The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square: A gorgeous summer romance and one of the top holiday reads for women!

‘Of course it’s reasonable, Em, and I said I’m happy to. I loved having them to myself tonight. Don’t misunderstand me, but isn’t that still outsourcing, if I’m doing it instead of you? Next month I’ll get my raise and then I think we can just about afford to get someone in for a few hours a day. So you could have help. I mean proper help.’

My blood might actually be starting to boil. ‘How is it outsourcing to have you look after our children, Daniel? In case you’ve forgotten, the twins have two parents. Why shouldn’t it be your job as much as mine? And the only reason I don’t have proper help is because you’re so… Never mind, I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll put everything they’ll need out on the table. Wake me by seven, please, if I’m not up.’

It’s not that he doesn’t try. He does. Then he thinks he’s a contender for Father of the Year because he’s changed a nappy. Meanwhile, I’m the mother every minute of every bloomin’ day and I don’t see anyone pinning a medal on me.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t feel like such an overworked hamster on a wheel. The twins need me and there’s no time off for good behaviour, or because Mummy might have a breakdown. My brain is mushier than the children’s strained carrots and I need an oxygen tank to ascend the dirty laundry pile. They don’t tell you that along with the high-inducing, all-consuming love comes work that just goes on and on.

The next morning, I wake with a drooly snort from a deep slumber. That hasn’t happened since before I was pregnant.

Pregnant. The twins! But I can hear them babbling away downstairs, and Daniel’s side of the bed’s empty, so either they’ve kidnapped him or he’s feeding them their breakfast.

Just two more minutes. I snuggle down into the bed. Daniel can call it outsourcing or whatever he wants to. This is bliss.

Until my phone starts ringing. ‘Hi, Philippa.’ My mother-in-law.

‘Hellair, darling!’ she says in her booming posh voice that makes everyone think she’s really stuck up when actually she’s just the opposite. ‘I just had the most amahzing idea and I knew you’d be up already with the children.’

‘Actually–’

‘Picture this, darling: live birds for your café! You could have gorgeous little cages hanging everywhere. Right, I’ve already found an exotic bird handler who can get us anything we want.’

I picture the plants in our window boxes that I kill every few months. Those birds wouldn’t stand a chance. ‘That’s an interesting idea, Philippa, but I’m not sure we should be using live birds as decorations.’

‘Of course, darling, whatever you say. It’s just an idea. I’ll keep thinking, yah? Must dash. My masseuse is due any minute.’

These calls are my fault, really. I let her have her way with a baby shower for the twins and the live storks went to her head.

So much for a lie-in.

‘Morning,’ I call to my family on my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. A cup of tea that I might be able to finish!

If I can find the kettle, that is. It looks like a bomb’s gone off in here. There are eggshells and banana peels in the sink. Oats cover the worktop and the floor, every cabinet door is open and two of the pans are burnt on the hob. The remains of Daniel’s bloomer lies mutilated on the cutting board and as I go to the fridge for milk, my left sock becomes soaked with… I hope that’s orange juice.

‘Look, Mummy’s up!’ Daniel sings.

‘Have we been under attack?’ The twins are smeary with breakfast as usual.

‘Hmm?’ He aims a porridge-filled soup spoon at Oscar’s mouth and mashes it into his cheek when he turns away. ‘Sorry, darling.’

‘The kitchen? How many people have you been trying to feed?’

‘Right, yah, sorry, it’s a mess, I know. I wasn’t sure what they’d eat, so I tried to do a bit of everything.’

‘I don’t think he can get that ladle into his mouth.’ I dig out the colourful spoons from the cutlery drawer, but Grace is happier with her hands plunged into her porridge bowl. ‘Suit yourself,’ I tell her. She burbles at me.

‘Actually, now that you’re up,’ says Daniel with a mad look in his eye, ‘could you take over for a minute? I need to, erm, badly…’

‘Ah, you’ve discovered that your bowels are not your own when you’ve got to look after children. Go ahead, I’ll finish them up.’

I get a fleeting kiss before he disappears into the loo. ‘Daddy needs a poo,’ I tell our children.

But they’re not interested in anything I’ve got to say. Oscar twists around to see where Daniel’s gone, and Grace starts to whimper. ‘What’s the matter, babies? I’m here. It’s okay.’ But the more I cuddle them the more they squirm, till Daniel emerges from the bog. They crow at him with excitement.

‘Aw, they’re so sweet,’ he says, kissing the twins’ downy heads as they clamour for his attention. ‘We’ve rahly had so much fun together.’

Sure, he’s the main attraction at the circus for one night and suddenly I’m demoted to the one in the dungarees following behind the elephants with a shovel.

I’m feeling completely sorry for myself by the time I drop off the twins at Mum and Dad’s house. It’s the way they escape their pushchair to launch themselves on Dad, like they can’t get away from me fast enough.

Mum notices, so I have to blame my grump on PMT. Then she points out that of course the twins are excited to climb into a wheelchair. It’s the chair, not the person. Which just makes Dad feel bad too, so now we’re both feeling like we don’t measure up to the expectations of toddlers.

I guess Dad clocks my mood too, because just as I’m leaving he decides that he needs more Weetabix from the shop. ‘Can you hang on to the children, love?’ he asks Mum. ‘I’ll go up with Emma.’

Neither of us says anything as we leave the house.

‘Give me a push, will you, love? My arms aren’t awake yet.’

Now I know he wants to talk. He wouldn’t let me push him otherwise.

We round the corner out of the estate on to the main road. It’s noisy with morning traffic and people rushing to work.

‘What time do you need to be at the café?’ Dad asks. ‘Let’s go along the canal for a bit. The sun feels nice.’

I stare at the back of his head. Dad’s not usually a nature-lover. And he’s not a man for spontaneous chit-chat. Which means he has something important to say.

I just hope he’s not sick again. It’s been almost two years since his last MS relapse. I’ve been daring to think that the medicine is keeping it under control. I hope that hasn’t tempted fate.

‘Everything okay, Dad?’ I finally ask when we’ve gone down the ramp to the canal towpath. Colourful narrowboats are moored along the path and the tang of woodsmoke fills the air. It’s a pleasant smell, though. Dad’s right, this is nicer than swallowing bus fumes on the main road. A lot quieter too.

‘I’ll ask you the same thing,’ he says, twisting in his chair as I push him along. ‘What’s up, Emma? You can talk to me as much as your mum, you know.’

I let out the breath that I’ve been holding. It’s not a relapse. ‘I know.’ He’s got enough to worry about without having to take on my problems too. Though I can’t tell him that. He hates being treated any differently because of his health. ‘I’m finding it harder than I thought with the children. It’s better with you and Mum and Auntie Rose helping, but it’s still a lot to deal with.’

‘You know it’s okay to ask for more help,’ he says gently.

‘Thanks, Dad, but you’re already doing so much. It’ll settle down once the café is open and we get into a routine.’

He reaches over his shoulder to grasp my hand on the wheelchair handle. ‘Stop for a sec. I don’t mean from us, love. I mean from Daniel. Is that the trouble?’

How does he know that? I’m sure Mum hasn’t said anything. She doesn’t like to burden him any more than I do. ‘It’s not been easy,’ I finally say.

‘Do you want me to ’ave a word with him?’

‘Oh god, no!’

‘Then maybe you should do it.’

‘I know, Dad.’ It’s on my to-do list. ‘I never seem to say the right thing, though.’

He laughs. ‘That’s a family trait you got from me. You’d better ask your mum for advice there.’

‘You usually do okay.’

‘Only because your mum’s trained me. I’d be hopeless without her.’ He starts pushing his wheelchair along the path. I guess his arms have woken up. ‘We’d better go to the shop or your mum will start wondering what’s happened to me.’

There’s a girl waiting in front of the pub when I get there to open up. She’s hunched into her black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, her hands tucked deeply into the pockets.

‘Louise?’ I ask, even though I know it must be her. There’ve been mostly boys on my interview list. The only other two girls came yesterday. One popped her gum at me for five minutes straight and the other one grumbled about how much she disliked espresso machines. Not espresso itself, just the machines. Something about the steam being bad for her nail extensions.

Louise nods but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t offer to shake my hand, but she does sit opposite me in the booth and look me in the eye. That automatically puts her above Tinky Winky and Ice Lolly from the other day.

‘Don’t you want to take your coat off? The heat in here’s pretty intense with those old radiators.’

‘Nah, I’m all right.’ But she does pull her hood down.

Her hair’s blue. Smooth, shiny, pale silvery blue. It doesn’t quite go with her girl-next-door, slightly freckled face, though the stud in her nose toughens up the look.

Not as much as her body language does, though. It’s so obvious that she doesn’t want to be here. From her frown to the way her shoulders are squared up to me, she’s ready for a fight.

I glance through her file to jog my memory. That’s right. She’s the girl in foster care. ‘So why do you want to do this traineeship?’

She doesn’t return my smile. ‘I need the money,’ she says, ‘and I’m used to looking after people.’

‘Have you worked in a café before? Or retail maybe?’

‘No, I mean at home,’ she snaps. ‘It’s me that does their meals and that.’ Her eyes slide away towards the window. ‘It’s nothing official. I just do.’ She crosses her arms.

‘That’s all right, real-life experience is great.’ Somehow, I can’t picture Louise serving customers. Shouting at them, maybe. Giving them the cold shoulder, for sure.

I look again at her file, although I don’t need the notes. I know what I’ve got to ask. ‘Erm, about the referral. It says you’ve had some trouble lately? That you were arrested? Do you want to expand on that at all?’

Her eyes challenge mine. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Oh, well, no, of course not. It’s just in case you wanted to explain the… the theft? The alleged theft?’

Did you do it?! I’m dying to ask. What did you steal? Where on the morality scale is the crime? Was it a lipstick from Boots or the life savings of a pensioner? Should I be watching my handbag?

‘Next question?’ she says.

I can’t force her to tell me. Social Services was very clear about that. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl I could force to do anything. ‘You’re seventeen? But you’re not in school?’

‘No, I’m finished with all that. Last year. But I’ve got to be in work or training. I thought I’d try something that uses my great people skills.’

Her eyes widen just a tiny bit and I see the shadow of a smirk.

‘They do seem impressive,’ I say with a slight shrug. ‘You’d put anyone at ease.’

She finally allows herself to smile. ‘Look, I need to work. I need the money and the government says I have to. I’ll do a good job if you’ll let me. I just need the chance.’

Well, what’s the point of the café if I don’t give kids the chance when they need it? ‘I’m sure you will.’

I extend my hand over the table. Warily she shakes it.

‘You’ve got the traineeship. Congratulations, Louise.’

‘Call me Lou,’ she says, standing to go. ‘I hate Louise.’

Daniel meets me at our front door. There’s a giant bouquet of pink roses hiding his face.

‘What’s this for?’

‘It’s for you, because you deserve flowers and I love you,’ he says, helping to wheel the pushchair inside. ‘Doesn’t she deserve flowers?’ he asks Grace and Oscar, who seem to agree. ‘Just because you’re amahzing.’

I smile. ‘You must still be feeling guilty about not answering your phone the other night. Do you want to put those in water?’

‘I would have, but I could only find the washing up bowl under the sink. I can get the twins out for you, though. Do they need feeding?’

‘No, Mum fed them before I picked them up.’

‘Good. Then we can relax.’

It’s like he’s never been in this house before. ‘Yeah, right.’

Oscar wants a cuddle while he recites every word he’s ever heard in his very own language, and Grace starts pulling all the toys out of the box in the lounge to show us.

‘Glass of wine, Mummy?’ Daniel says above the increasing din as I sink into the sofa with Oscar on my lap.

As soon as Daniel sits next to me, Oscar decides he’d rather straddle both parents than choose just one.

‘I found my other trainee today,’ I tell him, keeping my wine glass well clear of the twin tornados. ‘She’s going to be tough, but I think she’ll work hard. Yes, darling, that’s a lovely bunny. She’s not going to take any crap from anyone, though.’

‘She’ll have to take crap from you,’ he says, nodding along to Oscar’s monologue. ‘You’re the boss.’

I wonder how that’s going to work. I’m not really the authoritative type. I’d rather have everyone like me.

He shifts to face me. ‘I’m so proud of what you’re doing, darling. This is rahly something special and you’re going to make such a difference in people’s lives. You do know you’re remarkable, right? I’m very lucky to be married to you.’

‘You too,’ I say. I love when he says things like this. Daniel can make me feel like the most important person in the world.

I do get a little embarrassed sometimes, though. He’s so eloquent with his feelings, and while my family’s never been one of those stiff-upper-lip, sweep-things-under-the-carpet type of families, we’re not overly emotional sharers either. I’m still getting used to hearing Daniel talk like this.

His hands cradle my face. ‘I’m rahly proud.’ His kisses veer from appreciative to deep and urgent. ‘Rahly, so proud.’

I kiss him back. How long has it been, actually, since we’ve had sex? Too long, if I can’t remember.

‘Sir, calm yourself in front of the children,’ I tease. ‘There are impressionable minds in the room.’

‘We’re good role models for them,’ he says. ‘Mummy and Daddy love each other. Let’s put them to bed so I can show you how much.’

Grace releases a noise that makes us both turn to our daughter. She’s squatting, sumo-style. It’s her favourite position when she really wants to cut loose.

Oscar points at his sister, as if we don’t notice her filling her nappy.

‘Do you want to flip a coin for it?’ I ask.

‘I did get flowers. And wine,’ he says.

Patting his knee, gently I shift Oscar to his lap. ‘I’ll do it.’

As I lift Grace into my arms, Daniel says, ‘I shouldn’t be jealous of my own children, should I? That’s not nice to admit.’

‘It’s just that they need me.’

‘I need you too.’

That’s pretty obvious from the way he’s shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, but they need me to wipe their arses. It’s a bit more urgent, don’t you think?’

Does he think I like being at the beck and call of these mini tyrants? ‘This isn’t my first choice for entertainment either. We may as well get them into the bath,’ I say, and the first spark of romance we’ve had in months goes out with a soapy wet fizzle.

‘Romance? You are joking,’ Melody says the next afternoon at Samantha’s. ‘With Eva and Joy sleeping with us?’

We’re sitting on Samantha’s pristine leather sofas in her minimalist white cube of a house. I’ve often wondered what these old warehouses looked like inside, but Samantha’s isn’t a good example since they wanted all the space but none of the original features.

‘Just be glad he’s trying,’ Samantha says, reaching for another chocolate croissant as I pull Oscar onto my lap. ‘What I wouldn’t give for those days again.’

This is the only time we ever see Samantha vulnerable, though she tries to turn it all into a joke – how she once wore a net body stocking under her dress to dinner and ended up looking like she’d been sleeping on a bed of tennis rackets. Her husband had teased her so much about the all-over red diamond pattern that the moment totally vanished. None of us can understand what’s wrong with him, especially since Samantha will try anything to get him to sleep with her. What’s great for our weekly conversations isn’t so great for our poor friend’s self-esteem.

‘Couldn’t you have taken care of the children and then gone back downstairs to Daniel?’ Emerald asks. ‘I mean, as long as the oven was already pre-heated, so to speak.’

‘That’s what I would have done,’ says Garnet. ‘Though I don’t have to worry too much about missed chances with Michael.’ Her smile is filthy, just in case we don’t get her meaning.

‘I know what you mean,’ Emerald counters. ‘Sometimes I wish Anthony wasn’t so romantic.’ Always a gold standard humble-bragger, she is. ‘But we’ve got to remember that this isn’t about us, Garnet, it’s about Emma. We know we’re okay. Are you okay, Emma?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ I tell them. ‘It was just disappointing, that’s all.’

‘Ha, welcome to my world,’ Samantha says, reaching for another croissant that, along with her frustration, she’ll work off later at yoga.

Chapter 5

What do you get when you cross a vain Italian with someone who’s probably drunk coffee from his baby bottle? Hopefully someone who can teach us how to use an espresso machine. The gleaming Gaggia has been hogging up bar space ever since the catering company delivered it last week. So far I’m hiring a machine to mock me in my own café.

I sneak another glance at Pablo, but he’s too busy gazing at his reflection in the advertising mirror beside the bar to notice. Flick, flick, his hand tweaks another lock of expertly gelled dark hair till he gets the exact quiff he’s going for.

Before Pablo turned up this morning, I’d never seen a man who plucked his eyebrows. Or one with such flawless skin. He looks like he’s been airbrushed.

I really don’t mind that he’s so much prettier than me, as long as he’s as good at coffee as he is at grooming.

‘About those coffee supplies we’ll need,’ I say. ‘You will have everything delivered in time? Because we open in–’

‘Do not worry,’ he says, smoothing the front of his perfectly ironed shirt.

Wrong answer, Pablo. I do not worry if I’m sunning myself on holiday in the Med. I do worry when I need coffee to serve to my customers in less than three weeks.

‘Okay, I won’t worry… But you will have everything delivered?’

‘Carina mia, you should listen to the great Ravi Shankar. “Worry is the enemy of love.”’

Yeah, well Ravi wasn’t about to open his café without any coffee. ‘I don’t need to love coffee, Pablo, I just want to make sure it’s delivered in time.’

His smile makes the Mona Lisa look like an open book.

‘Well, anyway, Lou and Joseph should be here soon,’ I tell him, checking my phone. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea while we wait? Sorry there’s no coffee. That’s why you’re here!’

‘I am fine, thank you.’ He runs his index fingers along his eyebrows, in case a hair has dared to move out of place.

‘You probably don’t drink tea,’ I say.

‘I am Italian.’ He couldn’t sound more insulted by my offer.

All right, steady on, Pablo, I’m only suggesting tea.

He goes back to staring at his reflection and I go back to panicking.

This sounded easy when I first thought of it: open a café, train kids to serve good coffee, tea and food. Now I’ve got the café. I’ve got the kids, when they turn up. There’s just the small issue of the coffee, the tea and the food.

The catering company that’s supplying the Gaggia is also supplying Pablo. The days of sprinkling a few granules into hot water are long gone. Now, everyone supposedly wants fancy coffee from the other side of the world. If it’s not harvested from an Indonesian cat’s poo or a Thai elephant’s dung or from a tiny volcanic island visited by Napoleon (though presumably not pooed by him), they don’t want it.

I can’t see Auntie Rose and her ladies enjoying coffee that’s already gone through one digestive tract before it gets to theirs. But obviously I needed help, so I’ve got Pablo.

I’ve asked him to stick with Italian coffee, which pleased him down to the ground. Ha ha. Ground. Get it?

At least it’s starting to look more like a café than a boozer in here, with all the furniture painted in mismatched pastels and the chairs covered in flowered oilcloth (thanks to Mum). Out of respect for old Carl, Elsie and history, I’ve left the booths stripped back to the bare wood, but we ended up staining the ugly rough floorboards throughout. Now they look like ugly rough stained floorboards, but no one will notice as long as there’s lots of foot traffic.

‘Yo, am I late?’ Joseph calls as he saunters through the door in front of Lou. ‘It was ten o’clock, yeah? Wassup, I’m Joseph.’ He pumps Pablo’s hand. ‘You’re the coffee dude? Sick job, bruv.’

He’s still in his brother’s suit and tie, which makes it seem odd that he’s speaking like that and flicking air snaps at us.

‘Lou, Joseph, this is Pablo. He’s our coffee consultant.’ I’ve got to bite down my smirk as I say this, but, really, it’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?

‘How come you’re dressed like an undertaker?’ Lou asks Joseph, assessing him from beneath her blue fringe.

Joseph clearly doesn’t think much of Lou’s dress sense either. ‘Yo, this is how professional people dress. Take lessons from the master.’ He straightens the fat knot on his tie. ‘No-hopers need not apply.’

Lou doesn’t shift expression but shoves her hands into her sweatshirt pockets.

‘Besides, I dress like a professional because I’m the Professor,’ he says.

Lou scoffs. ‘You can’t give yourself a nickname, you muppet.’

‘Do you two know each other already?’ They shake their heads. ‘Really? Because I usually like to know someone for at least ten minutes before ripping into them. You can both wear whatever you want, as long as it’s clean and presentable.’

It’ll be hard enough training them without enforcing a dress code too. I don’t care if Joseph wants to look like an undertaker or a professor or a circus clown, frankly.

‘We can start whenever you’re ready,’ I tell Pablo.

He tears his eyes away from his reflection to say, ‘So now we begin. Today I will open your eyes and your hearts. You will learn to love the coffee, to speak its language, to listen as it whispers its secrets to you. It will dance for you, it will caress you, it will transport you to another world. There is a sacred bond between the barista and his machine. You love it and it will love you back. But only after you have mastered the bean. Today we begin the journey together.’ He aims his prayer hands at each of us and bows.

Lou’s mouth hangs open. ‘Mate, it’s only a hot drink.’

She sounds challenging, but I can see the flash of humour in her expression. I wonder how many people look that closely, though?

Pablo puts his hands over his heart. ‘It hurts me to hear these things. If you do not trust the process, the machine will not dance for you. It will not share its secrets. I cry for the bean.’

Puhlease. He’d never cry for the bean. He couldn’t stand the puffy eyes.

At two hundred quid for Pablo’s instruction, that machine had better dance for us. It doesn’t have to win Strictly, but it should at least give us a tango that would make Len Goodman proud.