The Saturday Place E-Book

Alice Peterson

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 436

Beschreibung

'Uplifting, heartwarming and mouth-watering.' Veronica Henry, author of The Secret Beach 'Tender, warm and thoughtful.' Holly Miller, author of The Sight of You 'A tender story of hope, friendship and the power of community.' Emily Houghton, author of Before I Saw You 'A warm, wise and really special book... I absolutely loved it.' Katy Regan, author of Little Big Love Three perfect strangers who help each other to believe in love again Holly's husband died, and she's lonely. She needs to do something to save herself, quickly. Next thing she knows she's interviewing for a voluntary cooking job, surprised to be ambushed by a scruffy man who looks like he has a past. Angus has messed up. He's lost the respect of his family and has none for himself. If it weren't for his brother and friend who run the café, he'd be sleeping on the streets. Angus is about ready to give up – until he meets Holly, who sparks something in him. Then Lauren arrives from the homeless shelter. She came to London with nothing but an old train ticket, a teddy bear, and the clothes on her back. With no family, no home, no friends, she doesn't know what love is. People scare her. She's terrified of Angus and Holly. At first. Each of them finds themselves in the Saturday café at a time when they need something to grab hold of. It might have to be each other…

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Praise for Alice Peterson

Also by Alice Peterson

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: Eleven Years Later

Chapter 2: Eighteen Months Later

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: Six Weeks Later

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32: Six Months Later

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Beford Square Publishers

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Praise for Alice Peterson

‘If You Were Here is a moving and emotional story about facing a life-altering dilemma’ Jill Mansell, bestselling author of Rumour Has It

‘It’s not often that I fall in love with a book within the first few pages, but it happened to me with this one’ The Bookbag on You, Me and Him

‘Compelling and beautifully written’ Daisy Buchanan, journalist and author on If You Were Here

‘As it was favourite book of the year to date for my reader in this field, I had to read it too… I loved it. It’s character-led, warm and sensitive’ Sarah Broadhurst, The Bookseller on Letter From my Sister

‘This is a wonderful portrait of the different dynamics within an unusual family’ Sara Lawrence, Daily Mail on The Things We Do for Love

‘A lovely example of realistic fiction that many women will be able to relate to’ Sun on One Step Closer to You

‘Echoes of Jane Austen, A Room With a View and Bridget Jones’s Diary’ Robert O’Rourke on Monday to Friday Man

‘A lovely read, tackling both light and dark material with real assurance. I love the idea of a love triangle where one of the characters has died, which actually makes him more of an obstacle than if he were still alive. Also, the thought that you can find true love twice feels a strong romantic notion – and quite true, I’m sure’ Tom Williams, Chalet Girl screenwriter on Ten Years On

Also by Alice Peterson

If You Were Here

A Song for Tomorrow

The Things We Do for Love

One Step Closer to You

By My Side

Ten Years On

Monday to Friday Man

You, Me and Him

Letters from My Sister

M’Coben, Place of Ghosts

Another Alice

This eBook edition first published in the UK in 2024

By Bedford Square Publishers Ltd,

London, UK

bedfordsquarepublishers.co.uk

@bedsqpublishers

All rights reserved

© 2024 Alice Peterson

The right of Alice Peterson to be identified as author of this

work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,

transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any

way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed

under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly

permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use

of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights,

and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and

any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies,

events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN

978-1-915798-52-7 (Paperback)

978-1-915798-53-4 (eBook)

Typeset using Atomik ePublisher from Easypress Technologies

To Debbie and Tracey

PROLOGUE

I stand in front of a wide-open landscape with endless miles of golden sand. The landscape is dotted with only a few people ahead of us, or perhaps it feels that way because Holkham beach is so vast and unspoilt. The sun is out. It’s a warm July day. Jamie reaches for my hand, looks at me as if to say, ‘I told you it was beautiful.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I confirm for him, as we walk towards the sea, carrying our swimming towels. The tide is out, the sea tempting us from a distance, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. That’s if I’m brave enough. I told Jamie I’d be just as happy paddling and watching him swim.

‘They liked me, didn’t they?’ Jamie and I have been dating for six months and this weekend we travelled to his family home in Norfolk, where I met his parents for the first time.

‘They thought you were all right.’ He gives me a sideways glance.

I hit his arm playfully, before placing my hand back into his.

‘Holly, they loved you. Mind you, I knew they would.’

I smile with him, because deep down I know it went well too. Jamie’s mum exuded warmth from the moment I met her, saying how much she’d heard about me, and not to call her Mrs Roberts. ‘Please, it’s Pam,’ she’d insisted, leading me into their kitchen which smelt of freshly baked bread and coffee. After lunch she showed me around their home and garden, pointing out her new vegetable plot, telling me with great eagerness that we could pick some runner beans for supper. Jamie’s father was more reserved, but kind. I sensed he felt protective. Jamie married young, aged 23. They were childhood sweethearts, but after four years, without any warning, she packed her bags and left him for another man. I imagined his parents picked up the pieces of his broken heart. Like Jamie, his dad is a creative soul. Before retiring, he was a senior director at an insurance firm, a job he endured, but now he spends his time doing what he loves, writing, and has just had his first novel published. ‘Goes to show, it’s never too late,’ he’d said to us over dinner.

‘It’s about all our friends,’ Pam whispered, as if they were sitting round the table with us. ‘They’ll probably never speak to us again.’

Jamie teased me in bed the other night, saying I didn’t need to read Dad’s book before the weekend, he wasn’t going to quiz me on the characters. But that’s me. Always like to be prepared. ‘And please don’t read the sex scene.’ Jamie had shuddered.

‘You could learn a few tips from him,’ I said, before Jamie grabbed the book from my hand and tossed it on to the floor, both of us laughing as he said, ‘It’s too weird to think Dad wrote that, and even weirder if you read it.’

While we’ve been together only for six months, I know this man is my future. I sensed it the first time we met in Milla’s kitchen. Camilla, known to close family and friends as Milla, is one of my oldest school friends, and she’d commissioned Jamie to redesign her kitchen. He’d been recommended to her by one of her doctor friends, whom I will forever be indebted to.

I have a sudden vivid memory of the day we met. It was a Saturday morning. On Friday night, Milla and I had stayed out late, drinking and dancing, something we often did when her husband was away. Milla loved to let her hair down after being in hospital all week; I loved to let my hair down after enduring my boss, Clarissa Pope. I crashed over at hers, only to be rudely awoken the following morning by Milla rushing into my bedroom, saying ‘Fuck! Kitchen man! Hot! Get up!’

Ten minutes later I joined Milla and Jamie downstairs. They were sitting at the kitchen table, looking at samples of wood laid out on the floor. It was far too early to care about wood samples, I thought, until I saw his face. It was a face that made me wish I’d at least brushed my teeth. He had the most natural smile that reached his eyes. He had a manner that put people at ease. ‘Holly, this is Jamie,’ Milla said. I can still remember exactly what he was wearing: a loose-fitting pale pink shirt, sleeves rolled up, dark jeans and I noticed a worn leather braided bracelet around his tanned wrist. When he stood up to shake my hand, I liked how tall he was, at least six-foot. Already I was imagining we’d make a good fit, my hand in his.

As I glance at him now, I think it’s too good to be true, and that any moment I’ll wake up and discover it’s all been a dream. Yet I don’t wake up. Here I am. I squeeze Jamie’s hand to make sure he’s real.

It became even clearer that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him a month ago, after he survived a weekend with my parents. I was wary about him meeting Mum. I didn’t want our relationship to end overnight. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mum, but she fusses and frets about everything and subtlety has never been a strong point. The moment I hinted I may have met someone special she was planning her wedding outfit. She rolled the red carpet out for Jamie’s visit; anyone would have thought he was royalty. Everything had to be perfect. The house was immaculately tidy and she’d bought enough food to feed an army. I understand why she went to such lengths, despite Dad and me telling her she needs to relax, play it cool, but that’s like asking her not to breathe. I’m her only child so she pins all her hopes and dreams on me. She is itching to make baby booties and cardies for her grandkids. I’d warned Jamie that she can be ‘a bit much’, followed by a promise I wouldn’t turn into her, but, as always, he took it in his stride. When I saw him indulging her with yet another old family photograph album, an image of me, naked in the paddling pool, making both Mum and Dad laugh by saying I hadn’t changed at all – that’s when I knew that one day, we’d have our own family photograph album.

‘It’s quiet here, peaceful,’ I reflect.

‘I never tire of this view. When I die, I want my ashes scattered here.’

‘Stop it,’ I say, alarmed by his matter-of-factness.

‘I mean it. When I go.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

‘I want to rest here.’

‘Jamie, stop being so morbid,’ I say, not wanting to focus on his death when we have our whole life ahead of us, a life we’ve barely begun.

He turns to me, totally unfazed. ‘Promise me, Holly.’

I realise he’s being deadly serious. ‘If I promise, can we change the subject?’

‘I don’t know why we fear death.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s the one and only certainty we have in life.’

‘I know, but you’re thirty-one.’

‘If we talked about it, it wouldn’t be as frightening. This is my home, Holly, the beach I grew up on, so all I’m saying is when I eventually go, I want my ashes scattered in the sea.’

I nod, realising I need to grow up. ‘OK. I promise.’ I can’t help adding, ‘But please don’t go any time soon. I’m kind of enjoying having you around.’

‘Don’t worry. I have no intention of going anywhere just yet.’

We walk past a couple flying a kite, fairly unsuccessfully since there is no breeze to speak of. It’s Sunday afternoon and a few families are having picnics, an elderly couple are walking their two dogs, and yet no one has to share a patch of their sand. The sand here seems as infinite as the blue sky above. We watch a toddler, still in nappies, on her hands and knees playing in the sludgy brown mud. Before reaching the sea, there are pools of water to paddle in, but this child wants to do more than get her feet wet. She’s on a mission to get her pretty smocked dress dirty and thankfully her mother doesn’t seem anything like my own, positively encouraging her to have fun. I mean, what are washing machines for?

Whenever I see parents playing with their children, I long to be a mum. This feeling, this need in me, is strong. Milla doesn’t get it. She can’t think of anything worse than nappies and broken sleep. Yet, for me, the longing is visceral, and it’s only grown stronger since meeting Jamie. I crave a child that is a part of both of us. Both Jamie and I are only children, and while that has had its advantages, we’ve also missed being part of a larger family. Jamie once told me he fantasised about having a younger brother or sister, someone he could boss around. He also knows how I longed for a sister, and that it’s my fantasy to have a little girl.

‘One day, we’ll come here, with our baby girl,’ Jamie says, as if reading my mind. ‘Even if that means we have to have forty boys before we have our girl, so be it.’

‘I’d rather we have one girl, straight off, not forty boys.’

He smiles back at me, sheepish. ‘So would I. So would our bank manager. So would the environment. But you get my drift.’

‘I get your drift. We could have a boy too,’ I suggest, ‘a younger brother.’

‘Yeah. I can see them now, in the back of the car, squabbling and driving us mad.’

‘They’ll keep us young.’ I watch the little girl giggling with her dad as he scoops her up into his arms and runs across the beach.

Finally, we’re only meters from the sea. ‘Feeling brave?’ he asks, stripping off with confidence. One of the many reasons I fell for Jamie is he’s not conscious of his weight or appearance, not that he needs to be, his job keeps him fit, but the last thing I want is a man who spends more time in the bathroom than me. He’s the opposite of vain and hates the gym as much as I do. A game of tennis and a bike ride is more our thing, or a walk in the park with an ice cream. He loves to eat, drink, dance, swim in the sea… He wades into the water effortlessly, as if it’s a warm bath. Bastard! But it’s his fearlessness, his love of life that makes me so attracted to him. I’m more cautious, timid by nature. They say opposites attract.

I dip a toe into the water. It’s ice-cold. ‘Maybe I’ll paddle,’ I say, knowing I won’t get away with it.

He throws me a look. ‘Once you’re in, it’s beautiful.’

Come on, Holly. With renewed determination I unbutton my denim shorts and take off my T-shirt. Jamie wolf whistles as I strike a pose in my red bikini, which hasn’t seen the light of day for years, and I’m now regretting that second helping of lemon meringue pie. I also wish I wasn’t quite so pale. My legs are as white as stone whereas Jamie has enviable olive-toned skin.

I step in cautiously. ‘Liar!’ I take another tentative step towards him, knowing I need to keep moving forward, I mustn’t stop or fuss or fret. I do not want to turn into my mother just yet. Be calm, cool, sexy in your little red bikini. The freezing cold water, now up to my thighs, is beginning to feel a little more bearable.

‘You can do it, Holly!’ he says.

There’s nothing for it. I dive in, immerse myself, before coming up for air, my breath stolen from me. ‘Fuck, bugger, shit!’ I curse. ‘Shit! Jamie! I hate you!’

He laughs.

‘It’s not funny!’ I say, thinking my heart is about to jump out of my chest. The water stings, like needles all over my body.

‘Keep moving, Holly,’ Jamie urges, ‘it gets easier. Follow me.’ As I swim alongside him, I realise he’s right. It is getting a little easier. My breath returns, the intensity of the cold recedes. I settle into the enormity of the sea, feeling free. I did it. I did it! I keep swimming, and in this moment, I realise that I couldn’t be happier. Right now, this space belongs to us alone. I am in the right place, with the right person. Suddenly I can’t stop smiling. I feel alive. I look up at the blue cloudless sky, the sun on my face, and quietly thank Jamie’s first wife, for being foolish enough to leave him. ‘I love you,’ I say, not caring anymore if I’m the one who says it first. Life’s too short.

‘What did you say?’ Jamie asks, swimming back towards me.

‘I love you,’ I say, knowing full well he heard, as we wrap our arms around one another.

I feel his touch, his skin, his salty lips on mine. ‘I should get you into the sea more often,’ he suggests with that wry smile that is becoming so familiar to me.

When he says, ‘I love you too,’ something inside me lights up, and stays with me, for as long as I can remember.

1

Eleven years later

‘May I come in?’ the policeman asks.

He refuses a cup of coffee. Or tea.

Maybe he wants a glass of water?

This can’t be about Jamie. Jamie’s fine. He left at five this morning. Crept out of bed without waking me up. He’s working on a project in Hampshire.

No, this couldn’t be about Jamie. Maybe it’s Mum? Or Dad? After the policeman refuses a cup of tea, coffee or water again, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he says. ‘Your husband was involved in a road accident earlier this morning.’

He tells me Jamie was killed, outright, by a lorry driver, asleep behind his wheel. He wouldn’t have suffered any pain, the policeman reports.

He died instantly.

And so do I.

That evening, lying in bed, I look over to the side Jamie slept in last night. My sense of not being able to live without him steals my breath from me. I sit up, gasping for air, as I say, repeatedly, ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.’ I hug my knees, my body shaking. ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’ I say, broken and scared.

Milla rushes into my bedroom. She was one of the first people I called to tell the news. She left work immediately, before packing her bags to spend the night with me, saying she’d stay for as long as I needed. She hands me some water, encourages me to take sips, until finally my breathing returns. I am so exhausted there is no voice left inside me. It’s as if my whole world has stopped and I feel scared, and so alone. Milla sleeps on Jamie’s side of the bed. She places an arm around my waist, finds my hand. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she whispers in the darkness.

I wish I believed her.

2

Eighteen months later

Nina hands me a mug of coffee. It’s half past seven, far too early to be up on a Saturday morning, but Nina told me to come to her café before mayhem kicks in. When I say café, it’s Soul Food, a community café at the Pastoral Centre, next door to my local church in Hammersmith. Her dark hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a chocolate-brown apron with Food for the Soul embroidered on to the front, over a white T-shirt and pair of dungarees. Her aqua-blue nose stud matches the colour of her eyes. Everything about her exudes youth and energy. The only things that give away that she’s in her forties are the fine lines around her eyes, the reading spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and the fact that I know, from all my Googling about how Soul Food began, she has teenage children that she juggles with her career.

‘So, Holly,’ she says, taking a seat next to me, but the moment she sits down her mobile rings. She glances at the screen. Hesitates.

‘Take it,’ I insist.

‘Won’t be long,’ she says, leaving the table.

The longer I wait, the more I lose my nerve. I steady my breathing. Keep calm, I urge myself. Don’t go and have another panic attack. I look at the door. I could leave. Do I want to give up every Saturday to work in a kitchen? Breathe in, and out, in, and out. I take a sip of water. And another. I can do this. Gradually I feel my breathing returning to normal. I tell myself to stay. I have nothing to lose anymore. I think back to a few nights ago, home alone, Googling ‘how to cure loneliness’. I have never experienced loneliness before, not the kind that keeps me awake at night, that stops me from wanting to go out, that makes me feel empty. Not the kind that steals my life from me. It’s a loneliness that hurts my mind and heart. I didn’t know loneliness like this existed until Jamie died.

One bereavement site described the simple act of sowing seeds or planting bulbs in anticipation of a more beautiful future, a future filled with hope. Another self-help page described the importance of exercise and self-care, sleep and looking after my skin. One warned against the adverse effects of alcohol and social media; another suggested getting back out there and signing up to online dating. It all made sense, but I didn’t want to do any of it, especially not quitting alcohol. Often the thought of a glass of wine after work is the only thing that helps me get through the day. A glass of wine, or let’s be honest, half a bottle, helps me park my problems for the night. It numbs the pain of missing Jamie. Why would I want to give that up for better skin or a healthier liver? Who cares? I realised I didn’t want to endlessly think about me. I saw a therapist, Susan, for a year after Jamie died. While it was a relief not to keep burdening friends and family, I couldn’t help thinking Susan must be so bored of me saying the same old thing every week. I’m bored of me. Yawn. I’ve had far too much me time, that was the whole point. As I was about to quit, I came across a website that suggested the benefits of voluntary work, quoting Winston Churchill: We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.

Choose something you are passionate about, the journalist suggested. People often assume voluntary work is rattling a rusty old tin outside a shop but it can help individuals find meaning in their life again. Volunteering can help us feel a deeper sense of gratitude for what we dohave. Now this did make sense, so I began to think about what I used to feel passionate about and the first thing that entered my mind was cooking. I proceeded to Google voluntary work in cafés and restaurants, Hammersmith, west London, and that’s when I came across the website for Soul Food, only half a mile down the road from me. Nina set this place up eighteen months ago. It’s open once a week, on a Saturday. In her short biography she mentioned she’d read a book about the harsh facts on food waste, and became intent on doing something about it. ‘All my life I’ve hated throwing anything away, let alone good food,’ she wrote. ‘As a child, I’d rummage in bins for bread crusts to feed the ducks. But my café isn’t just about food. It’s about connection. Meeting people. Food nourishes not only the body but the soul.’ She mentioned she was always looking for decent cooks to help volunteer, adding she was hopeless in the kitchen herself. ‘My mother was wonderful at making our clothes and toys, and she grew her own fruit and veg, but she loathed cooking. I was brought up on soggy fishfingers and carrots, I’m surprised I didn’t turn orange.’ This hatred of throwing anything away came from both parents, but particularly her father, who would even unbend nails so he could reuse them. After a near breakdown working in a law firm for fifteen years, she began a voluntary job for a charity that collected surplus food – food that was fresh and in-date, food that would otherwise be destined for landfill due to mislabelling, damaged packaging or over-ordering. And they distributed it to schools, homeless shelters, community lunch clubs – basically all those who were vulnerable and in need. And it was this work that gave her the idea to set up her own communal café, that offered heavily subsidised meals for anyone who wanted to come along and enjoy a bowl of nourishing soup and some conversation. She was awarded a grant and all the food she receives is donated to her by charities and supermarkets, and she has a few local friends who give food regularly. She has been overwhelmed by the support.

Instantly I wanted to find out more, so located her email address on the website’s contact page and sent her a message. She responded immediately, saying it must be serendipity. One of her volunteers was about to go on maternity leave, so did I want to meet up this weekend for an interview?

After five minutes I’m still waiting. Come on, Nina, I know you do all this admirable work, but I’m getting bored now. If I have to wait any longer, I might do a runner.

A stranger plonks himself next to me.

He reeks of tobacco.

I should have made my escape.

‘Hello, how are you?’ he asks, drinking out of a giant mug with ‘World’s Best Dad’ on the front.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say, in fact nursing a hangover, as Harriet and I had gone out for drinks last night. Harriet is my boss. She runs her own PR and Communications company from home. I’d told myself not to order another glass of wine, that I needed to be sharp as a pin for my interview. Instead, I knocked it back, with a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

‘How are you?’ I ask.

He looks as if he’s nursing an equally bad hangover and hasn’t had any sleep for weeks. ‘Good, thanks. You waiting for Nina? She talks for England.’

I get the sense he does too. ‘I’m here for an interview.’

‘You must be insane. Get the hell out of here.’

‘I was thinking about it.’

‘There’s still time. My brother, Scottie, he’s the head chef here and if you think Gordon Ramsay is a diva, think again. I tell you, saucepans fly, especially with new volunteers who get in his way or don’t follow his instructions.’ He treats me to a generous smile, though something tells me he has little to smile about right now. ‘Always feel better once I’ve had my pint of caffeine, don’t you?’ I notice the deep lines around his brown eyes. ‘I’m Angus by the way. How d’you do?’ He shakes my hand. I notice a crumpled cigarette packet in the front pocket of his equally crumpled denim shirt. Another thing I discovered after Googling voluntary work was how many people had met their partners through voluntary organisations. ‘Belting out Mozart’s Requiem cured not only my stress but my sex life,’ one said. ‘To anyone out there feeling lonely, you may even meet your Mr Right.’

Angus burps.

Luckily, I’m not looking for my Mr Right.

‘I can burp the entire alphabet if you like?’ he boasts. ‘My children love it. Did you tell me your name?’

‘Holly. Do you work here too, then?’

He nods. ‘I wash up and wipe tables, important stuff like that, and for all my hard work I get a hot meal. I recommend the chicken pie. And Scottie’s curries are famous round here, plus the syrup sponge is to die for.’

Angus looks like he eats a lot of syrup sponge.

‘This is the result of a good life, Holly,’ he says, patting his stomach affectionately, as if it’s a dear friend. ‘A life well lived. I couldn’t care less that my blood pressure is sky high. If I die now, at least I’ll die knowing I never once turned down a second helping of syrup sponge and custard.’

‘Don’t die,’ I say without thinking, irritated he is playing Russian roulette with his life, his health. Then again, so am I.

He looks at me curiously.

I’m not fooled by Angus. This man has a story. I mean, don’t we all? The tone of his voice is rich, he’s well-spoken. I imagine he went to boarding school. I can see him playing cricket and rugby. Growing up he was fit and sporty, but as he’s careered towards middle-age he has let himself go. Something’s gone wrong. Derailed him. I decide if he brushed his hair, if he didn’t stink of smoke, if he quit burping and lost at least a couple of stone… Basically, if he changed completely, he wouldn’t be so bad.

‘I’ve got a joke for you,’ he says, mischief in his eyes, ‘to cheer you up.’

‘I don’t need cheering up.’

‘Trust me, you do. I don’t mean to be rude but here you are, on a Saturday morning, when you could be in a million-gazillion other exciting places, like climbing a mountain.’

‘I don’t want to climb a mountain.’ I can barely climb out of bed.

‘Why not?’ He looks at me as if I’m the mad one. ‘Who doesn’t want to be a mountain goat?’

‘Me.’

He narrows his eyes, places a hand on my forehead, as if I might have a fever.

‘I’m not an outdoorsy kind of person, I’m more a sit by the fire with a mug of hot chocolate reading a book.’ Jamie used to make the best hot chocolate, with vanilla.

‘I don’t want to get to the top of a mountain,’ he explains, ‘that’s the disappointing part, but the climb itself is the thrill, the act of getting there, don’t you think? Slightly like dating. The chase is the best part.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been on a date for years.’

‘Sensible. Love’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘Hmm. Anyway,’ I say, not wishing to be quizzed on my love life, not that there is anything to quiz me on. That would be the shortest conversation in history. Where’s Nina? ‘Do you volunteer here?’ I realise I’ve asked him this already, but never mind. He doesn’t seem to notice.

He nods. ‘I’m living with Scottie, rent free, providing I do my bit at the café. Have you ever slept on a futon?’

‘No.’

‘Kills your back. Might as well be on the floor.’

Angus looks about my age. I’m forty-four but I still think of myself in my ‘early’, not ‘mid’ forties. He could be older, maybe late forties. ‘Sorry, were you trying to ask me something?’ He takes another gulp of coffee. ‘I have a bad habit of talking over people, butting in. My wife always said I never listened to her. Should have listened, shouldn’t I?’ Another smile creeps on to his face. ‘Tip to self.’

I register his wedding ring, recalling he’d said he had children, before wondering why he’s sleeping on his brother’s futon. Has he had an affair? It’s none of my business. Yet I want to know.

‘I deserved it. More than deserved it,’ he says, as if reading my mind.

‘Deserved what?’

‘If you knew what I did you wouldn’t be talking to me right now or ever again for that matter.’

‘Try me.’

‘Anyway, back to my joke to cheer you up. There’s a woman on the motorway,’ he begins, ‘she’s driving and knitting at the same time, obviously something she shouldn’t be doing. Naughty.’ He taps his wrist. ‘She hears a siren, and a copper winds down the window and tells her “Pull over!” She winds down her window, and holds up her knitting saying, “No, officer, it’s a scarf!”’

His contagious laughter reminds me of Jamie’s. It fills the room.

‘That’s better,’ he says, when I laugh with him. ‘My one good Samaritan deed for the day is done. By the way, on a more serious note, this place is great. You’ll love Nina. Speak of the devil.’

‘Sorry about that,’ she says, returning to the table. ‘Someone from the night-shelter is looking for work experience. That was her support worker.’

Angus gets up. ‘Welcome on board,’ he says, shaking my hand again, his grip strong. ‘Give her the job, Nina. She’s hot and she laughs at my jokes.’

‘You are unbelievable,’ gasps Nina. ‘Stop cracking on to Holly and go and do something useful.’ She turns round to face him. ‘In fact, what are you even doing—’

‘I crashed here. Was out last night, having fun, you know how it is.’

She looks at him, more like a disappointed mother than a friend.

‘Anyway, lost my keys, so climbed in through the back window, the security here is shit by the way. Right, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘That man,’ she says to me when he’s out of sight. ‘He’s so clever, one of the brightest people I know. We’re old friends, went to uni together. He’s godfather to my eldest boy.’ She stops. Shakes her head. Clearly, he makes her lost for words. Yet I can tell she is fond of him, protective even. I feel like he was the golden child at school who should have passed all his exams with flying colours, the world was his oyster, yet something along the way tripped him up. And that something was most likely himself. Part of me is longing to know what he did that was so bad I’d never want to speak to him again. Or was he being overly dramatic to impress me?

‘He’s complicated,’ Nina continues. ‘You could write a book about Angus and still be none the wiser by the end. Anyway, enough about him. Let’s focus on you. So, why do you want to volunteer here?’

Because I’m dying of loneliness.

I’m drinking too much.

I’m stuck.

‘I want to help others,’ I say, immediately sensing she’s heard that old chestnut before. ‘But I do feel fortunate,’ I add to the cliché. ‘I have so much to be thankful for, so it’s time I gave something back.’ I cringe inside. I sound so dull and earnest. ‘What you do here, it’s amazing. It’s terrible how much food goes to waste.’

‘It’s shocking,’ she agrees, at last connecting to something I’ve said. ‘If two hundred boxes of cornflakes are stacked together and the bottom two boxes are damaged, they will discard the whole bloody lot because it’s easier to get rid of one big pile in one go. And then there are people starving on the streets, or kids sent off to school with no breakfast and rumbling stomachs. Don’t get me started,’ she says, as if she could talk for England about this subject. ‘So, you live locally?’

‘Round the corner.’ That was another piece of advice. Don’t choose a voluntary job that takes hours to get to. I’d only end up resenting the journey and quit after day one.

Discreetly she looks at my left hand. I still wear my wedding and engagement rings.

‘And you love cooking?’ she asks.

I nod. ‘Especially baking. I have a sweet tooth.’ I decide not to let on I’ve stopped cooking since Jamie died, surviving on takeaways, Pringles and Dairy Milk, washed down with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. ‘Growing up, cooking was my way of entertaining myself,’ I say instead. ‘I was an only child, so I used to spend hours baking, pretending I was on TV – you know, Blue Peter, “this is one I made earlier”.’ Nina smiles. ‘Mum didn’t like cooking, well not for the family anyway. Her idea of lunch was a cheese and pickle sandwich. I mean, I love cheese and pickle sandwiches, just not every day of the school holidays.’ I shrug. ‘So I began to cook.’

‘Amazing. What kind of things?’

‘I bought this French cookery book,’ I recall. ‘It was a very old-fashioned one, you know, black and white with small text and no illustrations. I’m showing my age. Anyway, baking is my real passion. I started making cakes for Mum’s coffee mornings.’ I remember Mum’s friends saying how lucky she was to have a daughter who could cook. ‘Mum and I began to do cake baking competitions, Dad was the judge.’ I look back, remembering those happy days, and how stupidly proud I’d feel when Dad told me how much he loved my coffee and walnut cake, that it was my best yet. ‘This probably sounds stupid,’ I say, thinking of Jamie now, and how I used to love him cooking for me, and equally how much I loved experimenting with new recipes for him, ‘but I find cooking is a way to show love.’

‘It doesn’t sound stupid at all. Food is love. It’s healing. I actually wanted to call this place “Food First” because I think food, in all its wonderful ways, is often the first step to recovery. Eating together can help us address all the other issues in our lives.’

‘Why Soul Food then, and not Food First?’

‘Good question. In the end, I think it made more sense. Food, as long as it’s decent, is good for the soul. A lot of the people who come here, Holly, this is their first hot meal of the week, because they can actually afford it. We charge a quid for a bowl of soup, and whatever they can afford for a main and pud. And if they have nothing, we never turn them away. The only condition I have is no one gets through the door high on drugs and the faintest whiff of alcohol you’re out. Visitors and volunteers, actually, we’ve got to feel safe. I want this place to feel like home, where people leave happy and nourished. Food is so much more than sticking something into your mouth. Food gives us confidence and friendship. Sorry, I’m getting carried away again,’ she says, but I find her inspiring. It’s no wonder she set up this place. I can see she has ambition and energy; people would have been falling over themselves to give her a grant. In a way I envy her passion. ‘I love seeing everyone here,’ she goes on, ‘sitting at these tables, enjoying a plate of food. Food brings us together. Mind you, I even love cooking for myself.’

I nod, but couldn’t agree less. After Jamie died, the last place I wanted to be was in the kitchen. The table was too big; the space Jamie had once occupied, vast. I began to order takeaways or if I couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone, a bowl of granola would do. When Jamie was out for the evening a bowl of cereal for supper was a treat.

‘I’m so greedy,’ Nina continues. ‘I seriously don’t understand these people who eat a bowl of cereal if their husband’s away, do you?’

‘No. Crazy.’

‘I eat all the things my husband hates when he’s away, like macaroni cheese. Do you have family? Children?’ she asks, trying to slot together the pieces of my life.

I shake my head, somehow always feeling incomplete when asked that question. Like I’m not quite enough. I see Jamie’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, before I turn to him, holding the pregnancy test kit, and he takes me into his arms, telling me not to give up hope.

‘Holly?’ Nina says, waking me up from my thoughts.

‘Sorry.’ I can feel my skin reddening. Please don’t cry. ‘I don’t have children. It wasn’t meant to be.’ I fight back the tears.

Nina must clock I’m struggling. ‘Are you OK?’

If only she knew Jamie’s half-read paperback still sits on his bedside table. I know, after eighteen months, I should give it to a charity shop or even chuck it in the bin. I’ve rehomed his clothes, but that book, it’s the one last piece I have of him. I glance at the door. I could leave. Fake a stomach ache. Go home now. Sink into bed. But what would Jamie think, watching me wish my life away?

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say with a smile. ‘So how does your café work then?’

‘Well, Scottie and his prep chefs gather here in the next half hour or so. The pudding team comes around ten. I have a pair on hot food and pudding service, a team of washer-uppers, table setters, clearer-uppers, someone who welcomes people at the door, takes their coats, introduces them to friends if they’re new. I started off with four volunteers, now I have sixteen.’

‘Sixteen, wow.’

‘The food arrives at about nine. It comes from a local charity that delivers straight to the door which makes life a lot simpler. Then it’s a mad rush to unpack before we get cooking.’

‘How many do you cook for?’

‘We usually have around fifty. One time ninety people turned up.’

‘Ninety?’ I repeat, impressed but daunted.

‘I know. Makes me think about running this café on a Sunday too, but my husband wouldn’t be too pleased. He says I’m married to this place.’ She shrugs. ‘Maybe someday I’ll expand.’

‘You’re open once a week, right?’

‘Yep, for now.’

‘How do people know about you?’

‘Word of mouth. Most people who come here are homeless, or they used to be. Abuse, drugs, shocking childhoods, bad life choices, I’ve seen and heard it all. Sometimes I hear the most harrowing stories, but you know what, it could have happened to me. What’s that saying?’

‘We’re only one pay cheque away from being homeless.’

‘Exactly.’

‘It could happen to any one of us.’

‘Too right. Then you get some who come here for the company. They live on their own, don’t see a soul day in, day out. There’s one chap, Nigel, well into his eighties, regular churchgoer, who doesn’t see anyone during the week, but loves coming here every Saturday. He’s part of the furniture. He told me he’d die of loneliness if it weren’t for us.’

I feel moved by Nigel and instantly like him. ‘What if someone like me came in? Or foodies from Chiswick?’ I’m thinking of my boss, Harriet. She’d be delighted to pay a quid for a bowl of delicious soup. She’d have second helpings too.

‘To be honest, if people can afford it, they always give a generous donation. Angus is good at spotting spongers too. There’s nothing in the world I hate more than meanness.’

Jamie used to say that.

‘The rules aren’t rigid, prices aren’t fixed, but somehow, it works.’

‘And what do you cook?’

‘We don’t know until the day.’

That familiar panic rises in my chest.

‘It all depends on what comes in,’ Nina explains. ‘On Valentine’s Day last year our delivery included mackerel and black pudding. Scottie went from grumpy old sod to genius in thirty seconds and made these beautiful heart-shaped mackerel and black pudding fish cakes. We need people with imagination.’

Ninety. No recipe? Heart-shaped mackerel and black pudding fish cakes? Fuck! What am I letting myself in for? I remind myself I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet.

‘You don’t have to cook anything too fancy, Holly, not for pudding anyway. A syrup sponge with custard puts smiles on faces. Scottie’s a pro, he can always help out with ideas and sometimes we cheat and buy a few extra things. Don’t ever ask this man to go to the shops for you,’ she says, nodding towards Angus who approaches our table, hair damp, yet looking a whole lot better in a pale blue checked shirt with jeans. I imagine there must be a shower or bathroom somewhere in the building. ‘He forgets what you asked for,’ Nina warns me, ‘and ends up in the pub instead.’

‘Guilty,’ Angus replies. ‘Easily side-tracked.’

‘So, when could you start? Now?’ Nina stands up.

‘You don’t want to think about it first?’ I ask, knowing it’s me who needs to think about it first. I like to take my time, consider my options.

‘Let’s have a trial,’ Nina suggests.

‘Today?’ Oh shit!

‘If you burn the kitchen down I’ll reconsider. What size are you?’

The room seems to be spinning. Everything is happening far too quickly. ‘Fourteen,’ I reply with faint shame. I used to be a size ten.

‘Angus, can you grab Holly a medium apron?’

‘Yes, boss.’

She turns to me. ‘Unless you’re busy today?’

I’m busy doing nothing. ‘Um. Er.’

‘We can start next weekend if you’d prefer?’

I take in a deep breath. Get on with it, Holly. You’ll only fret for the whole week if you don’t start today. Angus chucks an apron my way. I don’t catch it in time.

‘It gets hot in the kitchen, you won’t need your cardy,’ Nina warns me, as I pick up the apron, noticing my hand shaking, and horribly aware Angus is watching me.

‘Yeah, best to wear as few clothes as possible,’ he advises.

‘If today goes well, there’s more paperwork and forms, but let’s call this a trial. Angus, can you show Holly the ropes? I need to chase the delivery guys. And where the hell’s Scottie?’

‘He’s on his way,’ says Angus, leading me into a small kitchen with cream worktops and an industrial-sized fridge and dishwasher. He places a hand on my shoulder. ‘How you doing?’ he asks, for a second allowing me to see a kind person behind the jokes.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I say, before deflecting the attention off me. ‘So, this is where it all happens.’

‘Yep. Scottie cooks here.’ He motions to one corner. ‘Everything has to be done just so but don’t let him bully you. And this is where you’ll be stationed, Holly. At the stroke of twelve-thirty we open the doors, and take the orders.’ Angus stands in front of the hatch which divides the kitchen from the dining room. ‘Everyone queues up in a not-so-orderly line, I take their orders, hand the punters a wooden spoon with a letter and number on it. The tables are in alphabetical order, so the table at the far end of the room…’ he points to it, ‘is A, the next is funnily enough B, and so on. They take their seats, and we do our best to hand out the right food to the right people. There are a few old folk here who have dementia, they order veggies with their sausages, before telling you adamantly they ordered chips. It’s best to agree with them, the customer is always right. It’s a bit Fawlty Towers but that’s half the charm.’

‘How are your computer skills, Holly?’ Nina asks, sticking her head round the door. Computers and I do not get on. We’re like a bad marriage. I can turn one on and off and write the odd email in between and that’s about the extent of our relationship.

‘Great.’ Why am I pretending to be a computer whizz?

‘We print the menus. Angus will show you where the office is. It’s upstairs. To be honest, it’s more like his bedsit right now.’

‘She’s exaggerating. I only stay here the odd night.’

My mobile rings. It’s probably Mum. Or a scam. Someone pretending to be calling from Amazon. No one else calls me this early on a weekend morning.

Angus watches me reject Mum’s call. ‘When you’re cooking don’t leave your mobile lying around,’ he warns.

‘OK,’ I say slowly, semi-catching his drift.

‘I might nick it.’

‘You wouldn’t. It’s ancient. About as old as me.’

When Angus smiles, I notice he has a dimple, like me. He clears his throat. ‘Everyone is lovely here, but occasionally things go missing if you know what I mean. Some of these guys walk in with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and things kick off. So keep your mobile and any money in your apron pocket.’

‘Fine,’ I say, though I’m dreaming now of being at home with no threat of being robbed.

‘Oh, here comes Aleksander,’ Angus says as we head out of the kitchen. Through the glass doors I can see a frail-looking man with a wispy beard, ghostly pale, walking down the narrow path towards the café, clutching a walking stick. I notice one side of his arm is covered in tattoos and he’s carrying a shopping bag which looks too heavy for his withered arm. ‘Polish. We call him Sander, incredible chef, far more talented than Scottie but don’t tell him that. Only thirty-five,’ he continues, as if reading my mind that he looks young to need a walking stick. ‘In and out of prison. One word of warning.’

‘What?’

His hand briefly touches my shoulder, making me almost jump out of my skin. ‘It’s best to keep on the right side of him,’ he says, as he opens the door to let him in, and I have no idea if he’s being deadly serious or not.

‘Why?’ I murmur.

‘’Cos he bakes us the most amazing cinnamon buns.’

3

I turn the key in my front door, tired from being on my feet all day, and mentally drained from trying to retain so much information: where everything was in the kitchen, how the oven worked, all the volunteers’ names and what they did, attempting not to get in the way of head chef, Scottie, and then of course thinking up what to cook with my ton of ingredients. It was like a first day in the office. I didn’t drink nearly enough water either and feel dehydrated.

The chaos and buzz of the café contrasts strongly with being back at home, yet for the first time I feel grateful for the peace. I drop my bag in the hallway, longing to tell Jamie all about my day. He’d be proud. As I walk into the kitchen, I notice that even if I’m tired, I’m still smiling.

‘I hope we haven’t scared you off?’ Angus had asked as I was about to leave. Nina was standing by his side.

‘Scared me off?’ I repeated.

‘Well, it’s not exactly your average crowd.’

‘Who wants average?’ Nina challenged him. ‘So, see you next week Holly?’

‘Yes,’ I said without hesitation this time. ‘If I’ve passed my trial?’

‘With flying colours,’ Nina replied. ‘Keep the apron, it’s officially yours.’

And on that note, I’d smiled all the way home, like a child who had been given a gold star. And I still feel like that child. My mobile rings.

‘How was it?’ Milla asks immediately.

‘I got it! I worked there today.’

‘Today? Already? Wow! Hurry up and get here, I want to hear all about it. The wine’s in the fridge and I’m making bolognese.’

I tell her I’ll jump in the shower and be with her as soon as.

I rush upstairs to get ready, for the first time in months the solitude of home contrasting to the party going on inside my head. I realise already that I feel more grateful tonight than I did this morning. ‘The guy near the back, he went to Harvard,’ I replay Angus telling me, giving me a running commentary on a few of the locals standing in the lunch queue. He was referring to a red-haired man, in his fifties. ‘Bad breakup and made redundant at the same time, plus no family support. Intelligent man. Loves art and woodwork. Ended up on the streets. The skinny bloke coming up, that’s Craig. He volunteers here, helps clear up for a free meal. He lives outside Sainsbury’s. Good Wi-Fi apparently.’

‘And who’s that?’ I’d asked, gesturing to a slim elegant woman in her sixties, wearing a long summer skirt with a silk scarf draped over her shoulders.

‘Sarah. We call her Lady