Secrets and Tea at Rosie Lee's Read online

  SECRETS AND TEA AT ROSIE LEE’S

  Jane Lacey-Crane

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Secrets and Tea at Rosie Lee’s

  Fast approaching 40 and fighting a serious case of ‘empty nest syndrome’, Abby Cowan is a woman without a plan. Her business is as dead as her love life and her only potential lifeline is a last-minute job offer from a friend. After years of cooking nothing fancier than a bacon sarnie in her little East End greasy spoon café, Abby is roped in to help cater a party.

  As if being forced out of her comfort zone wasn’t bad enough, the host of the party turns out to be a man she never thought she’d see again – Jack Chance, her first love and her first kiss. Jack’s reappearance brings back some painful memories but also the opportunity for Abby to finally get some answers to the questions that have plagued her since she was 15.

  Why did Jack and his family vanish into the night without a word? Where did her father abandon his family? Why did her mother leave her to fend for herself? And how many people, over the years, have conspired to keep Abby away from the truth? When the truth is finally uncovered, Abby must face the fact that even those who claim to love you will sometimes hurt you; when push comes to shove, they will do anything to keep you safe, no matter what the consequences.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Secrets and Tea at Rosie Lee’s

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Jane Lacey-Crane

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  For Grace & Sam – Mummy did it!

  For Jason – thank you for those twelve-ish months!

  Chapter 1

  Rosie Lee’s Café is a typical example of what a good café can be like – as long as it’s 1988. That’s probably the last time the décor or the menu was updated. This reviewer suspects that the owner may be waiting until its particular interior design style comes back into fashion. They may be in for a long wait.

  ‘Bollocks!’ I exclaimed. The positive review I’d been hoping for obviously wasn’t about to materialise. I forced myself to read on.

  Despite it being located just a stone’s throw from Old Spitalfields Market, a newly regenerated hub of all things creative and on trend, the tide of urban regeneration seems to have passed Rosie Lee’s by. I ordered the traditional breakfast fry-up and, I will say, the food didn’t disappoint. The breakfast was cooked to perfection and my cup of good old ‘Rosie Lee’ (tea) was hot and freshly brewed. And the toast, although not sourdough, was crisp and very tasty. I should mention, though, that there is no gluten-free option.

  I winced at the memory of the day this reviewer had visited us. He’d asked Flo for gluten-free bread and she’d told him that if he wanted anything fancy he could take his hipster beard and bugger off somewhere else.

  All in all, Rosie Lee’s Café is fairly uninspiring, but it won’t give you food poisoning. Just for that this reviewer is giving it one teapot out of a potential five. Now, on to more interesting territory. Bare Naked Coffee is an artisanal bakery and coffee house…

  I closed the newspaper. I didn’t need to read about how fabulous their unleavened hemp bread was, or how their primo coffee blend ‘was to die for!’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I repeated.

  ‘Abby! The coffee machine’s not working! Come and do that thing you do with it, would you, love?’

  ‘What’s up with it now, Flo?’ Her cries for help brought me out of the kitchen and into the café. A frazzled and sweaty-looking Flo stood in front of the offending machine.

  ‘The steam’s not working. I’m not getting any froth!’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said, reaching for the spanner under the counter. This was the fourth time in the last week that the bloody machine had died on us, so I’d taken to keeping tools handy. There was a small queue of people all waiting for their orders, and I brandished my spanner at them, like some demented warrior queen.

  ‘Sorry for the wait, folks, let me just try and get this sorted for you.’ They looked at me and then at the spanner, undoubtedly expecting me to do something highly technical with it. Instead I lifted it up high and brought it down heavily onto the top of the machine. Once, twice, three times. It hissed and wheezed for a few seconds and I held my breath.

  ‘I think you might have killed it completely this time,’ said Flo from her new, safer position on the other side of the counter.

  ‘Just wait for a minute, hold on.’ Taking a metal jug full of milk from beside the machine, I dipped the end of the steam nozzle into it. With one eye closed, I turned the handle that forced the steam into the milk and prayed that it wouldn’t explode in my face. From somewhere inside I heard gurgling, then the machine let out a high-pitched whistle as the milk began to bubble. Problem solved. The little queue of customers gave me a small ripple of applause and I turned to take a modest bow.

  Flo came back around the counter and took the jug out of my hands.

  ‘Here, give us that. That bloody thing needs replacing. One of these days you’re gonna take a swing at it and it’ll go off like a rocket.’

  ‘I can’t afford a new machine, Flo, you know that. I’m barely making enough to cover costs as it is, let alone have any spare.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll have a bit extra once you’ve finished this catering job?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘Making desserts for some random corporate event isn’t really going to help much,’ I said. ‘Besides, I really only did it as a favour to Liz.’

  ‘I did tell you to charge her more, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Flo, you did. Several times actually.’

  ‘Well, she took the right piss, all that faffing about changing her mind, leaving it all to the last minute. I know she’s your friend, but she was a pain in the arse. Uppity little madam.’ I marvelled at how Flo managed to deliver this speech whilst simultaneously serving customers and wiping up spills on the counter. She was seventy years old, but she was still as feisty and energetic as ever; I couldn’t manage without her, despite her occasional bouts of rudeness towards anyone with too much facial hair.

  ‘Look, it’s done now. I’ve just got to drop off the last batch of tarts and then it’s over with. No more corporate catering for me.’ I draped my arm around her tiny shoulders and dropped a kiss on her head. I’d known Flo all my life. She was one of my mother’s oldest friends and although she might look tiny and fragile, she was formidable.

  ‘Well, bugger off, then, go and get rid of those cakes.’

  ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can,’ I said, pulling on my jacket. Now where did I leave the van keys? I rifled through the pockets, pulling out old tissues and other assorted bits of crap until Flo jingled the missing keys in front of my face.<
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  ‘What would I do without you?’ I said, taking them from her and heading into the kitchen.

  ‘You’d manage. Look, there’s no need for you to rush back. I can take care of everything here. We’re not exactly rushed off our feet, are we?’

  I looked back out to the café. It was true; business hadn’t been brisk. I had been hoping that a glowing review in the local paper might drum up a bit more trade, but there was no chance of that now. The development of the nearby market had been great for anyone in its immediate vicinity, but not for us. We were just that little bit too far outside the ‘development zone’. It wasn’t just my café either – all the shops in this little forgotten corner of East London were struggling to stay afloat. I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind. There’d be plenty of time to obsess about my failing business later, hopefully whilst relaxing in a hot bath with a glass or three of wine.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?’ I didn’t want to take liberties; Flo might be mighty, but she was still seventy years old after all.

  ‘Positive. You’ve worked hard on all this.’ She gestured at the last batch of boxes I’d wrestled into my arms. ‘You deserve a few hours off.’

  ‘Okay. I might go and see if I can find a nice going-away present for Lucy.’

  ‘Lovely. Off you go, then, and I’ll see you in the morning. And tell Liz I said she got you cheap.’

  I took the boxes and pushed my way through the back door. Flo was right of course; Liz had got me cheap, but she was my best friend. What was I supposed to do? She’d begged me to help her out after her other caterers had let her down; I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Charging her more would have felt like taking advantage of her desperation. It would have come in handy though, there was no doubt about that. Between my daughter’s imminent departure for university, the temperamental coffee maker and, now as I stood there looking at it, a delivery van that was on its last legs, my finances were stretched to the limit. The van, with its faded green paintwork and peeling pink cupcake on the side, sat in the yard looking old and knackered. Fifteen years of trips to the cash and carry and school runs in London traffic had taken their toll on the old girl. I knew how she felt. I secured the last of the boxes into the back of the van and shut the doors.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I arrived at the venue for the party, my mood had taken a further nosedive. Between the awful traffic and Liz’s constant texting to check on my whereabouts, I was quietly seething. I brought the last pile of boxes into the office that was doubling as a makeshift kitchen and dumped them onto one of the countertops. No doubt I’d squashed whatever was in the bottom box but by that point I didn’t really care. I turned back to the exit but was stopped by the sound of Liz’s voice.

  ‘My darling, thank Christ you’re here at last!’

  I turned to see her heading towards me, all jingling jewellery and perfectly coiffed hair, and before I could make good my escape she grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into a hug. Liz was a big hugger – me, not so much. I pulled out of her grip. Despite her outwardly polished appearance I could tell that she was in the middle of a full-on panic attack. She had that wide-eyed look of someone who’d bitten off more than they could reasonably be expected to chew.

  ‘I’m here, Liz, stop stressing. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Everything is not fine – it’s a disaster! Bloody caterers!’ she hissed. ‘I should have let you do all the food, not just the desserts. They’re useless, Abby. I mean, just look at this.’ She snatched a tray of canapés from a passing waiter and waved them under my nose. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to be looking at but clearly something had her all riled up.

  ‘I wanted dill on the smoked salmon, not parsley! Parsley is so common – I told them I wanted dill!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘All right, calm down. They look great, even with the parsley.’ I tried to suppress a smile; it was only garnish, for God’s sake, but Liz just looked as if she was about to cry. She’d put a lot of pressure on herself with this event and I knew she was desperate for it all to go well. She dropped the tray of canapés down onto the counter with a clatter and wiped her hands on a napkin.

  ‘Liz, it’s a tiny detail.’ She tried to protest but I held up my hand. ‘In about half an hour all the guests will be drunk on free booze from the bar, at which point you could be serving them anything for all they’re likely to care. Just calm down.’

  Flo was right, Liz could be an uppity little madam, but it didn’t stop me from liking her. We’d been friends since meeting at catering college, more years ago than I cared to remember. We’d formed an instant bond over our mutual dislike of all the other students on our course. That, coupled with the fact that we were both mothers of young children, meant we got on like a house on fire despite having little else in common. Liz was pretty, confident and the poshest person I’d ever met. I was dumpy and shy with an enormous working-class chip on my shoulder. She’d swept into the first day of classes in pristine kitchen whites, with a shiny new set of knives and a Mont Blanc pen to take notes with. I’d had second-hand whites and knives and a biro with a chewed lid.

  We’d seen each other through a lot over the years, some good, some less so. No doubt this was the reason I agreed to help her with the party in the first place, despite my previous experiences of mass catering only extending as far as cooking bacon sandwiches and cupcakes in the café. That being said, when I saw the results of my hard work, all laid out on silver serving plates, I will admit to feeling more than a little proud of myself.

  ‘Come and look at the decorating, Abby. I need your opinion.’

  Before I could argue that in my flour-covered jeans and trainers, I was clearly not dressed for venturing out of the kitchen, she’d taken my arm and all but shoved me through a set of double doors. I was stunned; she was a miracle worker. The room had been transformed, with walls draped in a soft white fabric that also hung in swathes across the ceiling. It gave you the impression of standing inside a marquee rather than a boring conference room. Little candles in jars flickered on almost every surface and bunches of roses sat in vases and bowls on all the tables.

  ‘Oh Liz, it’s beautiful. Everything is perfect. I’m so proud of you.’

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. ‘I couldn’t have done all this without your help, you know that, don’t you?’

  I started to deny that I had been any help at all, but she stopped me.

  ‘I mean it, Abby. All those times I got in a flap about one situation or another, calling you a dozen times a day to bitch and moan about this and that, you were always happy to listen and help.’

  ‘You weren’t that bad.’

  ‘Bollocks. I’ve been a total pain in the arse and you know it.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Exactly! You stopped me from becoming a total basket case, Abby, and I owe you one.’

  ‘You owe me more than one.’ I smirked.

  ‘I’ll expect your bill to reflect the additional stress and aggravation of having to deal with me and my lunacy.’

  If only. ‘Well, I think my work here is done so I’m going to head home and leave you to your success. Try and enjoy it, okay?’ I turned to go back through the doors and into the kitchen.

  ‘You can’t leave me, Abby, not now. Please, I need you. I don’t think I can do this on my own,’ she pleaded. I looked down at my jeans and then at Liz in all her designer glory.

  ‘You never said I’d have to stay at the party! I’m not dressed for that – I’m a mess!’

  She looked me up and down and dismissed my objections with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t come prepared, so I brought you something of mine to change into. I’ve thrown in a bit of make-up too. Here, you can change in the loo over there.’ She pulled a small leather holdall out from under one of the tables and handed it to me. Sensing my reluctance, she gave me a not so gentle nudge towards the door.

&nbs
p; ‘Get a wriggle on, then; I’ve got more important things to do than stand here with you all day.’

  I took the bag and before I could protest again she’d gone, berating some poor waiter about dirty champagne glasses as she hurried away.

  Thankfully the toilets were empty. I scurried along to the last cubicle and locked the door behind me. Closing the lid of the toilet, I sat and placed the holdall on my lap. Unzipping it tentatively, as if whatever was in there were about to jump out and bite me, I peered inside.

  ‘Bloody Nora.’ I pulled out a pair of nude leather high heels and dropped them on the floor, then I stuck my hand back into the bag. My fingers landed on something soft and velvety, and I already knew what the dress was going to look like even before I pulled it out. I’d seen Liz in this dress before; it was made of butter-soft red velvet and it clung to every curve. She looked gorgeous in it because she was tall and confident and just curvy enough; I was none of those things. What was she thinking, picking out this dress for me? I was a thirty-seven-year-old woman whose body hadn’t seen the light of day since ra-ra skirts and lace fingerless gloves were all the rage.

  True to her word, I also found make-up in the bag and some of the most uncomfortable-looking underwear I’d ever seen. Seriously, how could you wear knickers that looked as if they could slice you up the middle if you so much as coughed? And as for the bra – there was no way I was going to be able to fit anything of mine into its tiny cups. I tried to recall what underwear I’d thrown on that morning under my baggy jeans and T-shirt and quickly realised that none of it was going to work under that skin-tight dress. Why was I even considering doing this? It was way beyond my duties as the supportive best friend. I was just going to have to go out there and tell her, ‘No’. Better still, I could just sneak out and text her later – yes, that was a much better plan. She probably wouldn’t even notice I’d gone, she’d be far too busy, I reasoned. I stuffed all the items back into the holdall and was about to unlock the door of the stall when I heard footsteps. Maybe Liz had come to find me?