Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop. Rebecca Raisin

liberating.

      No one gives up a sous-chef position at Époque unless they’ve married royalty or won the lottery, and that’s exactly why I’m relishing the thought. No one, absolutely no one, including my husband (do I call him ex at this juncture?), thinks I’ll react.

      The whispers in the kitchen were that I’d work even longer hours and virtually chain myself to the line with some kind of mad zeal, avenging myself by doing the job of three until one day when I’m a lonely old crone someone has to drag me kicking and screaming out of the kitchen. So nothing new there then.

      The wine helps clear my mind and I drink steadily, delighting in the rich Shiraz, a gift from Sally, thrust into my hands at the end of my shift with the words: enjoy your day off tomorrow, but think things through …

      Inexplicably the bottle empties, so I open one of my cheap quaffers as I skim through various blogs online, hoping to find an idea, or something to give me perspective. Those uplifting, let-the-breeze-blow-you-here, change-your-life type of blogs.

      As I sip, I read so many wonderful stories of transformation, of risking it all. Families who’ve wrenched their kids from school to live life on the road. Single women (just like me now!) who’ve thrown their spatulas down and taken the reins and live by their own rules. People with pop-up food vans. Campervan pottery shops. Musicians who play from tiny homes. Artisans who make jewellery by the sea, sell their wares and follow the sun. I shake my head. There’s a whole community of people out there living their best life …

      Could I be that person? Probably not.

      So it can’t hurt to look at campervan prices, can it? I’m only looking, I’m not buying. Even if I were to go out on a limb and envisage a totally new way of life, I’d have to commit to months of research to see if it’s viable. Then there’s the flat to consider. My possessions. Money. I’m stuck, really, aren’t I? It strikes me that we humans build these lives for ourselves that have the tendency to trap us. I guzzle more wine and wonder how I can fix the mess I’ve found myself in …

      * * *

      The next day, I wake up with a screaming headache. The pounding in my head is in staccato with the buzzing of the doorbell. My one and only day off from the restaurant, and my most relished lie-in has been ruined. By me, and the copious amounts of wine I’d put away, and by whoever deems it acceptable to visit at – I scan the clock – barely eight o’clock. It should be a criminal offence. I silently berate myself for drinking so much red on an empty stomach. But cooking for one, well, I’m not used to it.

      The buzzing continues and it dawns on me. It’s Callum come to his senses and seen the error of his ways. He’ll wear that apologetic gap-toothed smile of his, his too-long red hair hanging over one eye, so he can hide behind his mistake. And I shall relish telling him to spin on his heel and go back the way he came!

      I dash out of bed, as the world spins on its axis. Bloody hell, just how much did I drink last night? Don’t tell me I’m going to be one those tragics who drink their life away and use the empty wine bottle as a microphone for an impromptu concert? A memory forms; did I karaoke the night away strutting my stuff for my own reflection in the window? As alarming as the thought is, the doorbell buzzing makes my hangover worse so I hurry along to answer it.

      Hand on wall, I steady myself and wish I’d brushed my teeth and had some painkillers on hand. Urgh. Quickly, I pat down my bed hair and open the door with a grimace.

      It’s not Callum.

      And suddenly it occurs to me I’m braless in a teeny tiny singlet wearing a pair of Callum’s old tracksuit bottoms, so big they gape at the front. So not appropriate. With a wild grin that I hope masks my discomfort, I grasp desperately at the coat rail to my right, while pondering who this stranger is, as my fingers finally make contact with my jacket and I fling it on.

      ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

      Confusion dashes across the elderly man’s face. He’s dressed in a worn duffel, denim jeans and has a kind smile. He doesn’t look like a Londoner, somehow – his features are too soft, too amiable, his face too open, like a doting grandparent. ‘Erm,’ he says scratching the back of his neck. ‘You said you’d pay extra if I got here early.’

      Oh bloody hell. Pay extra? Is he some kind of gigolo? He looks a bit too old for that caper. Not that I’ve had any experience with such a thing, but still. Was I so inebriated last night I thought that was the answer? I’m losing my damned mind!

      ‘Excuse me, sorry, it’s been such a long day …’ Oh, hell, it’s only 8 a.m. ‘I mean, a long night—’, I cough loudly, ‘—the night before, I mean. As in last night.’ Stop talking!

      He nods, but worry flashes in his eyes. ‘Well, do you want to come and have a look at her?’

      Relief washes over me. Her? I’ve bought a puppy? Or even better a 10-year-old rescue hound who needs some love after too long in the shelter! Forget my 2021 child, I’ve adopted a fur baby who’ll cuddle me better than Callum ever did. It makes sense. There are so many animals out there that need adopting and I mentally give myself a pat on the back for being so forward-thinking.

      ‘Ah, sure,’ I say and tighten the coat around me, holding the voluminous pants with my other hand. Note to self: wear own pyjamas in this time of drastic change.

      I stumble down the steps after him, thinking just how perfect an animal companion will be. Snoopy can snuggle with me at night, be my best friend, my most faithful …

      ‘Here she is.’ He points but nothing jumps out at me. There’s a great big fuchsia pink van parked on the side of the road blocking my view. I scan parked cars up the length of the street, expecting to see a furry face peeking out, a wet nose fogging up the glass but don’t see a single animal.

      Just when I’m about to question him he hands over a set of keys. ‘The credit card payment has been approved so she’s all yours. Let me show you around.’

      The credit card.

      The what?

      What the hell have I done!

      The con artist and stealer of my money opens the pink campervan door to reveal a very tidy tiny home complete with small kitchen, doll-sized sink, an electric hotplate and oven. A wave of claustrophobia runs down the length of me. It’s so compact, how anyone could live in such a space is beyond me. However, there’s a faint aroma of cinnamon sugar in the air that makes me smile, as if whoever cooked here last, made comfort food.

      ‘This here’s the dining room,’ he says, pride in his voice as he motions to a fold-down plank of wood with two padded bench seats on each side, which he lifts to reveal deep storage cavities. Everything seems to have a double function.

      Next to the dining area is a one-person sofa with pink storage nooks above. I spy a bedroom off at the back and take a peek in. The bed is made up with fine linen and one rose cushion sits lovingly in the centre of the bed. It makes my heart tug for some reason I can’t pinpoint.

      A gauzy floral chiffon curtain separates the living and sleeping quarters. There’s a bathroom, which is so narrow I have to crab walk in sideways, but it’s neat and sparkling clean. Of course, the tiles are pink, and they slowly grow on me as I understand the need for décor to match. There’s no excess, everything here serves a purpose. It’s not chintzy, it’s homely, as if someone put a lot of care into making things pretty and comfortable for long, slow journeys.

      But I don’t do things on a whim. I most certainly don’t buy campervans for … the full weight of winter runs right through me from my head down to my toes.

      ‘Excuse me, how much was erm … the approval?’

      He frowns. ‘Five thousand pounds like we agreed and an extra five hundred to get her here by 8 a.m. I drove through the night.’

      Flip. Fluck. Fugger.

      What the hell am I supposed to do with such a thing? Live in