Starry Skies Over The Chocolate Pot Cafe - Jessica Redland Page 0,1

were good and told the truth.

As the years passed and my life changed beyond all recognition, I still tried to be Pollyanna every day. I tried so hard to keep my promise to Dad. I believed that ‘the black cloak’ would lift from Mum like it had done on The Best Day Ever. I believed that I’d leave foster care one day and be reunited with Mum again. And I believed that all my foster families genuinely cared about me and had my best interests at heart, especially my foster sister Leanne.

But it turns out that not all people are good, they don’t tell the truth, and they don’t care who they hurt or how they do it.

2

I stared at the array of bright-coloured polo shirts – my work uniform – hanging in my wardrobe like a rainbow.

‘I suppose I should show willing and go for the festive red today, shouldn’t I?’ I said to Hercules. ‘One nose twitch for no, two for yes.’

Bending down, I gave his soft ears a stroke, then pulled on my jeans and red polo shirt before making my way down two flights of stairs and through the internal door at the back of The Chocolate Pot, a café I’d set up in the summer, thirteen years ago when I was twenty-two.

Switching on the lights, I paused and smiled as I looked round. My café. My home. Every time I stepped through the door, I couldn’t help feeling a swell of pride at what I’d achieved.

An eclectic mix of mismatched wooden tables of varying sizes were flanked by wooden chairs, padded benches or high-backed leather armchairs. The combination of wood, colour and lighting created a warm and inviting ambience. The soft cream walls were a sea of colour courtesy of a large collection of vintage metal signs. Some signs advertised cakes, coffee and milkshakes, and others represented the seaside: boats, beach huts and, my personal favourite, a red-and-white striped lighthouse just like the one down in Whitsborough Bay harbour. Just like the ones Mum used to paint.

As I passed each pillar on my way towards the serving counter and the kitchen, I flicked on the red and white fairy lights wrapped round them. It was nowhere near opening time but there was no harm in making the place look pretty already. Despite dreading Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I still loved the lights and decorations, and thrived on the buzz of excitement that surrounded Christmas. Plus, of course, it was a hugely profitable time of year with fraught shoppers keen for sustenance. The tips were generous too and my team worked hard so they definitely deserved them.

I switched on the multi-coloured lights draped round the slimline tree in the corner between the counter and the window and paused to turn a couple of the decorations which were facing the wrong way. I’d gone for a nautical theme this year with sailing boats made from driftwood with material sails, glittery seashells and starfish, clear glass baubles filled with sand and shells, and brightly coloured fabric and felt beach huts. Every year, we received compliments galore about the unique Christmas decorations in The Chocolate Pot. I’d casually thank the customers and tell them that everything was made in North Yorkshire and available from ‘The Cobbly Crafter’ on Etsy. It was the truth. After all, they were available from Etsy if anyone wanted to buy them – I just failed to mention that ‘The Cobbly Crafter’ was me. There was no need for anyone – staff or customers – to know that crafting was a huge passion of mine. There was no need for anyone to know anything about me outside of work. I let them see what I wanted them to see: a successful entrepreneur, an excellent chef, and a fair boss who stood for no nonsense. When you let people in – fully in – they have a habit of letting you down, so it’s easier to keep them at arm’s length. That way, they won’t break your heart. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Behind the counter, I switched the coffee machine on, then headed into the kitchen to start baking. As a child, Dad had ignited a spark of passion in me for baking that had never burned out, no matter what life had thrown at me. Although the gingerbread house had been his Christmas Eve speciality, his skills in the kitchen hadn’t ended there. His grandparents had owned a bakery and he’d loved