‘Stays in the Bake and Bitch club,’ a chorus of sing-song voices replied, a second before they burst into laughter and sank back into their chairs around the long pine table.
‘Okay. I might not be able to snitch, but I still cannot believe that the faker tried to pass that sponge cake off as his own work,’ Gloria sniggered as she poured another cup of Darjeeling and dunked in a homemade hazelnut biscotti. ‘Every woman at the junior school bake sale knew that it was Lottie’s triple-decker angel drool cake and you can hardly mistake that icing. We all know how hard it is to make, after last week’s efforts.’
‘Hey! Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Lottie replied. ‘That was one of my best recipes and chiffon sponge is not the easiest to get right. You never know; I might have become one dad’s inspiration to greater things.’
A chorus of ‘Boo,’ and ‘Not likely,’ echoed around the table.
‘Well, never mind about dads wanting to show off at the school bake sale in front of the other fabulous baked creations you gals create. We have five more minutes before your cakes come out of the oven so there is just enough time for you to taste my latest recipe for a February special. This is the cake I am going to demonstrate next week.’
With a flourish reserved for the finest award-winning restaurants where she and Dee had trained, Lottie Rosemount waited until every one of the girls had stopped talking and was looking at the cake plate at the centre of the table, before whipping away the central metal dome and revelling in the gasp of appreciation.
‘Individual cupcakes. Dark chocolate and raspberry with white-chocolate hearts. And just in time for Valentine’s Day. What do you think?’
‘Think?’ Dee coughed and took a long drink of tea. ‘I am thinking that I have a week to come up with the perfect blend of tea to complement chocolate and raspberries.’
‘Tea? Are you joking?’ Gloria squealed. ‘Hell no. Those cupcakes are not meant to be washed down with tea around the kitchen table. No chance. Those are after-dinner bedroom dessert cakes. No doubt about it. If I am lucky, I might get to eat half of one before my Valentine’s Day dinner date gets really sweet—if you know what I mean. Girl, I want me some of those. Right now.’
A roar of laughter rippled like a wave around the room as Gloria snatched up a cupcake and bit into it with deep groans of pleasure, before licking her fingers. ‘Lottie Rosemount, you are a temptation. If I made those cupcakes I know that I would get lucky, and just this once I would not think about the risk of chocolate icing on the bedclothes.’
Dee sniggered and had just pulled down a tea caddy of a particularly fragrant pomegranate infusion when she heard the distinctive sound of the antique doorbell at the front door of the tea rooms.
Lottie looked up from serving the cupcakes. ‘Who can that be? We’ve been closed for hours.’
‘Not to worry. I’ll get it. But save one of those for me, can you? You never know—my luck might change and a handsome new boyfriend might turn up out of the blue just in time for Valentine’s Day. Miracles can happen.’
Dee skipped out of the kitchen across the smooth wooden floorboards in her flat ballet pumps, and in three strides was inside the tea rooms. She flicked on the lights and instantly the long room was flooded with warm natural light which bounced back from the pistachio-and-mocha painted walls and pale wood fittings.
Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms had only been open a few months and Dee never got tired of simply walking up and down between the square tables and comfy chairs, scarcely able to believe that this was her space. Well, Lottie and Dee’s space. They had each put up half of the money to get the business started. But they were partners sharing everything: tea and cake; both crazy, both working at the thing they loved best. Both willing to invest everything they had in this mad idea and take a risk that it would work.
Big risk.
A shiver ran across Dee’s shoulders and she inhaled sharply. She needed this tea shop to work and work brilliantly if she had any hope of becoming a tea merchant in her own right. This was her last chance— her only chance—of creating some sort of financial future for herself and for her retired parents.
But suddenly the ringing bell was replaced by a hard rapping on the front door and she looked up towards the entrance. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’ A male voice called out from the street in a posh English accent.
A tall dark figure was standing on the pavement on the other side of the door with his hands cupped over his forehead, peering at her through the frosted glass of the half-glazed door.
What a cheek! It was almost nine o’clock at night. He must be desperate. And it was lashing down with rain.
She took a step forward then paused and sniffed just once before striding on.
After a lifetime of travel she was not scared of a stranger knocking on her door. This was a London high street, for goodness’ sake, not the middle of some jungle or tropical rain forest.
With a lift of her chin and a spring in her step, Dee turned the key in the lock in one smooth movement and pulled the front door sharply towards her.
A little too sharply, as it turned out.
Everything from that moment seemed to happen in slow motion—like in some freeze-framed DVD where you could scarcely believe what had happened, so you played the same scene over and over again in jerky steps, just to make sure that your memory was not playing tricks on you.
Because as she flung open the door, the very tall man just raised his arm to knock again and, in that split second he leant forward, he found the door was missing.
But his body carried on moving, carrying him forward into the tea room. And directly towards Dee, who had stepped backward to see who was knocking so loudly.
A pair of very startled blue-grey eyes widened as he tumbled towards her, the bright light almost blinding him after the gloomy dark street outside.
What happened next was Dee’s fault. All of it.
Either time slowed down or her brain went into overdrive, because suddenly she had visions of lawyers claiming compensation for broken noses and bruised elbows. Or worse.
Which meant that she could not, dared not, simply leap out of the way and let this man, whoever he was, fall forward, flat on his face and hurt himself.
So she did the only thing she could think of in that split second.
She swept his legs out from under him.
It seemed to make perfect sense at the time.
Her left leg stepped forward to his left side as she reached up and grabbed hold of the soggy right sleeve of his rather elegant long dark-wool coat and pulled him towards her.
Then she swept her right leg out, hooked her ballet pump behind his left ankle and flipped him over sideways. By keeping a tight hold on his coat sleeve, even though it was wet and slimy, she took his weight so that instead of falling flat on his back his besuited bottom hit the wooden floor instead.
It was actually a rather good side judo foot sweep, which broke his fall and took his weight at the same time. Result!
Her old martial
