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Overview
The first rule of afternoon tea: never rush. Take time to savor it. Just like friendship…
The Seafront Tearoom is an insider secret in small-town Scarborough – a beach-front haven with the best tea and cakes in town – and journalist Charlie Harrison would love to put it on the map with a feature in her magazine. But single mom Kat Murray doesn’t want to see her favorite sanctuary overrun by tourists, and begs Charlie to seek out other options. She offers her help, as a “tea obsessive,” and so does French au pair Séraphine Moreau, whose upbringing makes her a connoisseur of everything sweet and indulgent.
Together the three women will scour the countryside for quaint hideaways and hidden gems, sharing along the way their secrets, disappointments, and dreams – and discovering that friendship, like tea, takes time to steep. But learning too that once you open your heart, the possibilities are endless.
Reading Guide Included
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780698195790 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 12/01/2015 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| Sales rank: | 396,227 |
| File size: | 777 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Praise for The Vintage Teacup Club
Also by Vanessa Greene
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Menu
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART TWO
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
PART THREE
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
Letter to the Reader
Letty’s Classic English Scones
Séraphine’s Magnificent Madeleines
Charlie’s Deliciously Indulgent Florentines
Kat’s Perfect Afternoon Tea
Readers Guide
The Seafront Tearoom, est. 1913
LETTY’S CLASSIC AFTERNOON TEA
Served on a tiered cake stand.
SAVORY:
A selection of finger sandwiches—cucumber, smoked salmon and egg mayonnaise
SWEET:
Raisin and apple scones warm from the oven, with clotted cream
Victoria sponge
Rose and pistachio cake
Profiteroles
Strawberries dipped in chocolate
A SELECTION OF LOOSE-LEAF TEAS:
English Breakfast, Assam, Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Jasmine, Spiced Orange
PART ONE
Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.
—HENRY FIELDING
1
Thursday, August 14
Scarborough
Kat Murray and her three-year-old son, Leo, walked together along the beach in flip-flops, his small hand in hers. The rock shops and arcades of the South Bay were busy with holidaymakers and weekenders, making the most of the rare burst of warm sunshine on the British coast. As the two of them neared the harbor, the familiar smell of fresh-caught fish from the pier reminded Kat that they were almost home.
Leo dropped his mother’s hand and ran toward the shop underneath their flat, with its neon-pink sign and a doughnut model that was bigger than him. She ran after him, laughing. “I’m the winner!” he called out, touching the doughnut.
“Not again,” Kat said, sighing in defeat, then smiling at him. “One day. One day I’ll beat you.” She got her keys out of her bag.
She unlocked the front door and Leo climbed the hallway stairs ahead of her. She and Jake had moved into the flat four years before, when she was twenty-two, in love and carefree. A lot had changed while they’d been living there.
“What’s for tea today, Mummy?” Leo called over his shoulder.
Kat tried to recall what was left in the kitchen cupboards and fridge.
“Dinosaurs,” she replied. “On the menu tonight, sir, are Tyrannosaurus rexes and diplodocuses. I hope you’re not vegetarian.”
“No way,” Leo said joyfully. “I love eating T. rexes.”
Upstairs, Kat took a slice of rye bread and a sharp knife and cut carefully around the paper template she’d made—a dinosaur’s body shape. She cooked some long-stemmed broccoli and placed it around the dinosaur to make trees, then formed the earth with a homemade vegetable chili.
She’d decided to stay on in the flat after she and Jake broke up in order to keep a constant in Leo’s life. Anyway, there was something about the place—the sea view, the cheap rent, even the bent-clawed seagull that tapped with its beak at their window each day—that she thought she would miss.
She took the food through to Leo in the living room, and he smiled when he saw it.
“I like him,” he said, looking at the plate. “I’m going to bite his head off first.”
“You go for it,” Kat laughed. “Before he does it to you.”
Leo chuckled, picking up his fork.
“Can you bring my stegosaurus to watch?”
“Sure.” Kat went into Leo’s room and found the stuffed toy on top of his red chest of drawers. Above the chest, on the wall, was the Gruffalo mural Jake had painted. She paused for a moment to look at it. Things had been good, when they were good.
She put Leo’s stegosaurus down on the table, so that he could see it while he ate.
“Mummy, you know where I’d like to go soon?” he said, chewing on a piece of broccoli.
“Where’s that?”
“The Sealife Centre!” he pronounced, slamming his fork down in glee.
Kat nodded, smiling. He had been asking almost daily through the summer. But it wasn’t cheap, and each time she set money aside, a bill would come. Hopefully, tomorrow things would change—her friend Cally, receptionist at the South Cliff Hotel, had put her forward for a job there. Apparently the manager had all but confirmed that it was Kat’s if she wanted it. A few hours a week would mean enough money for the extra things Leo needed, plus the occasional treat, and with the hotel within walking distance of his nursery, she’d still be able to pick him up easily.
“Billy says it’s fun. There are jellyfish. And sharks.”
“I’m sure it is. We’ll go soon,” she said, kissing her son’s head. “I promise.”
Leo looked up at her. When she saw his dark brown eyes it was impossible not to think of Jake.
She’d get the money together.
The next day, Mr. Peterson, the hotel manager, ticked Kat’s name off on the list of interviewees. She turned her silver and turquoise ring around on her finger, waiting for him to say something.
Kat must have passed the South Cliff Hotel a hundred times, on days when she’d taken the funicular up from the beach—but today was the first time she’d been inside the grand white building. She’d arrived at the same time as a coachload of Italian tourists, and from the back room she could still hear them talking out in reception.
For the interview, she’d concealed the tattoo on her wrist—a bold circle, identical to Jake’s—underneath the long sleeves of a black blazer, and blow-dried her dark cropped hair so that it lay smooth. It was warm in the room though, and she longed to take the blazer off. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d normally wear.
“So, Kathryn. What is it that attracts you to the South Cliff?” Mr. Peterson asked.
She tried to remember what she’d practiced in front of the mirror the night before, and took a breath.
“I’m very interested in working in hospitality, and the South Cliff is internationally renowned. I’d be proud to be part of the team and I feel I could contribute a lot in terms of . . .”
Mr. Peterson looked down at her résumé, then took off his glasses and laid them down on the table. His expression seemed to soften.
“This is primarily a cleaning job, you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Cally told me,” Kat said, feeling a little flat.
“Right . . .” Mr. Peterson nodded slowly. “Well, Cally is quite insistent you would be perfect.”
“I work hard,” she said. “Whatever I do, I work hard.”
“Yes,” the manager said, putting one hand on her résumé. “It certainly looks like it.”
The tension in Kat’s shoulders eased a little.
Mr. Peterson sat back in his chair. “I hope you’ll take this the right way. A degree in Hospitality and Culinary Arts, courses in tea-tasting, patisserie . . .”
“I know what you’re going to say, but I’m happy to do—”
“You’re overqualified.”
The words rang out and Kat tried to think of a reply to counter them.
“I should have looked through your details more carefully, but you know Cally. She can be very persuasive. Look, Kathryn—you’re young. You’re only, what . . .” He glanced back at her details. “. . . twenty-six? You’ve still got time to build a career for yourself. I don’t think I’d be doing the right thing employing you as a cleaner, not for either of us.”
“Is it that you think I’d leave? Because I wouldn’t. I need something steady.”
Mr. Peterson shook his head. “I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”
“OK,” Kat said numbly. She got to her feet. “Well, thanks for seeing me all the same,” she said. “Could you—”
“Of course. We’ll keep your résumé on file.”
Outside, Kat took off her jacket, the sea breeze cool against her skin. She crossed the road to the rose garden on the cliffside, sat down on a bench and texted Cally a quick message to update her. Putting it down in writing made it more real. She felt as if she’d let Leo down.
At times like these, she wondered if things would have been easier if she and Jake had stayed together, if they could somehow have worked things out. Now he was back home in Scotland, his work was no longer steady, and it was Leo who would have to go without.
She walked down through the park, until the view opened up to reveal the full expanse of the sea. In front of her a little farther down the hill was the place she was heading to: the Seafront Tearoom.
A couple of people were sitting at tables outside, but inside the café looked quiet. She pushed the stained-glass front door, a bell signaling her arrival. As she stepped inside, she breathed in the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked scones. It enveloped her, as comforting as a duvet on a chilly winter’s day. The interior of the Seafront was reassuringly familiar—the wooden tables neatly laid with pressed white tablecloths, the delicate china teacups lining the shelves, and the 1920s table lamps.
“Kat.” Letty, the owner, smiled and tucked a strand of her silver-gray bob back behind her ear. “Come in. I was hoping we might see you today.”
Kat closed the door behind her. “Hi there,” she said, leaning in to kiss her hello. Letty was in her usual pressed black slacks, and an apron with a dusting of flour on it. Her son, Euan, was sitting up at the bar, dressed in a suit, looking at something on his iPad.
“Thought I’d pop by and say hello.”
“Everything OK?” Letty asked, her pale blue eyes inquiring gently.
“Yes,” Kat said as lightheartedly as she could, sitting down at her usual chair by the window. “I had a job interview. It didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She put an arm around Kat sympathetically. “Well, it’s their loss.”
“It probably wasn’t right for me anyway.” Kat shrugged.
“That’s the spirit. There’ll be something better out there for you, I’m sure.”
“I could seriously do with the money, though.”
Letty’s brow furrowed. “Are you OK to cover the basics? I can always help you out, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” Kat said. “We’ll be fine. Leo can really eat, though . . . and he’s outgrowing his clothes so quickly.”
“Oh yes,” Letty said. “I remember how it was. Euan was the same,” she said, nodding over at her son, who was devouring one of her scones. “Thirty and he’s still over here eating my profits on his tea breaks.”
“I can hear you talking about me, you know,” he called over, a glint in his blue eyes.
Letty rolled her eyes indulgently. “Cheeky monkey!” She turned back to Kat. “Can you have a word with Jake?”
“He’s still getting the business set up in Scotland and it’s taking time.”
“Right. I suppose that’s not something that happens overnight. He’ll get there. Until then, what can I get you? An Earl Grey? I’ve got a Victoria sponge fresh out the oven. Cake’s on me today.”
Kat looked over at the counter. She could see the scones that were scenting the air so irresistibly, a Victoria sponge cake and a tray of brownies.
“Oh, go on then,” Kat said, a smile creeping back onto her face. “Thank you.”
Letty disappeared off into the kitchen and returned to the table a few minutes later with a pink-and-green-patterned teapot, a matching teacup and a slice of cake layered with jam and cream.
“Here you go,” she said, putting the things down.
Kat thanked her and took a bite of Victoria sponge cake. “Wow, this is delicious, Letty.”
Letty smiled. “Thank you. I consider that high praise—I know what your standards are like.”
Kat laughed.
Euan got to his feet, pulled his suit jacket back on and came over to them.
“How are you doing, Kat? It’s been a while.”
“Good, thanks.” It was comforting to see Euan. They’d grown up on the same street and while they’d moved in different social circles, with four years between them, he’d always been kind to her.
“And Leo?”
“Growing fast. I can barely catch up with him these days.” She smiled.
“You’ll have to bring him in next time.”
“I will do. He loves this place.”
“See you later, Mum.” Euan gave Letty a hug. “I need to head back to site.”
“Bye, love,” Letty said, putting her hand gently on his arm.
“Bye, Kat.” Euan gave Kat a nod good-bye and walked out, starting up a conversation on his mobile.
“What’s Euan working on at the moment?”
“The old cinema—they’re turning it into a restaurant. He’s done some of the designs for the project. It’s a shame they couldn’t keep it open—but this is better than it sitting empty.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll ask him to keep his ear to the ground for you,” Letty said. “It might be that some work comes up.”
“Thanks, that would be good.”
No use being sentimental. Her old job at the cinema ticket office hadn’t been perfect, even though she’d enjoyed working there, especially the matinees full of friendly pensioners and new mums. Kat sipped her tea slowly, gazing out of the window. Life moved on, and places changed. She’d find a way to move forward too.
An hour later, Kat was waiting by the door to Leo’s nursery, holding a jumper for him. She was glad she’d put it in her bag—the warm day had cooled a little and Leo had only been wearing a T-shirt when she’d dropped him off before her interview that morning.
She’d browsed on her phone at the tearooms and found one new job that might be suitable—as an admin assistant at an estate agents. It was outside town, so would mean a long journey there and back, but she could manage that if she had to.
A meter or so away two mothers were chatting—Amelia, a redhead with a pregnancy bump, and Emma, a dark-haired woman carrying a pink scooter. She knew the women from pickups and drop-offs, and had chatted to them occasionally. Today she kept her eye on the nursery door, waiting to see Leo come out.
“How about this Sunday? Are you and Sam free for lunch?” Amelia asked her friend. “Work has been crazy, so I could do with something to look forward to.”
“Sounds great,” Emma replied enthusiastically.
“Sam and I are taking Lily to soft play in the morning, so some adult company after that would be wonderful. Can’t count on my husband for that!”
Amelia laughed. “It’s a date, then. Do you like rhubarb crumble? We’ve got some rhubarb fresh from the garden and—”
A tickle in Kat’s throat made her cough. Amelia turned, noticed her and looked faintly embarrassed. “Hi, Kat, didn’t see you there.”
“Hello,” Kat said with a smile.
“I was just saying—” Amelia seemed to stop herself. “You know, we must have Leo round for a playdate one of these days. He and Lily get on so well.”
“He’d enjoy that,” Kat said.
They stood quietly for a couple of minutes that stretched out. Finally, the nursery door opened.
Kat looked out eagerly for her son. He was still at the back of the room, taking his time as he walked over. Amelia and Emma greeted their toddlers.
“Well, best be off,” Amelia said, with a smile at Kat. The two women set off with their children, who were squealing with excitement, in the direction of the shops.
Kat clutched Leo’s jumper to her chest. He caught sight of her and, waving a quick good-bye to his friend, dashed over to her with a huge smile. As soon as he reached her he gave her a bear hug, encircling her legs.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Kat said, ruffling his dark-blond hair. “Here, put this on.” She passed him his red jumper and he slipped it over his head quickly.
He looked at her suit skirt and wrinkled his nose. “Why are you wearing those funny clothes?”
“Oh,” she said, looking down and touching the synthetic material. “I had to be smart for something.”
“Boring. I like your green dress better.”
“I’ll put that on when we get home,” she said, smiling. “OK?”
That night, after she’d put Leo to bed, Kat opened the antique wooden cabinet in her kitchen. Inside were glass jars filled with different types of tea—from fragrant Indian blends to refreshing herbals, each one with a handwritten luggage tag attached. She chose a jasmine bud that expanded in the water into a flower, put it in a delicate china teacup and carried it over to the sofa. She picked up the quilt she’d been working on for Leo, made from scraps of old duvet covers, and pushed the needle into the fabric, bringing together colorful sections of material. Each fresh new stitch of white cotton soothed her.
Tomorrow morning she’d apply for the admin job she’d spotted, tailoring her résumé more carefully this time. Yes, it had been two months of unreturned applications, and interviews ending in apologetic shakes of the head, but this could be the one.
She was distracted by a buzzing sound.
Her phone was vibrating on the coffee table, the screen lit up. She reached for it.
JAKE.
The name that used to be half of her world. Now it was a few letters, nothing more.
“Hi, Jake,” she said, picking up.
“Hey,” he said. “How’re things?” His Scottish accent sounded stronger now.
“I’m fine,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Listen, Kat, I’m here. Downstairs. The bell’s not working.”
She got up and went over to the kitchen window, peering out. Jake looked up at her from the street and smiled, still talking into his phone.
“Can you let me in?”
2
Thursday, August 14
A village near Bordeaux, France
“No more for me, thank you,” Séraphine Moreau said. Her father, Patrick, offered her the slice of raspberry tart again, ready for her to change her mind, but she put her hand over her plate. “Honestly, Papa, I’ve had enough.”
Patrick drew his dark eyebrows together and set the tart down reluctantly, then shook his head. “Just like her mother,” he said in English to their guests, Ravi and Anna. “They do all the hard work in the kitchen and then let everyone else do the eating.”
A warm laugh went up around the table. Séraphine’s mother, Hélène, nudged her gently in the ribs and whispered behind her hand in French, “They don’t see what actually goes on when we’re baking, of course.” She smiled, toying with the gold pendant on her necklace.
Since Séraphine was a young girl, she and her mother had baked together, the two of them feasting on the freshly picked berries, flaked almonds and pieces of chocolate that never made it as far as the oven.
Today, sunshine warmed Séraphine’s shoulders, bare in a strappy red sundress, and glinted off her wineglass. A few baguette crumbs and an olive stone were all that were left on her plate, remnants of the long afternoon’s dining under the apple tree in the garden of her family’s chateau. The twins, her brother and sister, both eight years old—splashed contentedly in the swimming pool nearby.
“I’m glad you could make it down,” Anna, one of her parents’ guests, said to Séraphine over the narrow table, with its red-and-white gingham tablecloth. “Your mother said you weren’t feeling well earlier.”
“I’m much better now, thank you,” she replied politely. She twisted her wavy dark-blond hair up and secured it with a clip. The late-afternoon breeze was cool on the back of her neck. “It was only a headache.”
Séraphine had been tempted to stay in bed that morning, her mind still buzzing from the events of the past weeks, but in the end distraction had been welcome. Conversation with Ravi and Anna, an English couple who’d recently bought the neighboring chateau, had been relaxed and unhurried, as if she’d always known them. It had been good to practice her English with them, too—over the summer, since finishing her exams, she’d barely spoken a word.
“Mathilde, Benjamin,” Hélène called out to the twins, who were splashing water over the side of the pool as they threw a beach ball to each other. “It’s time to come out now.” She turned back to her elder daughter. “Séraphine, have you seen their towels?”
She picked up the fluffy beach towels on the grass next to her and passed them to her mother. “Here you go.”
Hélène went over to the twins as they clambered out of the pool, shivering slightly.
“Your mother said you like to read. Do you read in English?” Anna asked Séraphine. “I have a few books you might enjoy.”
“Thank you, yes. My favorites are mysteries and crime novels—Agatha Christie, that kind of thing. Classics too. I’m reading Rebecca at the moment—I’m enjoying it.”
“A wonderful book,” Anna agreed.
“I love the part where she describes the laying out of afternoon tea, the performance of it—the silver tray, the kettle, the cloth.”
“Yes. Quite an important part of the day—or at least it was back then,” Anna said. “Most people don’t have the time, or take the time, now. I have to admit I was more in the habit of grabbing a latte than stopping to sip Earl Grey.”
“Séraphine’s always been keen on English culture,” Patrick said to Anna and her husband. “And of course she’s the linguist in the family. My English, well, as you can hear, it’s terrible. Luckily, it comes naturally to her.”
Séraphine felt a flush creep onto her cheeks. “Dad, shhh,” she said, laughing. She looked at Ravi and Anna and rolled her eyes playfully in her father’s direction. “I’m pretty rusty. I’ve finished my teacher training course, but want to improve my English before I start looking for a job.”
“That’s good. Such an exciting time in life—preparing to fly the nest,” Anna said.
Séraphine’s confusion must have shown.
“Sorry—flying the nest, leaving home,” Anna explained.
“Oh,” Séraphine laughed. “That’s a nice phrase. Yes, I suppose so. Though I won’t be going too far—I’ll be looking for work in Bordeaux, private classes to start off with, then a permanent job next autumn.”
“And before that—wouldn’t you like to go to England?” Ravi chipped in. “Now’s the time in life for big adventures. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three,” she said.
Age didn’t mean much, Séraphine thought. What mattered was how you felt inside. She remembered the sensation of grass beneath her bare feet, by the river the day before. Laughing. Feeling free. The butterfly touch of a kiss on her neck. She felt complete in a way she never had before.
“That’s the way to perfect a language, too,” Ravi continued. “Total immersion.”
“Hang on, Ravi.” Anna nudged her husband. “That’s what we said about coming here, isn’t it? And look—we’re still so incompetent we’ve got these lovely people talking to us in English.” She laughed. “But you’d be more disciplined about it, Séraphine, I’m sure. And you’re already quite fluent.”
“I wish we could invite you to be our guest,” Ravi said. “But now we’ve sold up and there’s definitely no going back.”
“You prefer it here?” Séraphine asked. She was more comfortable talking about them than herself.
“We adore it,” Anna said. “Who wouldn’t? Good food, wine, company . . . We were ready for a change after the kids left home.”
Instinctively, Séraphine glanced at her parents. A look passed between them. Her brother Guillaume had left home the year before, in difficult circumstances, and they hadn’t been at all ready for the change.
“. . . But England’s a wonderful place for a young person, you’d enjoy it.”
“You thought about living there, didn’t you, sweetheart?” Patrick prompted his daughter gently. “Earlier this year you were saying . . .”
Séraphine tensed. “It’s very expensive though, isn’t it? A friend of mine went to London and—”
Anna laughed and wrinkled her nose. “There’s more to England than London, you know.”
“She’s right, Yorkshire’s the place to visit,” Ravi said. “Would you consider going up north?”
“Maybe,” Séraphine said. “I don’t know. Where were the two of you living?”
“In Scarborough. It’s a lovely town. You’re right by the sea, and while—granted—we can’t guarantee the glamour, or the weather, of Antibes or Nice, it’s fun in the summer. The people are friendly, and it’s affordable.”
Séraphine sensed that the others were waiting for her to respond. “It sounds nice. I don’t expect there’d be many jobs, though. Summer’s nearly over.”
“Bet you’ll find some au pair work going,” Anna said confidently. “Hang on, what about Adam, Ravi? Is he still looking for someone?”
Ravi nodded. “I think he is, actually.” He turned to Séraphine. “Lovely guy. He was our neighbor for years—has a ten-year-old daughter.”
“His wife was from here,” Anna said. “They married very young, and lived in France until she passed away in an accident four or five years ago. I don’t know what happened, but it must have been terrible for them. I remember him saying he’s keen for his daughter to speak French, to keep the connection—so he’s looking for someone to live with them and teach her.”
“You’d make a wonderful au pair,” Hélène said, wrapping a squirming Mathilde in one of the warm towels. “Would you like that, darling?”
“Maybe,” Séraphine said, slowly.
Anna was already reaching into her handbag for a pen and paper. She checked her phone and wrote something down. “Here’s Adam’s e-mail. Think about it?”
Séraphine took the piece of paper and smiled politely. “Thank you.”
Evening fell, and while Hélène put the twins to bed, Séraphine and her father carried the dishes inside to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you won’t join us for a drink in the library?” he asked.
“No, it’s fine. I’m a little tired.” She said good-bye to the guests and went upstairs.
In her bedroom, she walked over to the window to close the wooden shutters, pausing for a moment to look out. The well-tended garden and the vineyards beyond were warmly tinted by the gray-pink sky at dusk. Out to the east was the village square, a cobbled area with shops around it, where a market was held once a fortnight. A few meters away was the school she’d gone to, and the church the whole family, including her grandparents, attended every Sunday. The landscape, streets and buildings were as familiar to her as her own fingerprint.
And yet every stone, branch and street corner looked different to her now. Meeting someone who understood her made her realize how much of her real self she’d kept hidden. She drew the shutters and lowered the catch to secure them.
From the room next door came the sound of giggling. She stepped into the corridor and put her head around the twins’ bedroom door. In her sternest voice, she demanded, “Mathilde? Benjamin? Why are you two still awake?”
In tandem, without a word, they ducked under the covers, rolling onto their sides. Séraphine quietly closed the door and glanced along the corridor toward her brother’s room. Even though he’d moved out, the room still had his football posters on the walls, a rack of his old shoes by the wardrobe. With only two years separating them, Guillaume and Séraphine had been close. She used to sit on the chair in his room and he’d strum his guitar, playing her the new songs he had written, while incense burned in the corner.
Back in her own room, Séraphine turned on a lamp and lay back on her bed. When Guillaume left, a crack formed in their home. In truth, the hairline fracture had appeared earlier and only deepened when he walked out; he had been slipping away from them for over a year—spending most of his time with his band in Bordeaux, rarely bothering to come home at night. As his band grew more successful and started touring in Europe, he’d seemed less happy, somehow. On the rare occasions when he was home he’d appeared disconnected, listless.
Her parents chose not to see the change in him, the deadness Séraphine noticed behind his eyes. He’d finally left before Christmas, saying good-bye but not leaving an address. “A commune,” he’d said to Séraphine in an offhand way. “You can be yourself there, not like in this place, this prison. If you want to find me, come to Bordeaux. Ask and they’ll show you.” He’d walked out with a sports bag in his hand, nothing else.
Séraphine looked up at the shadows on her ceiling. She had always wondered if, when the right person came along, she would know if it was love. If you could be sure, instinctively, that was what you were feeling. She’d had boyfriends before, of course, but she’d never lain awake at night thinking about them. Now she knew: love was an absence of questions, of doubt. It was a certainty that you had found what it was you’d been looking for and there was no reason to go on searching.
She knew how her parents would react, and that was why they must never find out. If she followed her heart, she’d be straying from the good upbringing they’d strived to give their children. She’d be like Guillaume. As bad as Guillaume. Her love—pure and kind and honest as it felt—to them would represent nothing more than defiance.
She couldn’t be the one to hurt them all over again. At the same time, she couldn’t undo what had happened in the last couple of weeks, unknow that part of herself, forget how she felt.
Her actions, however, were another matter—she could still do the right thing.
England. Until her father brought it up, she’d forgotten how—before that first kiss had knocked the sense out of her—she’d dreamed of moving to England.
Perhaps going away would make her stronger. Perhaps when she came back, she’d be strong enough to resist.
She switched her iPad on and typed a word into the search bar: Scarbrah.
Did you mean Scarborough? the search engine pinged back in response.
“Yes, I did,” she whispered, frustrated with herself. “Thank you.”
A photo of a white lighthouse came up on her screen, in front of it the stone statue of a woman poised to dive into the water. Other pictures appeared: one of a harbor, with boats glinting in the sun, another of a miniature railway. She swiped her finger through more images—sandy bays, a castle on top of a hill, shops and cafés. She tried to imagine herself in the seaside town. It looked like a different world. Could she even cope living in someone else’s home?
The ping of an instant message interrupted her thoughts.
Salut, ma belle
She saw the name, and her heart thudded. A smile came to her lips even as she tried to fight the feeling.
She took a deep breath and closed the chat window. Today would be her new start. Her finger hovered over the icon for a second. No. She wouldn’t.
She leaned over to her bedside table to get the note that Anna had given her that afternoon. She unfolded it, read the e-mail address and typed it into a new message.
Dear Adam . . .
3
Thursday, August 14
Brooklyn, New York
Charlie Harrison leaned against the metal bar at the edge of the rooftop restaurant, looking out at the view, salsa music blaring from the raised speakers around her. The balmy night had brought New Yorkers outside to dine in their droves, and the tables at La Mesita were almost all full. Charlie had been day-dreaming about her trip to see her friend Sarah for weeks, her morning commute on the Piccadilly line drifting away as she read a Time Out guide to the city. At last, she was finally here.
Sarah appeared at her side with two ice-cold margaritas. “Here you go,” she said, handing one to Charlie before joining her friend in admiring the view. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The lights of Brooklyn Bridge dotted the horizon, reflected in the still waters of the river, and skyscrapers were silhouetted beyond. But it was more than the way the place looked—the city had an energy to it that no postcard or film could ever hope to convey.
“Yes. Incredible,” Charlie said. She took a sip of her cock-tail, relishing the sharp taste of the lime and tequila as it settled on her taste buds, layers of flavor coming through the citrus. Could have been shaken for a little longer—but it was pretty good.
Sarah glanced down at Charlie’s hand, which was trembling on her glass. “What’s with the shakes?”
“Is it that obvious?” she said, putting the glass down and cradling her hand. “Caffeine overdose.” She laughed. “We’re featuring Brooklyn coffee shops in the October edition of the magazine, and with only a couple of days here I had to cram in the cappuccinos today. Good job I’m in the city that never sleeps.”
“Well, I’m up for an all-nighter if you are,” Sarah said with a smile. She was elegant in a green halter-neck dress, her red hair clipped up at the side. “The two of us have some serious catching up to do, and anyway, I’ve put our names down at a club later.”
“Great.” Charlie brightened at the thought. “I haven’t been out dancing in ages. I knew I could rely on you.”
“Yep. Might be past it professionally, but I’ll always be a dancer. It’d take more than a couple of failed auditions to knock that passion out of me.”
A young Latino waiter appeared by their side. “Señoritas, allow me to see you to your table.”
He led them to a nearby table and motioned for them to sit down, then placed two menus in front of them. “I’ll be back in a moment to take your order.”
“Wow!” Charlie said, running her eyes down the menu, her mouth starting to water. “Fish tacos, Oaxacan cheese quesadillas . . . God, I could eat everything on this.”
Sarah called the waiter over.
“We’ll have a selection of your starters, a chicken burrito and spicy beef tacos to share,” she said swiftly. “With plenty of guacamole.”
He looked from Sarah to Charlie, seeking confirmation that she had nothing to add.
“If we wait for her to decide, we’ll be here all evening,” Sarah told him.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Charlie protested.
“Tell me I haven’t got a point.”
“OK, OK.” Charlie held her hands in the air, conceding.
“You’re off duty tonight, remember?” Sarah passed the menus back to the waiter with a smile. “Two cosmopolitans as well. Thanks.”
“Have you always been this bossy?” Charlie said. She took out her phone and checked it for new messages.
“Yes, I have. Anyone interesting?” Sarah raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Oh, it’s nothing like that.” Charlie smiled and shook her head. “I should be so lucky. My sister’s pregnant again. Due any day.”
“Again?”
“Yep. This’ll make three. Another girl this time.”
“That’s fairly prolific. Are you and Pippa getting on any better these days?”
“Not really,” Charlie said, with a shrug. “But living in different cities helps. Anyway, let’s not talk about that. Not tonight.” She put her phone away.
“No family chat. OK. I can do that. So, work’s going well? I hear you’re making quite a name for yourself. ‘The female Jay Rayner’—saw that on Twitter.”
“Hardly,” Charlie said, wrinkling her nose, but flattered all the same. “But yes, it’s going all right. The canalside dining feature I did brought Indulge a lot of new readers—and the restaurants I featured have been packed out all summer.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“Thanks. I’ve been there eight years now. Can you believe it?”
“That long? I can still remember when you got that editorial assistant job after your internship. You were over the moon. Who’d have thought, you’d soon be Features Editor and reviewing the best restaurants all over the world.”
“It’s not all glamour.” Charlie smiled. “In spite of the perks, I’ve been feeling a bit stuck in a rut lately. Jess, the editor, has very strong ideas about how she wants the magazine to be, and so I always have to work to her brief.”
“So what’s next? Are you thinking of moving on?”
“Hopefully I’ll be able to move up. Jess is leaving in the new year and she’s hinted I’m in with a good chance of taking over as editor. I’ll be guest-editing the winter edition as a trial.”
“That sounds like a perfect opportunity,” Sarah said. “You’re bound to get it.”
“I hope so,” Charlie said, excited at the thought. “I’ll need to come up with a strong concept for the issue, but putting it together should be straightforward. I do a lot of the writing and commissioning these days.”
“I can picture it,” Sarah said. “You were always destined to get to the top.”
“I don’t know about that,” Charlie laughed. “What about you anyway, how’s the personal training going?”
“I’m enjoying it,” Sarah said. “A few high-maintenance clients, but most of them are lovely. It pays the bills, and even keeps me in banana pancakes and lattes.”
“It must be wonderful, living here,” Charlie said enviously. “And it certainly seems to suit you.”
Sarah, who’d been a complete tomboy throughout their teenage years, was sleek and glamorous now—her hair color deepened with lowlights, and her summer dress showing off perfectly toned arms. Charlie, in indigo jeans and a strapless black top, felt less polished—but she was comfortable, and the jeans were a wardrobe essential, stretching forgivingly when she put on weight. Her straight blonde hair was loose tonight, brushing her shoulders, and she’d dressed the jeans up with gold wedges.
“Thank you,” Sarah responded. “It’s my kind of town, that’s for sure. Impossible to get bored.”
“Do you miss anything about home?”
“What, like the King’s Head?” Sarah said, recalling their South London local. “Nope, I don’t miss that leg-humping pub dog one little bit.”
Charlie laughed. “OK, perhaps not that. But surely there must be something?”
“People, obviously. Family. Living with you.”
“That’s the answer I was looking for,” Charlie said, smiling.
“And one other thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“A good cup of tea. I mean a seriously good cup of tea. And a proper scone with cream. The food here is incredible, don’t get me wrong—but a good old-fashioned tearoom? They don’t exist.”
“Do you remember that teashop hidden away behind the train station?”
“The Rosebud?” Sarah smiled at the memory. “Yes, of course I do. Almost made getting dumped worth it, that cake.”
In Guerrilla Coffee, the aroma of freshly ground Arabica beans fills the air. While the service is brisk to the point of being offhand, the feisty espressos more than make up for it. A mix of early-to-rise city workers, freelance writers and morning-after clubbers congregate around oak banquettes and sip from steaming hot cups . . .
Charlie rubbed her eyes as she wrote, her MacBook balanced on the tray table in front of her. She would have given anything to have a hot macchiato about now. She checked the corner of her computer screen, still on UK time—four hours till they touched down, and six more reviews to go. She’d finished writing up her notes on two venues—the boutique dog café and the underground iced-coffee bar—typing as the plane flew over the Atlantic.
She and Sarah hadn’t got back till the early hours of the morning. They’d gone out in Greenwich Village with a group of Sarah’s friends, partying like old times, dancing on the bar and laughing until their sides hurt. She’d crashed for a couple of hours on the sofa bed in her friend’s loft apartment, then caught a cab directly to the airport. Saying good-bye to Sarah had been bittersweet; they both knew that it would probably be a year or more until they saw each other again. The trip away had been energizing but all too brief, and Charlie was in no hurry to get back. Home meant being reminded of her breakup with Ben.
