The former gallery was a hive of activity all week, but there was no sign of Jed. I’d crossed the cobbles on several occasions during Tuesday, cheque in hand, and spoken to a different tradesperson each time, yet none of them seemed to know whether Jed was expected on site or not. After turning up twice at my Pilates class when I really didn’t want to see him, he didn’t show up on Tuesday night. Typical.
After traipsing back and forth across the cobbles several times on Wednesday, I left a message with one of the builders to say that, if he appeared, could he come over to The Chocolate Pot. I wasn’t convinced it would get to him, but I didn’t have time to keep seeking him out. I was desperate to get the cheque back to him but returning it with an apology note seemed woefully inadequate. I definitely needed to speak to him in person and clear the air.
It was mid-afternoon on Thursday when Carly burst through the door, clutching an iPad. ‘Have you seen them?’ she cried, dashing to the counter.
My heart thumped. ‘Is it the shortlist?’ Several weeks ago, it had been confirmed that The Chocolate Pot was nominated for Best Café or Bistro in the Best of The Bay Awards, but the nominations had then progressed through a judging panel with the shortlists due to be announced today.
‘Here.’ She thrust the iPad at me.
I cast my eye down the shortlist and squealed.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ Carly gave me a huge hug. ‘I’ve got to get back, but I wanted to check you’d seen them.’
Grinning, I went into the kitchen. ‘We’ve been shortlisted,’ I announced, jumping up and down.
‘As if there was any doubt,’ Sheila said, beaming. ‘Congratulations, my dear.’
‘It’s all of us,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not The Chocolate Pot. We are.’
Returning to the counter, I caught the attention of Ellen and Brandon, to give them the news, then texted everyone else.
The rest of the afternoon seemed to pass in a blur of text messages and people dropping in to congratulate me. It was only as I turned the sign round to ‘closed’ that I realised that Joyce and Peter hadn’t been in for their afternoon tea which was unusual. I hoped that neither of them was ill as it was very rare they missed a Thursday. Damn! I’d hoped to pump Joyce for information about Jed’s ex-wife and her part in running Ferguson’s.
Saturday – the day of the Best of The Bay Awards – dawned cold and crisp. I stood in the open doorway to The Chocolate Pot at 6.30 a.m., sipping on a latte, drinking in the peace and quiet before Castle Street and Whitsborough Bay came alive.
Beneath the soft glow of the streetlights, frost glistened on the cobbles like tiny crystals. With an hour still to go until sunrise, the sky was inky black above the shops and cafés. A half-moon rested among a blanket of stars. I gazed up towards the sky for several minutes. ‘You’ll be there tonight, won’t you? Please say you will.’
‘At the Awards?’
I snapped my head round. Jed. He was standing a couple of feet away, a bemused expression on his face.
‘Erm, I—’ I glanced up at the sky again then back to Jed. How could I say I wasn’t talking to him without sounding snappy? And I could hardly tell him I was talking to my parents, could I?
‘Congratulations on making the shortlist, by the way,’ he said. ‘I hope you win.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m serious.’ He inclined his head towards The Chocolate Pot. ‘You’ve transformed that place and if all your food is as good as that millionaire’s shortbread Anastasia gave me, then you’ve transformed the food too.’
I stared at him, waiting for the insult, but none came. And, for some reason, words evaded me too.
‘Yes, well, I came in early for a reason,’ he said. ‘Good luck for tonight.’ Then he turned and strode across the cobbles, letting himself into the gallery without a backwards glance.
Taking a final deep breath of fresh air, I stepped back inside, closed and locked the door, then ventured into the kitchen to start on the baking for the day. What just happened? Had he actually been nice to me? And had I just been horrible again? Oh no! The cheque! I never mentioned the cheque. All week I’d been hoping to catch him to return it and apologise. First opportunity to do so and all I’d done was stare at him and accuse him of not wanting The Chocolate Pot to win an award. What was wrong with me? I’d never been nasty to anyone in my whole life. Until Jed. Was this how it felt to walk in Leanne’s shoes? I didn’t like it one little bit.
As I lightly kneaded the cheese scones, my thoughts drifted from Jed to the awards ceremony itself. The Best of The Bay Awards were all about celebrating independent businesses in Whitsborough Bay and the surrounding villages and had been set up a few years ago by the Mayor. Each year new categories were added and this was the first time there’d been a specific category for cafés and bistros. We’d been nominated for best business each year but, with so much competition, we’d never made the shortlist, so this year was particularly exciting.
There was going to be a glitzy awards ceremony in a venue called The Bay Pavilion at the far end of South Bay. Businesses could only have tickets for a maximum of eight attendees, taking a full table. With twenty staff, I hated that I couldn’t take everyone. It was only right that Maria attended as assistant manager. For the remaining six spaces, I checked who was free and wanted to attend, then got them to each draw paper straws. What else could I do?
I was a little surprised to see Joyce and Peter taking a seat mid-afternoon. ‘We missed you on Thursday,’ I said, going over to their table once they’d settled.
‘Sick grandchild crisis,’ Joyce said. ‘My daughter was on a training course in York so she couldn’t get home to collect her from school.’
‘We thought we’d brave a Saturday,’ Peter said. ‘Bit too busy in town for my liking, though.’
‘Especially approaching Christmas,’ I said. ‘Is it the usual?’
‘Yes, please,’ they chorused.
‘I’ll put your order through, then do you mind if I come back and ask you something?’
With their permission, I returned to their table a few minutes later and sat down. ‘It’s about your friends, the Fergusons, and this place,’ I said. ‘This was originally their business, wasn’t it?’
Joyce nodded. ‘Yes. They took it on in the early eighties, I think.’
‘And they passed it to Jed when they retired?’
‘No,’ Peter said. ‘Ingrid’s parents bought them out.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realise that.’
‘They’d have loved to give it to him,’ Joyce said, ‘but they needed to sell up so they could pay off their mortgage and retire early. Ingrid begged her parents to buy it for her and, what Ingrid wants, Ingrid gets.’
‘Joyce!’ Peter warned.
‘I’m not being nasty. It’s the truth. She pestered them until they agreed. They transferred it into Ingrid and Jed’s names although Ingrid had the biggest share. I don’t know why she did it, Tara, because she was a nurse. She had no plans to give up nursing and Jed never wanted to run it. Poor lad was left with no choice. His heart was never in it, though.’
Lana appeared with their pots of tea.
‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ I said, standing up. ‘Thanks for that, though. It’s good to know.’
‘Good luck for tonight,’ Peter said.
‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
‘You’ll walk it,’ Joyce said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
I’d been hearing that from customers all day and I really wanted to believe it, but I didn’t dare. The Pollyanna still lurking inside me was glad to have been shortlisted – an amazing achievement in a town bursting with cafés and bistros – yet being shortlisted wasn’t enough. I wanted to win. So very much.