The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square: A gorgeous summer romance and one of the top holiday reads for women!. Michele GormanЧитать онлайн книгу.
office contracts, with a few houses whose owners she liked enough to keep as clients over the years.
Just in case Daniel wants some fish too, I ring his mobile but it goes straight through to voicemail. He’s probably in the Underground on his way home. I know Kelly. She’ll have a portion for him when he gets here.
My best friend comes through the door, as usual, with about as much grace as a tipper truck. Kelly’s not a big woman. She just makes big entrances. That sometimes tricks people into assuming she’s tough, so they’re not always as considerate as they could be. A perfect example is when her family decided she should be the one to take over the fish van instead of her sisters. They just assumed she’d do it, like a sixteen-year-old would naturally want to give up any chance of living a life that’s wider than her local market.
‘I figured you needed this after dealing with the little bleeders all day,’ she says, clearing one of the booths to make room for our meal.
Kell takes a different view than me of the hoodies who hang around the market where she works. I can understand why, when she sometimes gets caught up in their skirmishes. She’d like to fillet them and I’m trying to save them.
‘I’ve hired one of the little bleeders,’ I tell her. ‘You should see him, Kell, he’s adorable. He wants to be a CEO.’
‘Just watch the till. Rose, I got you extra chips.’
‘That’s kind, but I really shouldn’t,’ Auntie Rose says, looking up from where her hand is already elbow-deep in the carrier bag. ‘I’m watching me girlish figure.’
Auntie Rose pats her hip with her free hand as she chews on a chip. She’s a generously proportioned lady, in stark contrast to her sister, my Gran, who was always skinny like Mum. She’s got the same smiling eyes and sharp mind, though. Except when she wanders.
That’s why our doors are all locked from the inside and why we can’t leave her alone anymore. For years, she’s had little strokes that make her mind skip sometimes, which was okay when she stayed in the neighbourhood. But we had to take drastic measures after she turned up on the A12 with no idea how to get back home.
She’s pretty relaxed about being incarcerated. She and Dad do everything together these days and she’s as much a help to him as he is a minder for her. At least Mum doesn’t have to worry about either of them when she’s at work.
By the time we lock up the pub we’re full of fish, salt and vinegar. Daniel’s portion is soaking through the bag under the sleeping twins’ pushchair. His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.
‘Are you worried about him?’ Kell asks, walking beside me.
‘No, not worried,’ I say, rubbing the phone in my pocket. ‘More like disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, Kell. I don’t begrudge him having a night out. Lord knows, I wish I could do it any time I wanted too. It’s just that, I feel like–’
‘He’s having his cake and eating it, the bastard,’ she finishes for me. ‘I’d be pissed off too.’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Kell. I didn’t say pissed off. I said disappointed.’
‘Really? Not pissed off when he gets to have these gorgeous children, the perfect family, plus you to look after it all while he goes out on the lash whenever he feels like it. Why does he get to be the only one? Shouldn’t you get to do it too? I say hand the twins over to Daniel for a few hours and let him be the one to sit at home covered in sick, being jealous of you while you dance on the tables.’
‘Kell, when have I ever in my life danced on a table?’ She is right, though. He should be the responsible parent for once. At least for a few hours. ‘You know what? I will.’
‘Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We’ll go out.’
‘I can’t tomorrow. I’m not sure what Daniel has on after work.’
‘You mean like he didn’t know what you had on tonight, yet just assumed you’d be there to look after the twins? Have I got that right?’ Her stare challenges me to disagree.
‘Fine, tomorrow night then. I’ll tell Daniel.’
Daniel was home by eight o’clock. Not out on the lash, just working late with a dead phone. But I’ve avoided Kelly’s questions anyway. She’s been too prickly about him lately. Besides, I’m supposed to be having fun tonight, not whinging about my marriage.
It’s crowded as usual at the Cock and Crown, with Uncle Colin and Uncle Barbara pulling pints behind the bar. The vicar is tinkling sing-a-long show tunes on the piano and we’ve squeezed on to the end of a table where a couple around our age are either on their first date together or having a job interview. It’s kind of hard to tell. So far there’s no sign of a CV, but he just asked her where she thinks she’ll be in a year.
‘What’s that for?’ asks Kell.
‘What’s what for?’
‘That sigh?’
‘Oh, did I? Just happy to be here, I guess.’
The pub has been my home from home literally since I was born. Every picture, poster and random piece of football memorabilia on the walls is familiar, and I could sing most of the jukebox songs in my sleep. Like the green swirly carpet, they haven’t been updated since the eighties.
Uncle Colin took over the business from old Fred nearly twenty years ago when he retired without an interested heir or successor. Colin had paid his dues behind the bar for years by then. The only consistent thing about Fred’s managerial style was his bad mood. It seemed to be a trait he carried home too, judging by how few people turned up at his funeral, even with the free beer on offer.
Mum and Dad had their wedding party here. Uncle Barbara did too (before he started wearing dresses, when he was still Uncle Mark). And I used to fall asleep in Mum’s arms transfixed by the blinking lights on the fruit machines.
This is exactly the kind of atmosphere I want the café to have – where people will feel a connection. They can stroll in with friends or on their own and always find someone for a conversation or at least a smile.
Not that most of the punters in here are what you’d call fans of the café culture. Somehow, I can’t picture Uncle Colin or the vicar sipping skinny soy lattes from dainty cups. And the men downing pints along the bar probably won’t trade their ales for Assam tea. But the atmosphere. That’s what I want.
‘Feckin’ hell, will you watch it!’ Kelly shouts at a shaven-headed man who’s just jostled the pint in her hand.
Without the language, ideally.
‘So, how’s Daniel doing?’ she asks.
I check my phone. ‘Twelve minutes since the last text. I guess he figured out how to open the talc.’ Just as I say it, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Sorry! Does it matter which twin gets which onesie? Dx
I sigh again. This time it’s not from happiness.
They have their own clothes. Get one from each of their drawers. x
Which drawer is which? Dx
I turn my phone for Kell to read. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, snatching it.
Figure it out and stop bloody texting, Daniel!
She presses send.
‘He’ll think that’s from me.’
‘Puhlease, when do you ever swear? You’ve got to put your phone away. It’s up as loud as it can go. You’ll hear it ring. Because you know it will,’ she murmurs.
I