Page 52 of The Little Board Game Café

‘Just relax. Try and enjoy this. No one’s looking at you. What do you think of the place?’

‘It’s lovely,’ Emily said, still fretting about her outfit. ‘But I know nothing about art.’

‘I’m not suggesting you make The Lancashire Hotpot into an art gallery.’

‘So why have you brought me here?’

‘I’m suggesting you make it into a destination. This place was just a farm shop before. If you happened to be passing, you might call in for a few chops and some carrots. But then they added the quilting place and this art gallery, and suddenly people were prepared to go out of their way to get here. I was wondering if you could do something similar and entice people away from the town centre? Make them visit you instead of Sweet Delights?’

‘I dunno. You’re forgetting one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Space. I haven’t room for a quilting shop or anything like that.’

‘I’m not suggesting that you try to copy this place,’ he said. ‘You obviously can’t. You just need something to make customers go a little bit out of their way to visit you.’

‘Are you ready to order?’ A fresh-faced waitress was standing at their table now.

‘I thought we’d have afternoon tea for two,’ said Peter. ‘Is that okay, Emily?’

She nodded.

‘Any particular tea?’

‘Darjeeling, please,’ said Peter.

When their afternoon tea arrived, it was beautifully presented on a clear Perspex cake stand. There were tiny sandwiches, made with thinnest slices of white bread with the crusts cut off. Fruit scones with ramekins containing clotted cream, strawberry jam and butter. And a selection of delicate cakes.

‘Looks amazing, Peter,’ Emily said. ‘Thank you.’

It tasted amazing too. The sandwiches were filled with lemony smoked salmon, tender strips of beef with horseradish sauce, and strong Cheddar with just the slightest hint of onion. Emily could make a decent scone, but hers were never this fluffy. And the cakes; the hazelnut macarons were to die for.

She bit into a raspberry mille-feuille, scattering shards of flaky pastry all over the immaculate white table.

‘I wish I could make these,’ she said, munching away. ‘Who wouldn’t walk an extra fifteen, twenty minutes to eat this kind of stuff rather than the bog-standard chocolate muffins at Sweet Delights? I’m sure they buy those in.’

‘I knew you’d find this place inspiring,’ said Peter. ‘If you make The Lancashire Hotpot a bit more upmarket; offer moules marinière and pastels de nata instead of fried breakfasts and Chorley cakes, you’ll attract a whole new clientele. My mother and her cronies would be in seventh heaven. They like somewhere a little exclusive.’

Emily refrained from saying that Florence’s friends had been frequenting her establishment anyway and that she didn’t want her café to be ‘exclusive’; that her mother’s vision was the exact opposite – a place where everyone was welcome. Including the woman who nearly became her mother-in-law. If she had to fake a smile and welcome Florence in for a strawberry meringue and a cup of Assam, then she would.

‘This has been wonderful,’ said Emily when they’d munched their way through everything. She glanced at her watch. ‘A real treat. But it’s ten to five, and I really need to get back. I’ve baking to do for tomorrow.’

Peter caught the waitress’s eye and made a ‘can I pay the bill?’ gesture to her.

The bill didn’t appear and, a few minutes later, Peter made the same gesture to a second waitress. It was quarter past five before he finally tapped his Visa on the card reader, batting away Emily’s offer to pay half. They wouldn’t get home till at least half past six at this rate; she was beginning to worry that she wouldn’t get all her prep done for the following day. Although she only made a minimal selection of cakes for the café – well, there wasn’t any point in making a lot since most of them didn’t get eaten – she did want to ensure that there was a reasonable display in the chiller cabinet. It would be sod’s law that the day the customers finally arrived was the same day she had little to offer them.

Thanks to a tractor, a set of roadworks and unexpectedly heavy traffic through Hebbleswick, it was almost seven when they pulled up outside Kate’s house. Emily was about to thank Peter again for afternoon tea, when he kissed her. It was just a peck, but it was on the lips.

It took Emily by surprise. She put a hand on his chest to stop him, and he pulled away.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Habit,’ he mumbled.

She couldn’t undo her seatbelt fast enough. ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tea.’

She stumbled out of the car – these shoes were going straight to Oxfam on Monday – and came face-to-face with Ludek.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hello.’