Chapter 41
Sasha was glad when it was finally time to close. She flipped the sign on the door, and took her frustration out on hoovering and mopping the floor.
Tears gathered behind her eyes. One minute it was because she was sad about leaving the café and all her friends. The next, rage took over. How could Ben have fooled her like that? He just wanted somewhere to display his ceramics. The betrayal cut deep.
She ground her teeth, wondering if all the hours he’d sat there, reading his novel, he was secretly measuring up the walls and imagining how the place would look as a kitchen showroom?
As for this Rafe. Who the heck did he think he was?
Some rich arsehole who liked flinging his money around?
The fact he’d offered Eleanor triple the price on the lease renewal made her sick.
Couldn’t he put his shit-ton of money into a scheme that would help the community?
Instead of just flinging it round like a toddler who insisted on getting what they wanted?
There were so many homeless charities all over the UK, crying out for help. Couldn’t he help them instead?
Sasha couldn’t stand these rich, powerful people who seemed to rule the world. They clicked their fingers and got whatever they wanted, because they could afford to pay more.
Maybe she didn’t want to stay in Bramleigh after all. Not if Eleanor was going to encourage this sort to move in, so she could triple her revenue.
What about the pensioners and single parents who might not be able to afford a posh kitchen at an inflated price? What use would a showroom in the high street be to them?
Would this mean Eleanor would inflate the prices of the other premises on the high street?
Jones-Smythe Properties owned the vast majority.
Would the other retailers be forced to put up their prices to pay their rent too?
This could be the beginning of the end for Bramleigh Green.
A town where profits were valued over community was not somewhere she’d want to live.
The people she knew and loved would soon be priced out.
People like Eleanor and Rafe didn’t value community or care about the people of Bramleigh.
And as for Ben . . . her opinion of him had been all wrong.
She should have known who he was. He’d lost his clients investments, as he’d confessed to her.
The clue to what he was really like was how he’d made the decision to go ahead with his product launch instead of making sure his clients’ interests were secure.
That revealed what he prioritized. Money and success, not people, or community.
She’d thought he was an artist. He had fooled her with his cute doodles, his ceramics and pottery hobby. Now he’d shown her how, at heart, he was one of the finance bros. His loyalty was towards others like him. Money was their primary concern.
Pain gripped her. She clenched her jaw. He’d been in league with Rafe all along.
They were the type of people that wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
The type who would do anything until they got what they wanted.
Ben must have been faking his attachment to the café and the people who came here, the community that Sasha had gathered around her.
The reason he said he’d been drawn to her. It was all a lie.
The anger and adrenalin kept her staying late in the café, packing up her collection of tea sets into boxes, wrapping them carefully in paper.
They could go into storage until she decided where she was going to live.
Some were collector’s items. She’d been buying sets at auction and online.
She might be able to sell them and make some money to rent her own place until the matchmaking business took off.
Every tea set she wrapped had a history behind it.
She picked up a crackle-glazed set her Por Por had bought for her in Kyoto, on the last holiday they’d had together before she’d died.
Tears gathered. She could feel Por Por’s spirit in the café.
She would know that Sasha had done her best to keep it running.
It wasn’t all over. Her matcha readings would go on.
More of Chloé’s followers were sure to make bookings.
Maybe selling some of the more valuable tea sets would tide her over?
Perhaps she could pay Klara or Mollie some rent until she could afford to rent her own place.
That would be better than going back to London.
But then she’d have to see Ben and Rafe taking over her cosy café with their bloody showroom.
Urgh. She was going round in circles, thinking about it.
That night, Klara came round with a bottle of their favourite rosé. ‘This could be the last time we hang out here,’ said Sasha.
‘Oh, no! Don’t say that! You never know – something might turn up,’ said Klara.
‘What? A freak hurricane carries off Rafe Allbright and lightning destroys his model kitchens?’
‘Oh, my days – Elphaba vibes much?’ Klara laughed.
‘Sorry – of course I shouldn’t wish death and destruction on my enemies. I guess Rafe Allbright was just doing what any businessman would do to get the property he wants.’ Sasha didn’t mention Ben. It was too painful. I thought we had something good going.
‘I can’t believe Ben. Finally, when you’d got over the whole client thing . . .’ said Klara.
‘Yeah. Well, maybe I was right all along about him. You shouldn’t mix business and pleasure.’
‘Sash – you know . . . I don’t think . . .’
‘No – let’s not talk about it any more, please. It is what it is. This could be our last night hanging out here – ordering a takeout.’
‘What do you fancy? My treat. Pizza or curry?’ Klara waved a couple of menus at her.
Two bottles of rosé and a butter chicken, rogan josh, pilau rice and naan later, Klara finally left, after lots of tearful hugs. Sasha hadn’t been able to eat that much. She’d put the leftovers in her fridge and started packing her books and clothes into boxes.
Her phone kept chiming, but when she saw it was Ben, she turned it off and shoved it at the top of her wardrobe, out of reach so she wouldn’t be tempted to ring him back and scream at him.
She wished he’d never visited her flat. It used to be her safe space, her retreat from the world. She and Klara used to kick back there after work and relax from their worries.
But now she saw Ben in every room. In the kitchen. Chopping peppers, tomatoes and onions. Boiling pasta. She saw him putting down the champagne flutes, holding her and kissing her. She touched her lips, imagining the taste of his kisses. Strawberries, chocolate and champagne.
In the living room she could picture him, too big for the spindly dining chair and round table, slurping garlicky tomatoey tagliatelle. At the coffee table, she saw his expectant face as she’d lied to him about Chloé. The rug was where he’d held her on the floor when she’d turned dizzy and fainted.
The sofa was wreathed in the heat of their passion. She could almost feel his touch, hands pulling her on top of him. Skin touching skin. How she’d enjoyed digging her nails into his muscled back, pulling him closer, and closer still.
She gave up packing and went to bed, wrapping herself up in her duvet. Despite her best efforts not to, she couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d held her long into the night, the whispers of love in her ears. Whispers that were nothing but deceit.
She finally fell asleep, tears streaming down her cheeks.