Page 33 of A Wonderland Wish on Ever After Street
‘I do,’ I echo. ‘So, instead of doing the boring, sensible thing, you…’
He raises an eyebrow at my leading question, before finishing the answer off. ‘…Became a magician’s assistant. Backstage stuff, like setting up tricks and planning his shows, but they were just that – shows. Smoke and mirrors, music, lights, and showmanship. It was flashy, but it wasn’t authentic. People left feeling like they’d been to a magic show, not like they’d seen magic. After that, I was a freelance entertainer for hire – doing magic at parties and corporate events – and I managed a magic shop for a while. We sold all kinds of tricks and props, and I did a lot of teaching people how to use them. I ran a monthly workshop, but also kids would come in and ask me how things worked or how to do certain tricks, and I’d show them. But like most tiny independent shops on high streets everywhere, it was a thing of bygone days. There’s nothing you can’t learn on YouTube or get delivered next day from Amazon now, so people stopped coming, and it was just me, standing in an empty shop, trying to figure out a trick to conjure up some customers.’
‘You really loved that?’ I ask because it’s impossible to take my eyes off his face and the way it’s lit up as he talks.
‘Almost as much as I love what I do now. I like doing magic, but with only a few people watching, so it’s intimate and personal. It’s harder to write off if you’re seeing it right in front of your eyes. Iloveseeing the disbelief on people’s faces when they can’t explain what’s just happened. It makes me feel invincible. I still have to pinch myself thatIcan do that. My father has always made me feel like I’ve made the wrong choices, and every little gasp of surprise makes meknowthat I made the right ones for myself.’
I’m holding his arm so tightly that he’ll probably have pins and needles from the circulation being cut off. Magic illuminates him. I’ve never had a job that Ilovedbefore The Wonderland Teapot. Jobs have always been jobs – do what you’re paid to do, get through the day, and go home. His passion is inspiring. Everyone deserves to love what they dothatmuch.
We reached the greenhouse a while ago. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice because I didn’t want him to stop talking, but now there’s no avoiding the glass structure in front of us.
His eyes linger on me for a few moments, seeming as reluctant to end this conversation as I am, but eventually he slides the glass door open and invites me to step inside. ‘I’m not much of a gardener, but seeing as there’s a greenhouse here, I haven’t given up trying yet. My mum bought me some culinary herb plants last year. You’ll officially be the first person to use them.’
I rub a leaf between my fingers and inhale deeply, instantly transported to my childhood and the lavender plants my nan used to grow in the little garden at home.
He’s pottering around, looking for the secateurs to cut some, and I reach out and grab his hand. ‘Thank you.’
I hope he knows I mean for more than the plants. ‘Even if it goes horribly wrong. Even if thyme isn’t the magic ingredient and I accidentally put in enough lavender to fumigate a small country. Just talking to you, feeling like I used to, like I know what I’m doing, even for a moment… Thank you.’
His hand slides over the top of mine and he smiles that soft, muted smile that makes my heart skip a beat and my cheeks feel all tingly as they heat up for no reason.
When we get back, I can’t wait to get into the kitchen, and Bram takes his usual seat on the unit and lets me get on with it, and after a while, we’re eating scones that taste almost like the ones my nan used to make. They’re not perfect, I probably used a touch too much lavender, but it’s the closest I’ve come in years, and I feel on top of the world. This is what I always wanted to do. This is what I used to love.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like it’s not too late for me to love it again.
11
Monday morning has a habit of bringing unwanted guests. The tearoom has been open four weeks today, and the number of homemade baked goods are slowly but surely pushing out the supermarket-bought cakes. Today there’s a stand of Battenberg slices in the display case, which are the result of how Bram and I spent our Sunday afternoon yesterday.
It’s the Easter holidays and there are a few customers in this morning. Bram is entertaining a young family, and has so far impressed them by turning a saucer into a playing card, and then making the dad’s watch disappear while the children hunt for it. In about two minutes, it will reappear on the dad’s wrist like it was never missing, and I still haven’t worked out how he does it.
Tabby is wafting on the sidelines, doing a royal wave and squealing ‘off with their heads!’ occasionally, but thankfully smiling for selfies with customers and children who are nervous to approach the Queen of Hearts, and I’m just ringing up an elderly couple who have been coming in for tea, crumpets, and cake on a regular basis, when Mr Hastings’ imposing shadow fills the doorway.
‘Well, well, well,’ he booms, letting the door swing shut, only to be stopped by Mrs Willetts, the much nicer woman from the interview, who scurries in behind him and closes it quietly.
‘Well, this is a fine sight.’ Mr Hastings stops to look around, blocking a child’s pathway to the flamingo croquet and not bothering to apologise when he bumps into a seated customer. ‘Oh, yes, this is very rabbit-hole-ish. A sterling job.’
Before I can say anything, Tabby inserts herself into the space between Mr Hastings and the counter. ‘Hello, sir.’ She curtseys to him. Actually curtseys. Which I really hope is part of her act and not how Mr Hastings expects to be greeted. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’
That sounds suspiciously like she was expecting him. Did she know they were coming? I look over at Bram, who has stood up and quickly handed the dad his watch back without the usual fanfare, and is looking on with an alarmingly pale face.
‘Oh, Tabby, that’s quite an ensemble you’ve put together there. Don’t you look fabulous?’ He twists a finger around so Tabby does a twirl for him, and then clicks his fingers towards Bram. ‘You think she looks fabulous, don’t you?’
‘I think someone would behead me if I contradicted your judgment.’ He puts on his high-pitched Mad Hatter voice, and I think I’m probably the only one who notices how hard he swallows. Maybe I’m not the only one intimidated by this formidable man.
‘Mr Hastings.’ I smile through gritted teeth. ‘What can we do for you on this fine Monday morning?’ I have never sounded more false in my life, and this is rapidly becoming theleastfine Monday morning ever.
‘Just popping by for a quick inspection, Miss Jordan.’ He runs a finger along a table and inspects it for crumbs, looking disappointed when he finds none. ‘Nothing formal, just a check-in to see howthings are going.’
He dresses it up in a casual tone, but I have no doubt that this is a well-planned ‘unplanned’ inspection, probably hoping to catch us out in some way or another.
‘He doesn’t mean inspection, dearie.’ Mrs Willetts lifts one of the playing cards from the teapot display on the counter and then goes to put it back, but accidentally knocks three more off instead. She hands them to me guiltily. ‘We’ve heard so much chatter about The Wonderland Teapot, and we had some other business in the neighbourhood and thought we’d stop in.’
Whatever the other business was, it sounds like Tabby knew to expect them, because she doesn’t seem surprised at all. I noticed her watching the door earlier and didn’t think anything of it, but now it seems like she was clearly waiting for them.
Bram is hovering, looking unsure of himself and like he’s torn between chiming in and running away.
Mrs Willetts looks between all of us and seems to sense the awkward atmosphere. ‘I could murder a cup of tea, couldn’t you, Mr Hastings?’
