Page 16 of The Little Board Game Café

Florence followed as Emily hobbled into the kitchen and watched while she put the kettle on. Peter had a fancy coffee machine, of course, but Emily still didn’t know how to use it. Besides, Florence was less likely to linger if she gave her instant.

‘So, what did you want to see me about?’ Emily asked. Though of course, she knew. Peter would have rung his mother in a panic the moment he’d got to the office.

‘This café business,’ she said, grimacing as if she had a nasty taste in her mouth. ‘Peter is very concerned—’

‘Concerned?’

‘I mean, what will your role be? You won’t be waiting tables, will you?’

‘I imagine I’ll be doing pretty much everything, Florence.’ Emily put a heaped teaspoon of instant in a mug – knowing full well that Florence would have preferred a cup and saucer – and poured in the water. ‘Cooking the fry-ups…’

‘Fry-ups? It won’t be some sort of builders’ place, will it?’

‘Cooking the fry-ups, waiting the tables, sweeping the floor. At least, until it gets going.’ Emily handed her the mug. ‘Perhaps eventually, I’ll be able to employ someone to help. But it’s a big responsibility employing staff. As I’m sure you know.’ Florence and her late husband had run Ridley’s before Peter took over.

‘Yes, quite.’ She took a swig of her coffee. ‘Only, how will it look to everyone, the wife of a managing director of a prominent local company waiting on tables?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being a waitress. My mum was a waitress.’

Emily’s MIL2B wasn’t often stumped for words, but she didn’t know how to reply to that one.

‘I’d offer you a biscuit, Florence, but we don’t keep them in the house. You know, Peter and his keto diet. He won’t touch them.’

Florence took another swig of the coffee, grimaced again and put it down on the worktop with a plonk. ‘That’s okay, dear. I have to be going anyway. I said I’d meet Sylvia for lunch.’

‘At Sweet Delights?’

‘No, we’re going to a new place that’s opened. Somewhere near Otley. Or Ilkley. I forget which. Bit of a drive, but she tells me it’s worth it.’

*

Emily had been intending to head to Nico’s for lunch, to check the place out. But once Florence had left, it occurred to her that this was a golden opportunity to check out the opposition instead. She usually avoided Sweet Delights because her MIL2B and her cronies were often in there, but it would be her main competition – her only competition – if she did buy Nico’s, and she needed to know what she’d be up against.

Wearing her new lime-green coat, she walked down the high street, wincing now and again at her grumbling ankle. She passed Alessandra’s with its po-faced mannequins – okay, so mannequins didn’t have proper faces, but if they did, the ones in Alessandra’s would definitely be po-faced – and Oxfam with a tempting new display of self-help books in the window.

She stood outside the busy high street café, trying to see the place with fresh eyes even though she’d walked past it almost every day for the past few years.

It certainly had what Phil and Kirsty would call kerb appeal. A simple sign across the top read ‘Sweet Delights’. It was an old-fashioned sort of sign, but perfectly in keeping with the style of Essendale’s main street. A tall, wide window with a menu at one side and a small display of teapots, all brightly decorated. The tables inside were adorned with red-and-white-check tablecloths and small vases of red and white carnations.

The scent of freshly baked bread hit her as soon as she opened the door. This place was a cut above a greasy spoon. Several cuts above. Simply decorated with powder-blue walls and framed oil paintings of local landmarks: the old packhorse bridge over the river; the towering folly on top of the hill; a ruined mill in the woods, now partially enveloped by greenery - Essendale’s answer to Angkor Wat. The whole place hummed with voices: a mother with two sticky children munching on fancy cupcakes; three of Ridley’s workforce, talking animatedly over cappuccinos and avocado toast, who either hadn’t spotted her or were making a point of ignoring her; and an elderly couple in the corner holding hands. They let go of each other only reluctantly when their soup and sandwiches arrived.

Emily walked up to the counter to check out the cakes in the glass display cabinet. Generously filled chocolate eclairs, three types of scones, brownies, muffins, and the local speciality, curd tarts. All standard fayre, and probably bought in, but beautifully presented. A blackboard behind the counter announced today’s specials: Wensleydale pie with chips and peas; local pork sausages and mash; Whitby mackerel fish cakes with a soft-boiled egg and salad. It would be hard to compete with this place.

‘It’s table service,’ said the waitress somewhat abruptly. She was older than Emily, fifties she’d guess, with greying hair scraped up into a bun, and a name badge that read Peggy.

‘Okay, sure, I was…’ But Peggy had turned away already to make someone’s cappuccino and the noise of the machine drowned out her words.

Emily took a seat at the only empty table in the room. It was still cluttered with the detritus from its previous occupants and she felt rather smug about that. The first fault she’d found. Well, the second; Peggy hadn’t been exactly friendly.

Probably related to Clipboard Woman, Emily thought.

Peggy delivered the cappuccino to a neighbouring table, then came straight over to Emily, empty tray wedged under her arm and notebook at the ready. She glanced down at the dirty crockery, sighed as if the table not being cleared was Emily’s fault and began to load the tray.

‘Would you like to order?’ she asked. ‘Or are you waiting for someone?’

Emily had barely had time to read the menu. ‘I’ll have…er…eggs Benedict, please, and a glass of water.’

‘The breakfast menu finishes at eleven-thirty.’