Page 41 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“She’s back, she’sback!” Reggie momentarily abandons his tray of freshly baked banoffee custard tarts, jumping up and down excitedly at my appearance. I run in for a much-needed hug.
“Now, before you tell us how awesome and relaxing the week was,” he says with a smile, “And before you treat us to a slideshow of your cultural pics, two things: firstly, sales have been incredible this past week. Like, the best ever.” I know this already because Caitlyn texted me but I don’t have the heart to rain on Reggie’s parade. “I’ll show you the figures in a mo… and secondly, the fixture for the Weston-super-Mare versus Bristol match has been brought forward to this coming weekend. Are we still game on?” His eyes dance with mischief. “Did you have a chance to practicepastel de natahurling on the beach like you’d planned?
“Yay! That’s excellent news and totally eases my guilt at abandoning you all for the week. Thank you so much for doing such an amazing job. And no. That won’t be necessary anymore,” I tell him in answer to both questions.
Reggie’s grin slips away.
“I suppose it is the more sensible option,” he concedes with a pout that tells me I’m a complete and utter spoilsport and he was looking forward to the action. “But Willow, you have to fight to protect everything you’ve worked so hard for. You can’t just let that idiot walk all over you and knock the wind out of your sails. Hmm,” Reggie looks pensive. “Evidently this holiday has made you a littletoolaid back.”
“What I’m trying to say is there’s no need for me to clown around at your football match and embarrass the hell out of you and myself, Reggie. It turns out the petition wasn’t real. Tiago forged all the signatures.”
“What the fuck?” Reggie cries. “But I did my research and everything seemed above board and kosher wording-wise, more was the pity. Not that I ever thought much would come of it. The accusations were tenuous at best. How could he sink low enough to pull such a stunt? Frank will be livid when he finds out.”
I look around, startled, checking we have no early customers within earshot and breathe a sigh of relief.
“Sorry, Willow. I know I shouldn’t curse in the cafe, but what aloserthat Tiago twat is.” And there Reggie goes again– not that I can talk after unleashing all of those expletives on a certain easyJet flight– but from his point of view, knowing nothing about Tiago’s backstory, this verdict stands to reason. “It’ll be all I can do to keep my mouth shut this weekend on the pitch with him, and definitely all I can do to resist kicking the ball at his tackle.”
“He’s dropped the petition and that’s as good as it will get. There’s no point in escalating the situation, tempting as it might be. Let’s not tell Frank. Some things are best left unsaid. It’s over.”
“Willow?” Reggie queries, with folded arms.
“Yes.”
“Why do I get the feeling that something else other than the petition is over, too? Something harking of undercover romance. How do you even know the guy’s dropped the petition, more to the point?” Reggie’s eyes look me over from left to right, searching for clues, and he plants his hands on his hips. “I know you well enough by now to know when something’s up.Have you been seeing him?Lord, I hope not. I thought you had more common sense than that.”
My old friend shakes his head, having put two and two together, and having, indeed, come up with four.
I surrender. This was all going to come out sooner or later, wasn’t it? Besides, I can’t let the anger eat Reggie up. I guess the same will go for Frank, inevitably, but only if he mentions the subject of the petition. There’s no point rocking the boat (or the pier) unnecessarily.
“Fine. Let’s sit down,” I say. I’ve lost track of whose turn it is with the hot drink-making in times of crisis. I rise to fix us up with a pair of bolstering coffees but Tim pops his head out of the kitchen and beats me to it, serving us two rich and aromatic caffeine shots. This is an uncharacteristic treat, even if he’s forgotten I take milk. I heap a teaspoon of sugar into my tiny cup, stirring methodically in mental preparation for the kick, hoping the sweetness will dilute it.
I pour my heart out to Reggie, though leaving out this, that and the other– he really doesn’t need to hear about my bedroom antics– and then the first bunch of customers arrive. I don’t recognise any of them but it soon becomes clear that they are on first name terms with Reggie and I feel a little nip of joy in my heart (the first hint of elation since I’ve been back) that this gaggle of quirky middle-aged women, and their accompanying sewing projects, have enjoyed at least one visit so much that they’ve returned for seconds already.
“I don’t know what to say, Willow.” Reggie turns his attention back to me as we tidy up our cups and plates (resistance to the aforementioned banoffee custard tarts proved predictably futile) and get back to work. “I feel sorry for the guy, but it doesn’t make any of his initial actions forgettable. Forgivable maybe… and really, you’re a bit of a saint if you can do that. On the other hand, maybe you should give him one more chance. It’s obvious you two have a connection. He has apologised. You may regret it if you don’t see where things could go. Argh, I’m contradicting myself, aren’t I? I’ve always been pants on matters of the heart.”
“I can’t disagree with that, or you’d have persuaded me to ditch Callum sooner than I did.” I roll my eyes. “But there’s no way I’m interested in any romantic involvement with Tiago.” Oh, thank goodness I’m not wired up to a lie detector. “Actions speak louder than words. His attempt to ruin me was off the charts. That tells me everything I need to know about his personality. He had more than enough time to think better of his scheme and admit the petition was a load of nonsense, and that’s that.”
“I hear you. You’ve got a very valid point there.” Reggie chews on his lip. “Actions do speak louder than words.”
I’m not sure why Reggie emphasizes that last sentence but it’s neither here nor there. I have a business to run and a summer to get through, customers new and old to impress. I also have a big sister to catch up with on all things marketing before my little sister comes bowling in, excited to see me back. But then Caitlyn phones in mysteriously and uncharacteristically sick.
Now the morning rush is frantic. I yo-yo between the kitchen, to help Tim prep more of our smash hit limoncello custard tarts, whose Italian kick is going down a treat now the weather’s hotter, and the never-ending take-out queue. Reggie, meanwhile, darts gracefully around the café, never missing a beat or a request for an order, a refill, or a payment. How will we manage without him later this year? The thought is as worrying as it is awful.
Once the rush finally slows down, at three o’clock, I make my long overdue call to Lauren. I’m hoping my guilt at having slept with the guy she fancies at work (which is plain ridiculous since she is married to a whole other man) doesn’t betray me down the phone line.
“Oh, hi, Bons… I mean, Willow.” What the heck? That’s a first. Surely Lauren hasn’t matured in the manner of a bottle of port while I’ve been in Portugal? “Hope you had a great time in the Algarve and visited some of my recommendations.” Funnily enough, Radhika’s nightclub turned out to be one of them. I shudder at the unwelcome memory of the extortionately-priced Heston Blumenthal-meets-Monty Don cocktails and the cheesy bop beats. “Listen, I’d love to chat but I’m up to my eyeballs here.” Lauren sounds immediately distant.
“Yeah, it was great, thanks. Right, well… I erm… I’ll make it quick then. I just wondered if you had any updates on the various bits of promo we discussed last time. Is there any news on the reaction to the TikTok video yet? Reggie mentioned you’d been in to film it last week, that the actors were incredible, the props imaginative.” I’m such a technophobe. I really need to work out how to log onto TikTok to watch it, then I might have an inkling. In my defence, I’ve barely had time to breathe since coming back to work this morning.
“We’ve not had a chance to put it together yet, sorry,” Lauren spits her words out quickly, and I can also tell she’s covered her phone with her hand so she can talk to somebody in the background. I wait patiently. This is more than a little odd. Completely the opposite to the sassy sister who bounded into my café in May, brimming with ideas and enthusiasm. It’s a three-sixty turn on her extreme ideas about Hollywood celeb endorsement, too. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you when I’m free.”
I say bye, but Lauren has already hung up on me. Well, I’m not impressed. Evidently she feels she has bigger fish to fry than those situated in the beige waters of the English channel. Looks like she has put me on the backburner. But none of her clients offer the world anything as tasty or essential as my tarts. And I am a woman on a mission. So it looks like I’m going to have to do this myself. I vow to swot up on TikTok tonight and beat her to it. How hard can it be?
Yes, summer business is booming, but I want more than that. Since my return from Portugal, and Tiago’s infuriating suggestions that I switch from custard tarts to baking a bit of this and a bit of that– as if all of this is nothing more than a girlie hobby– I am hellbent on West Country domination. First stop Weston-super-Mare. Second stop Bath/Bristol/Glastonbury. I’m not going to be fussy. Where there’s a clientele, there’s a way. And this means I need to lure more outsiders to the pier. And that means the likes of TikTok.
Why not attempt to replicate the famous Hummingbird Bakery’s success while I’m at it, introducing the beautiful baking of one country to another? And why stop at the West Country? Why stop in the UK? Why stop in Europe? Why can’t a woman become an international foodie business entrepreneur?
She can and she will.
