Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop: An absolutely perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy. Rebecca RaisinЧитать онлайн книгу.
well, I’m lost quite a lot of the time,’ I say, swallowing back panic. ‘So finding myself will be a real bonus.’
He waxes lyrical about hidden storage, and petrol mileage, permits, parking and a bunch of other stuff, I stop listening, as I find it hard to catch my breath. Five thousand five hundred pounds! That’s almost the entirety of my savings. I’ll have to repay my credit card. I’ll have to sell this on. I’ll have to …
‘The trailer hitches on very simply, and inside that are all your tables and chairs, and even a little fire grate for those cold days, customers just love milling about that, warm cocoa in hand.’
‘Customers?’
He gives me that same look as if he’s worried I’m unhinged which I clearly am. ‘Yes, your pop-up tea shop customers, remember?’
‘Erm …’
‘You want to go back to making comfort food, big portions made with love, not a micro herb in sight. Served up with steaming pots of gourmet hand-blended tea. Cream tea Sundays. You are Rosie, aren’t you?’ Uneasiness lines his face.
‘Yes, yes, I’m Rosie. And yes, my very own pop-up tea shop, of course I remember. I haven’t had any tea yet myself you see, that’s all.’ My calming blend would go down a treat right about now, there’s not much that marshmallow leaves, camomile, and mint can’t fix. Well, except making big life decisions while under the influence of Shiraz. I haven’t blended a tea to fix that just yet.
I glance once more at the van and a murky idea takes shape. A pop-up tea van could work. Hadn’t I wanted to go back to my roots, cooking big batches of cookies, apple crumbles, and layer cakes laced with rum? Scones with lashings of home-made jam and thick luscious cream. Rib-stickers, nourishing food that warmed you from the inside out like big bowls of hearty stew, and rich rustic soups. Or cinnamon rice porridge, dishes that filled your belly and kept you warm on those cold wintry nights.
Coupled with my hand-blended exotic teas, maybe inebriated me had a plan and I just had to remember it. Rosie’s travelling tea shop …
‘So …’ The man takes some paperwork from his bag. ‘We just need to fill these out and Poppy is all yours.’
‘The van’s name is Poppy?’ I think of the pink cushion, proudly sitting on the bed, like it should mean something to me, but what? Why?
He laughs and his cheeks pink. ‘My wife chose it. We ran Poppy round for some time before she was taken ill.’
‘I hope she’s feeling better.’ As soon as I say the words I understand, but it’s too late to snatch them back.
He thrusts his hands in his pockets and his eyes cloud. ‘Sadly she passed, but you know, Rosie, she was an eccentric like you …’
An eccentric? I’d been called worse.
‘… and I think she’d be very happy that Poppy is going to be in such …’ He blushes and mumbles something incoherent before recovering and saying, ‘in such good hands.’
I forgive him for stumbling on the words. I’d be a little dubious handing over Poppy to me too, with all those memories attached from the trips they must have undertaken together.
The poor man, you can see the loss in the lines of his face once you know. ‘I’m incredibly sorry to hear about your wife. I promise I’ll take good care of Poppy.’ Curiously, I feel a bond with this elderly fellow. With Poppy. As if his wife left me clues to say: follow your heart!
‘We’re going to have a lot of adventures.’ As I drive straight into a town called Losing-My-Damn-Mind – Population: One.
His face softens, and he swipes at his glassy eyes. ‘Rosie, take it from me – life is so fleeting. Being on the road is full of challenges but nothing comes close to the simple joy you’ll find in some remote corner of the globe. Keep safe, and keep your mind open to possibilities …’
My spine tingles with recognition and a slow smile settles across my face. Who says I’m not spontaneous? Poppy and I are going to embark on an epic journey, one long overdue … But how to afford it? And where to go?
A couple of weeks later, after a dizzyingly long shift at Époque I realise leaving really is the best course of action, no matter how much it scares me. Work has been a nightmare with the rumours, gossip and constant whispering behind hands and I want out.
But first I need to formulate a plan. I have Poppy and now I just need figure out what to do with her. Back in the flat, after a healthy and nutritious meal of a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, I fire up the laptop and do a bit of investigating.
OK, I go straight to Khloe Parker’s Facebook page, and see she’s updated the masses already: Khloe Parker is in a relationship. She’s tagged Callum in the post and collectively, they’ve had seventy-two comments. I can’t help myself and I click them open, hoping they’re not all congratulations.
Does anyone remember he is in fact married? Even though it’s like a stab to the heart, I read each comment, from the inane ‘wow’ to the more heartbreaking, ‘Congrats guys, glad it’s finally out in the open!’
In the gloomy evening, in the quiet of night, I realise I was the last to know, and the thought pains me so much I can barely swallow my tears. Our mutual acquaintances had known and no one bothered to tell me. Instead they’ve sent the happy couple their best wishes … What kind of life have I been living here?
I click over to Callum’s page, and find photos of the pair, selfies taken up close, their bright eyes and wide smiles taking up the frame. I quickly close Facebook down, and resolve never to check their pages again. Not my best idea, was it? It makes me feel lower than low, as if I don’t matter to anyone.
Is it just because I’m leaving and will have no relevance anymore, because I won’t be Rosie Lewis, Michelin-starred sous-chef …? Or more truthfully is it because I was always on the periphery anyway, never quite fitting in and not knowing how to do anything well, except cook. With my legs well and truly kicked from under me, I forge ahead, trying to push it from my mind.
Mindlessly I scroll the internet, looking for something to distract me. Funny cat videos work until I picture my future with a furry companion and a very healthy herb garden, and quickly move on. Hours later I stumble on a website that catches my eye.
Van Lifers: Living the dream on the open road
As I click through the site, marvelling at the exotic pictures of these strangers’ travels, I find a forum, and request to join. I plan to lurk and read their live conversations, but as soon as I’m approved, a message pops up from another member, so I don’t have the chance.
Hello there Rosie! I’m Charlotte, one of the moderators. If you have any questions, do let me know.
Golly, I thought I’d sneak in and read their posts before actually having to chat to anyone!
Thanks, Charlotte. I’m just going to have a peruse.
She sends me a thumbs-up emoji and I shut the chat window down and spend the next little while trying to make sense of all the different threads, and the plethora of advice from nomads.
Dare I try to live such an unstructured life?
Just the thought of it almost makes me break out in hives. Every day would be different, and I’d have to learn to let go of my obsession with planning every minute, and factoring in variables. Could I do such an audacious thing?
I shut the computer with a bang. Doubtful. But their profile pictures stick in my mind, some with islands and cerulean water in the background, others with rugged mountains, forests, or verdant