so glad you’ve got him to look after you.’
Marmite was sitting on the seat in front of them, scrabbling at the back of the cushion as if there might be a treat hidden somewhere in the fabric. Charlie picked him up and settled him on her lap, rubbing his black-and-tan coat. She pictured the two of them walking along a sandy beach with crystal blue water beyond, to a soundtrack of seagulls and crashing waves. It was certainly a better image than this bland, functional garage or the flat she had shared with Stuart, now empty and soulless. She didn’t want to run away from the hard things in life, but she knew her friend was right.
‘Let me talk to Bea,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll see if I can get a couple of weeks off.’
Juliette’s face lit up. She ruffled Charlie’s hair, which had been enhanced from its natural reddish hue into a vibrant copper at the same time as the drastic haircut. ‘The next time you’re in the café, you promise me you’ll ask her?’
‘I will, I—’
‘Room for a little one?’ Her dad appeared in the doorway, along with the salty tang of bacon.
‘Thanks so much, Vince,’ Juliette said, accepting her baguette and a coffee.
‘You convinced Charlie to come and stay with you yet?’ he asked, taking the seat in front and turning to face them.
‘Almost,’ Juliette said. ‘She’s agreed to ask Bea for some time off.’
‘Bloody hell! You’ve actually got her considering a holiday? Or have you tempted her down with some sort of Cornish cooking competition?’
‘No competition,’ Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. ‘No work. An actual holiday.’
‘I am here, you know,’ Charlie said, lifting her baguette out of Marmite’s reach. The dog put his paws on her chest and sniffed the air, whimpering mournfully.
‘It doesn’t hurt to hear the unvarnished truth occasionally, love,’ Vince replied.
‘I’ve never …’ she started, then sighed and unwrapped her lunch. She didn’t want to argue with her dad, and she knew they both had her best interests at heart, even if they were being irritating about it.
‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’ Juliette said. ‘Having a picnic on board Gertie. Hal could have started something like this, including sandwiches and cups of tea on his tours.’
‘Enough people brought their own food, didn’t they?’ Vince laughed. ‘He was getting fat on all the sausage rolls and packets of Maltesers that went around.’
‘But a few tables in here instead of front-facing seats, a tea urn, the beautiful views outside the windows. It’d be ideal, wouldn’t it? If the weather was cold, or you didn’t want wasps in your cupcakes.’ Juliette grinned. ‘You could see the countryside from the comfort of the bus.’
Charlie returned her friend’s smile, her synapses pinging. She couldn’t be a tour guide. She knew how to drive the bus, she had the right licence and kept up to date with her top-up training, but she hadn’t done it every day for the last thirty years; she was inexperienced. But what she could do, almost with her eyes closed, was feed people. She could make cakes and pastries and scones that had customers squealing in pleasure and coming back for thirds.
And Gertie was cosy. With a bit more polish and a couple of personal touches, the bus could even look quite homely. It could be somewhere you’d enjoy spending time, and not just for a journey around the winding lanes of the Cotswolds.
‘All right, love?’ her dad asked, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
‘Earth to Charlie!’ Juliette snapped her fingers, and Marmite let out a tiny growl.
‘I think I’ve got it,’ Charlie murmured.
‘Got what?’ Vince asked.
A smile spread across her face. This might be the answer she had been looking for. If it worked, she would have to reward Juliette for the flash of inspiration, so bright that it was like a meteor sailing across the sky.
‘I think I know what I’m going to do,’ she said, patting the seat next to her. ‘I think I’ve found a way to keep Gertie on the road.’
‘Have you completely lost it this time, Charlie?’
At least Bea Fishington wasn’t one for mincing her words.
‘I don’t think so,’ Charlie replied, following her from the kitchen into the main café, carrying a plate of freshly baked raspberry flapjacks. ‘I think this could be a real turning point, for me and Gertie – and for you and The Café on the Hill.’
Bea folded her arms over her large chest, the silk of her cream blouse straining across it. ‘Serving cakes on your uncle’s bus? I know you’re sad about losing him – completely understandable; he was a gentleman – but you’re looking for harmony where there is none to be found.’
‘I disagree,’ Charlie said, sliding the flapjacks into place behind the glass counter. ‘It would be a way to get this place known, to expand its range beyond these four walls.’ She gestured to the smart, well-appointed café. The walls in question were slate grey, complemented by a black-and-white chequerboard floor. Accents around the room in lemon yellow and sky blue gave it a modern twist. There were high benches in the window and a mixture of squashy sofas and upright chairs, inviting lone workers with laptops, couples, large families and groups of friends.
Early in the morning on a dull Monday at the beginning of March it was quiet, with a couple of post-school-run mums drinking lattes and two men with grey hair sitting by the window sharing a toasted teacake.
Bea glared at her, but Charlie stood up straighter and refused to look away. She had a height advantage over Bea – over most other women, if she was honest – and a determination that had got her into trouble on more than one occasion. But she knew this was a good idea. The area around Cheltenham and Ross-on-Wye, England’s glorious, green Cotswolds, was always hosting fairs, festivals and myriad other events, where a beautiful vintage bus selling cakes would be popular. Every time Charlie had moaned to Hal that she had nothing to do at the weekend, that Juliette was with Lawrence or Stuart was staying in London for some posh bankers’ do, Hal would reel off a list of all the classic car shows and autumn fêtes and dog owners’ carnivals that were happening, leaving her with no room to complain.
‘I’m not after world domination,’ Bea said, turning to the coffee machine. ‘I know you’re ambitious, Charlie. I could see that from the moment I met you, and I have no doubt that you’ll be running your own café or catering empire before too long. But selling cakes from a bus? It sounds too tricky. How would you store ingredients, make drinks en masse?’
‘People live on buses,’ Charlie countered. ‘They cook and shower and sleep on buses, so selling a few coffees and scones couldn’t possibly be a problem.’
