The Little Teashop of Lost and Found by Ashley, Trisha (24)

24

Edited Out

By Friday the café looked completely chaotic, with not only Jack and his assistant ripping things out, but an electrician gouging holes and channels in the plaster and a plumber consigning the cracked and chipped tiles, toilets and hand basins into the skip we’d managed to squeeze on to the parking area at the back, next to the cars. It was as if the place had been besieged by an army of large and destructive termites.

There was a constant cloud of dust, and grit underfoot, and when Tilda came round, she threw up her hands at the state of it and cleaned my flat instead. But she said she was looking forward to the day when she could give downstairs a good going over again. I didn’t think I’d ever met anyone before who actually enjoyed cleaning.

Even outside the café, things had begun to change, for the sign had been taken away for repainting, the remains of the plant tubs removed and the rotten bits of the Victorian trellis-sided porch replaced.

Aided off and on by Bel and Nile, I’d finished painting the café walls and woodwork, too – and all the horrible tables and chairs had been sold to Nile’s contact and removed in a box van. I only got twenty pounds for the lot, but it looked so much better without them.

Apart from painting the tiny office, there wasn’t much more I could do until the professionals had finished their bit (although I was constantly called down for an opinion, information, or simply to admire some piece of work), so I retired to the flat to list all the things I wanted to ask Senga about next day … and then after that, by way of light relief, I wrote another scene of the new book.

I got to Oldstone in time for dinner as Sheila had suggested, wishing I didn’t have to go to the book launch party next day. I could have done with a restful weekend.

I certainly didn’t get a lot of rest that night, once Sheila and Geeta had tightly bound up my hair in long strips of cotton ripped from an old pillowcase, because the only way to describe how my head felt was knobbly.

I was forbidden to remove the rags until after breakfast next day, too, so I was glad Nile wasn’t coming over until later in the morning.

It was a huge relief when Bel and Sheila finally unwound them and then coaxed my hair into side ringlets, with more cascading at the back from a high topknot. Then they helped me into my dress, which was now a perfect fit.

Sheila had found me a green velvet reticule to go with the outfit, as well as the shawl she’d mentioned, which was a huge and fringed affair made from fine paisley-patterned cashmere.

‘I feel a complete prat,’ I said ungratefully, when they’d finished and we’d adjourned to the kitchen.

‘But you look lovely,’ Teddy said, coming in in search of tea and cake. ‘Doesn’t she, Nile?’ he asked, and it was only then that I saw Nile had followed him in.

I think my jaw probably dropped a mile: imagine Johnny Depp in pirate mode, channelling Heathcliff, add a bit of dark and brooding edge, and you’d get a fair idea of how he looked.

‘She certainly looks exactly like a Pre-Raphaelite muse,’ he said, one eyebrow going up even more piratically.

‘You’re very swashbuckling, darling,’ said Sheila admiringly.

‘Actually, I think these tight breeches have buckled my swash permanently,’ he said gloomily.

‘There’s lots of give in the fabric and they’re supposed to be snug,’ she assured him. ‘Now, don’t forget to put your cloak on, because the wind’s cold out there and that shirt is very thin.’

‘Where did she get the cloak from?’ I asked, as we went out to Nile’s car and the billowing folds of it threatened to envelop me like a heavy cloud.

‘A friend who runs an amateur theatrical group.’

He was silent after that until we arrived at the venue. There were already two or three cars there, but they must have belonged to the family or staff, for there were no guests in the restaurant, which was a former barn in a courtyard, set at right angles to the closed Hikers’ Café.

Inside, the dining area was a long space with a modern décor that still subtly fitted in with its rustic heritage. A middle-aged woman in an overall came through a swinging door with a stack of teaplates, put them down on the nearest table, and went out without a word or even glance at us. There was certainly no sign of Eleri or her Mr Rochester, though there was some interesting crashing and swearing coming from what I presumed to be the kitchen.

‘Are you sure you got the right time?’ asked Nile, just as I was starting to ask myself the same question. But then I spotted Senga, half- hidden by an antique wooden butter churn.

‘There’s my agent over there,’ I whispered, as she waved what looked suspiciously like a gin and tonic at me, though at that time of day it was probably just lemonade. I’d have recognized her instantly anywhere, even though the afternoon tea had been years ago.

The recognition wasn’t entirely mutual, for she got up and looked me over with piercing, light blue eyes. ‘Alice?’ she queried doubtfully, then answered herself: ‘Yes – it has to be, because I remember your hair – we must get some publicity shots of you like that, you look maaarvellous!’ She kissed me on both cheeks.

‘But I don’t usually wear my hair in ringlets …’ I began, then noticed that I’d lost her attention: her eyes were on Nile and had widened appreciatively. She smiled, revealing a lot of teeth like a crocodile about to snap him up.

‘And who is this hunk?’ she said. ‘Heathcliff, I presume?’

‘Nile Giddings, a friend,’ I said, with some emphasis. ‘We both had to find costumes at short notice, so I’m not sure who we’re meant to be.’

‘Whoever it is, you look wonderful,’ she said, and then you could see her business mind flip over. ‘Do sit down, Alice. We need to talk before everyone else arrives.’

‘I’ll go for a walk and leave you to it,’ suggested Nile.

‘No – stay if you want to, because I don’t mind you being here,’ I said. ‘It’s too cold to go walking in that thin shirt.’

He’d discarded the cloak the moment we got in, presumably because it kept getting wrapped around things, like flypaper.

‘There we are then, sit down,’ said Senga, and then, shifting her focus, grilled me at length about the next novel, so it was just as well I’d finally got my ideas together.

‘That sounds fine,’ she said eventually. ‘It needs to be exactly like the first backlist book they’re republishing, only totally different. Crack on and get it finished.’

‘I’ve been a bit distracted, because I’m opening a teashop soon and it’s being renovated.’

‘You haven’t got time to be distracted. Delegate, dear, delegate!’

‘I am, as much as I can,’ I assured her.

‘Yes, I’ve done more painting than she has,’ Nile broke his silence to remark, and I shot him a quelling look.

‘Can I ask you about those edits?’ I said to her. ‘I’ve done my best with them, but there are just a couple of things …’

I’d jotted down the two awkward ones, including the chaos theory one, which she told me to tweak slightly and then leave.

‘And ignore the other one entirely, because you can’t possibly change the sex of one of the main characters. It would totally throw out the motivation in the whole book,’ she said, demonstrating that she’d actually read it. I was writing such different material from Eleri and her other authors that I’d been surprised when she took me on.

‘Won’t my editor mind?’ I asked.

‘Not if she’s got any sense: I’ll back you if they query it again.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said gratefully. ‘They want it back on Monday and there was no way I could rewrite the whole novel by then, even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. I mean, it’s already been published as an e-book and no one had any problem with that aspect of it.’

‘Quite,’ she said, and then, business obviously completed, turned her attention back to Nile. She flirted with him outrageously until Eleri came out of the kitchens looking flushed, pretty and extremely pregnant, in a long, flowing, high-waisted dress.

‘Alice, how wonderful to see you again!’ she said, coming over and kissing me, as Senga had. I remembered all this kissing from London – they’re all at it down there.

‘I’m so pleased you’ve got a publishing contract and are with Senga,’ she said, which was generous of her. I mean, last time we’d met I’d merely attended the tea as her adoring fan, so my suddenly popping back up in author mode had probably been quite a surprise.

‘I can hardly believe it myself,’ I said. ‘But congratulations on your new book … and I see I should congratulate you on your future new arrival, too.’

‘Yes, I’ve a first edition on its way,’ she said, and Senga, predictably, remarked that she hoped she’d finish her new book before its arrival. She was clearly a slave driver.

Eleri called Henry, her husband, out to meet us – and he cut a dark and romantic figure in riding clothes similar to Nile’s outfit and with much the same gloomy expression. He was thicker-set than Nile and rugged rather than handsome.

‘Good to meet you,’ he said, shaking hands and allowing a brief and very attractive smile to make an appearance.

He shook hands with Nile, too, and the two of them seemed to recognize in each other kindred spirits. ‘See they’ve got you to wear fancy dress, as well,’ Henry said.

‘I can’t wait to get out of it,’ Nile agreed, and Senga looked as if she’d like to help him … or even both of them.

There was the faint sound of car doors slamming, footsteps scrunching on the gravel and excited voices.

‘Here come the guests,’ Eleri said.

‘You go and sit down, darling, ready to sign books,’ her husband suggested. ‘I’ll welcome them in and then give Martha a hand to bring out the refreshments.’

Eleri obeyed orders, heading for a table laden with copies of her new book – I think she was glad to sit down. But before she went, she invited me to come and have tea with her one day before the baby arrived.

‘We’ll have time for a proper talk then,’ she said, and I told her I’d love to.

The room quickly filled up and began to buzz like a shaken hive of hornets, and the book launch went with a swing. There was a brief speech from Senga, the reading of the first chapter of the new novel by Eleri, and then a scrummy buffet tea of sandwiches, cakes and savouries that were along the lines of the food I intended serving in the teashop, only mine would be daintier. There was a toast in champagne, too, one of my many weaknesses, so I was glad Nile was driving.

Goody bags were distributed to everyone, containing fans, heart-shaped chocolates and a postcard bearing the facsimile of the Brontë sisters’ portrait painted by Branwell.

Everyone mingled over tea and I talked to people from all over the world: Eleri had millions of fans, and the Brontës, of course, even more. In fact, I’d just met someone involved with the Brontë Parsonage Museum and was telling them about my plan to open a premier tearoom in Haworth, when Henry happened to overhear and said he hoped I wasn’t stealing his ideas, so I could set myself up to be competition!

But then I decided he must be joking, in a straight-faced way, and Nile, who was standing next to me, said a teashop in Haworth was too far away to be competition anyway. Then he added that he’d heard how wonderful Henry’s restaurant was and he must bring me to try it one evening.

‘We’re open all year in the evenings – and so is the café now, every afternoon between two and five,’ Henry said. ‘Since Eleri found that diary mentioning Charlotte Brontë and we put it on display, we get a lot more visitors out of season.’ He indicated an illuminated glass display box on the back wall. ‘There’s a facsimile in the tearoom, but this one’s the real thing.’

I left him talking to Nile and went to look at the journal, where I met two American sisters bent on the same errand. They’d both come as Cathy and had been at the initial tea party the year before.

‘It was a smaller party in the café, and things got very exciting when it was breaking up, because there was a tractor accident right outside and Henry was a real, genuine hero,’ said one of them. ‘He was so brave, wasn’t he, Eleri?’ she said, appealing to her as she finally abandoned her book-depleted station and began to circulate among the guests. ‘And you were too.’

‘Oh, I didn’t do anything much,’ Eleri said modestly. ‘My husband’s cousin George managed to roll his tractor into the ditch while trying to turn it,’ Eleri explained to me. ‘Henry got right under it to help him until the emergency services arrived.’

‘Yes, I’m a genuine hero,’ Henry said sardonically, putting his arm round his wife.

‘Not that George is at all grateful – or he was, but it wore off quickly,’ Eleri said ruefully. ‘He’s such a grumpy, mean kind of man.’

‘Not a bit like his father,’ agreed Henry. ‘You couldn’t find a kinder man than Joe Godet.’

My ears pricked up: could it be that easy to find one of the two people I wanted to talk to?

‘Does he live nearby?’ I asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes – Withen Bottom Farm, just over the hill,’ he said, his face going all shuttered, so despite the rescue there was clearly no love lost between them.

I didn’t like to ask any more, but my head was buzzing as Nile drove us back home, what with all the fascinating conversations, Senga’s pep talk and instructions, and meeting Eleri again – not to mention knowing where to find one of the two people I desperately wanted to talk to.

I said as much to Nile and then thanked him for going with me. ‘I know you didn’t want to, really.’

‘Actually, I quite enjoyed myself, and I liked Henry Godet,’ he said. ‘I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for more antique farm tools for him to display in the restaurant.’

‘I’m glad you had a good time,’ I said, surprised. ‘I expect you’ll be glad to get out of those clothes, though.’

‘I’ve certainly had enough of the boots, and they’re not the easiest footwear to drive in,’ he agreed, and removed them at the first opportunity when we got back, utilizing a cast-iron boot jack by the front porch and going in in his stockinged feet.

The house seemed strangely deserted, though it was warm and there was the smell of something spicy baking in the oven.

‘It’s like the Mary Celeste,’ he commented.

‘Yes … but I need to find someone to unhook this dress,’ I said, because there was no way I could undo the million tiny hooks and eyes down the back of it on my own.

‘I think you’re out of luck, unless you’d like me to unhook you?’ he offered, with a slightly wicked glint in his grey eyes.

I dithered for a moment, but I was desperate to get back into my jeans and a sloppy sweatshirt. ‘Oh, all right,’ I agreed.

I turned round and he began at the top and worked his way slowly down. At one point his fingers accidentally brushed my skin and when I shivered he paused for a moment, then resumed, more quickly.

‘There you are,’ he said finally, and then I swear I felt his warm lips briefly brush the nape of my neck.

But perhaps I only imagined that. Because when I whirled round and stared at him, he was over by the stove, putting the kettle on.

He looked up, frowning, as if surprised to find me still there. ‘What are you waiting for? First one back downstairs looking as if they belong in the present century gets to make the coffee.’