The Tea Chest E-Book

Josephine Moon

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 497

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

'I loved it - a perfect blend of sweet and spice.' Jenny Colgan Kate Fullerton, talented tea designer and now co-owner of The Tea Chest, could never have imagined that she'd be flying from Brisbane to London, risking her young family's future, to save the business she loves from the woman who wants to shut it down. Meanwhile, Leila Morton has just lost her job; and if Elizabeth Clancy had known today was the day she would appear on the nightly news, she might at least have put on some clothes. Both need to start again. When the three women's paths unexpectedly cross, they throw themselves into realising Kate's magical vision for London's branch of The Tea Chest. But every time success is within their grasp, increasing tensions damage their trust in each other. With the very real possibility that The Tea Chest will fail, Kate, Leila and Elizabeth must decide what's important to each of them. Are they willing to walk away or can they learn to believe in themselves? An enchanting, witty novel about the unexpected situations life throws at us, and how love and friendship help us through. Written with heart and infused with the seductive scents of bergamot, Indian spices, lemon, rose and caramel, it's a world you won't want to leave.

Leseprobe

JOSEPHINE MOON

First published in 2014

Copyright © Josephine Moon 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: [phone] Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com/uk

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australiawww.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74331 787 7

E-book ISBN 978 1 92557 519 4

Typesetting by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

For Alwyn, who believes in dreams.

Judy, I realise it will come as a shock that I have decided to leave myshare of The Tea Chest to Kate and not you. But I know you, Judy.And I know you won’t allow The Tea Chest to continue to grow. Iknow you never wanted to be involved. And I wish to thank you,sincerely, for helping me realise my dream. I do acknowledge thatThe Tea Chest wouldn’t exist today if you hadn’t stepped in whenyou did.

Family and business is never an easy mix. And ours certainlywasn’t.

Kate, I’ve never been more proud. You have been the modelemployee and a dear and trusted friend. Equally, The Tea Chestwouldn't be what it is today without your vision, talent, commitmentand passion. I know from the bottom of my heart that you willtake it to new heights. This is a big responsibility. I know that.

Other people will tell you that you can’t do it, but you can.

Trust yourself.

Simone

Contents

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Acknowledgements

Preview Chapters from The Chocolate Promise

1

Kate Fullerton’s second home for the past six years had been The Tea Chest. It sat in leafy Ascot and was the original store, opened long before the Sydney one. It was nestled between a boutique Brisbane fashion label, specialising in hats and fascinators for the nearby racecourse, and a fine-dining restaurant with crisp white linen and spotless glassware. An enormous, gnarled jacaranda tree, planted on the footpath decades earlier, sheltered the entrance to the store and laid a soft, purple carpet at its feet every October.

Kate turned the key and opened the white French doors, letting the river breezes enter the shop, pick up the scents of bergamot, Indian spices, lemons, rose and caramel and swirl them towards her in a morning greeting she would never tire of.

Susan wasn’t far behind. She clicked her way across the polished wooden floor to put her things down behind the counter and clipped on her Manager badge.

‘Morning,’ she said.

‘Good morning to you too,’ Kate said, and gave her a hearty smile. Susan had been a bit tetchy of late, understandably. Simone was gone; Kate had been propelled from the role of tea designer to equal owner of the company; and the future of The Tea Chest was in doubt. She could appreciate why Susan was nervous but it wasn’t helping Kate to find her own feet in this new world in which she’d landed.

The prospect of going to London and opening a new store from scratch was alarming. Possibly crazy. And undoubtedly life-changing.

It didn’t help that no one had confidence in Kate’s ability to pull it off, including Kate.

‘I had such a great weekend,’ Susan said now, going to the storeroom to switch on the urn and get the teapots and teacups ready for tastings.

‘Tell all,’ Kate said, turning on the fairy lights that were strung around the room.

‘I met someone,’ Susan said, poking her head out of the storeroom and fastening her white frilly apron around her waist. ‘At the pub, of all places.’

Kate let Susan talk on, half listening to the life of a fellow thirty-something and musing on how different her own life could be if she were still single with no children. The other half of her attention was busy working on a solution for her current problem—how to save The Tea Chest, her career, the employees in both Sydney and Brisbane, and Simone’s legacy.

She loved it here—not just her job, but the actual store itself. The Tea Chest was a wonderland. Circular walls gave the impression of being inside a giant teapot. Fairy lights twinkled from the ceiling. Concentric circles of products filled the belly of the room. White porcelain bowls contained tea for customers to shake and smell. Rows of teapots and Turkish tea glasses were laid out for taste tests. Toasted coconut marshmallows, chocolates, gingerbread men, Turkish delight, chocolate-coated raspberries, crystallised ginger and truffles all sat in tall glass jars. Melting moments were piled high on cake stands under glass domes with gold handles.

There were teapots, silver spoons, giant cups and saucers, diffusers, strainers, napkins, lace tablecloths, sugar cubes and books about tea. The teas themselves were stacked from floor to ceiling. They were in glass jars for display, as well as in boxes of pale pink, yellow, rose red, powder blue, white and gold to take home. Each was tied with a bow, the ribbon stamped in silver with the logo of an open antique tea chest.

The walkways had the effect of directing customers in dreamlike wandering. Patrons paid for their goods at an enormous clunky old-fashioned cash register and left with their parcels hand-wrapped in gold paper and rich ribbon.

It was simply too special to lose.

The bell above the door tinkled and in walked Priscilla, a regular at The Tea Chest.

‘Good morning,’ Kate greeted her.

‘Kate,’ Priscilla said, breathless in her designer jogging outfit. A slight sheen of sweat sat atop her makeup. ‘I’m so glad you’re here today. I’m hosting a baby shower this weekend and I want you to design an individual blend for each of my guests.’

Since she’d started offering individually designed blends, her fame had spread quickly through the city. The Brisbane News had featured a full-page colour photo of her, dressed in the white shirt and apron she wore to The Tea Chest each day, surrounded by porcelain bowls of tea ingredients.

The service had been a hugely successful addition to the business and it wasn’t just Brisbane that had embraced it. She even took Skype, phone and email consultations to come up with special blends. And customers were happy to pay handsomely for them too. Handing over the beautifully wrapped boxes and special labels filled Kate with pride for days and reaffirmed to her, and hopefully to Judy, why Simone had hired her to be the company’s lead designer all those years ago.

Then again, Judy seemed to get that loud and clear, if today’s voicemail was anything to go by.

Kate, really, we need to wrap this up. Every day that passes losesus money. You’ve said it yourself—you’re a designer, not a businessowner.

‘How many guests?’ Kate said, reaching for her notebook.

‘Twenty-two,’ Priscilla said. ‘Will that be okay? I know it’s a lot and it’s short notice.’

‘No problem at all. It’s my absolute pleasure. This is what I do best.’

It was true. She could say with pride that she was a talented artist and she loved her career with all her heart. But she’d never thought of herself as a business person. She’d always dismissed ‘that side’ of things as something other people did, declaring she had no talent for numbers, spreadsheets, projections or management.

Was she really cut out to take on Simone’s vision for The Tea Chest and launch a new store in London followed by more in other countries?

Both Judy and Mark kept asking her that same question but for different reasons. Judy wanted out. Mark was worried for their family and his own career.

But the real question, she was coming to see, was whether she had allowed a lack of confidence to limit herself to a smaller life than she might have had. And was she brave enough to take a chance on herself now to find out?

Leila stared at the semicolon.

It was wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Just like it had been the first three times this document had passed through her in-tray. Just like another dozen errors she’d already corrected but were still on the pages in front of her.

She took a deep breath, letting it out in a controlled fashion, trying to release the fury that was twisting like a python around its prey. She could simply take her red pen and mark this page again. She could put it back in the folder, enter her remarks in the database for this project and shuffle it off her desk and back to the writer for the eighth time since her team had taken it on.

She could also stick needles in her eyes and set herself on fire.

While she debated her options, the voice of the writer himself floated to her from three cubicles away.

‘I know, George, I know. But it’s these editors. What can I do?’

Leila’s heart rammed against her chest. Her skin flared hot. Her head swam.

Our fault? How is this possibly our fault?

‘I’m up against a rock and a hard place, Georgie Boy. I know it’s past the due date but I can’t release it until these girls sign off on it. Quality assurance process and all that.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what’s up with them. It’s a no-brainer.’

Leila could imagine Carter leaning back in his chair, the look of an innocent child on his face, nodding in agreement with the long-suffering customer.

You incompetent, sexist, geriatric fool. YOU are the idiot standingin the way of this document being finished.

She tapped her pen furiously against the desk, her breathing sharp and painful.

‘I’ll take it to my manager, Georgie Boy, and see what we can do about them.’

No you don’t.

Leila threw the pen down with a clatter against her keyboard, picked up the document and marched to Carter’s desk. Towering over him, she pursed her lips, tilted her head to the side and glared at him, hoping steam was shooting from her nose.

‘George, I’ll have to call you back.’ He chuckled nervously and hung up the phone.

Leila threw the pages onto Carter’s desk, knocking over the last of his coffee.

‘Listen, cutie,’ he said, jumping out of his seat and pushing his glasses up his nose.

‘Don’t cutie me. I’ve had enough of you. How dare you blame this crap on us?’

Frustratingly, she felt her throat tighten and her eyes sting. She was half a second away from bursting into hysterical sobs. Dimly, she was aware of people gathering behind her, heard Lucas’s voice ask if everything was okay. Her ears filled with noise. Black spots appeared in her vision. She registered Carter’s sneering smile and watched his eyes travel to her breasts for the hundredth time.

Something cracked.

It was a loud popping sound and it might actually have come from inside her.

She shoved him, pushing the heel of her hand hard against his chest to get his lecherous self away from her body. He fell backwards into his chair and rolled away from her.

‘Leila.’ Lucas was behind her.

Normally, his voice would have made her warm and tingly.

But she was lost. Lost to rage and frustration and deep unhappiness. She grabbed Carter’s stone paperweight and threw it. She threw it as hard as she could, feeling power roar through her while regretting she couldn’t throw it even harder and straighter.

But it was hard enough. The paperweight smashed into the floor-to-ceiling window of the ninth floor and it cracked in a lightning bolt from top to bottom. There were gasps and exclamations from people in nearby cubicles.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Carter bellowed.

Leila’s knees went weak as the adrenaline flooded through her. Her arms began to shake and her breath rattled as she wheezed and gasped. She felt sick.

One thing she knew for sure: she was fired.

So if she was going to lose her job, then she might as well finish off this knob standing in front of her.

She lunged for Carter. He shrieked like a little girl and covered his face with his hands.

‘Leila.’ It was Lucas again. He grabbed her around the waist to pry her off the cowering Carter. Then he took her by the elbow and led her away.

She laughed hysterically.

‘Get a grip,’ Lucas hissed.

If Elizabeth had known today was the day she would appear on Brisbane’s nightly news dressed only in her lingerie, she might not have got out of bed. As it was, when she awoke, she chose to shower and put on a brand-new cream chemise, brush her teeth and climb back into bed beside her sleeping husband. She laid her long body against his back, reaching around him with her left hand to stroke the hair on his chest, and nuzzled his ear.

It was not that she was overcome by a surge of passion for his body, limp as it was with sleep and odorous with morning breath; her enthusiasm was thanks to the results of the test she’d just taken. Today, she was ovulating.

Twelve hours later, she checked into the Stamford Plaza, still wearing nothing but her chemise and wrap, handed over her husband’s credit card, silently thanked the reception staff, who asked no questions, and retired to her own king-sized bed, with a minibar and a range of pillows to choose from.

She lay in a bubble bath, drank vodka, cried, pummelled pillows and roared like a bear, slept a little, then spent the rest of the night in a chair by the window, watching the lights in the street below.

If only she had known this morning what she knew now.

She might have at least put on jeans.

2

At home in the chilly late autumn morning, Kate cut a rose from the bush and inhaled the delicate aroma. This courtyard had been the selling point of their first foray into home ownership. It was her experimental tea farm. She grew oranges, lemons and limes in pots along the wooden fence. The raised herb garden overflowed with parsley, coriander, basil, thyme, peppermint, lemongrass, spearmint and sage. Bright red chillies gleamed next to terracotta figurines of cherubs and fairies. Wind chimes tinkled. She grew chamomile, calendula and Camellia sinensis, the most common tea plant in the world.

The courtyard, with its stone water feature in the centre, had often been the source of inspiration for new blends. She could pull leaves straight from the lemon myrtle tree and put them in the teapot. She could scratch the bark of the cinnamon tree and inhale the spicy warmth for solace after a hard day at The Tea Chest. The lavender went straight into the teapot and so did the rose petals.

Today was Sunday, a day she and Mark tried to reserve for family time. At least one day of the week saw all four of them in the one place at the one time. Today was the first sunny day in weeks and the boys were itching to get outside. But all she really wanted to do was sit in the autumn sun and relax with a cup of rose tea.

‘Are you ready to go?’ Mark popped his head out through the stained-glass doors. His face fell when he saw her with secateurs and roses in hand.

‘You making tea?’

The sound of the boys fighting in their upstairs bedroom floated down through the annexe window. Both she and Mark raised their eyes upwards. There was a loud thump. Then a wail of frustration. A shout. A slamming door.

‘What do you think I should do?’ Kate said.

‘Get dressed for a start.’

‘I mean about the business.’

Mark stepped out onto the warm sandstone pavers and closed the doors behind him. ‘We probably don’t have time to get into this now.’

‘I know. But when’s it ever a good time? One of us is always rushing somewhere and we need to make a decision soon.’

He sat down on the carved wooden bench next to the pink geraniums. He looked at her without speaking and her heart quickened.

‘Just tell me,’ she said.

‘I’m worried about the boys,’ he said.

‘So am I.’

‘Taking on this level of commitment would be a huge upheaval.’

‘I know.’

‘We’ve only just got things the way we want them.’

She flinched. She knew him well enough to know this wasn’t as much about the boys as it was about him. Mark had a thriving acupuncture clinic now, but its success had been delayed when she’d first started at The Tea Chest. They’d decided to put their young children’s needs first and Mark had restricted the growth of his business to care for them. Now the boys were older and he had the clinic he’d always wanted, one that was expanding each month. He was fulfilled in his career for the first time.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to give up your work,’ she said.

‘But how else would we manage? You’ll be overseas for weeks, maybe even months, at a time, probably every year.’

She shivered as a cloud passed across the sun, casting them into shadow.

‘Do you want me to sign Judy’s papers to wind up the company?’

‘I miss you,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I want to see more of you. I’m sorry if that’s selfish, but it’s true.’

‘I want to see more of you too,’ she said, giving him a wry smile. ‘Isn’t it great we still want each other so much?’ She squeezed his wrist.

He ran his hand over his shaved head. ‘I guess as far as marriage problems go, it’s a good one to have.’

But she knew more was bothering him. Things he didn’t really want to say.

‘Let’s talk about money,’ she said, getting straight to the point. ‘If we wind up the company now, everything will be sold off and we’ll get a good—a very good—payout. That’s undeniable. Is that what you want?’

‘Think about what we could do with that money. We could travel. Together. All four of us. It could set us up comfortably for years to come. You’d have the freedom to stay home and I could finally put the hours into my clinic.’

‘I . . .’ She paused, searching for the right words. ‘I don’t know that I want to stay home. The Tea Chest is more than a job for me.’

Mark stood and began to pace.

‘Mark, love, think what might happen if I do go to London. This is an amazing opportunity to take the company to a whole new level. The financial rewards in five years time could be beyond our wildest dreams. Think about the doors that would be open to us then. It could set us up for the rest of our lives.’

‘Or,’ he said calmly, ‘this London shop that is currently draining money from the company every day while it sits waiting for someone to move it forward could be a huge bust, and when the company is wound up at a later date the payout for us would be much less.’

Kate took a deep breath. Of course she’d considered that.

‘I think we should take what we’ve got now, thank our lucky stars, and move on. Judy wants out now and she won’t wait for a buyer,’ Mark said.

Judy. The thorn in her side. ‘Why is she so stubborn? Why won’t she wait for a buyer for her share?’

He shrugged. The cloud shifted again and he squinted against the sun.

‘It’s not just about money for me,’ Kate said. ‘It’s about me having the chance to do something I never thought I would do, to make something bigger for me, us and our children. The Tea Chest could be their legacy one day. It’s about me following and honouring my passions—something I know you believe in.’

That got him. He straightened. And for a second she was thrown back a decade to their days as newlyweds when they lay on a blanket under a gum tree and talked of their dreams and values. The days when taking risks and doing what made you happy were far more important than financial security.

She asked the question she needed him to answer. ‘Don’t you think I can do it?’

He rubbed his forehead, thinking. ‘I think we have different skill sets and your strengths lie as an artist, a visionary, a dreamer and designer. And . . .’ He held up a hand to silence her protest. ‘And you’ve said that yourself.’

That got her. It was true. Hadn’t she declared over and over that business wasn’t her thing? Hadn’t that been why she’d jumped at the chance to work at The Tea Chest? All she had to do was be her creative, gifted self and someone else could worry about the finances.

The door opened and James’s tear-streaked face appeared. ‘Can we go now?’

Mark cleared his throat. ‘What’s wrong, buddy?’ He reached out a hand towards his five-year-old son.

‘Keats stood on my head.’

‘I did not,’ shouted Keats from inside. ‘It was an accident. I was climbing down from my bed.’

‘And he called me a toe.’ James went on, indignation set in his freckled face.

‘No I didn’t,’ Keats called from the kitchen, his voice laden with eight-year-old big-brother superiority. ‘I called you a toad.’

Mark rubbed James’s back and kissed him on the top of his head. ‘You need some shoes before we can go,’ he said. Kate tried to smile at him reassuringly. James nodded and disappeared inside.

Nothing could pull on her heartstrings like the little men in her life. They were her world. Of course they were. You couldn’t create a life, nurture it, watch it grow and develop its potential without this being so. And that was exactly where she was with The Tea Chest. She was arguably just as much a part of that company as Simone had been. They’d come together and created new life. She may not have had the skills to be a mother when she became pregnant, but she’d learned. She’d educated herself, lost many hours sleep and gave it everything she had. Surely she could do it again.

‘We used to say we valued doing what we loved above all else,’ she said.

‘True. But maybe there are different types of happiness and you just need to choose one version and stick to it.’

There was possibly some truth in that. But which version should she choose: one with a known guarantee or one with unlimited potential?

Leila wore her best navy suit. It was a surprisingly hot day for May and she would rather have taken off the jacket. But this was no time to be distracted by trivial things like comfort. She was heading to the human resources department of Strahan Engineering. And she was about to lose her job.

People she passed in the corridor moved away from her like she was bad luck.

Yesterday seemed a lifetime ago. A lifetime since she’d lost her mind. A lifetime since Lucas had ushered her into the elevator and down to the ground floor and out to the courtyard of the common room. A lifetime since he’d told her to go home and that he’d phone her later. An age since she’d received first his phone call and then the call from Maryanne, requesting a formal meeting at eleven o’clock the next day to discuss The Incident.

Now, she ignored the sweat pouring from her armpits, ignored Eric the Humping Dog as he sneered in satisfaction at her from beneath his carefully groomed goatee, ignored the acrobatics in her belly in honour of her impending sacking, and knocked on Maryanne’s door. There was a pause in the murmur of voices from behind the wooden facade, then a voice called, ‘Come in.’

Three of them sat at a round table.

There was Maryanne, the human resources manager of the whole company. There was Carol, the human resources manager of Leila’s division. Carol and Leila were certainly well acquainted, if not particularly friendly. Leila had put in enough complaints in the past for Carol to grimace when she saw Leila coming towards her office. And there was Ernie, her manager. He smiled but she wasn’t sure why.

‘Thank you for coming, Leila,’ Maryanne said. She mispronounced Leila’s name as Leela and jolly little Ernie helpfully corrected it to Layla, which Maryanne ignored. ‘Take a seat.’ She shuffled papers on the desk and clicked her pen twice.

‘How are you?’ she said, and Leila was sure the question was only driven by a professional duty of care rather than her actual desire to know, an impression reinforced by the fact that Maryanne looked away as soon as she’d asked the question and made a mark on the paper in front of her.

Ask the employee how they feel: tick.

‘Fine,’ Leila said, eyeing Ernie carefully. If anyone was going to fight for Leila’s job it would be him. He liked her. He believed in her. He gave her glowing annual performance reviews. He listened to her complaints and empathised whole-heartedly. Bought her vodka after work.

But he never did anything to solve the problems.

She ground her teeth, looking at his sticky-out ears and neatly brushed hair.

She knew that beneath his easygoing, approachable, everybody’s-friend demeanour, he was simply weak. He was a salesman—saying whatever he needed to in order to leave a meeting looking like the good guy. He could talk anyone into anything. He knew the jargon and twisted it around and around to say the same thing ten different ways until he wore the person down. And he was a master at taking credit for other people’s work. Including hers.

Ernie’s gift of the gab could be useful. But that all depended on whose side he was on today and who he needed to impress to get another bonus.

‘Why don’t you start by telling us about yesterday,’ Maryanne said. ‘I’m just going to take some notes while you talk.’

I’ll bet you are.

In a company like this, documentation ruled. Everyone focused on documenting so they never actually had to go ahead and make changes.

Where should she start? She was sick of having men look at her tits. She was sick of wanker men being promoted just because they could yell louder. She was bored to tears with reading engineering data. She was sick of the dirty splotches on the wall next to her cubicle. She was sick of seeing Eric the Humping Dog climbing everything that moved, including the photocopier. She was sick to death of eating lunch at her desk and rarely feeling sunshine on her body.

What could she possibly say that hadn’t already been said and documented before? But even with all of that she knew she could never justify physically attacking someone.

‘What can I say?’

The three exchanged glances.

She turned to face Carol, vaguely hoping for some support. After all, Carol had heard it all before. But Carol turned her pointy features away and looked down at her notes. She wasn’t on Leila’s side.

Ernie was her only chance now.

‘I cracked. Lost it. Temporary insanity.’ Her heart rate accelerated to full speed. Her palms sprang leaks. Her chest tightened.

These days, all she had to do was imagine Carter’s pushed-up face, whining voice and thinning hair and she snapped. She was permanently angry. Constantly ready to attack or be attacked. Blind rage was her response to everything.

No paper in the copy machine. Printers jamming. Idiot men. Too much work. Not enough work. Rage. Rage. Rage. All the same. She’d turned into a version of herself she would never have thought possible.

Now, this meeting was pushing her over the edge. She could feel her body twitching, ready to run.

‘Could you please hurry up and fire me?’

Eric spoke then, using his appeasing voice. ‘Leila, you know I think the world of your work ethic and abilities.’

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

‘But it’s obvious to everyone here—’ he pointed to the thick folder full of Leila’s complaints sitting in front of Carol ‘—that you’ve been unhappy for some time. Would you agree?’

She looked to the ceiling, not blinking, biting her lip.

‘We’d rather not terminate your position,’ Maryanne said plainly, tapping her pen.

Of course they wouldn’t. That would open up a whole world of paperwork hurt.

‘But you will if I don’t resign?’

‘We want what’s best for you,’ Eric said—the smiling assassin.

‘I see.’

‘You can take some time to consider your position and your options,’ Maryanne said.

She could take time but, regrettably, the outcome would be the same. She’d sealed her fate the second the heel of her hand had connected with Carter’s pasty body. Her life here at Strahan was over. At least she could choose to leave on her own terms.

‘Don’t bother. I quit.’ And Leila Morton, senior editor, team leader and woman-with-a-future, walked out the door and out of the building into the great unknown.

Wincing, Elizabeth fought her way free of a tangled mess of sheets and picked up the hotel room’s phone. She had a killer hangover.

‘Greetings from miserable London.’

Obviously, Victoria had spoken to John.

‘So you’ve heard,’ Elizabeth said. ‘News travels fast to the other side of the world.’

‘Yes. The episode on the bridge freaked us all out a bit. I was nervous about calling. I didn’t know what state you’d be in.’

Elizabeth sat upright, then instantly regretted it as the room spun violently.

She remembered the choppers and television crews flying overhead. She remembered the flashing lights as the traffic stopped on the Story Bridge. The sound of the police as they shouted at her through the megaphone.

Step away from the edge.

‘How do you know about that?’ she asked shakily.

‘John called us. And the clip’s on YouTube.’

‘Marvellous.’ She heard the click of the lighter as Victoria lit a cigarette. ‘Are you at home? Do Mum and Dad let you smoke in the house?’

‘Yes. And no. I’m outside. I said I’d call you. Mum was all flappy about it and Dad was all throat-cleary. What the hell were you doing on the bridge anyway?’ she said. ‘I don’t believe for a second you were going to jump.’

Elizabeth pulled herself from the bed, crossed the floor, and closed the door to the bathroom. She sat down gingerly on the edge of the cool bath. Something about the solid whiteness helped ease the spinning.

‘What do you think I was doing on the bridge?’

There was a pause. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. I spoke to John, you know.’

Elizabeth waited to feel something in response to her husband’s name. But there was nothing.

‘He said he’s been calling you.’

‘I threw my phone out the window of the taxi last night. How’d you find me anyway?’

‘You used his credit card to check into the hotel. Apparently, the staff were a little unnerved by your appearance and had your home contact details. Rather than calling the police they called John.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked frightful. Swollen eyes and puffy face. Long, frizzy brown hair. And that bloody cream chemise. She wanted to rip it off.

And right there was another problem: she had no clothes.

‘You might as well tell me what the knob had to say,’ she sighed.

‘That it was all his fault you wanted to kill yourself. That he was a cheating dog. That he had a whole other family in Japan.’

‘I wasn’t going to kill myself.’

‘Then what were you doing?’

‘Just thinking.’ Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair, working out knots with her fingers and gradually smoothing it down. ‘I must have lost track of time. The next thing I knew I was surrounded and people were shrieking and pointing. Apparently you can’t stand on the edge of a bridge in your nightwear without people taking it the wrong way.’

‘It’s exciting, though, isn’t it? Your husband is this whole other person and you didn’t even know. It’s like Jamie Lee Curtis and Arnold Schwarzenegger in that film.’

‘True Lies.’

‘Yes. Just like that.’

‘Except not funny. Not funny at all. And not sexy, no. No seduction scene in a hotel room. No ballroom dancing. No international travel. No adventure and mystique. Just a complete tosser who left me for a second wife and two kids and a career as a karaoke king.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Apparently he’s a popular white-man personality. Something equivalent to being the winner of one of our reality television shows . . . like The Biggest Loser or something.’ She stood up to pace the room, stepping carefully so as not to set off the spinning again. ‘You know what? Japanese tourists used to stop us and ask for photos. I just thought they were being, you know, Japanese, with their cameras. But now I realise it’s because they knew him.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, all this time you were married to a famous person.’

‘He didn’t tell you the rest, did he?’ Elizabeth said.

‘There’s more?’ Victoria had never liked John. And at this moment Elizabeth wasn’t sure if that made her angry or grateful.

‘He had a vasectomy.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Years ago. He said once he’d had the kids in Japan he knew that was it for him. Besides, he couldn’t afford any more.’ She laughed, the way people laughed at inappropriate moments, like at funerals, or after accidentally handing your husband a glass of apple cider vinegar instead of apple juice, which she’d quite like to do now.

‘Isn’t that a hoot? I thought he was making business trips back and forth to Japan to develop property and invest money in complexes and he was really taking his sons to the zoo and to football games.’ She screwed up her face. ‘If they even do that sort of thing there.

‘He watched me go through all that pain. Month after month and all the while he’s shooting blanks.’ She grabbed a neatly folded plush white towel, ripped it off the rack and threw it against the wall.

‘So is this it for me now?’ Elizabeth’s voice twisted. ‘I’m thirty-one. Why can’t I have the husband and the baby? It doesn’t seem so unreasonable. Quite normal, really.’ Her legs shook and she reached for the edge of the basin.

Victoria was speaking, saying things that were supposed to be calming, interspersed with fierce denunciations of the dick-head husband, and a few scathing remarks about Australia too. Elizabeth found it hard to follow.

‘What should I do?’ she interrupted. ‘I can’t go home. I thought he loved me.’

‘Tell me, what’s one thing, just one thing, I can do to help right now?’

What could she do? Her sister was on the other side of the world and was a bit hopeless, really.

But right at this moment Victoria was all she had.

She clawed at the chemise that slithered around her body. ‘I’ve got no clothes,’ she whimpered. ‘I’ve got no clothes and I can’t go home.’

The next few hours rolled on and around Elizabeth like some horrid dream she was sure would end any moment. But it didn’t.

Victoria had gone and done the one sensible thing she could have done from her post in London. She’d called her workmate, Annie—solid, reliable, friendly, calm Annie. Like a Shire horse.

Elizabeth fell into her strong arms at the door of the hotel and wept on her shoulder.

‘This is such terrible news for you,’ Annie said.

She led Elizabeth gently back to the bed and presented her with a bag of clothes, freshly bought from Myer and smelling of clean, air-conditioned new beginnings.

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Elizabeth sniffed.

‘I’m at a client meeting,’ Annie grinned. ‘You’re my client. How am I doing?’

‘Great, thank you. You’re just the person I need.’ She felt her face crumple. ‘You must think I’m such a fool.’

‘No. Absolutely not. The only fool in this story is that tosspot husband of yours who couldn’t see what he had in you. Wanker.’

They sat in silence for some time while Elizabeth cried. Annie passed her tissues and fetched her a glass of water, tidied up her bed, hung up her bath towels and tipped the empty minibar bottles into the bin.

Then she stood in front of Elizabeth, her hands on her hips. ‘Now, this is the plan.’

Thank God. There was a plan. She didn’t have to try to figure out this horrible mess herself. She just had to follow the plan.

‘I’ve told work you’re not coming in for a few days. Your sister has organised for John to be out of the house for the next two hours. We’re going to your place and we’re packing three suitcases of your things. Then you’re coming back to my house for two days, and I will feed you cups of tea, chocolate, ice cream and vodka on constant rotation as the mood necessitates. You can resign from your job when you feel ready. Then you’re getting on a plane.’

‘A plane?’

‘Your parents have organised a ticket home to London.’

Elizabeth stared at Annie. She was going home to London? To live with her parents?

‘Surely . . . isn’t this a bit premature? It’s only just happened.’

Annie arched a bushy brow. ‘Well,’ she said calmly, ‘do you intend to go back to him?’

Go back? She turned this option over in her mind. Played the idea like it was a movie: arriving home, John saying he was sorry, going about business as normal.

But there was no normal anymore. He had another wife. They couldn’t exactly all live together.

Her hand flew to her mouth. John would have to choose one of them.

Would he divorce Elizabeth?

He would, of course. He had no choice. He had children with the other woman.

It was so unfair. So shameful and sordid. So humiliating.

‘It’s really over, isn’t it?’

Annie took Elizabeth’s hand in her own warm one.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Elizabeth said, and Annie helped her to the bathroom just in time.

Twenty minutes later, Annie led Elizabeth by the hand to the underground car park and they were on their way.

And two days, a kilo of chocolate, a litre of vodka and two tubs of ice cream later, Elizabeth was on a plane to London.

3

Six years earlier

‘I’ve been following your tea for a while now,’ the woman said. Her voice carried the last vestiges of an English accent. She sniffed a bowl of Kate’s Christmas Stocking blend. Manicured fingers shook the white porcelain gently, releasing the scent of cinnamon. She inhaled, closing her eyes.

‘Really? Thanks.’ Kate smiled, adjusting Keats to sit his small frame on her left hip. He sucked his thumb and swung his tiny shoes against her leg. Kate hardly noticed it anymore. She swayed slowly, rocking him, grateful for his patience and tolerance. Not many people would brave taking a two-year-old to work with them at the markets each week. But Keats was a pro.

The Riverside markets were frantic leading up to Christmas and it was shockingly hot, even though it wasn’t yet midmorning. The roof of their pop-up stall provided shade, but the humidity clung to her skin. Beside her, Mark was in consultation with a bare-chested man wearing fisherman pants, who wanted acupuncture for his knee. He was half out in the sun and she was momentarily concerned his shaved head might be getting sunburned as he tapped needles into the man’s thighs.

‘Can I help you choose something?’ she prompted, simultaneously eyeing two teenage girls who had a box of spearmint and mandarin Afternoon Tea in their hands and were discussing the value of it as a gift for their mother.

The woman screwed up her nose as she sniffed Mark’s Chinese tea blend that was part of a liver detoxification program. She hastily replaced it on the table.

‘Do you have anything new?’ she said. ‘I’ve tried everything here already.’

‘Everything?’

‘Yes.’

The woman’s charm bracelet jangled as she picked through the boxes of tea. She pushed a strand of smooth dark hair back into the clip at her nape and waited for Kate to respond.

Kate reached her own hand up to the shabby orange scarf covering her unwashed hair. A shift in air pressure brushed against her bare back, exposed in the cotton top she’d picked up for ten dollars.

This apparently rich and sophisticated woman had tried not just one but all of the tea blends Kate mixed on the wooden table in her courtyard at the back of her falling-down rented home in West End.

The woman sidestepped a twin pram and two sweating parents as they pushed through the walkway.

‘Have you even tried the Christmas Stocking tea?’ Kate said, suddenly anxious. ‘I only brought it out last week.’

‘Yes, I know, I picked it up at your other stall on the south side.’

Kate was simultaneously flattered that this woman appeared to be some kind of tea groupie and mortified she hadn’t noticed her before now.

The back of her neck tingled. She extended her hand.

‘I’m Kate.’

‘Lovely to meet you,’ the woman said, taking Kate’s hand. ‘I’m Simone.’

On the day of their first meeting, Kate checked the back of Simone’s heavy gold business card, which carried the scent of the same Chanel perfume Simone had been wearing at the markets.

The Emporium. Tuesday 11 am. Cocktail lounge.

She’d heard of the newly opened Emporium, but she’d never been there. She’d left the side of town she was more familiar with—where dried ducks hung upside down in Chinatown windows, a young guitarist busked outside the Night Owl, and men with more facial piercings than face stood against graffiti-covered walls near the Hare Krishna café. Now she was on the other side of the Valley, where men in impossibly tailored suits and crisp pale-pink business shirts stood with lattes and mobile phones, watching women strut international fashion labels from behind thousand-dollar sunglasses, and where shopping for a Mercedes-Benz was something people did on their lunch breaks.

Her nerves were taut from the intense traffic and multi-lane one-way streets. And now, standing in front of the entrance to the Emporium, her hands began to quiver.

The tall double doors, with their gold-leaf pattern, loomed before her. They opened with a gentle pft of air.

The Emporium was red and black and glass and gold. A doorman in a suit and cap watched Kate enter the building. Soft lighting bounced off shiny surfaces. Even the air felt cushiony and welcoming, neither noticeably cool nor too warm.

‘Wear something nice,’ Simone had said at the markets. Kate had baulked, but now she was grateful. She was wearing her organic cotton black pants, beautifully tailored, and a red Asian-inspired sleeveless cowl-neck top from a Brisbane label she admired but could rarely afford.

Inside, Simone was already seated in a plush, high-backed red armchair. Her glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, her mobile phone was jammed to her ear and her laptop and papers lay strewn across the glass table top at her knees. Above her, a chandelier sparkled. A sleek, black baby grand piano sat idly by and Kate wished someone would start to tinkle its keys, if only to complete this scene that looked straight out of a Hollywood movie.

Simone caught her eye and waved her over.

‘I’ve got to go, Judy. Kate’s just arrived.’

She snapped her phone shut and stood, clutched Kate’s biceps with her gold-polished fingernails and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I’m so glad you could make it. Take a seat. You look stunning, by the way.’

Kate arranged herself neatly on the armchair next to Simone, careful not to bump knees with her. She had read books on body language and knew that if she sat directly opposite Simone she was setting up an air of confrontation, and she already felt awkward enough.

Simone signalled the barman. He appeared a millisecond later carrying cocktail menus with an elaborate gold typeface. He was as shiny and sparkly and squeaky clean as the bar behind him.

‘Let’s celebrate,’ Simone said, smiling.

Kate smiled too. Part of her wanted to challenge Simone (I haven’t accepted anything yet) and part of her purred under Simone’s infectious enthusiasm. Kate’s ego was deeply thrilled. It wasn’t every day she was offered a job by a complete stranger.

‘She must want you,’ Mark had said. ‘She’s not the type to haul you over for a meeting just to chat. The job’s yours.’

‘If I want it,’ Kate had said, kissing him as he ran his hands up under her shirt.

Simone ordered without looking at the menu. ‘Long Island iced tea,’ she said. She squinted her eyes at Kate in a wincing gesture. ‘I know it’s rather retro but I do love them.’

Kate fingered the menu, her mouth watering at the descriptions of chocolate decadence, summer fruit-inspired bouquets and exotic numbers she would never have dreamed of. It would be a toss-up between at least five of them, if she drank alcohol.

‘I’ll have a lemon, lime and bitters,’ she said. Beside her, Simone sat up straighter, just enough to alert Kate to the possibility that she’d offended her. According to body-language rules, she should be mirroring Simone and in this case that meant ordering a cocktail.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Kate explained, going with the easier option. People were always so suspicious when you said you didn’t drink.

‘Oh.’ Simone’s eyes dropped automatically to Kate’s navel, her expression unreadable. Kate thought it best to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible.

‘That’s not a problem, is it?’ she said lightly, trying to keep her voice even.

‘Not at all.’ Simone recovered. ‘Congratulations. When are you due?’

‘May twenty-first, give or take a few days. It’s our second. Obviously. You met Keats the other day.’

Simone seemed to register all of this as mildly as if Kate had given her the weather forecast for the next few days.

‘Right, let’s get down to business,’ she said. She handed Kate a manila folder that was stuffed with pamphlets and A4 papers. ‘Here, you can read these in your own time. They’ll give you lots of information on The Tea Chest, its history, its products and so on.’

‘Yes, I’ve looked up your website,’ Kate said. ‘You’ve got a lovely range.’

Simone nodded. ‘It’s served us well up till now, but we need a fresh new line to keep our customers interested. A line that will run alongside the old favourites while keeping new ones coming all the time to hold interest. That’s where you come in. We’ll be culling half our current lines at least. Women have entered a new era—one of self-determination, autonomy and celebration. I need someone with flair and creativity to lead us into the future, keep us ahead of the game. I’m offering good money with all the perks, including—’ she again cast an eye south to Kate’s navel, ‘—twelve weeks paid maternity leave.’

Kate nodded, breathing to quieten her beating heart. It was a dream.

‘You can have flexible hours and you can even work from home half the time, so you can achieve that whole working-mother, super mum, work–life balance thing.’

The drinks arrived and Simone murmured with delight at her first sip.

‘This is very generous,’ Kate said, humbled. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘I’m a businesswoman, Kate. The Tea Chest is my baby. I have birthed it, watched it grow and mature into a profitable business. Now, it’s ready to expand, with a second store in Sydney in the first phase of development, then one in London and another one overseas—I’ve yet to decide exactly where—in the second phase.

‘Our customers are smart, loyal women, an interesting mix of stay-at-home mums and fully corporate working women. They work hard and know how to treat themselves, know good tea, value luxury and beauty and modern lifestyles but also retain old-fashioned values at their core. They’re nostalgic, maintain strong relationships with their family—even if they don’t have children. Do you see?’

She paused and Kate stared at her in admiration.

‘We know our customers down to their weekly incomes, their star signs, shoe sizes and menstrual cycles.’

‘Really?’

‘No. That was a joke.’ Simone leaned forward. ‘We don’t know their shoe sizes.’ She winked at Kate and laughed. ‘So what do you say, Kate? Would you like to come and work for The Tea Chest as the lead designer and pull us all into the Age of Aquarius?’

Kate didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. I would like that very much.’ She raised her glass and clinked it to Simone’s.

‘That’s my girl. Now, when can you start?’

‘We’ll have to arrange childcare for Keats. Maybe in a week’s time?’ She felt a sudden pull in her heart as the reality of leaving Keats behind for at least half the week sank in. She had to fight back sudden tears. Her excitement about this job was intense but the cold winds of guilt and a good dash of pregnancy hormones threatened to undo her.

Simone finished her drink. ‘Call me as soon as you can. I’ll have to organise a time for you to meet Judy Masters, by the way.’

‘Who’s Judy?’

Simone’s face closed and her foot began to tap on the chocolate-brown carpet at her feet. ‘Jude’s my financial investor. I started The Tea Chest but I needed some capital to get it to where it is now. She’s not really supposed to have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the business but her involvement has grown more than I’d like, frankly.’ She signalled to the waiter to bring her another drink.

Kate decided to ask nothing more about Judy Masters until she’d met her herself.

When Elizabeth was a normal person who lived in Brisbane, she had a life. A job, a husband, friends, a garden and plans for a baby. Of a workday evening, she left her office cubicle and swapped her silk and heels for lycra and running shoes and jogged home.

The Beautification office, where she was a content (if not terribly excited) dispatch manager for organic beauty products, overlooked the Brisbane River. But Elizabeth’s path home weaved through the suited pedestrians on Park Road, passed the school where her future children would be educated, and climbed the hills to Rosalie.

The first thing she saw when she reached her house was the immaculately tended garden, in which she’d spent time on the weekend nurturing her ferns and hedges and her carefully hand-mown four square metres of lush green lawn.

Breathing hard from the last segment of her run, she’d turn her key in the lock of their perfectly renovated colonial cottage, pausing first under the bullnose verandah to sit on the whitewashed bench and remove her running shoes.

Inside, she was greeted by stained timber floors, whitewashed walls, an open-plan space that seemed far too large for such a tiny home, and a romantic, curving internal staircase that led to the master bedroom.

Each day, she worked hard to ensure the master bedroom was neat, clean and inviting, that the doors to both sets of walk-in wardrobes were closed properly (John was distracted by a door being even slightly ajar), and that the modern white bathroom had fresh towels and bath oils ready to go.

The baby-making business was hard work.

If John was late coming home, or if he was on one of his overseas trips, Elizabeth delighted in sitting on the bedroom’s balcony with a cup of herbal tea, enjoying the expansive views of the city and thinking positive thoughts about her upcoming pregnancy.

Sometimes, she allowed herself to imagine what her life with John and this child might be like. Saturday mornings wandering Rosalie’s gourmet market and selecting imported cheeses, breads, dips and marinated baby octopus. Weekday afternoons waiting under the huge leafy trees on the perimeter of the school for Jessica (if it was a girl) or Geoffrey (if it was a boy) to come running out, backpack swinging and bursting with excitement over the day. Or perhaps they would take a drive up to the bookstore and sit in the children’s corner and read aloud together.

Perhaps the boy would look like John and the girl would look like her. Or maybe it would be the other way around. That was if they were lucky enough to have more than one. Maybe both Jessica and Geoffrey.

But at the rate they were going, she’d be lucky to get even one.

Apparently, that was a premonition she should have heeded.

Now she found herself back in her family home on Hemberton Road, Clapham, childless, husbandless, jobless and humourless. And right at this moment lacking in sobriety.

‘Elizabeth, dear, you look dreadful,’ Margaret Plimsworth said, clutching her daughter to her chest and rocking her roughly from side to side in a manner Elizabeth supposed was meant to be nurturing. ‘What an awful, wicked man.’

Elizabeth was touched by her mother’s stern sympathy and relaxed into her wiry arms.

‘The shame of it,’ Margaret went on. ‘How will you ever be able to hold your head up high again?’

Elizabeth pushed herself out of her mother’s arms. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Margaret studied her face. ‘Is there no chance it could all work out?’

‘You just called him wicked.’

‘Of course, yes. It’s just that he was always so thoughtful at Christmas time. He did have some good qualities, didn’t he? I mean, he didn’t smoke, never drank too much, opened the car door for you, did some housework and was always pleasant on the phone.’

Oh great. Perfect. She was trapped here now and had no strength to contest her mother’s absurd list of qualities necessary in a marriage. Like, say, fidelity.

Victoria closed the door behind them. She’d met Elizabeth at the airport, having plenty of time to fill. From what Victoria had told her on the ride home, her finest accomplishment of late was completion of a one-week at-home course to become a nail technician. Her nails were currently zebra-striped with diamanté details and tiny gold bells that jingled when she waved her hands. Which was a lot, given she tended to leave sentences incomplete and insert vague gestures in the spaces.

Elizabeth dragged herself down the narrow entranceway. It had been five years since she’d last visited but the house looked almost the same as she remembered. There was still the forest-green carpet from an era that pre-dated the Mesozoic, the frosted-glass windows, the smell of years of frying bacon, and her father in front of the blaring television in his reclining chair.

‘Hello, Dad!’ she shouted.

‘Kitten, I didn’t hear you come in.’ Her father rose from his armchair, his huge grin revealing his missing lower tooth. Elizabeth noted that in this room the carpets had been cleaned, the walls painted white, and a new red recliner now sat waiting to cradle her father’s buttocks. At least they’d made a start somewhere on improving the dated home. But she grimaced in anguish, remembering the lovely floating white curtains in her bedroom in Brisbane and the double sink ensuite with glittering lights around the mirror. Her parents’ single pedestal basin in the bathroom with grout falling from between the tiles was really not going to offer her the same tranquillity or privacy.

‘How was your flight?’ Bill kissed her on the cheek. Her father still looked the same, really, just a bit greyer and a little softer in the face. That was one thing she was glad hadn’t changed much.

‘Don’t ask.’

‘She found a new boyfriend,’ Victoria said.

‘What?’ Margaret gasped. ‘You haven’t been doing any of that seven-mile-high thing, have you?’

‘She sat next to the loveliest guy on the plane,’ Victoria went on. ‘He had to help her off, actually, as she was so trolleyed.’

‘I was no such thing.’

‘We had a fine chat while you were in the toilet,’ she said. ‘He asked me lots of questions about you. Anything you hadn’t already talked about on the plane. Apparently you had quite a lot to say in between the dozens of vodkas.’

Elizabeth opened her mouth to tell her sister to bugger off but then stopped. She had hazy memories of talking to the man but she couldn’t remember him saying much in return. She might have thought he had a nice smile, though. And she had woken up with her head on his shoulder at one point.

She shook away the memories.

‘His name’s Haruka.’ Her sister was still talking. ‘I’ve got his details if you want them.’

‘Victoria, the last thing I need is a short Japanese man asking me out on a date.’

‘She’s a bit touchy,’ Victoria whispered to their parents. ‘Just because John has a wife in Japan she thinks all Japanese should be sent back to . . .’ She waved a hand. ‘And he’s not short.’

Just the mention of her husband’s name made Elizabeth tremble with anger. He’d made many attempts to contact her via Victoria’s phone in the two hours she’d been in this country. He’d sent text messages begging her to please give him a chance to explain. But there was nothing to explain.

‘Japanese?’ Margaret brought a hand to her chest. ‘Goodness.’

Elizabeth exited this conversation, escaping up the creaking stairs to her old bedroom. She stopped in the doorway. Her childhood room had been converted into a shrine to unicorns. A unicorn mobile hung from the ceiling. A unicorn bedspread covered the single bed against the wall. The books had been removed from the shelves and replaced with all manner of unicorn statuettes and figurines. Unicorn posters covered the wardrobe doors.

‘Oh, this.’ Her mother hovered behind her. ‘It’s your father’s latest thing. But your bed’s still there. It’s still your room.’

Elizabeth turned to face her mother, beaten by the jet lag, alcohol and trauma. She wanted badly to ask about the unicorns, but she was sure she lacked the energy for whatever her mother’s response would be.

‘Why am I here?’ she said instead.

‘You needed help. We couldn’t let you stay in that shameful marriage in Brisbane. You needed to come home.’

‘Home?’ she said, flinging her arm around the room, thinking this space was the size of her walk-in wardrobe at home. Her face twisted in pain.

She was totally discombobulated. Home. It seemed so strange now to think that the beautiful home she’d worked so hard on was no longer her home at all. That it had probably never really been a home. Not in the true sense of the word.

‘What else were you going to do?’ her mother said.

The truth in that question stabbed through Elizabeth. She was defeated.

There was a yell from the lounge room.

‘Quick, Margaret, it’s on.’