The kettle boiled. Spooning the loose leaves of Earl Grey tea carefully into a Tiffany blue pot, she poured in the hot water. The aroma of bergamot filled the room.
She stared out of the window into the small garden at the back.
Leo was wrong. No one could hurt her again; she wouldn’t let them.
Giving the tea a quick stir, she poured herself a cup. These were the hours she liked best; the day glimmered before her like a golden promise, untouched by disappointment or frustration. And sitting down at the table, she placed her teacup on a small bench well away from her work, unfolded a tissue-paper parcel full of silk and deftly threaded her needle.
The morning sun warmed her back, outside birds sang. Leticia sipped her tea.
Few things were more fragile than antique lace or the human heart.
Then she heard something.
Persistent, irritating.
Coming from the bathroom.
A dripping sound.
The kind of sound, in fact, that signalled the urgent need for a plumber.
The waitress at Jack’s Café, Rose, paused by the window, watching as Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe sauntered away down the street through the crowds of people.
‘Order up!’ shouted Bert from the kitchen behind her.
‘I said, order up!’ he called again.
Rose turned and delivered the two fried eggs, sausage, beans and tomato to the man at table seven before clearing away Hughie’s breakfast remains. Then she took £4.95 from her own pocket of tips and put it into the till.
‘Rose! Tea for table five!’ Bert shouted. ‘What the hell’s got into you today?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, pouring out the tea. ‘Nothing at all.’
She took it over to Sam the plumber, a regular at table five. In his late thirties, Sam had a mop of dark unruly hair, now flecked with grey, wild pale green eyes and a sardonic smile. He’d inherited his father’s floundering plumbing and heating business earlier that year; along with the same ready laugh and long, loping gait. He was poring over a catalogue of plastic U-bend pipes.
‘Thanks.’ He took a sip, frowning with concentration.
‘God, Sam, don’t you ever take a break?’
‘What for?’ he shrugged. ‘It’s my business now; no one’s going to make it a success but me.’
‘But U-bends at breakfast?’ She shook her head. ‘Your dad was always more relaxed.’
‘Yeah, well, if my old man had put as much time into the business as he did into going to the pub, he might still be with us.’ His voice was sharp.
Old Roy, Sam’s dad, had lived in the same block of council flats as Rose; she’d known both of them for years. He’d been a larger-than-life character, equally popular with men and women; a man whose cheeky good humour seemed to exempt him from the normal rules of life. Over the years he and Sam, both stubborn characters, had spent a lot of time at loggerheads. Sam was ambitious and Old Roy was usually hungover. But now that he was gone, Rose detected an edginess to Sam; a cloud of uncharacteristic seriousness coloured his personality. Lately he only had time for one thing: his career.
‘Sorry, Sam, I’m not thinking today.’ She pushed a cloth absent-mindedly around the tabletop, knocking the sugar over. ‘Oh, damn!’
He glanced up; clear eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. ‘Off in your dream world again?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well,’ he put his mug down, ‘he kissed you, didn’t he, Red?’
Sam was nothing if not observant.
‘So what if he did?’ She was blushing again. Turning, she pretended to be deeply engrossed in removing a coffee stain from another table. ‘And don’t call me Red. I’m too old for nicknames. I’m nearly twenty-two, not some child.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
Without looking round, she knew he was laughing.
‘You like him,’ Sam teased.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Rose tried to sound blasé and sophisticated. Unfortunately, she was too excited to keep up the pretence for long. ‘But I think he likes me. He’s coming back tomorrow!’
‘Did he pay his bill?’
‘Well, he would’ve, only we don’t take Amex.’
Sam rolled his eyes. ‘Every time he comes in, you end up out of pocket.’
‘He’s just short of cash, that’s all. A lot of people don’t get paid till the end of the month.’ She knotted her hair back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. (Now that he was gone, she could put it up again.) ‘I think he looks like Prince William.’
‘Why don’t you meet a nice normal guy?’
‘And where would I find the time for that?’ she asked, irritated. ‘Remember, I have a child to feed. Who wants to go out with a single mother?’
‘Oh, bollocks, Rose! You’re only young! There will be plenty of guys. You know, real guys – with cash instead of promises.’
Rose made a face at him.
‘Speaking of kids, how is Rory?’ he asked.
She sighed. ‘He bit another kid in nursery yesterday.’
‘Well, all of them go through tricky patches when they start school.’
‘You don’t understand.’ She gathered up all the ketchup dispensers and began refilling them. ‘He bit the little boy who’s allergic to nuts, wheat and milk; this kid hardly has anything to live for! And the day before that he headbutted the teacher. She had a lump on her forehead the size of an egg!’
‘Well …’ She’d obviously stretched his bachelor experience to the limit. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him. Now,’ he shifted the subject back to more familiar ground, ‘what are we going to do with you?’
‘Me?’ Rose wiped the shiny lids clean.
‘Yes, you. You’re a smart girl. Don’t you think it’s time you did something more than waitressing?’
She smiled wryly. ‘Not all of us are business tycoons, Sam.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘What does that mean? Listen, I’ll make a going concern of this business if it kills me. If you think I’m going to live and die like my dad in a council flat in Kilburn, you’re wrong.’
‘Hey!’ She swatted him with her tea towel. ‘What’s wrong with that, I’d like to know?’
‘What’s wrong with what?’
They turned.
It was Ricki, Rose’s cousin. Ricki worked as a landscape gardener for a company in Islington. With her cropped hair, tanned muscular frame and uniform of heavy work boots, a fitted T-shirt and jeans slung low across her hipbones, showing off her firm, flat belly, she looked handsome rather than pretty. Every day she stopped in on her way to work for a takeaway coffee