Of course, I knew Meg didn’t mean ‘risky’ in the sense that someone might die from drinking an earthy coffee from Peru, and she immediately qualified her words with, ‘But I’m sure they will be once they’ve been to your taster session.’

Then, when Tilly added, ‘I must admit I like my tea like my men – strong, hot and sweet,’ a panicky feeling built in my stomach, and I quickly invented a call I had to make, implying it was future-work related.

‘I’ve got to get to work too,’ said Meg, while Tilly pulled some sturdy-soled shoes from a neat little backpack ready for her coastal walk. I’d noticed a group of people in walking gear starting to gather outside the picket fence.

‘You’ve done a great job with this place,’ I said to her, realising there were a lot of topics we still hadn’t covered.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled up at me as she teased her sneakers off. ‘I enjoyed it.’

‘Hey, you know where to find us, so don’t be a stranger,’ Meg said as we stood, engulfing me in a sweetly perfumed hug. ‘I love your purple hair, by the way.’

‘It’s Plumberry,’ I said, into her shoulder.

‘Great to see you again, Maitland, you’ve done Legal Mystics proud.’ When Tilly gave me a funny boy-scout salute, I wished I’d told them about losing my job and why I was really back home. I hovered for a second, wondering if there was still time, then imagined their expressions hardening into disappointment and knew I couldn’t do it. I could tell that Meg, at least, liked knowing someone whose life she thought was vastly different from her own – someone who’d ‘mingled’ with music stars. And, anyway, I reminded myself, tweaking the sleeves of my blouse, that life could be mine again – just on a smaller scale this time, and without Kanye West being involved.

Brushing on a smile, I ‘ironically’ air-kissed their cheeks before backing away, causing them much hilarity when I bashed into the same table the American had been sitting at earlier, and sent a teacup flying.

At least it hadn’t broken, I reflected, driving home, which took longer and was more tiring than it should have been, thanks to Sir Lancelot’s prehistoric steering system, which made me feel as if I’d been lifting weights for an hour.

Once indoors, I made some coffee and opened my laptop, trying to get into a working frame of mind. I had a quick look on TripAdvisor, amazed and proud to see how many positive reviews there were for the café, all praising the warm, friendly service, fantastic views of the cove, and the ‘scrummiest cakes in Devon’. There was also an astonishing amount of love for Gwen.

If her grandma had been related to the Kray Twins, maybe.

Baffling.

Remembering I’d promised to find some artwork to hang on the walls of the café, I typed in ‘local artists South Devon’ and spent an enjoyable half-hour browsing websites, but nothing appealed. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for exactly, but I knew abstract squares in primary colours, and black-and-white close-ups of eyeballs wasn’t it.

On impulse, I ran upstairs to drag my sketch pads out of my rucksack and shuffled through the pictures I’d drawn at the flat, whenever I’d had a spare moment. Some were of whatever my gaze had happened to land on – a lamp in the shape of an owl, and a box of half-eaten pizza – and some were views from my window (buses featured a lot). Most, though, were of trees in the nearby park, some with branches twisting up like witches’ fingers to the sky, others heavy with blossom, or intricately laden with leaves. I’d always liked trees – something about the solidity of them, and how vital but timeless they were. Miss Finch, my art teacher, had been unimpressed by what she called my ‘nature’ paintings. She’d pushed me to experiment, but I’d been happiest creating recognisable scenes and people, as well as the occasional caricature.

In a rush of nostalgia, I opened the bottom drawer of my dressing table and glimpsed the paints and brushes still tucked away inside. The sight of them made my fingertips tingle and I picked up one of the brushes and stroked its soft bristles. I hadn’t painted for years; I hadn’t progressed beyond A level and had probably forgotten how. Sketching was easier, requiring only a set of pencils, and had proved to be a fun way to pass what little free time I’d had outside of work.

I slammed the drawer shut and went back down to my laptop. After sourcing a number for an artist called Connor Daley, who painted childlike seascapes he described as having ‘a lot of depth and emotion’, I gave him a call.

He barked out a tetchy ‘Hello?’ that made me blink. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, hello, my name’s Cassie Maitland, and I’d like to ask if you’d be interested in exhibiting your work.’ I was pleased by how well I’d slipped into ‘professional’ mode, even though talking to strangers on the phone still made my palms go clammy.

‘You’d like to ask me, or you’re going to ask me?’

I clicked on an image of his face. He looked to be in his forties, and about as friendly as he sounded. His angry blue gaze sliced through the screen, as if he’d been snapped in the middle of a terrible argument.

‘I’m asking you,’ I said, keeping my voice upbeat, mindful of the time Carlotta had caught me holding the phone away from my ear as a client held forth about why she needed to change her wedding venue less than a week before the big day.

‘Why not just say that, then?’

I mentally counted to five. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Mr Daley, but I’m looking for local artists to display their work in my parents’ café, and after looking at your website, I think that your—’

‘Café?’ he spat. ‘You want me to put my work in a café?’

Anyone would think I’d suggested displaying his paintings in a public toilet. Weren’t artists supposed to be grateful when people offered to exhibit their work?

‘It’s a very nice café,’ I persisted, standing up and moving across the room, surprised by the sight of my grumpy face in the mirror above the fireplace. I was certain I’d been smiling, but my mouth was turned down at the corners and there was a crevice between my eyebrows. I gave myself a hard, instructive stare and hurried back to my laptop. ‘I promise you the café’s very popular, so lots of potential customers,’ I said, in a sweet, syrupy voice. ‘We stopped the cock-fighting ages ago.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘It was a joke,’ I said. ‘Meaning, we’re really quite enlightened in this part of the world.’

His response was a grunting sound of disgust and I wondered whether he’d adopted the clichéd persona of a tortured artist, or was just a horrible person. ‘Where is this café?’ He might as well have said ‘prison’ or ‘bear pit’.

‘Seashell Cove near Salcombe.’ It was quite a tongue-twister, but I managed not to mess it up.

‘Seashell Cove?’ He couldn’t have sounded more scathing if I’d told him it was in North Korea. ‘Why would I want to exhibit my work in a place no one’s ever heard of?’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ A smouldering flame of anger wiped away my smile. ‘Plenty of people have heard of it. Look on TripAdvisor, if you don’t believe me. The café’s called Maitland’s and there was an American there this morning.’ Well done, Cassie. Very mature.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve got better things to do with my time, Miss Maitland.’

‘It’s Ms, actually.’

‘Of course it is.’

I stuck two fingers up at the screen. ‘I take it that’s a no, then?’

‘Look, I sell most of my work through my website, and as I’m currently working on a new collection for an exhibition in Plymouth next month, I’ll be declining your little offer.’ He spoke with such venom that something inside me snapped.

‘Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ I said, coolly. ‘Good luck with your collection.’

I ended the call, then said grumpily, ‘Actually, Mr Daly, you sound like a total knob and your paintings are shit. A five-year-old could do better. And you’ve got a face like a scrotum.’ I leant over to rid my screen of his glowering mugshot. ‘I hope you don’t sell a single crappy painting ever again.’

‘I’m still here,’ said a growly voice, and I dropped my phone in fright. Instead of ending the call, I’d accidentally put it on speaker.

‘I know you are,’ I lied. ‘I’m trying to teach you a lesson. To be… nicer.’

He gave a nasty laugh. ‘Good try,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever get a job in public relations.’ He rang off, leaving me scrabbling for a response.

Shit. He knew my name, my number, and the name of the café. What was to stop him putting a horrible review on TripAdvisor? Then I remembered – he had ‘better things to do’.

Shaken that my first attempt had gone so badly, I drank my coffee and wondered whether it was worth calling back to apologise (‘The customer is always right,’ Carlotta had drummed into me from Day One), but decided not to waste my energy. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of artists to choose from.

I clicked on the website of a big-eyed, smiley woman, who painted delicate watercolours with simple titles like Shoreline, but she didn’t answer her phone.

‘Third time lucky,’ I murmured, scrolling through the Devon Artists’ web page and landing on a selection of vivid oil paintings by a youngish woman, with a cloud of black hair, called Vicky Burton. Her paintings mostly depicted the sky in varying states, and I particularly liked one with the sun’s rays beaming down to the sea from behind a storm cloud.

‘Ooh, I’d love you to display my work,’ she said, with a slight lisp.

‘That’s brilliant.’ I tried not to sound too grateful as I victory-pumped my arm. ‘How soon could you get some paintings here?’

We arranged for her to be at the café the following afternoon, and after a few pleasantries – she was juggling her painting with a job as a nanny, while waiting for her ‘big break’ – and a brief discussion about commission, I rang off (double-checking I really had ended the call).

I added ‘Source some artwork for the café’ to the list I’d started that morning, just so I could tick it off. It was still a very small list. I tapped my teeth with my pencil, then sketched a man playing the saxophone. I realised he looked like Danny Fleetwood, and added dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat to disguise his face.

Music. I liked the idea of something light, maybe jazzy, to accompany the tea-and coffee-tasting session. We could always pipe it through from an MP3 player, but live music would add a touch of atmosphere. The trouble was, it would be short notice to secure a band or musician, providing I could find either, and I didn’t fancy trying my luck online again. Maybe Rob would be interested in reviving his career for a couple of hours.

‘No, dear Sandra, I most definitely would not,’ he said, replying to my text with a call. ‘I’ve told you, I’m not doing that any more.’

‘But it’s only for a night, not even that, just an hour,’ I wheedled. ‘Pleeeease, Robbie Robot.’

But he wouldn’t be swayed, even by his childhood nickname.

‘You’re the expert at this eventing lark,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll come up with the goods.’

‘Eventing’s to do with horses,’ I replied sulkily. ‘Where are you, anyway?’

‘Having a late lunch,’ he said. ‘A meatball Subway, to be precise.’

‘Not exactly brain food.’

‘I’m brainy enough already,’ he said. ‘Plus, I’m having a break from healthy eating. I had to be fit for all that touring, and I’ve had my fill of protein bars and kale.’

‘What about the alcohol?’

‘I’m talking before all that kicked in.’

‘You’ll go back to it though, won’t you? The touring, I mean, not the drinking.’ I cleared my throat to get rid of the stern note that had crept into my voice. ‘If Boss… if Emma loves you, she’ll understand about you being away a lot, and that girls tend to throw themselves at boys in bands, and it doesn’t mean that you’re going to sleep with them all.’

There was a pause so long at the other end, I’d have thought Rob had hung up if I hadn’t heard a car horn hooting in the background. ‘I won’t be going back,’ he said, finally. ‘Sorry, sis, but you’re going to have to get used to being the shining star in the Maitland family.’

Yuck. Shiny I wasn’t, and unlikely ever to be a star. ‘So, you’re not going to help me?’ I said, to break another awkward little silence.

He huffed out a sigh. ‘Look, I’ll ask around, if you’re sure there isn’t anyone on your contacts list you could ask.’

‘Not at such short notice,’ I said, laughing internally at the thought of me having my own ‘contacts list’. ‘Thanks, Rob, I owe you one.’

He paused. ‘Is everything’s OK, Sand?’ Tears fizzed up my nose at the unexpected tenderness in his voice. ‘You can talk to me, you know.’

‘’Course I’m OK,’ I said, glad he couldn’t see the way my mouth had wobbled around the words. ‘At least, I will be when you’ve found me a musician for Tuesday night.’