Page 3 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

‘Excuse me,’ he was saying now to the people in front of him. He weaved his way through the queue towards her, holding out his bank card.

‘No, Mr B, I couldn’t possibly…’

‘Yes, Taylor. You could.’

He wasn’t just her favourite client, he’d also been her first. She’d met him in Nico’s, a scruffy little café that no longer existed. She’d dropped Max off at nursery and, since she’d had a sleepless night with her unsettled boy, had decided to treat herself to tea and toast. She’d noticed Mr B as soon as he walked in because of his fabulous dress sense, but had been surprised when he’d joined her – uninvited – at her table with his cappuccino and Chorley cake. A lonely old man, she had thought, who wanted someone to talk to, but in fact, she had done most of the talking. She’d found herself telling him about her plans to set up her own sewing business. And he’d said he happened to have a pair of trousers that needed a new zip.

Since then, he’d been a regular. She’d never known a man whose shirts lost so many buttons. She’d offered to show him how to sew them back on himself, but he’d declined saying his eyesight wasn’t what it was.

‘Take it, Taylor,’ he said to her now, still holding out the card.

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll come back later.’

Taylor prided herself on her independence. Her dad had instilled in her the importance of standing on her own two feet, and she’d always lived by that principle. It was better that way; you couldn’t rely on other people. She’d thought she and John were for life but look at how that had worked out. These days, she didn’t need anyone’s help and begrudged anyone who suggested otherwise. She might be a single mum, but she was coping.

She was glad her father couldn’t see her now. This whole situation was embarrassing. She didn’t want anyone thinking she couldn’t afford her shopping, couldn’t afford to feed her child. It was probably bloody John, being late with his monthly payment as he so often was. She’d have to transfer some money from her rainy-day savings account. Again.

‘I’ll go and ring the bank.’ She wasn’t quite sure who she was saying this to. Mr B? Or the cashier? ‘It’s probably a mix-up.’

Before she could stop him, Mr B leaned over and tapped his card against the contactless machine. ‘There. All done.’ He patted her arm. ‘Taylor, it’s okay to accept help once in a while. And I know you’ll pay me back.’

The cashier held out the receipt, uncertain of who to give it to.

Mr B took it and glanced at the amount on the bottom. ‘I make that two zip replacements and half a dozen buttons.’

‘Thank you,’ Taylor said stiffly. She was grateful – for one thing, it would save her having to come back later and she never seemed to have enough time as it was – but she’d still rather he hadn’t. ‘I’d prefer to pay you back in actual money, if that’s okay.’

‘As you wish,’ said Mr B.

From behind him in the queue, a woman gave an exaggerated sigh, and a man said, ‘Can you lot hurry up?’

Taylor picked up her bags and said, ‘Thanks again, Mr B,’ and walked as quickly as she could towards the exit.

An advert on the community noticeboard by the doors caught her eye.

SPACIOUS, MODERN TWO-BEDROOM FLAT TO RENT

Taylor hesitated, torn between her need to get away from the scene of her embarrassment at being unable to pay for her groceries, and her desire for a bigger place.

She quickly scanned the ad. There were three photos: a very ordinary low-rise block of flats, a grey kitchen and a sterile white bathroom with a bath. An actual bath! The place looked very bland and modern – not exactly her style – but imagine not having the rigmarole of folding up the sofa bed every morning. Imagine being able to forget about cramming her duvet and pillows into a blue IKEA bag and stashing it away in a cupboard. Imagine not having a bad back every day as she bent over the sewing machine. Bliss.

She fumbled in her bag for her phone, intending to take a photo of the ad, but she’d either forgotten it or left it at home. Instead, she made a mental note of the estate agent’s name and the street where the flat was situated – the same street where Nico’s café had once been, as it happened – and then hurried out of the shop.

Of course, Max wouldn’t want to move, she thought as she walked home, thinking about the two-bedroom flat, the embarrassment in the shop (almost) forgotten. Her boy didn’t like change. He didn’t like small changes like having fish fingers for tea on a Monday instead of a Tuesday, or using raspberry-scented shampoo instead of his favourite lime. She’d never persuade him to move house.

Back home, Taylor hung up her patchwork coat; she’d started making it soon after Max was born. She’d heard that some babies were lulled to sleep by the motion of being in a car or a pushchair, but it was the whirr of her sewing machine that did it for Max. She loved that coat; not only did it hold the memory of that first precious year with her son, but each piece of fabric was special to her too. The blue cotton square on the left sleeve was left over from the first skirt she’d ever made for herself. A piece at the back was from her late gran’s favourite cushion cover; it was a little worn to be honest, which was why she’d positioned it at the back. And there was a tiny piece at the bottom that she’d snipped from Max’s favourite blanket, the one he always used to snuggle with. She’d covered the hole in the blanket with an appliqué bunny rabbit.

There had been a small patch from an old sweatshirt of John’s too, but she’d managed to replace that after he’d left.

She sighed now as she unpacked the shopping onto the worktop. Flats didn’t come up for rent that often these days in Essendale – many landlords were now renting them out as Airbnbs instead – and those that did were snapped up pretty quickly. Especially those as reasonably priced as this one. She was tempted to phone up and arrange a viewing, but what was the point? She couldn’t upset Max by moving house, not when things were going so badly for him at school.

In any case, she couldn’t remember the name of the estate agent.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of hems and seams and the torn lining of Mrs Ridley’s coat. She took extra care over that last one; Mrs Ridley could be a very tricky customer and liked things just so.

Soon it was time for the dreaded school run; dreaded not because she didn’t want to see Max, but because she never knew what sort of day he’d have had, never knew if his teacher, Mrs Green, would come out and say in clipped tones to Taylor, ‘Can I have a word?’ which was what she always said when there had been ‘an incident’.

But today there had been no incident. Or at least, if there had, Mrs Green was occupied elsewhere. Max wasn’t exactly in a good mood, but he wasn’t quite as sullen as usual, so Taylor took the plunge and said, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’