The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts. Jennifer Joyce

      ‘I suppose it’ll have to.’ Gran taught me to make my own custard, which I use in the teashop, but it’s a bit of a faff at the weekend when I just want to relax.

      Dad heats the apple crumble and custard in the microwave while I make cups of tea and then we sit at the table and Dad asks, ‘How’s your mum?’

      Like the tinned custard, this question is routine and, as always, I feel awful when I answer. I want to tell him she’s not so good. That she and Ivor have split up, that she’s regretting ever leaving Dad after twenty-three years of marriage. That she wishes she’d worked harder, that she hadn’t given up, that she was mistaken when she’d said that she cared about Dad but didn’t love him any more.

      But I can’t.

      Mum’s happy.

      And she still cares about Dad but doesn’t love him any more. She loves Ivor.

      I’m happy for Mum, really I am, but I feel for Dad. I’ve been the dumped party, the one left behind. Left devastated.

      ‘She’s okay,’ I tell Dad, though I know it won’t be enough. Mum is a wound Dad likes to prod, even if it hurts like hell. When I split up with my last boyfriend, I couldn’t bear to think about him, let alone talk about him. I’ve shut the door on my relationship with Joel and locked, bolted and welded it shut. But Dad likes to know every little detail of Mum’s life because if he’s out of the loop, he’s truly lost her.

      ‘Did she have a nice holiday?’ I nod, a mouthful of hot apple crumble and custard rendering me unable to speak. ‘I bet she’s tanned, isn’t she? She only has to think about the sun and she’s golden. Not like me, eh?’ Dad lifts up an arm, flashing his pale, freckly skin. ‘Luckily you got your mum’s colouring.’

      While I’ve inherited Dad’s auburn hair, I don’t have his perma-pale skin tone. All our family holiday snaps show Mum and I beaming at the camera, our teeth a flash of white against golden flesh while Dad grimaces, his skin painfully raw with sunburn. It doesn’t matter how frequently he applies his Factor Fifty, Dad will always, always burn to a crisp. It was one of the reasons he refused to holiday abroad and why Mum makes up for it now with Ivor, jetting off at least twice a year. I have a postcard from their latest trip to Hawaii on my fridge.

      ‘I haven’t seen her since they got back,’ I tell Dad. I hope that this will offer some comfort to Dad. To know that while I visit him often, I’m not off playing happy families with Mum and Ivor the rest of the time.

      ‘You should see your mum more often. I bet she misses you.’

      ‘I saw her just before they went away,’ I say, though this isn’t technically true. It was a month before they left but we’ve both been busy – Mum with planning her trip and me with trying to keep the teashop afloat – and we don’t have the same easy relationship I have with Dad. Not any more.

      ‘This is good apple crumble,’ Dad says as he scoops a giant spoonful towards his mouth. ‘Just like Gran used to make.’ He wedges the spoon into his mouth and closes his eyes. This is the best compliment I could ever receive. Gran baked the most delicious desserts and if my own creations taste nearly as good as hers, I’ll be very proud of myself.

      ‘How’s the teashop going?’ Dad asks once we’ve finished eating. He usually pops in at least once a week but I haven’t seen him since my visit home last weekend.

      ‘Great.’ I force a smile on my face and nod my head like Churchill the dog. ‘Really great.’

      There are some things I can’t lie about. I’m truthful while telling Dad week after week how happy Mum is without him or while telling my friend Nicky that the guy she’s been bombarding with unanswered texts probably isn’t interested in her. I don’t lie about these things, no matter how difficult it is to tell the truth, but I do lie to Dad about the teashop. I can’t tell him that it’s failing. That I’m failing. That the money Gran left me in her will may have been wasted on a dream not come true.

      ‘It’s no wonder it’s doing so well if you keep making desserts like these.’ Dad gathers our empty cups and dishes and carries them over to the sink to wash up. When the doorbell rings, he holds up his wet, soapy hands. ‘Would you get that? If it’s those energy people, tell them to bugger off. I’m happy with the service I’ve got.’

      ‘Will do,’ I say, though I know I won’t. I’ll stand there while they blather on about the better deals they can offer and then I’ll politely decline, apologising as I gently close the door. I don’t do confrontation. Ever. Luckily it isn’t a door-to-door ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything’ salesman. It’s a woman (without a clipboard, ID badge or charity tabard), who takes a startled step back when I open the door.

      ‘Oh.’ Her eyes flick to the door, checking the number, checking she has, in fact, got the right house. ‘Is Clive in? I’m Jane? From next door?’ She poses the last two statements as questions, as though I may have an inkling who she is.

      ‘Jane?’ Dad booms from the kitchen. ‘Come in!’

      I open the door wider and Jane-from-next-door takes a tentative step over the threshold, the corners of her lips twitching into an awkward smile. She follows me through to the kitchen, where Dad is drying his hands on a tea towel.

      ‘I’ve brought your screwdriver back.’ Jane reaches into the handbag looped over her arm and pulls the tool out, holding it out to Dad between finger and thumb, as though it could burst into life and attack at any given moment.

      ‘Did it do the trick?’ Dad asks as he takes the screwdriver and places it on the table.

      Jane nods, the awkward smile flicking at her lips again. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

      ‘Thought it would.’ Dad moves towards the kettle, plucking it from its stand. ‘Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?’

      Jane’s eyes brush over me, the smile flickering on her lips again. She looks like she’s got a tic. ‘You’ve got company.’

      ‘That’s just Maddie.’ Dad fills the kettle and flicks it on. ‘My daughter.’

      ‘Oh!’ The smile is wider now, more genuine. I try not to feel offended by the ‘just’ in Dad’s introduction. ‘I see! Of course. Hello, Maddie.’

      I raise my hand and give a little wave, the awkward bug having been passed on.

      ‘So,’ Dad says. ‘Tea?’

      Jane eyes me briefly before she turns to Dad. ‘I have to dash, actually. Maybe another time? Tomorrow?’

      Dad nods, already striding across the kitchen so he can see Jane-the-neighbour to the door. ‘Sure.’

      Jane beams at Dad, placing a hand on his arm now he’s reached her. ‘Thank you again for the screwdriver.’

      ‘Any time.’

      I watch as Dad and Jane disappear into the hall, hear their muffled voices as they chat at the door. The kettle’s boiled by the time Dad returns to the kitchen.

      ‘What was that all about?’ I ask Dad, indicating the screwdriver still on the table.

      ‘Jane asked to borrow it yesterday. Asked me if I knew anything about plugs. She needed to replace one of hers so I wrote down some instructions and let her borrow the screwdriver.’

      I want to drop my face into my hands. ‘Da-ad. She didn’t want to borrow a screwdriver! She wanted you to go over.’

      Dad shakes his head. ‘Nah. Jane’s not like that. She’s very independent. Capable, like.’

      Facepalm, round two. ‘She didn’t want you to go round to replace the plug.’ If there was ever a plug in need of replacing in the first place.

      Dad grabs the tea caddy and pulls a couple of bags out. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘She fancies you.’ I am