The Matcha Maker Café

Chapter 1

Sasha frowned at the letter from Jones-Smythe Properties, the property company that had recently taken over the lease of her café, Matcha Moments. The text blurred as she read it again.

Printed underneath was a price. The figure etched lines of worry between Sasha’s arched eyebrows. Her heart began to race and a sick feeling roiled in her stomach.

The numbers must be wrong. It was fifty per cent more than she’d paid the last time.

Or was her frazzled brain making her see things?

However hard she blinked, the numbers remained the same.

She thought of the poor state of her bank account, the bills due next month. A headache began to grip her skull.

The café hadn’t been doing well all winter. Even with the special psychic matchmaking service she offered, takings had been abysmal these last few months.

How the hell could she afford to renew the lease?

The bell on the café door chimed merrily and her best friend, Klara, who ran The Bookery across the road, breezed in, looking glamorous in a jade-green maxi dress. ‘Hiya, Sasha, my lovely!’ She settled on a bar stool by the counter, bracelets jangling.

Sasha quickly hid the letter under the counter and replaced her frown with a grin. ‘Hi, gorgeous, what’s up?’ She smoothed her apron, picking a piece of lint off the cupcake print. She had several similar aprons in cute prints and bright colours, which usually cheered her up.

‘I’m positively gasping for my latte! I’ve had a morning of heaving bosoms and dragons.

Unpacking some romantasy special editions, spredges and all .

. . if anyone’s interested?’ Klara raised her voice, directing her question to a couple of women sitting on the corner sofa, who’d been heatedly discussing their latest book club read.

‘I’m always up for heaving bosoms,’ called out Mollie. She was a local solicitor who often worked on her laptop in the café and ran the Book Clubbers, who met regularly in Matcha Moments. She slung an arm round her partner, Paloma, who batted her away with a smile.

Sasha prepared Klara’s matcha latte, heating water to the correct eighty degrees and pouring some into a bowl.

She’d whisked her first matcha while travelling round Kyoto with Por Por, her beloved grandmother.

They’d spent some time in Uji, sampling teas and delicious matcha desserts, which had inspired her to set up Matcha Moments.

She measured a spoon of single-origin matcha powder, specially imported from a tea farm she’d visited, and sifted it into the bowl.

Then she whisked to blend, forming W shapes with her bamboo whisk.

Pouring it into a pretty floral cup, she added warm foamy milk, as well as Klara’s favourite caramel syrup and chocolate praline sprinkles.

Sasha had always dreamed of running her own café. At university, her second home had been the Blue Moon café. She and Klara would spend all afternoon lounging on the squashiest sofas, working or reading, exchanging chit-chat with the other regulars.

Nearly two years ago, Sasha had been staying with Klara in the picturesque Oxfordshire town of Bramleigh Green, when she’d discovered the run-down high-street tea shop was up for lease.

She’d finally taken the plunge to follow her dream, and turned the tea shop into a cosy yet contemporary space, perfect for escaping the world for a few hours.

The wooden panelling was now painted in pastel green and the walls stripped back to brick.

She’d found a set of cherrywood tables and chairs at an auction, bought a squashy, beaten-up leather sofa and added colourful, hexagonal patchwork cushions, just like the patchwork Por Por used to stitch by hand.

Sasha then began collecting vintage tea sets for the café, displaying the more delicate sets on shelves.

The brick walls made a perfect backdrop to exhibit the work of local artists.

Currently it was the turn of photographer Rowena Sharma, whose atmospheric black-and-white shots documented her travels from Singapore to Vietnam.

‘Mmm – Nathan’s latest delivery smells fantastic.’ Klara sniffed appreciatively at a large white cake box on the counter. Nathan was a master’s student who worked part-time at the local bakery and made matcha-themed goodies exclusively for the café.

Sasha nodded. ‘I was about to unpack them. Want one?’ She lifted the lid. The scents of matcha, vanilla, brown sugar and cinnamon filled the air, making the friends drool.

‘Uuuhhh . . .!’ Klara gave an indecent groan and plucked out a matcha cinnamon bun. ‘Pillowy and soft.’

‘Just like the perfect bosom,’ Mollie commented from the sofa. She shimmied her generous figure, tossing back her maroon hair.

As well as the cinnamon buns and croissants, the box contained chocolate-chip and matcha cookies and matcha macarons. Sasha couldn’t resist popping a macaron into her mouth, sighing with pleasure as crisp and creamy matcha sweetness exploded in her mouth. ‘Mmm.’

‘Ooo – what’s this – a belated Valentine’s?’ Klara picked up a pink envelope from the post Sasha had yet to open. ‘None for me this year. Now Aidan and I are history, I’m feeling like a sad old frump.’

‘Hardly!’ Sasha gestured to Klara’s 1970s maxi dress. Klara loved old-world glamour and found most of her clothes in vintage shops. ‘It’s probably just a thank-you card from a client.’

Sasha offered a special psychic matchmaking service which had paired many happy couples in Bramleigh.

She’d started matchmaking customers of the café, including book club regulars Mollie and Paloma.

Her plan had been to expand her matchmaking business around the country with online readings and maybe even stalls at psychic fairs.

But running a café was hard work, leaving little time to do the necessary marketing.

Klara opened the card and read. ‘“A million thanks for helping us find true love.” Lucky Maria and Tom – I heard they’d moved to Oxford together – how sweet.

’ She turned puppy eyes on Sasha. ‘Will I ever find true love? My granny always says, every jam jar has its lid. I want to know where my lid is!’

‘I did promise you a matcha reading, Klara. How about tonight, after work?’ suggested Sasha, squeezing her friend’s arm.

The door chimed and an older man entered, his raincoat slung over a well-worn tweed jacket. His kind, brown face broke into a warm smile. ‘Good morning, Sasha, Klara – what balm you are for the eyes.’

‘Morning, Mr Davis, your table’s free.’ Sasha helped the elderly man take off his raincoat and hung it on the rack by the door.

He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and slowly made his way to a window table past the photography exhibition.

His eye caught on a black-and-white scene.

‘The wondrous Ha Long Bay. The last cruise I took with my dearest Vera was to Vietnam and Thailand. We dressed for dinner, and one night we even dined at the captain’s table. Oh, the dancing.’

‘I’d love to go on a romantic holiday,’ said Klara. ‘Waiting for my one true hunk to take me there, Mr Davis, eh?’

He chuckled. ‘Oh, Klara – he will be one lucky fellow. As for me, without Vera, my cruising days are over, I fear.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Klara. ‘There’s still plenty for you to explore.’

‘Your usual matcha latte?’ Sasha asked. Mr Davis nodded and smiled absently, still in his memories.

Sasha whisked Mr Davis’s matcha in a bowl, then poured it into an ochre glazed teacup. She added a spoon of honey and warm, foamy, almond milk. Lastly, she sifted a whisper of cinnamon cocoa on top and drew a heart in the foam.

Sasha took a deep breath and tuned into Mr Davis.

When they were in Malaysia, her grandmother had taught her how to tune into her psychic intuition, to sense people’s emotions.

As she placed the matcha in front of Mr Davis, she picked up on his sadness.

He was still in mourning for his beloved Vera.

A vision appeared in her mind. She saw the couple sitting in the previous incarnation of the tea shop, enjoying a pot of tea and a plate of home-baked coconut biscuits.

The vision dissolved. Mr Davis sipped his latte. His lips curved in a smile but his eyes were filmy.

‘Sorry if I’m stepping out of place, but is everything OK?

’ Sasha asked him gently. Since she’d opened the café nearly a year ago, Mr Davis had popped in on most days.

He always had a cheery greeting and warm smile for her as he enjoyed a matcha latte and slice of cake; he was one of her favourite regulars.

Mr Davis stayed silent, lost in the past. Then he blinked a few times and gave his head a small shake. He registered the cosy surroundings, the late-February sunshine streaming through the windowpanes, the bright cushions, the glass domes over piles of cakes and cookies.

‘I’m perfectly fine, my dear. Except I’m missing my Vera.

She would have loved what you’ve done with the tea shop.

This was her favourite spot: by the window, watching the world go by.

’ He gazed across the cobbled high street towards Bramleigh Green, where green nubs were starting to bud on bare branches.

‘She could be very entertaining with her commentary. That lady has a hat just like a blackberry, she would say.’ He gestured towards a woman outside wearing a dark purple woolly hat.

‘It’s the three-year anniversary of her passing today.

I was on my way to the churchyard to give her these.

’ He gestured to the posy of violets on the table.

‘But I felt I needed some sustenance first.’

Sasha smiled and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Matcha and salted-caramel cheesecake do the trick?’

‘Wonderful! I knew you would cheer me up!’

Sasha served up a slice of matcha-flavoured cheesecake with a gooey burnt-caramel top. Mr Davis made an appreciative sound.

‘You know, it could be time for the Matcha Maker Special,’ she suggested.

‘Ah, yes, your wonderful matchmaking service. Maybe. But Vera remains my one and only true love – from the day we met at a dance in the village hall. I remember the dress she wore – buttercup yellow – and she’d threaded daisies in her hair. It was 21 June 1968.’ He sighed. ‘Feels like yesterday.’

Klara draped herself on a seat next to him. ‘Did I ever tell you how Vera asked us to look out for you and make sure it wasn’t the end of romance in your life?’

She’d previously told Sasha how Vera had specifically gone into The Bookery before she became too ill, to tell Klara to look out for her husband when she was gone.

‘I often speak to my Vera at the churchyard. While I’m down there today, I’ll ask her if it’s time for one of your readings, my dear.’ Mr Davis smiled and patted Sasha’s arm.

The bell jangled as Leo, the Royal Mail courier, backed in through the door with a parcel. He was in the usual grey-and-blue uniform, but his feet wore the latest sleek, black trainers. Sasha noticed Klara checking out Leo’s biceps as she passed him. ‘Hel-lo. Someone’s been working out . . .’

Leo’s dark cheeks flushed red and he ignored her. ‘Delivery for you, Sasha. Sign here.’

‘Thanks, Leo – that’ll be my latest tea set.’

‘Ooo – lovely!’ said Klara. ‘I’d best get back, I can see customers waiting to pay. I’ll pick up a bottle of rosé for tonight, Sash, your fave!’ She winked.

‘Amazing – I’ll give you a matcha reading.’

Sasha watched Leo as he followed Klara out of the café. As she skipped over the cobbles to The Bookery, Klara was totally unaware of the quick glance he threw her while he hopped into his van.

Mollie hovered by the counter, dithering over the choice of freshly baked treats. She exchanged a look with Sasha. ‘Could someone have a crush, perchance?’

Sasha smiled and shrugged. Leo had ignored Klara, but that could be a sign he was smitten, she supposed.

Mollie finally pointed to a luscious lime tart with a greedy gleam. ‘We’ll have a slice of the matcha and Key lime pie, a couple of macarons and one of those pillowy cinnamon bosoms . . . Oh – did I say bosoms? I meant buns.’