Page 58 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

He glanced at her house, wondering if she was inside. Perhaps she had already seen him, in which case, he probably ought to knock on her door. He didn’t want her thinking he was loitering outside. Heaven forbid, that had a stalkerish ring about it.

He glanced at his watch and saw with relief that it was quarter to three. She would be on the school run. Emboldened by the knowledge that she almost certainly wasn’t at home, he stepped a little closer to the house, and realised that there were now curtains hanging in the huge front window. They were open so he could still see inside. The bunting had gone, as had the sign advertising her sewing services. He really shouldn’t peer in, but couldn’t help himself. The sofa was now in the window, and the sewing machine, mannequin and clothes rail were nowhere to be seen.

Had she given up her business? It would certainly appear so.

Had she gone out of business even? He hoped not. He doubted it too; from what he’d seen of her accounts, she’d been doing surprisingly well.

His phone beeped, heralding a new text and startling him, and he backed away from the shop, looking around to check that no-one had seen him looking in. He really did resemble a stalker.

As he walked back along the cobbles, he checked his phone, hoping that in some strange synchronicity, it might be Taylor. But it wasn’t; it was Ludek.

You’ve not been at the board game café recently. Are you okay?

Harry paused on the corner to text back.

I’m fine, thank you for asking.

He’d only walked a short distance when the phone beeped a second time. It was Ludek again.

Would you like to meet up on Sunday to play Ticket to Ride? Emily has bought the Netherlands version and I’d like to try it out.

Harry continued walking. He would reply later.

Another beep.

The café is quieter on a Sunday morning if you need to talk.

31

It wasn’t fair to take it out on Max.

It wasn’t his fault that he was being bullied at school, which was stressing her out more than ever, or that the boiler was playing up, or that Tarquin was threatening to tell her landlord that she was in breach of her tenancy agreement by running a business in the house, unless she ‘persuaded’ him not to.

It wasn’t Max’s fault that she was back to square one, sleeping on the sofa bed in the lounge with its backache-inducing mattress, whilst upstairs, her bedroom had become her workroom, keeping her sewing paraphernalia out of public view. The table took up most of the room; she’d pushed her mattress up against one wall and disassembled the bed frame, stashing the pieces under Max’s bed.

It wasn’t his fault that her heart began to pound every time her phone rang or there was a knock at the door, although thankfully she hadn’t heard from Tarquin in recent days.

And it wasn’t his fault that she was missing Harry’s friendship or that she’d agreed to upcycle clothes for a fashion show and was both desperately excited about it and desperately anxious at the same time. This was her big chance to reinvent herself as someone who could do more than replace a zip and take up a hem, her golden opportunity to launch her Etsy shop and start doing more of the type of work that really got her creative juices flowing. It had to go well.

No, none of this was Max’s fault, but that didn’t stop Taylor’s anxious, sleep-deprived self from being unusually snappy with him when he made a fuss about his fish fingers – she hadn’t been able to get his favourite brand – or when he wanted her to test him on his nineteen times tables for the umpteenth time.

‘Sorry, Max,’ she said one evening, when she went to say goodnight to him. He was engrossed in a history of the London Underground. ‘I’m really stressed and tired, but that isn’t your fault. Forgive me?’

Max nodded, but didn’t look up from his book.

‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ she said.

‘How?’ He still didn’t look up.

‘We could…’ She racked her brains. ‘How about I take you to the board game café one Sunday?’

He put the book down on the bed. ‘This Sunday?’

‘Well, perhaps not this Sunday.’ There wasn’t long until the fashion show and she still had a few bits and pieces to finish.

His face fell.

Oh, sod it, why not? She had been neglecting him recently. She could take a morning off, couldn’t she?