Page 47 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

‘But I need to help out in the bar?’ I teased.

‘Of course.’ Jay grinned. ‘But seriously. Only if you want to.’

‘It’s fine. I’m happy to help.’ And I was.

‘Great. Oh — Tilds?’ Jay was suddenly very busy piling up our dishes and studiously not looking at me. My stomach flipped a little. Was he going to say something nice to me? Declare himself, as my ladies of classic literature would say . . . ?

Nope. Of course not.

‘Maybe you should contact Rosie. Just to let her know you’re okay and when you’ll be back?’

‘I’m not sure Rosie will be concerned about that right now,’ I said carefully.

‘Hmmm. Well, if not her, why not Damien?’

‘Ugh. Absolutely not Damien.’

‘Rosie then,’ Jay said as quick as anything.

‘I have to call Polly,’ I replied, just as quickly. Then I turned and scurried up the stairs, back to my room, my cheeks burning. I mean, I know I was the one who’d run out on my friends, but really? I didn’t think either one of them would be that bothered.

I had contacted my parents last night. They knew where I was. Rosie had checked in via Jay. That was enough. No. I had plenty to do and it started with Polly.

Chapter Seventeen

I had arranged to meet Polly at the tea room at ten that morning.

‘We’ll soon have it sorted,’ I had added cheerfully as we disconnected the call.

‘’Kay,’ Polly replied. She didn’t sound convinced.

But, once we were inside the café and going through the work, I knew I’d been correct. She knew far more than she thought she did, as is often the case in my experience. Or, if you’re like Damien, you blag your way through life and people think you know more than you know.

Mine and Rosie’s much-loved phrase, “Fake it until you make it”, popped into my mind but I quashed it firmly down. I was now in the little office at Cerys’ tea room where Polly was switching on the work computer.

‘I think this is how she puts the orders in,’ said Polly.

‘I think you could be right,’ I replied. ‘Let’s have a look and see.’

We spent a couple of hours doing things like that — checking stock, making sure there were enough coffee beans for the machine, trying to figure out how many sticky buns we needed to order from the bakery, and tea cakes . . . that kind of thing.

‘Cerys makes her own scones,’ Polly told me, suddenly looking horrified as we scanned the practically empty display cases. ‘And she does breakfasts too. I can’t even boil an egg. I can put teacakes and crumpets in the toaster, but that’s about it.’

‘Okay, well that’s not a problem. We can offer a reduced menu — so long as we put a note on the door — because I guess you aren’t covered by food preparation certificates and all that, even if you did want to try making scones and fry ups. So I suggest you order scones from the bakery just for this week, and that cost will be offset by the fact you aren’t ordering sausages and bacon from the butchers and eggs from . . . who’s that . . . Elizabeth Culpepper?’ As I scanned the list of suppliers, I saw that all of Cerys’ produce was locally sourced, including the eggs.

‘What? Mrs Culpepper has a first name?’ asked Polly. ‘Wow.’

‘And chickens, apparently,’ I replied. ‘Look at that though.’ I pointed to the list on the screen. ‘It’s good that it’s all local. I’m sure that everyone will know the situation and be happy to change it up just for a week or so.’

‘Cerys said she was contacting everyone to let them know the short-term arrangements. Let me just check the emails . . .’

I moved away, smiling to myself as Polly switched up a gear, and saw that yes, everyone had responded and said it was fine. ‘I just think she was caught out by the baby coming so quickly,’ she explained. ‘She’s really organized.’

Privately I suspected part of it might have been that the tea room was Cerys’ first “baby”, and she was reluctant to relinquish control until the very last moment. But then again, she hadn’t even started her maternity leave by my understanding so maybe she had been caught out after all.

My thoughts flew to Rosie and Damien again, and I felt a small twinge of conscience. I guessed that neither of them had planned this latest development in their relationship, and although Rosie had seemed quite nervous when she’d told me, the phrase when she admitted she was just a “little bit pregnant” made me think harder. What if she was in some sort of denial? I mean, she was a chaotic enough person as it was. I wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage juggling a real baby and a man-baby like Damien, as well as working. And she loved her job, but it did involve a lot of travelling and strange hours.

It wasn’t like she was in a traditional nine-to-five. Some days, we left the flat together. Me for my 6 a.m. shift and her for her train to wherever she needed to be that day. We’d stop at the coffee shop on the corner of our street (which never seemed to shut) and buy two strong coffees to drink in companiable silence as we travelled to work. It made the early-morning commute more bearable. But if Rosie had a baby to deal with — who’d be willing to take it at 5 a.m. if Damien didn’t end up moving in . . . ?