Chapter 6
I step outside, the rising sun greeting me with a teasing wink before it’s swallowed up by low clouds.
There’s a dampness to the air that makes me smile.
I love the rain—the sharp, earthy scent that fills the air, falling asleep to the sound of the drops hitting my window, and the way it saves me a trip to the carwash.
I do not love the icy wind slapping my cheeks though, so I duck my head and scurry to the traffic lights, bouncing on my toes to keep warm as I wait to cross the road.
The first drops fall as I unlock the door to A Cup of Joy and switch on the lights.
Hattie slips in before the door closes behind me and we settle into our choreographed routine of turning on the coffee machine, till and ovens, pulling out mixers and trays and the tip jar.
We’re so in sync that words are not needed for this moment and while Hattie readies the tables, I bake.
‘Felicity will be in tomorrow for the handover before you ditch me,’ Hattie says as she waltzes into the kitchen to collect a tray of blueberry muffins.
‘It’s only two weeks,’ I say, more for my benefit than hers.
I haven’t been away from this place for more than twenty-four hours since we opened, and I only missed those hours because I was curled up on my bathroom floor with food poisoning.
Disappearing for two weeks is so stress-inducing that I’ve barely slept.
My mind has conjured every possible disaster from Felicity forgetting to put chocolate chips in the chocolate-chip muffins to the cafe burning to the ground.
‘A lot can happen in two weeks. What if you find the love of your life over there and refuse to come home?’
I almost snort. ‘The chances of that happening are about as slim as Vik turning up to work on time.’
‘The English countryside is a very romantic place. You never know what might happen.’
‘I’ll be surrounded by Fogertys. On a bus. Touring the sites of a terrible British TV show. Trust me, romance won’t come knocking on my door.’
And nor should it. This trip is all about Mum.
And I guess my Aunt Carol, but we’ll never tell Mum that.
The two of them are weirdly competitive, especially when it comes to their love of the TV show, Clovedale.
Mum likes to claim that she discovered the show and introduced Aunt Carol to it.
Aunt Carol swears that she watched it first. Frankly I think neither should admit to loving the show because it’s truly awful in that way where you can’t stop watching and you trick yourself into thinking it’s not that bad and you agree to go on a holiday dedicated to it.
Not that I, or anyone in my family, had a real say in the matter.
This trip is high on that bucket list of Mum’s.
It’s right up there with Get Sabrina Married Off.
‘I’m holding you to that because there is no cafe without you,’ Hattie says, and she holds the tray of muffins up to prove her point.
The morning rushes have grown steadily busier lately and while they’re not at the stage we need them to be yet, they’re moving in the right direction.
I have faith that in a few more months we’ll be close to making a profit.
Hattie, on the other hand, is not so sure.
Nor is my sister. Just last week Gabi was on the phone trying to convince me to give up.
Get out now before you get deeper into debt.
No matter how much you hope things will pick up, they probably won’t.
It’s time to face facts, Sabrina. You’ve burnt through your savings, you’ll never be able to repay the loan, and it’s just a matter of time before you’re digging in our sofas for loose change.
Gabi’s never been one to sugar-coat things.
When I tell her things will work out because they always do, she rolls her eyes and calls me delusional.
But I know I’m right. I was right about Mum’s cancer working out.
She’s in remission. If I was right about that, I’ll be right about the cafe and I won’t need to advertise for a roommate and give up my shoebox of a spare room, aka the dumping ground for all the deliveries Mum sends me.
I’m not sure if it’s because she feels sorry for me and my lack of finances or if she had a sudden urge to use her Flybuys points and thought I’d like parcel upon parcel of things I’ll never use. Like really, who needs an air fryer?
All we need to do is wait a few more months for word of mouth to take hold.
Things aren’t all bad. With the footy season well underway, our Saturdays are starting to pick up.
That’s one of the perks of being in Richmond, we’re super close to the MCG.
The downside of our location though is we’re on a side street and tucked away from the bustle of the main road.
But I’m choosing to focus on the positives.
Things will look up because they always do.
Except in the boyfriend department. The dating scene is a minefield so until I find someone for real, Adam is my fake boyfriend as far as Mum is concerned.
Maybe I should just keep up the ruse until the expiration date on that pesky contract clause.
There’s only four months remaining. I’m sure I can keep feeding my parents the lie that we’re madly in love and he’s simply far too busy being an author to visit them or go on holiday.
Or to jump on one of their Facetime calls.
I can get Hattie to put her photoshopping skills to work and send my parents some snaps of Adam and me together.
The door chimes, announcing a new customer. Hattie calls my name and before I can blink, I’m wrapped up in a tangle of arms, auburn hair, and the smell of Chanel No 5.
I pull back. Mum’s face is a blur. Dad towers behind her, grinning.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. They were supposed to be on their way to Paris for a week with a friend Mum made through a Facebook group of crochet enthusiasts before we all meet in the Cotswolds.
‘We changed our flight to leave tomorrow so we could do an overnight stay here and meet this boyfriend of yours.’ Mum smooths down my hair. ‘And maybe we can convince him to come with us next week.’
My stomach clenches. Shit. They want to meet Adam. Adam, who isn’t my boyfriend. Adam, who hates me. Double shit.
Mum beams at me, oblivious to the beads of sweat forming on my brow. ‘We made a reservation at that Italian place you called heaven on earth.’
‘Oh…um…Adam,’ I stammer, scrambling for words, an excuse, a giant hole to swallow me up. ‘He’s really busy,’ I say.
‘If he can’t come on holiday with us then the least he can do is spare a couple of hours tonight to meet his girlfriend’s parents.
’ Mum has that steely look in her eyes that leaves no room for excuses.
She wore that same look when Dad decided to open his own orthodontics clinic and she wanted to be his receptionist despite having no experience.
Three months later she was politely asked to retire after trying to intervene on a consultation for a misaligned jaw.
‘Just give him a call and ask him,’ Dad says with a sympathetic smile. It’s enough to let me know that this whole plan is Mum’s idea. That he would’ve called ahead to tell me they were flying in for a night to meet my boyfriend, but Mum loves a surprise and, let’s face it, she runs this family.
My heart pounds as they both watch me expectantly. I take an eternity to pull my phone from my pocket, my mind searching for a way out of this. Beyond sprinting out of the cafe and starting a new life in some remote town where no one knows Dianne Fogerty, I have no options.
I stare at my phone. Three problems here: one, I don’t have Adam’s number. Two, even if I did there’s no way I could ask him to dinner. Three, he’s not my boyfriend!
I do the only thing I can think of and call Hattie’s number and shoot her a look that only a best friend would understand.
She winks, which either means she’s got my back or she’ll throw me under the bus for her own entertainment. I hang up after a few rings so they don’t hear Hattie’s voice telling me to leave a message.
‘No answer.’ I shrug and squeeze my phone.
‘He’ll call back. Or you can wait here for him to come in,’ Hattie says and for the first time ever I wish I’d never been at Brighton Beach that hot summer’s day when I’d forgotten to bring sunscreen and I tapped the shoulder of the girl snapping selfies in front of the colourful bathing boxes and offered to buy her a soft drink in exchange for some SPF50.
I wished that we never bonded over our shared love of McLeod’s Daughters, our obsessions with all things sugar related, and our dreams of being in control of our destinies.
That we never became best friends and went into business together. That she never existed.
‘It’s Wednesday,’ I practically shout, relief washing over me.
The gods are shining down on me. ‘He doesn’t come in on Wednesdays,’ I say, softening my voice at the wide eyes of my parents.
It’s not even a lie. Wednesdays are our only Adam-free days.
My completely above-board surveillance of him has yet to unearth why that is.
‘Well, your dad’s taking me shopping for something nice to wear so when Adam calls back you can tell him he’s eating Italian tonight. And I won’t take being busy as an excuse.’
‘But if he is busy then we can always just pop by your place before dinner and meet him then,’ Dad says.
‘Nonsense. He’ll be at dinner,’ Mum says and she kisses my cheek and steers Dad towards the door.
She pauses to squint at a vase of dried lavender.
‘Fresh flowers would bring such a lovely energy to this space. I’ll send you Melissa’s number.
She’s that florist I met when your dad and I went to Ballarat last year. She does lovely arrangements.’
A lifetime spent with Dianne Fogerty has taught me to say nothing in these moments. That phone number is coming my way whether I like it or not. So too will the check-ins to see if I’ve called Melissa.
‘We’ll see you at seven,’ she says, one final reminder that my ‘boyfriend’ better be at dinner or else.
‘We’ll be there,’ I mumble. Somehow, someway, we’ll be there. I just need to uncover some superhuman abilities between now and then. Something that gives me the power of persuasion or maybe I can learn hypnosis and put him under. It can’t be that difficult, right?
‘It is,’ Hattie says when I ask her about hypnosis. ‘You only have one option.’
‘Fake my own disappearance?’
She puts her hands on my shoulders. ‘Beg.’