Page 18 of A Wonderland Wish on Ever After Street
‘I wasn’t supposed to be an employee. This business was supposed to be my own.’
‘And it will be. But the council are fiercely protective of Ever After Street and they have to make sure every establishment betters the area as a whole. Do you know how many requests they get to rent premises here? Some of them are terrible. One of them was a Disney-themed sex toy shop! There were Dumbo-shaped… you-know-whats with the ears and the trunk.’ He makes a phallic shape with his hands. ‘I mean, fun in its own way, of course, each to their own, but certainly not suitable for a place where children come to believe in magic. We try to keep scarring for life to a minimum.’
‘The point is, Bram, thatyouknow that. I do not know that. Marnie doesn’t know that. Mr Hastings is one of the most intimidating people I’ve ever met and you’ve got a direct line to interrupt meetings. By reporting me, you’d have a one-way ticket to getting on his good side.’
‘Ever After Street wouldn’t be the same if anyone who wanted to monetise this place was given free run. Everyone starts with a three-month trial unless they own their own shops, like Sadie in The Cinderella Shop, or rent from a private landlord like Marnie used to. I started on a three-month trial run at the carousel. I was constantly monitored to ensure I didn’t make any smallchildren cry or take any wooden horses out for joyrides. We all have to go through it. I’m no different.’
No different. Here is a human who is different ineveryway.
‘Yes, Ever After Street is an amalgamation of different shops, but it has to work as a whole. It’s a business – ithasto attract visitors and make money. Either way, that’s nothing to do with me and not something I’d be involved in. And if it was, I’d say The Wonderland Teapot is a perfect fit for Ever After Street, no matter where the cakes come from.’
‘And I’ve pretended to be a good baker when I’m clearly not any more. You’d certainly get brownie points for telling them that the brownies themselves come from a supermarket.’ I down the rest of my tea, ram the remaining fairy cake down my throat, and march through to the back. ‘Excuse me, I have work to do.’
The unit is piled high with dishes and they clatter and clink as I plunge my hands into the hot water and wash each dish with such force that I might as well be trying to scrub the pattern itself off.
This is exactly what I was dreading. He’s going to have a field day with this. He must think it’s hilarious. The woman who’s opened a homemade tearoom despite not being able to bakeandnot having a home. He’ll have a whale of a time telling his council buddies about that, won’t he? And then everyone will know. The other shopkeepers who I’ve grown to love and respect will know I can’t be trusted. Mr Hastings will sack me instantly. There’ll probably be some kind of mark on my CV for the rest of my life. I didn’t think things could get any worse than the last time I got close to fulfilling my tearoom dream, but this will beat it hands-down. The emotions of that day come rushing in all at once, and the thought that history is repeating itself makes tears well up, and the more frustrated I get with myself for getting emotional, the harder it is to push them down.
Bram appears in the doorway.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, just go away. You weren’t supposed to be here. I didn’t want you here. This wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t here.’
‘Oh, if you knew how many times I’ve heard that in my life.’ For just one second, something sad flickers across his face, lingering for long enough to intrigue me before he covers it with his Mad Hatter grin. ‘I’ll dry.’
He picks up a tea towel and comes over to the sink where he prises the very, very clean plate from my rigid fingers and wipes it up. I hear his sharp inhale when he catches sight of the tears I’m desperately trying to stifle, and I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t say anything. I’ve always been weak in the face of help with household tasks, so I carry on washing up, piling soapy plates and cutlery on the draining board for him to dry.
‘Cleo, you didn’t get this job because of the cakes. You got it because your idea was outstanding. It stood out by a town mile.’
I’m about to snap that he’s got that wrong when he whispers, ‘That’s like a country mile, but longer. The Wonderland Teapot blew all the other pitches out of the water. Don’t underestimate that.’
His voice is gentle and kind, and he sounds so genuine that it makes me feel even more choked up.
He’s quiet as we wash and dry. He’sneverquiet. In the three days we’ve worked together, he’s shut up for approximately two and a half minutes collectively. If he’s not yakking to customers, then he’s singing out-of-tune songs with misheard lyrics or tapping his feet and clicking his fingers to a beat heard only in his own head, and it means a lot that he understands the need for silence right now.
When the washing and drying is finished and put away, he crosses the kitchen and jumps up to sit on the unit opposite me. He takes his hats off and stands them on the unit, then pushes a hand through his blue hair, scruffing it up, getting rid ofthe hat hair by making it look like he’s been pulled backwardsandforwards through a hedge several times. His brown eyes find mine and his look is one of real concern that softens my heart towards him. ‘What’s the problem? Tell me, please? I can’t help if you don’t tell me. I’d like to think we’re kind of in this together?’ He sounds questioning and unsure, the complete opposite of bright and confident Hatter.
The idea of sharing this burden is a nice one. I can’t tell Marnie, she’s got her own business to run and her own mortgage to pay now she owns the shop, and she’s got Darcy. She’s helping me out enough with giving me somewhere to park my caravan, I can’t burden her with my issues too.
And he knows anyway. Trying to hide it has been unexpectedly exhausting.
He can tell I’m wavering. ‘Is it a time issue? Have you been so busy preparing the shop itself that you haven’t had time to cook anything? Because I get it. We’re open nine to five. And everyone knows that nine means much earlier than nine and five means much later than five. It’s a lot of pressure to work full-timeandhave a life outside of work, not that I’d know anything about lives outside of work, but to get a shop full of cakes baked, you’d be up most of the night, right?’
‘I… um…’ I twist my fingers together.
‘Is it a skill issue then?’ he asks, and I get the feeling that he can see through me as well as Alice could see through the Looking Glass.
‘I’m kind of…’ I swallow hard, trying to think of a way to put it, ‘…between kitchens at the moment.’
His head tilts to the side. ‘I say a lot of strange things, but I’ve never heard that one before. What does “between kitchens” mean?’
I intend to give a carefully constructed answer, but my mouth moves without my permission. ‘Last time I tried to bake somethingat home, I accidentally set the kitchen on fire and got myself evicted and now I’m living in a caravan on Marnie’s driveway and the kitchen consists of one tiny work surface and a gas hob that I’m scared to turn on in case it blows up.’
The sentence comes out so fast that it’s all squashed together and jumbled and it takes him a minute to untangle it. ‘You’re homeless?’
‘I’m not homeless. I have a caravan and an address. I have slightly too much money to claim a benefit but not enough to be able to afford rent, and I’m a terrible prospect for landlords. If I can make this a full-time sustainable job, then I’ll be able to rent another flat and get a handle on the baking thing, but Ineedto get through this three-month trial. If you would just, please, not tell anyone, and?—’
‘Get a handle on it?Canyou bake at all?’
‘Yes!’ I huff in annoyance, but mainly annoyance that my attempts to be nonchalant are so transparent. ‘All right, no, not… not recently. I used to be able to. A couple of years ago, my ex and I were going to go into business together with a teashop, but it didn’t work out, and between that and the grief, it’s like… I’ve forgotten how. Every time I get near a kitchen, I go blank. I used to throw ingredients in with abandon and somehow they’d work out. My nan always said I had a sixth sense about what flavours went well together, but… I stopped baking, and now, I follow recipes to the letter and they still go wrong. I thought The Wonderland Teapot would unlock whatever part of my soul has gone missing, and I really,reallythought it had its own kitchen, but it doesn’t, and I don’t, and…’ I trail off as my voice breaks. I didn’t intend to tell anyone that, but saying it aloud for the first time makes it feel like a weight has gone from my shoulders, and I almost sag against the unit, feeling like I need to catch my breath.
