The Windmill Café. Poppy Blake

      ‘Hurry up, Rosie, they need you outside to cut the ribbon!’

      ‘But I thought our resident pop star had that honour?’

      ‘It seems Suki Richards is far too busy scattering her celebrity stardust,’ giggled Mia. ‘Did you see the way Freddie was hanging on her every word? Yesterday he had no idea who she was, and now he’s acting like he’s her number one fan! Come on, someone needs to declare the very first Windmill Café garden party open or there’ll be a riot!’

      ‘Okay, if you’re sure you don’t want to do it. You’ve put in just as much work as I have – those Stilton and grape scones are to die for, not to mention the raspberry and prosecco cupcakes! Why don’t we do it together?’

      ‘Agreed! Oh, and by the way, you’d better have your best smile ready. When Dan Forrester from the Willerby Gazette heard Suki and her friends were staying in our luxury lodges, and that she had agreed to be guest of honour at the garden party, he jumped in his little MG and drove up here like Lewis Hamilton’s older brother.’

      Rosie hobbled in Mia’s wake across the sweeping lawn at the front of the Windmill Café. She wished she had stuck to her usual preference of putting practicality over sartorial elegance and worn her ballet flats instead of the ivory stilettos with four-inch heels that sunk into the ground with every step she took and made her look like a waddling duck.

      ‘I’m loving the belted tea dress, Rosie. That apricot-and-cream floral pattern really complements your hair.’

      ‘Nothing complements my hair! It’s the hirsute equivalent of jazz hands.’

      ‘Don’t say that. I know lots of people who would love to have your flowing Titian curls. Right. Ready to perform today’s starring role?’ Mia handed Rosie a pair of scissors and pointed to where Dan was lurking like a pugnacious paparazzo. ‘Smile for the camera!’

      Rosie forced a smile onto her lips whilst simultaneously cursing the Windmill Café’s owner, Graham Clarke, for skipping off to his villa in Barbados as soon as the date for the first annual Willerby garden party was announced. His abandonment meant that not only had she been left with organizing everything for the party, but she’d also had to step into Graham’s muddy Wellies to manage the holiday site in the adjacent field, and she had been battling her rising stress levels all day.

      When Dan had eventually declared himself satisfied with his snapshots, Rosie picked up the microphone and tentatively tapped the end with her fingertips, producing a screech of bounce-back which caused every single guest to pause in their conversation and swivel round to stare at her and Mia. She ignored the pirouette of nerves that had appeared in her chest and cleared her throat.

      ‘Hello everyone, and a warm Willerby welcome to the Windmill Café. It’s lovely to see so many familiar faces. I hope you all enjoy the afternoon tea we have laid on for you, and that you indulge in a few glasses of the Windmill’s own speciality punch made by my wonderful friend and baker extraordinaire, Mia Williams. So, without further ado, it gives us both great pleasure to declare the very first Windmill Café garden party open!’

      Rosie grabbed Mia’s hand and together they snipped the pale green ribbon to a smattering of appreciative applause, followed by an almost indecent stampede across the lawn towards the linen-bedecked tables that held the pretty three-tiered tea plates and china cups and saucers. The whole place looked exactly like any other garden party taking place in lots of villages up and down the country on a warm afternoon at the end of August. Triangles of pastel-coloured bunting and paper butterflies fluttered in the hedges, whilst wooden planters and terracotta pots, crammed with geraniums, had been dotted around the gardens. Tiny hand-crafted windmills in their signature peppermint-and-white colours rotated serenely in the breeze to add to the picturesque scene.

      ‘I hope there are enough sandwiches to go round. Do you think I should make a few more of the salmon and cucumber?’

      ‘Stop fretting, Rosie. Everything’s perfect!’

      Rosie didn’t share her friend’s optimism. Life just wasn’t like that – or rather, hers wasn’t. She often felt like she was one of those characters from a comic book who walked around with a rain cloud dangling over her head whilst everyone else basked in glorious sunshine.

      Nevertheless, it looked like her luck might be changing at last, or maybe old Mrs Faversham, one of the Windmill Café’s regular customers, was onto something. That day’s sunrise had brought a clear blue sky and the barest whisper of a breeze. Perfect for an end-of-summer garden party, but not so ideal if you worked in a kitchen. And a tiny one at that. Well, what did she expect when she chose to earn her living in a café in a windmill? Bijoux was overstating it!

      However, apart from the heat, she adored the quirky teashop with its circular whitewashed walls – inside and out – and the most fabulous sails that she had persuaded Graham to paint a cool peppermint green. Only, the colour choice wasn’t doing its job today. Temperatures had soared during the last week and it was on course to be the hottest August on record.

      Since moving to Willerby, Rosie had become an expert on the weather. She had to be. It was a skill required of anyone in charge of a café in the Norfolk countryside that was frequented by tourists, ramblers, and most of the patrons of the outward-bound activity centre on the outskirts of the village. What the meteorological gods had planned for any given day was a favourite topic of conversation and one she usually enjoyed discussing – except when the mercury recorded thirty-two degrees and she was melting like a discarded ice cream. She knew her cheeks were glowing – not an attractive sight alongside her amber curls.

      ‘Do you think it would be rude to ask Suki Richards for her autograph?’ asked Mia biting into a cucumber sandwich, her pinkie fingers sticking out at right-angles.

      With her long mahogany waves held back in an Alice band of daisies and dressed in a flared summer cotton jumpsuit, Mia looked every inch a Sixties flower child – despite the fact that she hadn’t even been born then. As slender as a shop mannequin, she bounded through life with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Her talents were many; not only was she famous for the lightness of her cheese scones, she also designed her own wide selection of aprons. She showcased a different one every day, mostly made from fabric she bought from market stalls. Only that morning, as they prepared to whip up a batch of the mini-Victoria sponge cakes for the garden party, Rosie had been forced to perform a double-take when Mia tied her apron strings around her midriff – only heaving a sigh of relief when she worked out that the pattern was, in fact, links of sausages and not something altogether more risqué.

      ‘Maybe you should wait until later when everyone’s finished eating, when the wine is flowing, and the vibe is more relaxed?’

      ‘Good idea. Oh, hello there, vicar. Are you having fun?’

      ‘I am indeed, Mia, thank you,’ smiled the vicar, smoothing his palm over his comb-over before turning his attention to Rosie. ‘The flower arrangements are absolutely wonderful, my dear. I particularly like what you’ve done with the bamboo. Very creative, I must say. In fact, the whole afternoon is an absolute triumph!’

      ‘Thank you, Reverend. I am hoping that if the inaugural summer party is a success, Graham might be more inclined to change his mind about the Hallowe’en and Christmas parties I’ve got planned.’

      ‘Gosh, you are a busy bee!’

      ‘I just want to give something back to the village. I’ve only been here for a few months and already it feels like home. I want people to know how much I love Willerby and how grateful I am for their unwavering support. But tell me one thing. Is it always so hot here? I know I asked for sunshine this afternoon, but this heat is bordering on tropical!’

      ‘Best be careful! If the weather gods hear you criticizing them, they may decide to take their revenge. We don’t want a wash-out like we had at the church fête last month, do we?’

      ‘Definitely not! I had visions of the holiday lodges floating out of the field like miniature houseboats on a tidal wave!’