Page 34 of A Wonderland Wish on Ever After Street
‘What? Hmm? Oh, tea, yes. Quite.’ Mr Hastings is distracted by the teapots hanging from the ceiling.
‘Please don’t do—’ I start, but he’s already pulled a chair out from one of the tables, clambered up on it, and has got his hand wrapped around one of my hanging teapots, giving it a good tug.
‘Mr Hastings, health and safety!’ Mrs Willetts bellows, making him jump enough that he wobbles on the chair and then glares at it like the chair itself is at fault for not being designed to stand on.
‘They’re screwed into reinforced board,’ I say helpfully as Mrs Willetts tries to help him down and gets barked at for her trouble. ‘They aren’t coming down, not even if you yank on them.’
A red-faced Mr Hastings dusts his trousers down as though my ribbon-tied teapots are responsible for making him dusty, eventhough I run my feather duster over them regularly. ‘People could hit their heads.’
‘If they were seven foot tall!’
He frowns at me and then looks up at the teapots like he’s trying to mentally calculate the distance between them and the tallest person’s head. ‘A child on a parent’s shoulders?—’
‘Would never get through the door in the first place,’ I finish for him. I gave a lot of thought to the ceiling teapots. He can’t find fault with them, no matter how hard he tries. And I didn’t expect him to try quitethishard.
He reaches up and tugs one of the ribbons pouring from the spout and shakes his head in disappointment when he fails to dislodge it. ‘Teapots in the ceiling. I’ve never seen anything like it, Miss Jordan. You’ve certainly got an imagination, I’ll give you that.’
It does not sound like a compliment.
‘I’ll go and make that tea for you, sir.’ Tabby, who has never lifted a finger in the two weeks since she started working here, hurries out to the back room as fast as her red ballgown can swish. Does she even knowhowto make a cup of tea?
Mrs Willetts’ eyes flick between my face and the doorway Tabby disappeared through. ‘I’ll lend her a hand,’ she says and hurries after her, leaving me with the impression that she has a bit of experience with Tabby.
‘So, things going well, are they?’ Mr Hastings saunters towards me and slaps his giant hands on the counter. ‘It’s nice to see it so busy. I must say I’m surprised.’
‘Er, thanks.’
‘Wouldn’t mind knowing where you got permission for those Cheshire Cats you’ve attached to trees around here, though. If every shop who wanted free advertising were to attach advertising materials to trees, there’d be no trees left. It could be termed littering. Fly-tipping at worst. You could bein big trouble.’
‘Fly-tipping? For tying a few wooden cat faces and tails into nearby bushes? Are you seri?—’
‘They’re cable-tied on.’ Bram steps up beside me. ‘Doing no harm, easily removed.Igave Cleo permission to put them there.’
What? He wasn’t even on the radar when I put them there. What is going on here? Why would Bram need to give me permission to do anything and why would he pretend he had when he hadn’t? A look passes between them and I suddenly get the feeling there reallyissomething going on here.
Mr Hastings looks him up and down with a scornful look. ‘And you? This job suits you, does it?’ His disapproving eyes flick to a child who has just squealed in delight after putting a hedgehog ball through the playing card archway with a plastic flamingo club.
‘Best job I’ve ever had.’ Bram is in Mad Hatter mode. He’s got a deck of cards and he’s shuffling it with one hand, his fingers in constant motion, a nervous habit that’s not quite hidden by his false grin.
‘Not flaming difficult,’ Mr Hastings mutters and then turns to me. ‘And you, Miss Jordan? Are you doing good business? Getting good reviews?’
Reviews? I gulp. I know they mentioned reviews at the interview, but I haven’t thought about it since. The idea of people reviewing me isterrifying.
‘The reviews are cracking,’ Bram answers for me. ‘Look at this place. Anyone who isn’t completely devoid of childhood wonder and imagination loves it.’
Heknows about the reviews?Arethere good reviews or is he making it up to impress the boss?
Mr Hastings looks between the two of us with a sneer on his face and his eyes come to rest on me. ‘And I see you’re putting up with my son?’
‘Your…’ I feel like someone’s pinged me in the chest with a taut elastic band. Of bloody course. My mind replays everything in supersonic speed, from the direct line to Mr Hastings on the day he arrived to everything he’s said about his father. Someone important around here. Someone with influence. Someone who makes new businesses glide right through any pesky red tape. Someone who disapproves of him and everything he does.
I look over at Bram. No amount of black eyeliner can disguise the panic in his eyes. No wonder he looked so uneasy just now. No wonder he looked like he wanted to run away. He knew what I was about to find out and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
I could shout. I could yell at Bram and make a scene, demand to know why he didn’t tell me, but Mr Hastings is standing there with his sneer still firmly in place, waiting with gleeful anticipation for me to say something derogatory about this man, who so far, has done nothing but stand up for me.
The last thing I want to do is show a split between us. Mr Hastings will take the greatest pleasure in discovering I didn’t evenknowhe’s Bram’s father. And I might’ve just heard the ‘my son’ bit of that sentence, but I also heard yet another iteration of ‘putting up with’, and it makes me wonder how many people have made Bram believe that his presence is something people have got to endure.
I swallow hard and paste on another false smile. ‘Of course. He’s a pleasure to work with. We get on like a house on fire.’
