‘It’s not about the mon—’
‘Oh yes yes yes.’ Mr Hastings is rubbing his hands together. ‘What a perfect solution, and an excellent opportunity for Miss Jordan to prove her worth to Ever After Street.’
‘With all due respect, I run a tearoom, not a catering business. This is not something I can do.’
‘You have to be versatile!’ I think he’s trying to be encouraging, but it comes out as a shouty bark. ‘With weddings at the castle, this would be an excellent service to offer, and right on the doorstep of the venue too. Brides can buy their wedding dresses at The Cinderella Shop and get their catering sorted out all in one go! And you can’t discount the possibility that people will request Alice-themed weddings or milestone birthday parties. Or Unbirthday parties, ho ho,’ he says with a chortle. Got to love a chortle.
‘Which will be catered for them by professional caterers. Sadie and Witt are hosting events at the castle – they deal with all that stuff. I’m sure Sadie can find someone who will be available that day. They’ve got long lists of people who can provide any service an event could possibly need.’
‘But “wedding caterer” would be another feather in your cap.’ Mr Hastings strokes his chin thoughtfully. ‘Which will make you a much more attractive prospect to Herefordshire Council when we consider your position here. And as a bonus, it will be a brilliant way to get your name out there.’
‘I don’t want to get my name out there. I want my name in here.’ I hadn’t intended to snap, but people who refuse to take no for an answer are absolutely exhausting, and this is so ridiculous that neither he nor Laura can continue entertaining this idea for a moment longer.
‘Which will never happen if you refuse my daughter’s simple request.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on, Dad.’ Bram folds his arms, sounding like he saw this coming. ‘That’s totally unfair. Blackmail, some might say.’
‘How else do you think people get what they want in this world, Abraham?’ He turns back to me. ‘You work for me, Miss Jordan. My daughter has requested you to cater her wedding reception. If you are to refuse her request, then your trial period will be terminated immediately and we will find someone far more deserving of this space, someone who fits in with the community spirit of Ever After Street, which you clearly do not.’
‘You can’t do that. This trial period was dependent on what I bring to the street. Nowhere in my agreement does it say that I’m expected to cater a wedding reception for a hundred and fifty people!’
‘This has nothing to do with the tenancy agreement. It’s simply me asking you to do my family a small favour.’ He drums his fingers along the counter, creating a staccato beat that sounds like a horror movie soundtrack and fills me with a similar sense of dread. ‘There’s one thing I would like to make crystal clear to you, Miss Jordan. Your application for this tearoom was late. It was received past the deadline. When you were chosen for this position, the tearoom had already been offered to someone else, and we rescinded that offer because your pitch was by far the best option for Ever After Street. We took a chance on you. Don’t make us regret that decision.’
‘Mr Hastings…’ Mrs Willetts starts and receives a look sour enough to stop her saying anything more.
What? Someone else had been given this shop and the council changed their minds because of me? That doesn’t sound very professional. Surely you can’t offer someone a job, presumably a three-month trial like this, and then decide someone better has come along and just… take it away again?
I remember Mrs Willetts’ worried question in the interview. Mr Hastings’ hushed response that I probably wasn’t supposed to hear. Don’t worry about that, it won’t be a problem. Is this what they were referring to?
Insecurity washes through me. The feeling that nothing here is mine, and the metaphorical rug could be pulled out from under me at any moment. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the depths of hell, to use one of Bram’s malaphors. I look between Mr Hastings and Laura and then over at Mrs Willetts and then at Bram, pleading with my eyes for one of them to throw me a lifeline, to come up with some astoundingly clever excuse as to why I can’t do it, but Bram’s eyes are wide and he’s shaking his head, looking like he’s at a loss too.
Time is running out. We’ve already stood here for an abnormal amount of time before the look on Mr Hastings’ face softens a little and he waves a hand towards Bram. ‘Abraham enjoys all this baking malarkey too, I understand. You can do it between you. It would be nice for you to be involved in your sister’s wedding, wouldn’t it, son?’
Even Bram is lost for words in response.
‘That’s all right with me too,’ Laura says. ‘A real family affair. I’d like that.’
‘I guess so,’ I stutter eventually. My voice is unstable and sounds as unhinged as a drunken hyena. Because I have no choice about what else to say. The ultimatum is glaringly clear. Agree to the demands or my dream of keeping The Wonderland Teapot is over.
‘There, now that’s settled.’ Mr Hastings claps his hands together like a crack of thunder and then taps on the front of the display case. ‘I will have a slice of that Battenberg after all, Tabby, if you don’t mind. Laura, tell Cleo what you want. You’re writing this down, aren’t you, Miss Jordan?’
Writing it down? My head hasn’t stopped spinning long enough for me to catch my breath yet, never mind have the forethought to write anything down. This is ridiculous. There’s no way I can do it. An orangutan would do a better job of catering her wedding than me.
One thing you can rely on a magician for is to produce things from thin air, and Bram produces a Post-it note and a biro from one of his pockets and hands them to me.
‘Oh, I’m not fussy.’ Laura huddles closer as though we’re good friends and I’m only too happy to do her a massive favour like I had the vaguest bit of choice in the matter. ‘Thankfully we’d ordered the wedding cake from a bakery and they won’t let us down, but the reception itself is a buffet, so everyone can help themselves to whatever they want. Finger food. Sandwiches. Cakes. Nibbles. Bram knows what I like. He can fill you in on all the details. I need to get back to work anyway.’
It’s a blur as Laura leaves. Mr Hastings seems to enjoy his cake and then Tabby shows him and Mrs Willetts around, and I let her get on with it, because no inspection is going to make any difference now. If we can’t cater a wedding reception for a hundred and fifty people in four weeks’ time, it’s all over. I may as well give up now. I should give up now so Laura’s got enough time to find a real caterer, but this is unfair and the injustice of it has made me so angry that I’m not going to admit defeat just yet.
Bram’s leaning on the counter with his head in one hand while we wait in silence for them to come back. His other hand is occupied by fanning out and spinning the deck of playing cards again. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers where he squeezed my hand earlier, and I’m fighting the urge to reach over and still those cards again, to touch him in some small way, despite the vague feeling that all this could have been avoided if he’d been honest from the start.
When the inspection party return, Bram walks them to the door. He gives Mrs Willetts a hug, and I see the way she gives him an extra squeeze, and then he goes to shake his father’s hand, but Mr Hastings promptly ignores him. Some people might be hurt or affronted, but Bram slips instantaneously into character. He does a little tap dance and whistles a quick tune.
‘Thanks for coming!’ he says in a deliberately shrill voice, right into Mr Hastings’ ear, who puts a hand up like it was painful and frowns at him. ‘It was a joy to see you, as always. Have a day that’s filled with wonder!’
He produces a fistful of something from his pocket, and I see the horror cross Mr Hastings’ face as he realises what he’s going to do just one second too late. Bram opens his hand and blows a fistful of sparkly confetti all over his father.
It wasn’t intended for Mrs Willetts but she gets caught in the crossfire and brushes glitter off her shoulders good-naturedly, but Mr Hastings isn’t so good natured. He glares at Bram without a word, like he’s not going to dignify it with a response. It’s the personification of ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ conveyed in one simple look.
When his face starts to look like it might fracture if he scowls any harder, Mr Hastings huffs, blowing his greying hair upwards and disturbing the array of confetti that had landed on his head and sending a rainbow of paper shapes fluttering to their deaths on the floor. It would be quite comical if you couldn’t feel the anger pouring from him in waves. I get the feeling this is far from Mr Hastings’ first shower of confetti. Without a word, he gestures for Mrs Willetts to walk in front of him and closes the door from outside with a pointed thud, without taking his glaring eyes off Bram.
Once they’ve walked far enough down the street to be out of earshot, one of the regular customers who’s been coming in for a toasted teacake daily, starts a round of applause. ‘Well done, lad. If anyone needs a bit of confetti, it’s that stuffy old toadstool!’
Bram takes another bow. ‘Exactly my point, Mrs Moreno. It really is a sorry state of affairs when someone’s day can’t be improved by teeny-tiny colourful paper shapes and sparkle.’
I sigh as he walks back towards the counter. ‘Why did you do that? You must’ve known it would infuriate him.’
‘Ugh, because he’s a manchild!’ Tabby wails and stomps out to the back room.
‘Because I’m obnoxious.’ If the totally false Hatter grin didn’t give him away, the wobble in his voice does.
‘No, you’re not. You’re…’ I can see what he’s doing. He’s putting on a front, pretending not to be bothered by his father’s open display of disdain to hide how bothered he is by it. And no matter what, this isn’t the time to talk about it. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ I finish instead, trying to be non-judgemental. We’ve both had enough judgement for one day.
‘I like to think so,’ he says proudly.
The three playing cards that Mrs Willetts dislodged from my teapot display are still on the counter, and he holds his hand out for them. When I refuse, he reaches over and pulls them out from behind my ear instead.
