Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop: An absolutely perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy. Rebecca Raisin
at me. How could he discard me so quickly, so easily, as if I were rubbish? I don’t want to be alone, to be unsocial, to push people away, but I struggle making friends because there was never the time or the inclination.
This loneliness is deafening.
Getting away will broaden my horizons, give me some much-needed life experience, and I’ll find my place in the world. I’m aware of my downfalls. That need to retreat usually trumps everything else, and I can’t let it.
Hefting the last box from the tiny little south London flat Callum and I have shared for the last seven years, my heart shrinks once more.
With a lump in my throat, I shut the door and try my best not to think of my replacement – Khloe, a younger, perkier version of myself – moving in as soon as I move out.
As I walk to Poppy I feel boneless, like I’m going to fall, and no one will be there to catch me.
For the first time in fifteen years I won’t have to be at Époque this coming Friday ready for the three busiest days in the restaurant. This feels so alien, so foreign to me that of course I’m bound to feel a little jelly-legged.
‘Ready, Poppy?’ My voice breaks. I tap the side of the van before stowing a box inside and hopping up into the front seat. I freeze. What the hell am I doing, leaving London, leaving all I know?
I sit there catatonic for so long that one of my neighbours, old Mrs Jones, raps on the window, her face pinched, and asks if I’m waiting for the RAC.
A flush of embarrassment flares. I shake my head, and say, ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I’m just …’ Summoning courage, wondering if you can die from a shattered heart, the usual. ‘Waiting for the right time to leave.’
Old Mrs Jones shakes her head in that supercilious way of hers. She’s never liked me – doesn’t like the hours I keep, the way I stack the recycling, the fact I lock my letterbox, trivial things that leave me bamboozled. But over the years I’ve learned she’s like that with everyone, a little judgemental, a lot dramatic.
‘Well, off you go!’ she harries. ‘My daughter is on her way, and she could use this parking space. She has a baby, you know.’
I hold in a sigh. Everyone has a baby these days. Probably Khloe will have a baby that she and old Mrs Jones can bond over, cooing and speaking baby language. Best not to think of it.
‘Right,’ I say and start the engine, wondering if old Mrs Jones will make friends with Khloe. They can gossip together, just like she’s tried and failed with me, because I don’t care if the single guy in apartment four ‘plays those fecking video games with all the guns and the shooting at midnight!’ And I especially don’t care if the twenty-something in six wears ‘those trashy boots that go all the way up to her derrière as if she’s a lady of the night!’ Their lives have nothing to do with me. Perhaps she, Khloe and Callum can dine together at her infamous Monday night supper clubs, and whisper gleefully that they’re grateful I’m gone. Tears sting the back of my eyes and it feels like I might implode – I have to get out of here.
But my imagination runs wild and I visualise Mrs Jones sniping, ‘She’s an odd one that Rosie; always darting away from people like she’s got something to hide.’
I won’t miss old Mrs Jones.
With a deep breath, I pull out and tackle the traffic, ignoring a blast of horn and the wide-eyed look of a pedestrian who edged a little too close for comfort. How many hours of this do I have ahead?
I drive, well, sputter along in Poppy, clamping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. London is difficult to navigate on foot at the best of times, but in Poppy it’s downright terrifying. My first rendezvous point is the camp in Bristol so I set my mind to achieving the goal of arriving there, not dead.
With grim determination, I manage to concentrate and also to ignore the sound of my pulse thrumming my ears by turning the music up. Like people, Poppy has her quirks: she backfires when she’s disgruntled as if she’s telling me off, and pulls sharply to the left if senses me veering this way and that.
It’s a learning curve, and we simply must get to know each other better. When I have a moment of panic, just the usual, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS I THINKING, she drives straight and true as if she knows she must take control while I briefly lose my mind. Before long, I find my groove, and Poppy belches and squeaks as if urging me on.
Goodbye, London, hello … brand new, exciting life! I crank the music and a slow smile settles over my face. I’ve done it, I’ve really done it and a sort of pride creeps over me.
Five hours later, well over schedule, I reach the camp in Bristol, accidentally accelerating when I mean to brake, and careen out of control towards a beautiful red-headed girl who wears a look of abject horror because I’m about to run her down!
I stamp hard on the brakes, Poppy fishtails wildly as airborne pebbles shoot into the poor unsuspecting girl like bullets, the sound pow, pow, pow ricocheting off her tiny frame but before long she’s shrouded in a mist of dust. I come to a screaming halt, the smell of burnt rubber permeating the air. Have I hit her? Stiff as a toy solider I manage to fall out of Poppy and land directly into a pile of mud with squelch as I miscue my exit from such a high perch. I turn onto my back, my bones creaking with effort. While my body may have the appearance of someone in the first stages of rigor mortis, I feel strangely euphoric.
I survived!
Poppy survived! London is long gone and I can finally breathe fresh air, and … and then I remember the girl! As the dust settles, I see she’s frozen on the spot, her mouth opening and closing but no words fall out. I’m hoping it’s on account of the dust she’s swallowed and not because a pebble punctured her lung or something. Just as I’m about to call for help, she chokes out, ‘That was some entrance!’
Still supine, relief washes through me as I stare up into her face, her coppery hair falling over her cheeks. She seems calm enough considering I almost killed her. Well, to be fair, Poppy almost killed her. Bloody hell, we’re going to have to practise when it comes to parking and dismount.
When I don’t respond she says, ‘Are you OK?’ Concern ekes from her voice. She’s one of those effortlessly pretty girls whose natural good looks don’t need adornment. Her bright hazel eyes are framed by lustrous black lashes sans mascara. Her hair is the colour of fire, and flashes in the soft sunlight and I feel drab in comparison.
I’ve taken too long to respond, and her eyes dart about looking for help. I get that look a lot.
‘I’m … great,’ I say with what I hope is a convincing smile that belies my inner turmoil. Just the where am I, why did I buy a van under the influence of Shiraz, how am I meant to wash this mud off me, kind of thing.
But there’s no need to panic, it’s all going on the to-do list, things I can improve on, a list of people not to run over, that kind of thing.
A frown appears between her thick, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. How are girls achieving eyebrows so thick they need their own postcode? Tentatively I touch mine, wondering how you can add body to such a thing. There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t had a moment to consider while I’ve been cooped up in a commercial kitchen.
‘You don’t look great, to be honest.’ She’s noticed my eyebrows, and their rather spartan lustre, dammit. ‘You look like you’ve just escaped the jungle, or something.’ She grins.
I laugh for the first time in aeons but by the look on her face the sound is more maniacal than I intend. The jungle, that’s one way to describe it. ‘I have. I’ve just come from London. The urban jungle.’
The unreality of my situation hits me and I just feel