Page 1 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

Prologue

Two years earlier

Up until the moment when Taylor saw the display in the window of the hospice shop, she had been having a good day.

It hadn’t been raining when they’d set off on the walk to school. For once, Max hadn’t argued with her about which route they took – the quickest route (her choice) or the slightly longer route (his) which avoided the white hissing geese who congregated every morning outside Essendale library. He had checked that he had his reading book and packed lunch in his bag only twice, instead of his usual three times.

At the school gates, he’d even agreed to a hug, albeit grudgingly. He wasn’t a tactile child, so this had been a win as far as Taylor was concerned, although he’d shrugged her off when she’d ruffled his hair. Then she’d watched him slope off towards the imposing Victorian building with his usual air of resignation. He hated school, but maybe he’d have a better day today.

She’d been feeling optimistic as she caught the train to the neighbouring town of Hebbleswick. She was going to measure the windows in a very elegant dining room. Mrs Jones, one of her fussier clients, had commissioned her to make two sets of full-length curtains complete with tie-backs and swags. It would be a lucrative commission, but that wasn’t the only reason why Taylor was excited; Mrs Jones had mentioned she’d chosen exceptionally beautiful fabric.

By the time she’d left Mrs Jones’s house a little while later, her mood had lifted even more. She’d had a spring in her step as she set off towards the station. She’d crossed the old packhorse bridge over the river, and turned right towards the town centre, picturing the curtains in her mind’s eye. They were going to look fabulous. The fabric was gorgeous: a lightweight velvet with turquoise peacock feathers, which seemed almost iridescent against the deep blue background. Taylor couldn’t wait to get started; she loved colour and the velvet felt so luxurious. Plus it was going to make a welcome change from her usual day-to-day work.

As a teenager, Taylor had dreamed of being a dress designer, but falling pregnant with Max had put paid to that. Instead, she had set up her little sewing business. She’d been hoping for some creative projects – the odd prom or bridal dress, perhaps. But despite her best efforts to publicise her creations on Instagram – she’d all but given up now – she’d had only one dress commission. Other than that, it had been the same old, same old. Mending ripped seams. Replacing zips and buttons. Shortening trousers. Letting out waistlines. Alterations, alterations, alterations.

And the occasional altercation too. There’d been one woman who’d lost weight for her wedding and asked Taylor to take in her bridal gown. Days before the wedding she’d been back, claiming Taylor had taken it in too much and demanding that she let it out again. Taylor hadn’t liked to point out that the bride-to-be had put some of the weight back on. Overindulgence at the hen do, perhaps?

Still thinking about Mrs Jones’s drapes, she walked up the high street towards the station, singing to herself. Midway through the chorus of Pharrell Williams’s ‘Happy’, she stopped abruptly when she spotted the dress in the hospice shop window. That was her handiwork. Her one and only commissioned made-to-measure garment. The Scrabble pinafore.

A few months ago, she’d thought that things were looking up when she’d been asked to make that pinafore. Kate, the client, had wanted it to be a surprise for her best friend and had bought several metres of crisp cotton fabric printed to look like a Scrabble board. Taylor still had some of it in her remnants box. Using an old pinafore that belonged to Kate’s friend, Taylor had made a pattern. The dress had turned out beautifully but now here it was. Dumped in the charity shop.

She crossed the road to take a closer look, dodging the cars rather than walking back to the zebra crossing. She peered through the window, staring at the garment, wanting to be one hundred per cent certain that it was hers, though she knew full well it was. As if there could be two Scrabble pinafore dresses in this small valley!

It made a very eye-catching feature in the window, that was for sure. The shop assistants had displayed it to perfection on a mannequin, the waist pinned to fit, which made it look a smaller size. For a moment, she’d felt a surge of pride that she had made that beautiful, unique garment, but that was quickly followed by indignation that its recipient hadn’t wanted it.

Who gave a gift away so quickly? Especially a handmade gift.

And why?

Had Kate had this pinafore made for a special occasion, and once it was over, the best friend, whoever she was, had no further use for it?

Or, worse still, had the friend simply not liked it?

Taylor took a step closer to the window, almost pressing her nose against the glass and cupping her hands around her face so she could see the dress clearly. She ran her eyes over the seams, all beautifully pattern-matched, the top stitching, the perfect hem. She had lovingly toiled over every detail of this pinafore, never imagining that she’d see it here, in a charity shop window, no doubt bearing a bargain price tag. Her creation. Unwanted.

1

The morning began as it always did: Taylor packed the sofa bed away and crammed her duvet and pillows into a blue IKEA bag that she kept especially for the purpose. She shoved the bag into the cupboard in her tiny hallway, had a quick shower, and opened her wardrobe.

Choosing what to wear was her favourite part of the day. It wasn’t about being fashionable or even looking good. Clothes meant so much more to her than that. She didn’t follow trends and she didn’t understand why others did: why would you want to look like everyone else? Taylor expressed herself by what she wore; it was how she told the world who she was and what mood she was in.

She usually chose bright colours, but today she chose the dullest item in her wardrobe, a plum-coloured jersey dress. She’d had yet another uncomfortable night on that sofa bed and her back was aching. As sofa beds went, this was a pretty good one, but it was designed for occasional use and Taylor slept on it every night. Well, except when Max had a nightmare; she ended up squashing into his bed then. They really couldn’t go on like this for much longer.

Ten years ago, she’d had ambitions of studying fashion at college and getting a job in the industry. Now, her only ambition was to sleep in a proper bed in a bedroom of her own. Once she’d dreamt of catwalks and photo shoots and beautiful models wearing her designs. Now she dreamt of a bathroom with a bath, rather than just a shower. Preferably one of those deep, old-fashioned baths with claw feet and a shelf nearby for a glass of wine and a scented candle. She imagined the bath sometimes, full almost to the brim with steaming hot water and bubbles, how she’d lie in it for hours in the flickering light and ease her aching back. Although the truth was that even if she did have such a bath, she hadn’t the time for a long, luxurious soak.

But the lack of a bedroom and a bath weren’t the only dissatisfactions in Taylor’s life. The worst thing by far was the routine. She used to joke that ‘spontaneous’ was her middle name. She’d drop everything when her best mate Sasha said that a trendy new clothes shop was opening in Leeds, and did she want to go? Or when her then boyfriend John had somehow got last-minute tickets for Glastonbury.

Glastonbury.

It had been the best weekend of her life, but sometimes she wished she hadn’t gone, because that was the weekend everything changed. That was the weekend she’d got pregnant and waved those dreams of being a fashion designer goodbye.

And although she wouldn’t swap Max for anything, she did sometimes wonder what her life would have been like if she hadn’t met John. Would she now be designing beautiful clothes, mixing with creative types and doing things on the spur of the moment?

Milan? This weekend? Yeah, sure, that’d be lovely.

A spare ticket for Paris Fashion Week? Thank you, yes, that sounds wonderful.

Whereas now, even her weekends were dogged with routine. Haring off on last-minute adventures and being a single mum didn’t exactly go hand in hand. At least, not when you were a single mum to a child like Max.