‘They smell so good,’ I said to Meg, peering into the tin. ‘What’s in them?’

‘Ginger and lemon.’ She playfully smacked my hand away as I reached for one of the delicious-looking muffins. ‘These are for customers,’ she said. ‘I’ve held a few back if you’d like one.’

‘Maybe later.’

I peered through the door into the café. My stomach was a cauldron of nerves, and I’d developed a new itchy patch above my right wrist that I was trying not to scratch. It had always happened right before an event, but I’d thought this evening would be easier. It wasn’t as if I’d invited 400 guests, or had Carlotta hissing last-minute orders into my earpiece, and no one’s night was going to be ruined if the lighting wasn’t perfect, but I needed to pull it off.

Your future is directed by what you do today. Another of Nina’s quotes. I couldn’t seem to get them out of my head. Don’t wish for it, work for it. At least she’d been true to her word and returned my jeans. They’d arrived that morning while I was updating the café’s Facebook page:

I copied it onto Instagram with multiple tea- and coffee- and Maitland’s related hashtags.

I’d been careful not to specify what kind of music, as Rob had informed me over breakfast that he was still ‘firming up’ an act called Rodney’s Dad.

‘What do you mean, “firming up”?’

‘He usually visits his granddad on Tuesdays. He’s in a care home. His granddad, not Fletcher.’

‘Fletcher?’

‘Nick’s mate, the one I told you about.’

‘I thought you just said he was called Rodney?’

Rob had looked at me as though I was being deliberately obtuse. ‘Rodney’s Dad’s his stage name, Sandra.’

‘Well, it’s a stupid name.’

‘No, it’s not, it’s meaningful.’

His class didn’t start until ten, and I thought how unfair it was that he looked so fresh when he hadn’t come home until gone midnight, waking the rest of us by clicking on lights and singing a chorus of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. Not drunk, he’d informed us, when we’d staggered onto the landing to see what was happening. Just happy that Emma had agreed to consider giving their relationship another go, once he’d finished his course and started his new job. He’d had an aura about him that had made me want to simultaneously throttle and hug him.

‘The name’s for his granddad,’ he’d said at breakfast, when I’d continued to look blank.

‘How do you work that out?’

‘His dad’s called Rodney, which means Rodney’s dad is Fletcher’s granddad.’ Rob had picked up one of my new coloured pencils and torn a page from my sketch pad to scribble a crude family tree, complete with arrows and smiley faces. ‘Do you understand now?’

I’d leaned over and dislodged his glasses, which he hated. ‘Why not just use his granddad’s name?’

‘Because no one would take him seriously if he called himself Nobby.’

We’d cracked up then, and for a moment the upcoming event had faded into the background, and I’d wished we could stay in the kitchen messing about.

Now, smoothing my hands down the snug-fitting jeans I’d been reunited with – maybe they’d become my lucky jeans – I wondered whether Rodney’s Dad was going to make it. Time was getting on, and I assumed he’d need to prepare.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed with a message.

Fletch on his way, sis X

Brilliant! I owe you I replied, feeling my shoulder blades loosen slightly. You coming?

Wouldn’t miss it for the world!!

I didn’t like the sound of that, but there wasn’t time to ponder it.

‘Anything else I need to do?’ Mum’s smiling face appeared. After closing the café at six as usual, I’d persuaded her to change out of her work clothes, in favour of a flared, black skirt and scoop-necked top, which I’d brought to the café with a pair of kitten heels and some tights, but it was obvious she didn’t feel comfortable. She kept tugging her skirt down as though it was showing her thighs, instead of her neatly shaped calves, and she was convinced her top was hugging her ‘spare tyre’.

‘You look lovely, Lydia,’ Meg had said, when Mum came out of the Ladies, looking self-conscious as she fiddled with her waistband and pretended to stumble in her shoes. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear make-up at work.’

Mum’s pink lipstick had worn off already, and the hairspray I’d brought hadn’t had the desired effect of fixing her curls in place. Instead, they’d gone limp, so she looked as if she’d been caught in the drizzle still falling outside.

‘You’ve labelled the teapots and checked you’ve got enough strainers?’ I said. ‘We don’t want the cups full of leaves.’

Mum nodded. ‘Yes, and I made myself some strawberry crush, and it was delicious.’

‘That’s good,’ I said, pleased she was on board, but sorry she seemed ill at ease in spite of her rigid smile. Great things never came from comfort zones. ‘You’ll be able to recommend it,’ I said. ‘Is Dad OK with the coffees?’

I peered past her to see him polishing the coffee machine with the same sort of zeal that Sid Turner buffed his car. He’d changed, too, into grey suit trousers and a lilac shirt with the top button undone. He’d sworn off wearing ties after leaving his banking job, except at weddings and funerals.

‘He’s fine,’ Mum said, pointing to a row of white cups lined up on the counter, which I’d instructed him to fill with the different flavours of coffee beans. ‘They’re all labelled too.’ She scrunched her face into an expression of excitement that didn’t quite convince. ‘I must say, the Peruvian coffee sounds… exciting.’

‘And you’ve both had a look at the packets, so if anyone asks you can say where the teas and coffees are from and answer any questions?’

‘We did our best, love, but it’s been quite busy today.’

‘Well, I’ve done some reading up, too, so I can help,’ I said. The planner wasn’t supposed to get involved in the event, just blend into the background and oversee its smooth running, but I really needed to prove myself – to show my parents I could make the café even more successful – and hopefully impress any potential future clients.

I rubbed the skin on my wrist as I tried to remember whether I’d forgotten anything.

‘What’s that?’ Mum took hold of my hand and looked at the rash.

‘I must be allergic to your washing powder,’ I said, pulling the cuff of my blouse over the offending patch. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’s fine.’

‘There’s some antihistamine cream in the first-aid box, I’ll go and get it,’ she said, seeming relieved to have an excuse to leave the café. She started to take tiny steps towards the office, as though genuinely worried about falling off her heels.

‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’ Meg said, joining me in the doorway. I was grateful she’d offered to stay and help, especially as she’d been on her feet all day and was probably keen to get home. ‘It’s funny, really, when you didn’t used to like organised dos.’

I turned to her in surprise, hit once more by a wave of pleasure at seeing her again. ‘Didn’t I?’

She dimpled into a smile and nudged me with her shoulder. ‘You refused to come to my sixteenth birthday because it was fancy dress, remember? And when your mum wanted to arrange something for yours, you said you’d rather hang out with Tilly and me. We went to see The Others at the cinema in Dartmouth, and Tilly didn’t realise it was spooky and kept her eyes shut.’

‘Oh god, yeah, I’d forgotten about that,’ I said, momentarily distracted from the sight of Dad rubbing the window with his tea towel. ‘But we’re grown up now, and bound to be different to how we were back then.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Meg slipped her arm through mine in an easy gesture. She smelt faintly of vanilla essence with a hint of something fruity, and I leant against her and discreetly breathed it in. ‘Obviously you are, but I don’t think Tilly or I have really changed that much.’

‘I’m glad you haven’t,’ I said, feeling peeved in a way I didn’t understand. ‘Is Tilly still coming this evening?’

‘As far as I know. She’s dying to see you again.’

Warmed by the genuine feeling in her voice, I said, ‘Shall we get your muffins out?’

Sniggering childishly, we arranged them on cake stands, alongside the Bakewell tart, its icing as shiny as a tile, and a farmhouse-style fruit loaf scented with cinnamon. After checking that every table had one of my tasting menus on it, I began to rearrange them, moving them closer together to create a more intimate space.

‘Cassie, don’t do that,’ scolded Dad, alerted by the sound of wood scraping across the floorboards. His smile looked more like a grimace. ‘We had it just how we liked it.’

‘But this is cosier,’ I said.

‘It’ll be cramped when everyone’s sitting down.’

‘I’m creating a harmonious zone.’

Dad subsided with a shrug. ‘OK, love, you’re the boss,’ he said, turning back to look outside, where the lowering sky was making it look later than it was.

I took a last look around the café, my gaze snagging on the bare walls. Some lucky artist could have made a killing tonight, but it was too late now. Vicky Burton’s paintings would probably have broken some indecency laws, and I couldn’t risk my reputation – never mind the café’s.

Mum bustled through with a tube of cream and I let her rub it on my rash, thinking perhaps I did have an allergy and the ointment would magic it away. ‘You definitely told people about tonight?’ I said, glancing at the door. The time was ticking down to seven o’clock and I’d expected to see people queueing outside, but apart from an elderly man with a stiff-legged dog there was no one around.

‘Of course I did.’ She slipped the tube of cream in her pocket and moved round to the sink to wash her hands. ‘I just think…’

‘What?’

‘It’s a bit of a funny time, that’s all. People will be having dinner and settling down for the evening.’

I stared at her back. ‘I suggested holding it later, but you wanted to be home by ten.’

‘So, it’s my fault if no one turns up?’ Mum’s voice had gone a bit high-pitched and Meg shot a look at me that said, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Of course it’s not your fault, I’m just saying…’ I said, then almost left my skin when Dad yelled, ‘Someone’s here!’ like a castaway spotting a rescue boat on the ocean.

‘Thank Christ for that.’ I smoothed a hand over my ponytail before picking up my checklist. ‘Leave the door open, Dad,’ I instructed, straightening my shoulders to give the impression I was in charge, and he pushed it wide and stepped outside to greet the first customer.

‘Welcome to our taster night,’ he said in a jolly voice, a tea towel folded over his arm like a waiter. Mum sprang forward and placed her hands on the counter, an over-the-top smile on her face, and something inside me shrivelled at the sight of my parents trying to play roles that normally came so naturally to them.

They’ll settle into it, I told myself. It was only because they were outside their normal routine.

‘No need for a welcome committee, it’s only me,’ said Rob, slapping Dad on the back as he strode in.

Mum’s high-wattage smile dimmed to a normal level. ‘Is Emma coming?’ she asked, as though they were best friends now.

Rob shook his head. ‘Just this dude.’ He swept his arm in an arc, as the friend I assumed was Fletcher came loping in, a guitar slung across his lanky body. Everything about him seemed droopy, from his middle-parted hair and moustache, to his sloping shoulders and the flappy beige trousers that looked like they might have once belonged to his granddad.

‘Helloooo,’ he said, swinging round in a circle, arms outstretched, as if greeting a horde of people. Confusion crossed his face. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘On their way,’ I said, hoping it was true. ‘He’s the musician,’ I explained on seeing Mum and Dad’s muddled faces, and remembering that I hadn’t mentioned Fletcher in case he didn’t turn up. ‘I thought some live music would be nice for ambience.’

‘If you’d said, I could have asked my friend Jim to bring his saxophone in,’ Dad said. ‘He’d have done it as a favour.’

‘Oh.’ (Failure to communicate with your client is a sure-fire way to disaster.) ‘Well, I think Fletcher’s doing it as a favour…’ my words trailed off as I saw him shaking his shaggy head, as mournful as a bloodhound.

‘S’not possible, sorry, no way,’ he said. ‘I’ve got fees to pay. Granddad’s care home don’t come cheap, mate.’

He grabbed his guitar and bashed out some tuneless chords that brought Mum’s hands crashing to her ears. ‘Talent like this don’t come cheap either.’ He dropped onto the nearest chair, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and, as he began to giggle helplessly, I realised that Rodney’s Dad was high as a kite.