‘Doll, look at me.’ His chin is resting on his arms again, looking up at me through the open window, and when I meet his eyes, he gives me a tiny smile. ‘You have permission, trust me.’
I tilt my head to the side, suddenly understanding something about what Reece is hiding, but there’s so much chaos in my head that I can’t draw out that singular thread right now with so many other questions screaming for attention.
His phone screen has turned off in my hand and when I turn it back on again, his lockscreen photo appears, a picture of Reece with the blue-eyed young boy from the framed photograph in the pub kitchen, and they’re both smiling happily on a beach.
‘Yes, you’ll have to get business insurance.’ He sees me looking and reaches over to take his phone back and carries on scrolling quickly. ‘No one ever needs to know the van isn’t yours. There’s a pub full of tables and chairs and plates and cups and glasses that I don’t know what to do with. See? Practical solutions to practical problems. And see here…’
He shoves his phone into his pocket and pushes himself up to lean in the window and taps the sink unit. ‘If I install a wooden board here that folds down when the window is open, then you’ve got your very own little serving hatch. You can get a cash box, and there are apps these days that allow you to take card payments, and?—’
He squeaks when I throw my arms around his neck and half-haul his upper body through the campervan window so I can hug him. It’s the most uncomfortable position ever, but he still laughs and hugs me back with the only arm that’s not squashed against the outside of the van.
I probably shouldn’t have, especially not after the other night, but he looked so excited on my behalf, and I’ve never had that kind of support before and I couldn’tnothug him.
I let him go when he makes a noise of pain though, and he takes a few steps back from the campervan like he’s trying to visualise its future and beckons me to join him.
Instead of retrying the hug, he drops his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me against his side as we stand across the car park and look at the yellow van. ‘The Nostalgia Café on wheels.’
‘No. The Nostalgia Café belongs in the past. This is something else, something new, something that’s mine. The Marzipan Campervan Café.’ I revel in that fizz of excitement again. I shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea in Jared’s campervan, but I am. I have been since I saw Reece’s face light up when he tried that first forkful of lemon meringue pie. I’ve been devastated since The Nostalgia Café fell through. Not just because of Vickie and Jared, but also because it felt like the end of my one chance to make a meaningful change in my life, and now this might be a second chance to do what I’ve wanted to do all along.
And it might be a weird way out of this problem. A job, something Ilove, something that’s mine, built in something that’snotmine, but with enough potential that eventually I could afford to move onto something more permanent and return the campervan to its rightful owner.
The car park is always busy. Thimblenouth Force is one of the most popular waterfalls in the Dales, and I remember walking to it with my gran and grandpa in years gone by, passing many other families on the way, and it’s only increased in popularity since then. When the pub was open, it was the ideal stop-off point, and in recent weeks, I’ve had multiple enquiries from people who look up at the scaffolding and ask doubtfully if it’s still open. And things are only likely to get busier as the summer holidays approach next month.
‘You really think it could work?’ I look up at Reece with his paint-covered T-shirt and holey jeans, his smile bursting with optimism that makes me feel optimistic too, and I feel something shift inside me. This is it. This is what I’ve been looking for without knowing I was looking for it.
‘I think that someone who can make a lemon meringue pie good enough to make me cry should be sharing that talent with the world. So yes, I think itwillwork because I thinkyouhave enough courage to do anything you put your mind to.’
I want to hug him again, but think I might’ve broken one of his ribs with that through-the-window hug just now, so I settle for finding his fingers with mine and squeezing his hand. I’m not sure about talent and courage, but I do know that having someone who believes in me makes all the difference.
15
Two weeks have passed, and they’ve been full of plans, forms, and… excitement. I’ve got a new phone for contact purposes, and it makes me happy that the only number saved in it is Reece’s. Well, and the local council’s because they’re bound to make an appointment for a food hygiene inspector to come round sooner or later. I’ve filled in forms to register as a food business with the local council. I’ve purchased small business insurance, and I’ve baked enough things to get used to Campervan’s little quirks.
‘Are you sure about this?’ I ask from inside the walk-in storage cupboard off the Kingfisher Arms’ kitchen where Reece has told me I’m welcome to help myself to plates and cups and any other crockery that hasn’t been used for many years, and I’m looking for the most vintage and mismatched ones possible, with no idea how many I’m going to need.
‘It’s the best use anything in this pub is ever going to get,’ Reece mutters from the kitchen, where he’s screwing together pieces of wood that will become the campervan’s serving hatch, and I’m once again intrigued by the bitterness in his voice. ‘What good are they to me? I’m converting the place into a house and no house needs that much dinnerware.’
‘Are you?’ I peer around the door at him because I’ve got an idea of what he’s so secretive about, but he still hasn’t opened up to me.
‘Of course I am.’ He meets my eyes and it’s like he’s going to say something, but then he shakes his head and the thought is drowned out by the burr of his electric screwdriver again.
As the days pass and I start planning things out, my confidence in this idea grows.
Reece directs the lorry that he’s booked to empty the skip, while I balance on a stepladder to string up pastel-coloured bunting between the tree and the van, and wrap solar fairy lights around as many branches as I can reach. Another day, Reece screws hinges into Campervan’s inner side and gets the fold-down serving hatch into place, while I practise my chalkboard writing to set out what’s on the menu every day on the pub’s old A-board that’s now standing in the car park, alongside one that’s ready to go outside on opening day, where I’ve drawn a chalk-coloured yellow outline of a campervan and written ‘The Marzipan Campervan Café – open’ in swirly white letters. It feels like it’s all coming together.
Walkers have stopped for curious chats, and every time I’ve explained what I’m doing, I’ve been met with responses of ‘What a good idea!’ or ‘Just what this place needs!’ and promises to come back when we’re open, and each time it buoys my confidence.
I had very little confidence in The Nostalgia Café. It hadn’t felt right from the beginning, but I let myself be carried along by Vickie’s enthusiasm. Now, this feels like exactly the right thing for me, and every day of preparation only fills me with energy… and nerves too. Lots of nerves.
Between us, we’ve constructed an awning for rainy days. We’ve dug the pub tables and chairs out of the Kingfisher Arms and scattered a couple of them around the car park. And now, on a bright Tuesday morning, four weeks since I walked in on Vickie and Jared, my hands are shaking as I rearrange the chocolate fudge cake in the display case for the seventy-eighth time, because it’s opening day.
‘Are you as ready as you look?’ Reece sets down another pub chair that’s well-worn and scuffed, but oddly fitting for the updated Nostalgia Café experience.
‘I think so.’ I spin the plate to showcase the cake’s best side for the seventy-ninth time, just to be sure.
In my head, my thoughts are racing. What if this really is the worst idea I’ve ever had? As bad ideas go, what if it even beats driving off in a campervan that isn’t mine? What if I’ve completely missed the mark here? What if walkers are fit and healthy types who come for their waterfall hikes prepared with things like fruit and water, and the last thing anyone would want at this stage of a walk is stodgy cake and a hot drink in the boiling summer sun?
‘People will come.’ Reece can tell I’m more nervous than I’m trying to let on.
