The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Cressida McLaughlin
of the queue. ‘He’s so far stuck in the past he should be wearing black and white.’ She rolled her eyes, and this time Charlie’s smile was genuine.
‘It was only an idea,’ she replied. ‘Hal left me the bus, and I wanted to put it to good use, to have it out in the open, like you said. I’m a baker, so I thought I could combine the two.’
‘And it’s a grand idea,’ her supporter said, accepting a slightly haphazard-looking Eton Mess that was living up a bit too well to its name – Charlie would have to do something to keep her puddings upright when they were driving across rough ground. ‘You iron out a few … wrinkles, and it’ll be a triumph. Don’t listen to the naysayers. You do you, and let everyone else worry about themselves.’
‘I will,’ Charlie said. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence.’
The morning passed quickly, and Charlie had a constant stream of people buying coffees, flapjacks and Bakewell tarts, and the sausage-roll stock was depleting quickly. Music had started up from somewhere, and there were families and groups of friends, people with dogs on leads milling about the field. A falconry demonstration was taking place in the cordoned-off square they were calling the arena, and Charlie knew that, despite all the hustle and noise, Gertie stood out. She was taller than most of the other food trucks, striking with her cream and green paintwork and, if nothing else, word of mouth was doing its job regarding her cakes.
‘What do you think, Sal?’ she asked. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
‘It’s great,’ Sally squeaked. Charlie would have to work on her confidence once they were back in the café.
She turned to the hatch, her head full of strategies for female empowerment, and her smile fell. There, first in the queue, was Stuart Morstein. He looked effortlessly handsome in his jeans, white shirt and navy jacket, his light brown hair pushed away from his forehead. He grinned at Charlie, and her insides shrivelled.
‘A cheese scone and a latte, thanks, Charlie. Can I have the scone buttered?’
‘No problem,’ she said, through lips that wouldn’t work properly. What was he doing here? Was it something to do with their flat? If so, why hadn’t he called her? The last time she had spoken to the solicitor she had said the sale was going through, they were just waiting on some final paperwork. It was a typically vague answer, and she should have gone to Stuart to begin with, but she was avoiding him at all possible costs. He was obviously not affording her the same courtesy.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked, while Charlie frothed the milk and Sally buttered a scone and put it in a paper bag with a green napkin and some Parmesan crisps.
‘Good, thanks,’ she said, wondering where Annalise, her replacement, was. Charlie wouldn’t be surprised to discover she was too proud to come to the countryside, and lived her life entirely in London or on holiday in the Maldives. At least, she thought as she gazed at the man who until four months ago had been her boyfriend, being in the bus meant she could look down on him for a change.
Sally handed her the bag. Charlie leant out of the hatch to pass Stuart his coffee and scone, and the bus lurched forwards. Charlie was thrown sideways, scalding latte covering her hand, her shoulder bashing against the window frame. Behind her, Sally screamed, and Stuart took a step backwards, his features contorting in alarm.
‘Shit.’ Charlie tried to right herself and the bus lurched again, this time sending up a thick spurt of mud from the front wheel onto Stuart’s jeans.
‘We’re sinking!’ Sally screamed. ‘Is it a sinkhole? Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!’ She ran through the bus and flew down the steps.
Charlie tried again to pull herself up and Gertie lurched for a third time, the front left-hand wheel sinking further into the mud. Stuart’s latte cup was almost empty now, most of it dripping over Charlie’s hand, and she had dropped the scone after lurch number two. Stuart was standing back, looking at her as if she’d turned into a monster, and he wasn’t the only one.
A crowd had formed, and as Charlie scanned the faces of the people who were standing and staring, rather than helping, she saw that their expressions ranged between horror and glee.
After the third lurch the bus seemed to settle, and Charlie dragged herself to standing, which was difficult now that the ground below her was tilted.
‘Jesus Christ, Charlie,’ Stuart said, somewhat pompously, she thought. ‘This bus is a death trap! Anyone could have been standing at the front.’
‘The ground’s too soft, that’s all. And nobody would have got hurt even if they had been standing at the front. It hasn’t rolled. It’s just … sunk a bit.’ She peered out of the hatch and looked at her submerged wheel. Would she be able to drive it out? Would anyone help with planks?
Her ex took a step closer, his hands on his hips. This was classic Stuart: he would rescue her, fix her calamities and errors of judgement like the wonderful, patient human being that he was, and expect her to be eternally grateful. Charlie narrowed her eyes, preparing to do the opposite of whatever he suggested, when there was a flapping sound and the banner, which they had secured so tightly at the beginning of the morning, came free of its restraints and fell towards the ground. Except that Stuart was in the way, so it landed, quite expertly, on top of him, as if he was a fire that needed extinguishing.
‘For fuck’s sake, Charlie!’ came Stuart’s muffled voice from somewhere beneath the banner. Even though Charlie’s audience seemed less than approving of her, and poor Gertie was clearly wedged quite solidly in the mud, and this probably meant that her time running The Café on the Bus was already at an end – the shortest-lived career in history – Charlie started laughing. Once she’d started, she couldn’t stop, tears of mirth pouring down her cheeks as she surveyed the carnage from the hatch window, trying to keep her footing on the lopsided floor. As Stuart emerged, flustered and fuming, Charlie hid inside her bus, where scones and flapjacks were scattered like autumn leaves, and the coffee machine was beginning to leak.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shitting hell.’ The sight was sobering, and her laughter left her as suddenly as it had started.
She heard footsteps and looked up, prepared to brace herself against her ex-boyfriend’s anger, and found another man standing in the doorway, his movements hesitant as he tried not to succumb to gravity and fall into her.
‘Hello,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘How can I help?’ In the circumstances, it was a ridiculous thing to say. She wasn’t in a position to help anyone.
‘Are you all right?’ He had dark blond hair crafted into some sort of quiff, and was wearing a denim jacket over dark cords and a black T-shirt with a green logo on it. His skin looked impossibly smooth above the designer stubble, and his hazel eyes were warm.
‘I’m OK,’ she said, raising her arms hopelessly.
‘I’ve had this happen before.’ He edged forward and held out his hand. ‘Oliver Chase. I run The Marauding Mojito.’ He gestured over his left shoulder. ‘I’ve got experience of sinking, leaking, wasp swarms – you think it up, I’ve had it happen. But this is your first time?’
‘First and last, I should think,’ Charlie said, shaking his hand.
He gave her a gentle smile. ‘No need to be so dramatic. First thing we need to do is get her upright. And I’d like to say I can help, but I’m a man, not a god. So … recovery?’
‘I have a number in my phone.’ Charlie walked hesitantly to the cab, holding onto anything she could, and took her phone out of the valuables box. She didn’t know Oliver or The Marauding Mojito, but she was grateful for his calmness. Of course she would have made this decision on her own, but it was as if he’d sucked all her panic away.
He was peering out of the hatch towards the site of the submergence. Some of the crowd was still there, and Stuart was tersely dusting himself down, his ego more bruised than anything else. Charlie took a deep breath. It was a hiccup,