‘Do you think another round of flyers would help?’
Mags shrugs her shoulders. ‘Perhaps. It didn’t have much of an impact last time, but we have to get the word out there somehow. Shall I get on to the printers?’
I press my lips together, unsure of the answer. Mags is right – we do have to spread the word – but printing flyers is a cost I could do without, especially when the outcome isn’t looking particularly promising. We’ve tried dropping flyers through letterboxes or handing them out to shoppers in the town centre a few times, and we’ve targeted specific groups, such as the local NCT group and the over fifties leisure classes, but it’s had little impact so far and we’re still pretty much welcoming the same core group of regulars that we started with. We need a proper push, something to attract a wider customer base.
‘Hold off for now,’ I say, opening the door and stepping over the threshold. ‘We’ll put our heads together later and have a proper think. I’m sure we’ll come up with a solution.’
We have to, otherwise the dream will be over and we’ll both be out of a job.
Kingsbury Road is a gorgeous little oasis away from the hustle and bustle of Woodgate town centre. With its quaint cobbled road and short terrace of double bay-fronted shops facing a community garden, you can almost imagine you’re in a picturesque village rather than within spitting distance of a shopping mall and busy high street. We’re a twenty-minute drive away from Manchester City Centre, but there’s nothing urban about Kingsbury Road.
Unfortunately, as beautiful as our little road is, it’s a largely forgotten-about side street with little footfall despite its close proximity to the town centre. Attempts to entice hungry shoppers over in this direction haven’t been working out too well for Sweet Street Teashop.
There are five shops in the terrace, starting at one end with Paper Roses, a craft supplies shop, and ending with Sweet Street Teashop. Sandwiched between us is a florist – where banana milkshake addict Robbie claims to work – a hair and beauty salon and a letting agency. I can see Rehana and George from the letting agency right now, sneaking past the window with their cardboard cups and greasy paper bags from one of the coffee shops on the high street. Despite sitting next door to Sweet Street, they never pop in for their morning coffee, preferring instead to sip their caffeine from branded cups.
We have everything they could possibly want first thing on a Saturday morning – freshly baked croissants and bagels, pancakes and waffles with whipped cream and fresh fruit or gooey maple syrup, Danish pastries and cinnamon buns and all the coffee they could wish for – but we’ve never been able to tempt them away from the lure of the high street.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mags asks when she emerges from the kitchen with a batch of chocolate chip muffins and sees me hovering by the window. I’m tempted to wave at Rehana and George as they scurry past but I chicken out. ‘You shouldn’t be here. It’s your day off.’
Mags thinks I work too hard. She’s probably right but I don’t feel I have a choice right now. Not when my business is sinking faster than a mafia target tossed into a canal wearing concrete boots.
‘I’m not here.’ I step away from the window as Rehana and George disappear from view. ‘Not really. I’m just picking up the leftover apple crumble from yesterday.’ I head into the kitchen, leaving Mags and our sole customer (Robbie, again) in the teashop. Victoria, the final cog that makes up the Sweet Street machine, is blitzing bananas in the blender for Robbie’s daily milkshake. Making milkshakes and washing up is as far as Victoria’s expertise stretches when it comes to the teashop’s kitchen. I tried to teach her the basics when she first started working with us, but it was a bad idea. Very bad indeed. Sometimes, if you inhale deeply enough, you can still smell the charred fairy cakes.
But Victoria is great out front, serving the customers and chatting with them. I’m a bit awkward when it comes to the face-to-face stuff, feeling much more at ease with my mixing bowl than my fellow human beings, but Victoria’s a natural. She’s the youngest of the Sweet Street team at twenty-two (I’m six years older and Mags is thirty-something. Mags won’t tell you what the ‘something’ is and I won’t risk my safety by passing it on) and though she has a tough exterior, she’s as soft and squishy as a melted marshmallow inside. The lead singer of a band, Victoria is waitressing at Sweet Street until they’re offered a record deal.
‘How did the gig go last night?’ I ask as I open the fridge and pull the apple crumble out.
Victoria turns the blender off. ‘Good. He didn’t turn up though.’
‘He’ is a manager that Victoria’s band are hoping to impress so he’ll sign them and rocket them to stardom. She’s talked of little else over the past few weeks so I’m gutted for her.
‘Why not?’ It seems pretty shady to me to arrange to watch a band’s gig and then not bother to show up. Especially when Victoria’s been so excited about the gig and what it would mean for the band’s future.
Victoria shrugs. ‘He didn’t promise anything. We’ve got another gig next week so Nathan’s going to see if he’ll come to that.’
I want to tell Victoria not to get her hopes up but I know she will. She and the band (including her boyfriend, Nathan) formed when they were still at school and they’ve been working hard to achieve their dream ever since, performing insignificant little gigs for little to no money just for exposure. I know how it feels to have a dream, to want to turn your passion into a career so much it’s actually painful and the thought of not reaching your goal is enough to make you cry. I’ve been there. I am there, because although I have the teashop, it’s quickly slipping from my grasp and I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to say goodbye to it so soon.
‘I’ll cross my fingers for you,’ I say instead.
‘Thanks.’ Victoria smiles at me and she looks so young, despite her heavily lined eyes and piercings. Victoria has ten piercings – one each in her lip, nose, right eyebrow and bellybutton, plus three studs in each ear. She also has three tattoos but her leggings and oversized hoodie combo currently cover them up.
Victoria finishes the banana milkshake and takes it out to Robbie while I transfer the leftover apple crumble from its heavy dish into a plastic container. When I return to the teashop, I’m pleased to see a couple more customers enjoying coffee and pastries by one of the windows.
‘Don’t forget Paper Roses’ order this afternoon,’ I say to Mags as I pop the tub of apple crumble into a canvas bag and hook it onto my shoulder. The girls at the neighbouring craft shop run weekly classes and usually order a small selection of cakes for their tea break. I’m so grateful for their custom, I often buy sequins, spools of ribbon and other supplies from the shop even though I don’t have a crafty bone in my body.
‘I won’t,’ Mags says. ‘Now get out of here and enjoy your day off before I have to physically eject you.’ Mags places her hands on her wide hips and cocks an eyebrow in challenge. I hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’ I say goodbye to Mags and Victoria before I head out, praying custom magically picks up during my absence.
Dad lives on his own, in the house I grew up in on the outskirts of Manchester City Centre. The three-bedroomed house is too big for him to potter about in on his own but he likes to cling on to the memories of our family before it fractured. Mum and Dad divorced seven years ago but while Mum is happy with a new partner, Dad can’t seem to move on. I worry about him and it breaks my heart that he’s alone, which is why I