‘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. I love seeing 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 that I can do that. My father has always made me feel like I’ve made the wrong choices, and every little gasp of surprise makes me know that 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 I loved before 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 do that much.
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 the least fine 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 how things 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?’
‘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, even though 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 quite this hard.
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 know how to 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.’
