Page 22 of The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
The stacks of willow-pattern china entirely covered it, there was so much, and I was surprised and delighted to see the words ‘dishwasher safe’ stamped underneath each piece. I expect that was still a new and trendy concept at the time the Copper Kettle was opened.
There were cups and saucers, small and large plates, sugar bowls, soup bowls and serving dishes. Some things we wouldn’t need, but those could help fill the empty display shelves in the café, once I’d repainted them.
‘This is brilliant!’ I told Tilda gratefully. ‘I can probably find extra bits and pieces on eBay, too, because any inexpensive blue willow-pattern china would blend in.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s a start, and one less expense,’ she said.
‘It is, and I’ll start to put batches of it through the dishwasher today … that is, if it works? If it does, I’m surprised Mrs Muswell left it behind!’
‘I expect it was too old to be worth selling, but it works OK,’ Tilda said. Then she offered to go up and clean the flat, instead of the café, which was only in need of a light dust.
‘But it’s filthy,’ I protested.
‘That’s all right, I like a challenge,’ she said, her eyes gleaming keenly. ‘Though for extra pay, naturally.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed, and she vanished up the stairs with the vacuum cleaner and a bucket of cleaning materials as eagerly as if I’d offered her a rare treat.
While the first lot of crockery was chugging its way through a dishwasher cycle, I counted up the tables and chairs in the café. I didn’t think anyone wouldbuythem, but if I listed them on one of the free recycling websites they might appeal to someone. Then I remembered the plates hanging in the dark corner by the stairs and went to see what they were like and, while I was doing that, spotted a big spider’s web up there that Tilda had managed to miss. Or maybe it was a fast worker, like the one in my new novel?
Stopping only to shove my hair into one of the despised mobcaps in case the occupant fell on my head, I climbed up on one of the tubular chairs and had at it with a long-handled feather duster.
With all the surprise of finding a total stranger in the café, Tilda mustn’t have locked the café door behind her, for the brass bell suddenly jangled on its spring and then the light was blocked by a tall, slender, but unmistakably masculine figure.
‘Can I help you?’ I said, climbing down from my perch. ‘I’m afraid the café’s shut.’
‘I’m not a customer. I just saw the light was on and I wanted a word with Molly Muswell,’ he explained. His voice held no trace of the local accent or, indeed, any other. It was slightly posh and smooth as dark, expensive chocolate.
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ I rejoined tartly, wondering if he was a delivery man she hadn’t paid, despite the upmarket accent. ‘But she’s not here, I’m afraid, so you might as well go away again.’
Instead of taking this strong hint, he shut the door behind him and came down the step into the light.
Two thoughts skipped across my mind faster than flat pebbles across still water. The first was that, with his curling blue-black hair, pale olive skin, aquiline nose and a full mouth that turned up enigmatically at the corners, he looked so much like a Greek god that if he’d handed me a bunch of grapes and an invitation to an orgy, I’d probably have gone.
In fact, he was the most handsome man I’d ever exchanged words with outside my imagination.
My second thought was that he wasn’t any kind of delivery man, because he was wearing a silky, beautifully cut suit, worn over a soft, snow-white shirt with the neck open. I suddenly felt quite cheap and grubby in my jeans, sweatshirt and trainers.
My answer had clearly not been the one he wanted to hear, because he was scowling. ‘When will she be back? I’ve just returned from a trip to America and I saw the sign on the door saying the café was closed for renovations, so I thought when I saw the lights on that she’d be here.’
He glanced around. ‘Not that I canseeany sign of renovations – unless that’s why you’re here?’
‘Well, I’m certainly going to make somechanges, because I’ve bought the place,’ I told him. Seeing he looked as blank as Tilda had, I added helpfully, ‘She’s gone – I’m the new owner of the Branwell Café.’
‘She’s … gone? Permanently?’ His dark eyebrows twitched together in an alarming frown. ‘But she owes me money!’
That didn’t surprise me. ‘What for?’ I asked curiously.
‘Antiques, if it’s any of your business,’ he snapped. ‘I run the curio shop opposite.’
‘You meanyou’reSmall and Perfect?’ I exclaimed, and then felt myself glowing pinkly. With my auburn hair, that’snevera good look.
‘You could say that,’ he agreed drily, and one corner of his rather beautifully moulded mouth twitched, though whether with amusement or anger, I couldn’t tell. ‘I certainlysellsmall and perfect antiques and curios. Mrs Muswell suggested at the start of the season that I display a few things in the café and give her a small commission on any sales. I tend to source special items for collectors, rather than sell directly to the public, but there are always extra odds and ends I pick up in job lots at auctions, so it seemed like a reasonable idea.’
He indicated the two plates that I’d just released from their coverlet of spider silk. ‘Those are mine, but I can’t see any of the rest, and Tilda – one of her staff – told me that instead of sending customers over to my shop if they’re interested in buying something, she’s been selling them herself and pocketing the cash.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. She’s stripped out everything of any value from the café and flat, even those things included in the sale.’
‘Kind of her to leave the plates behind, then,’ he said sarcastically.
