Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop. Rebecca Raisin

      Cold fish, eh? ‘OUT!’ I muster the loudest voice I can.

      ‘But I thought we’d sort who gets what first?’

      ‘Out and I mean it, Callum.’ I will not give him the satisfaction of walking all over me just because he thinks he can.

      ‘Fine, but I’m keeping this apartment. You can—’

      ‘NOW!’ The roar startles even me. You want to see me warm up? ‘LEAVE!’

      He jumps from the couch and dashes to the hallway, where I see a small bag he’s left in readiness, knowing the outcome of our ‘quick chat’ long before I did. With one last guilty look over his shoulder, he leaves with a bang of the door. He’s gone just like that.

      As though I’m someone so easy to walk away from.

      Laying down on the sofa, I clutch a cushion to my chest and wait for the pain to subside. How has it all gone so wrong? There’s someone else in his life? When did he find time to romance anyone?

      Sure, I don’t go out much, other than for work purposes, but that’s because there’s no bloody time to go out! I’m not like my dad, am I? No, Callum is using that as ammunition, knowing how sensitive I am to such a comparison.

      The sting of his words burns and doubt creeps in. Am I not spontaneous enough? Am I far too predictable?

      Admittedly I’d been feeling hemmed in, ennui creeping into everything, even my menu. Each day bleeding into the next with no discernible change except the plat de jour. Sure, my professional life is on track but lately even my enthusiasm for that has waned. I’ve had enough of tweezing micro herbs to last a lifetime. Of plating minuscule food at macro prices. Of the constant bickering in the kitchen. The noise, the bluster, the backstabbing. Of never seeing blue skies or the sun setting. Of not being able to sit beside my husband on the couch at a reasonable hour and keep my eyes open at the same time.

      Is this my fault? Am I a cold fish? I like routine and order so I know where I fit in the world. Everything is controlled and organised. There’s no clutter, mess, or fuss, or any chance I’ll lose control of any facet of my life. That need to keep life contained is a relic of my childhood. Is my marriage now a casualty of that?

      But he’d promised he’d love me for better or worse.

      Am I supposed to hope he comes to his senses or to beg him to come back?

      Sighing, I place a hand on my heart, trying to ease the ache. I could never trust him again. I’m a stickler for rules, always have been, and cheating, well … I can’t forgive that.

      But bloody hell, our lives had been all mapped out. Our first child was scheduled for conception in 2021. The second in 2023. And he’s just blithely walking away from his children like that! Didn’t he understand I would have given up my career for our future family? The career I’d worked so hard for! And I would have done it gladly, too.

      Now this?

      The gossip will spread like wildfire around the foodie world. My name embroiled in a scandal not of my choosing. It’s taken me fifteen years to get to where I am in my career, and that’s meant sacrificing a few things along the way, like a social life, and free time, real friendships. But that was all part of the bigger picture, the tapestry of our lives.

      It hurts behind my eyes just thinking about it all.

      And I mean to cry and wail and torment myself about the ‘other woman’, or force myself up off the couch and throw my lovingly baked birthday tart at the wall, or eat it all in one go as tears stream down my face – something dramatic and movie-esque – but I don’t. Instead, I fall into a deep sleep, only waking when my alarm shrills at stupid o’clock the next day, and with it comes the overwhelming knowledge that I must leave London. At 32, this could be my rebirth, couldn’t it?

      Not spontaneous enough? Cold fish? Spinster? Like my dad?

       I’ll show you.

       Chapter 2

      At Billingsgate Market the briny smell of seafood hardly registers. I dash to the fishmonger, rattle off my order, too distracted to make the usual small talk. John, the guy with the freshest seafood this side of Cornwall, notices my jittery state.

      ‘What’s up, Rosie? There’s something different about you today.’ He gives me a once-over as if trying to pinpoint the change.

      ‘Oh,’ I say, mind scuttling. ‘I haven’t had any tea.’ My other great love. Making hand-blended teas for various moods. Wake-me-ups. Wind-me-downs. And everything in between. If I ever leave my job, I have a backup plan at least … tea merchant!

      John cocks his head. ‘You don’t look like you need it though, Rosie. You look alive.’ He shrugs. ‘And utterly different from this fella.’ He points to a dead flounder whose glassy eye stares up at me as John lets out his trademark haw, while I flinch slightly at being compared to deceased marine life. He bags my order, promising to courier it on ice to Époque immediately.

      Do I look alive?

      As I make my way to the butcher to confirm my weekly order, it occurs to me. Shouldn’t I be puffy-faced, red-eyed, fuzzy-headed from tossing and turning all night? Instead, I feel this sort of frenetic energy because I realise that I’m about to do something very out of character, bold and brave, and completely unexpected – what that entails, I’m still not quite sure, but the desire is there and I’m about to implement a huge change. Shriek.

      I’m steadfast Rosie, I don’t do change.

      I’m going to prove to the world that I’m not staid. Not stuck in a rut. I’m going to surprise even Callum, by doing the opposite of what he expects because I know if I don’t move on fast, I never will.

      Being predictable has its disadvantages, and it’s time I shook things up a bit. Jumped, as it were, into a new reality.

      What that is though exactly, remains to be seen …

      When I think of my once heart-melting, lovely, red-headed husband my lungs constrict, so I push him from my mind as quickly as possible. As I walk, I repeat the mantra do not fall apart, hold yourself together, and promise myself I can wail in privacy later.

      I visit the butcher at Borough Market, then the French boulangerie, and finally our fresh produce supplier before all my jobs are done and I’m ready to prepare for lunch service.

      When I arrive at Époque, I find the restaurant manager crunching numbers, a steaming espresso in front of her untouched. I’ve always liked Sally; she’s a sassy, funny Glaswegian, who chain smokes and is fantastic at her job.

      ‘Coffee?’ she says absently, fiddling with paperwork.

      ‘And a chat,’ I say, dumping my bag on the bench and joining her at the table.

      ‘That sounds ominous.’ Her eyes dart to me before she bustles to the coffee machine, which spits and hisses under her hand.

      A headache looms. Am I about to make a huge mistake? I’ve been yearning for change for such a long time, but it’s hard to tell if it’s a lie I’m selling myself. Callum might have pushed me to act, but I’m not being impetuous, am I?

      As worry gnaws away at me, outwardly I remain calm and busy, unwinding my scarf and taking in the restaurant. It’s not often that I’m front of house. When I first started at Époque the décor was art nouveau, then it went on to have various makeovers, and right now it’s industrial chic. Any successful London establishment must move with the times, so the in crowd doesn’t become the out crowd.

      And the kitchen is no different. I’m always looking for the next foodie sensation, the dish that will blow patrons’ minds, get us write-ups and