it’d be nice to have someone special to share the highs and lows with. There’s been no one serious since Clint, nothing more than a few paltry dates that didn’t lead to anything fulfilling. I’m only forty: surely I’ve not used up my share of romance already?

I sink into one of the wooden chairs, the plump gingham cushion softening my landing, as I reminisce.

Clint Thornhill had been my childhood sweetheart, a wild bad boy with convincing patter. As a teen, I hadn’t noticed his (many) obvious flaws, instead blindly worshipping the ground his bovver boots walked on. I’d fallen hard and deep, smitten by his white-blonde hair and strong features. He’d reminded me of my first major celebrity crush, Matt Goss from Bros. The similarity had set my heart aflutter.

I’d had to pinch myself to believe Clint would be interested in me, but for some reason he’d kept hanging around, turning up at places he knew I’d be. When he finally asked me to the pictures I’d accepted in a flash. We shouldn’t have wasted our money because we hadn’t watched the film: instead we’d snogged for two hours solid in the back row of the local fleapit. My lips had felt like they were burning, a blissful pain searing through my fifteen-year-old self that was full of both danger and excitement.

Two and a half years later we were married, a small register office do on my eighteenth birthday. Seven months after that came the two blue lines on the white plastic stick that had revealed I was expecting Josh, and I’d been so, so happy. Other people my age seemed so unsure, but I’d got it all – a husband, a council flat, a baby on the way. I’d foolishly thought I’d got it sussed.

But it hadn’t taken long for me to realise my mistake in marrying too young, and although I’d never regret Josh and Kelly, I do regret Clint. Mostly I regret the shame he brought on my family, the absolute heartbreak both his mum and mine had suffered when he’d been sent to prison ten years ago. Armed robbery, like one of those bank hold-ups in a cartoon. He’d even been wearing a black balaclava in an attempt to hide his face, just to live up to the stereotype. It was almost laughable. All he needed was a swag bag and a black-and-white-striped jumper to complete the Burglar Bill look.

The balaclava hadn’t worked, anyway. The bank teller he’d threatened had recognised him despite his disguise. In court she’d said that she knew it was Clint who’d pointed that gun at her because she’d recognise his eyes anywhere. Funny how the piercing blue eyes I’d lost myself in so many times were the very thing that eventually tore us apart.

After that things changed. Every time I walked into a shop people would stare, gossiping behind their hands about what an idiot I must be to have ended up saddled with two kids and a criminal for a husband; and his poor mum, you’d think she’d given birth to the devil himself from the way people spoke to her. People judge you on how your kids turn out, and Vivienne’s parenting skills were well and truly under scrutiny after Clint’s escapades. There’s no hiding in a small town like this.

Soon after Clint was locked up, I filed for divorce. Unreasonable behaviour, although I could have easily named adultery as the reason for the breakdown of our marriage. Clint might have made me feel like one in a million at the beginning, but a string of affairs throughout our married life left me with zero confidence. He came back grovelling time and time again, plying me with platitudes about how it was me he loved and how he only ever strayed when drunk, but I’d become a laughing stock, one of ‘those women’. His prison sentence was a chance for me to break free and reclaim my fragile heart, although I’m still recovering from the damage our toxic relationship caused.

If I’m being completely honest, that’s why I threw myself into The Lake House Café with every ounce of my heart and soul. The café had been a welcome distraction from the romance that was sadly missing in my life. It gave me a purpose, along with a ready-made excuse for turning down the occasional offers of dates I did get – always claiming to be too busy for love when really I hadn’t found anyone I was willing to take a chance on. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.

But today’s a Saturday, and Saturdays mean one thing – football coaching in the park. And football coaching means the handsome Italian with the floppy jet-black hair; tall, lean and athletic with rich olive skin and strong, taut thighs. Yes, Saturdays are especially pleasurable. He’s exceptionally easy on the eye.

It hardly matters that I’ve barely said a word to him in all the months he’s been running the kiddies’ football course. I’ve seen him, and that’s enough. My heart flutters more than I care to admit at the thought that he might pop into the café for an Americano and a slice of gingerbread at the end of the session. He doesn’t call in every Saturday, but when he does it brings a spring to my step and a smile to my face. Sadly, it’s the highlight of my week, so I hope today will be one of the days he rewards his hard work with some home baking. Please, please, please…

Pushing back the chair, I catch my reflection in the window. I plump up my dark brown curls to give them more volume and smack my lips forcefully together in the hope it’ll enhance their colour. Ensuring I look my best, just in case.

The jangle of the bells over the door catches my attention and my heart pounds for all the wrong reasons as I see my assistant Fern. Her face is blotchy, her eyes narrow and red. She sobs loudly and I dash towards her, placing my arm around her shoulder.

“Fern! Whatever’s the matter, sweetheart?”

The young woman pulls away, dragging the backs of her index fingers underneath her eyes in a bid to wipe away the tears. It works, but she smears her mascara in the process, leaving prominent dark streaks stretching to the edges of her face. She looks like a bedraggled version of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra .