Starry Skies Over The Chocolate Pot Cafe - Jessica Redland Page 0,2

spending his weekends helping out. I tried not to think about how different things could have been if they hadn’t retired and sold the bakery while he was still at school, sending him down a completely different career path; one that took him away from me.

Dad and I baked something together most weekends and he always turned it into an adventure, talking in hushed tones about ‘secret recipes’ and ‘magical ingredients’. I relished the ninety minutes or so of peace and solitude each morning when I had the kitchen all to myself and often imagined Dad by my side, a finger pressed to his lips as he glanced furtively towards the door before adding something ‘special’ into the mixture.

With a name like The Chocolate Pot, it probably isn’t a surprise that our speciality is anything chocolate-related. As well as a good range of teas and coffees, we serve a variety of hot chocolates, changing flavours with the season and trends. There’s always a speciality chocolate cake of the day, a flavoured chocolate brownie, a regular brownie, and various other baked goods, all freshly made on the premises. Vegan? Gluten-free? We have something to suit everyone.

Monday to Saturday, the café opened at half eight to catch the pre-work takeaway trade. On a Sunday, like today, we opened at ten. I didn’t normally work on Sundays other than to bake first thing but, with Christmas Eve being one of our busiest days of the year, there was no way I was going to stay upstairs when my team would be rushed off their feet.

Maria, my assistant manager, arrived at about 9.20 a.m., just as I was taking the brownies out the oven.

‘Morning, Tara! Do I smell cinnamon?’ she asked, sniffing the air as she stepped into the kitchen. ‘Or is it gingerbread?’

‘Both. Cinnamon and gingerbread brownies.’ I placed the traybake down on top of the oven. ‘I made some gingerbread reindeers and snowmen last night which I’ve iced this morning, and there’s a sticky ginger cake baking.’

‘I’m salivating,’ Maria said. ‘I’ll dump my stuff upstairs, then give you a hand.’

The first floor acted as an overspill café on busy days and had the potential to be used as a function room. There were additional toilets upstairs and a small staffroom.

Listening to Maria running up the stairs moments later, I took a deep breath. It was hard to believe that this was going to be my twenty-seventh Christmas without my parents, and my fourteenth completely on my own. Where did the years go?

The buzzer on the oven signalled that the sticky ginger cake was ready, providing a welcome refocus away from reminiscing. I’d be fine. The day was going to whizz by, especially if the nonstop craziness of yesterday was anything to go by. After that, I could retreat to the flat where Hercules and I would pretend it was just a regular weekend.

Maria’s best friend, Callie, appeared around mid-afternoon with a buggy, a toddler, and Maria’s five-year-old daughter, Sofia, who immediately leapt into my arms for a hug.

‘Hi, Tara,’ Callie said, looking frazzled as she blew her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Any chance of a table?’

‘You’re in luck,’ I said, smiling as Sofia pressed her soft, cold cheek against mine. ‘It’s barely stopped all day but that table opposite has just come free. Would you like that one, Sofia?’

‘Can I have the pink chair?’

‘You certainly can. Let me put you down so I can clear the plates.’

Sofia immediately clambered onto her chosen chair. As I cleared and wiped the table, I watched Callie with admiration as she simultaneously parked the buggy containing her sleeping baby son, Tyler, and removed a coat from her two-year-old Esme.

‘Are you excited about Santa coming tonight?’ I asked Sofia.

She nodded. ‘And it’s my birthday on Friday. I’ll be six.’

‘I know. That’s two lots of presents to open. What have you asked Santa for?’

Sofia looked up at me, eyes wide, face solemn. ‘For Mummy and Marc to get married so George can be my brother. And George has asked for the same so Santa will make it happen, won’t he? I want a proper family.’

‘I’m sure he’ll do his best,’ I said, swallowing hard on the lump in my throat. A family? As a youngster, how many times had I been asked what I wanted for Christmas and been unable to give an honest answer? I’d politely asked for some art or craft supplies when all I really wanted was the one thing Santa could never bring