Page 36 of The Little Board Game Café

The door closed behind him and the café suddenly felt very empty.

She should have shown a bit more enthusiasm for his board games group. But she was tired and she didn’t fancy an evening of answering question after question to win little coloured wedges or moving a tiny top hat round a board and saving up for a hotel on Park Lane. If he’d only asked her to meet for a quiet drink. Just the two of them. She’d have said yes to that.

She suddenly felt very alone. There was no one supporting her with her new venture. No business partner. No romantic partner. Kate was busy dating and Dad wouldn’t leave Thornholme. And now she’d offended this lovely man who’d showed so much enthusiasm for her new business and whose company she enjoyed.

And she fancied the pants off him.

If I’m not too tired. Why on earth had she said that? Such a pathetic excuse. She’d obviously blown it.

Chapter Thirteen

By Saturday, the transformation was finished. Emily had bought pristine white tablecloths from the market in Hebbleswick and they gave the place a clean, fresh feel. The walls were adorned with four of her own photos of Lancashire: the ominous Pendle Hill covered in snow; the canal running past an old mill near Blackburn; the white windmill at Lytham St Annes; and the incredible Ribble Valley viaduct, stretching across a clouded landscape. She’d had them enlarged and mounted them herself using frames from the market. Her favourite bit was the newly erected sign outside bearing the café’s new name. She hoped her customers would appreciate the humour: a café named The Lancashire Hotpot. Not something you’d expect in a West Yorkshire town.

‘It’s a bit of a risk,’ Kate had said when Emily had told her.

‘You’re always telling me to take more risks,’ she’d replied.

The café looked fantastic, even if she said so herself. Really inviting. Now all she needed was food and customers. A Sunday of baking and cooking and she’d be ready for the grand opening on Monday.

*

Only the grand opening turned out to be not so grand.

She’d baked and cooked till she dropped. Chocolate eclairs and vanilla slices sat temptingly in the chiller cabinet, Chorley cakes and scones under glass domes on the counter. The soup of the day simmered on the stove – Mum’s chicken and vegetable soup recipe, of course – and she’d grated cheese and made coleslaw for baked potato fillings. There was bacon, mushrooms and a whole stack of hash browns for anyone who wanted an English breakfast – available all day – and fresh bread for sandwiches.

She took photos of everything – the food, the décor, even the salt and pepper pots sitting on the tables – and uploaded a few to Instagram.

On Monday morning, at nine on the dot, Emily turned the sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open’ and waited. She hadn’t expected a queue of customers at the door, but it was a bit disheartening that by twenty to ten, not a single person had come in. Or even looked through the window. Or even walked past for that matter. Footfall, she thought suddenly, remembering the words of the Lycra goddess at the running club. There wasn’t much footfall down this street.

She stood behind the counter, watching through the window.

A child on a scooter went past. They didn’t so much as glance in the café’s direction.

An old lady pulling a shopping trolley stopped outside the door for a second. Emily thought for a moment that she might come in. Then the lady swapped the handle of the trolley from one hand to the other and continued on her way.

Next came a man walking a dog. The man peered in through the window. The dog cocked its leg against the lamp-post outside and then they too were gone.

Ten to eleven. Still no customers.

She paced round the café, straightening all the chairs even though they were already straight.

She paced round again, moving all of the salt and pepper pots so they were in the exact centre of each table.

Finally, she sat down at one of the tables and pulled out her phone.

Eleven o’clock. Mr B arrived in a pea-green bow-tie.

‘Good morning, Emily,’ he said. ‘The usual, please.’

Emily felt a stab of disappointment. ‘Can’t I tempt you with something different? A chocolate eclair? A scone? Or even a full English?’

‘Cappuccino and Chorley cake, please. I’m a creature of habit.’ He opened his Polish newspaper and began to do the crossword.

Emily fetched his order, made a latte for herself and sat down opposite him.

‘You’re my first customer,’ she said. ‘I mean, first customer since I opened. I was officially closed last week.’

‘I’m very honoured. The café looks lovely. You’ve done a wonderful job.’