The Traveling Tea Shop (7 page)

“Where’s Mum?” is Ravenna’s predictable opening gambit.

“She’s working. I said I would take you.” I rather enjoy her look of dismay. “So, where do you want to start? There’s a Forever 21 over on Seventh.”

She gives a little snort. “I want to go to Tiffany’s.”

“Of course. I should have guessed from the way you’re dressed,” I mutter under my breath.

Today Ravenna is sporting a micro-mini and a mesh top, though her hair is piled high on her head, just like Holly Golightly—if Cat had savaged her updo.

It’s a ten-minute walk, but neither of us speaks along the way, preferring to let the silence between us be filled by horn honks, doorman whistles and wailing sirens.

“Here we are.” I contemplate the imposing building with its aqua-accented window displays.

Last time I was here I was eating morning-after-the-night-before croissants with Krista. Not that we dared to go in. I never have. I certainly feel more than a little daunted now as I follow Ravenna. She, on the other hand, is utterly blasé, scanning the sparkling glass cases, requesting certain items be presented to her, dismissing them and moving on.

I decide to wait by the door. Like backup security. I wouldn’t put it past her, making a dash for it with some pink diamonds.

Eventually she beckons me over.

“I want this,” she says, holding up an elongated sterling silver cuff bearing the inscription “T & Co 1837.” I get that it would have a certain punkish Wonder Woman vibe on her wrist.

“Okay,” I say.

“Well?” She holds out her hand. “Mum did give you her credit card, didn’t she?”

“I told her to keep it.”

“You did what?”

“I said she could catch up with us later, once you’d had a good look around.”

“But I want to get it now.”

“So pay for it yourself.”

“I haven’t got a thousand dollars to spend on a bracelet!” she splutters.

“Oh well. I guess you’d better start saving.”

Ravenna rolls her eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me to get a job.”

“And that would be absurd because . . . ?”

“You know I’m at university? I could only work part-time. Do you have any idea how many hours I’d have to clock up to afford something like this? And what would be the logic in that, when I can just ask Mum and she’ll buy it outright?”

In a horribly warped way, she has a point. What possible incentive does she have to work?

“So, where do you want to go next?” I ask her. “We only have an hour or so before we leave for Connecticut, so let’s make it count.”

“This schedule is pretty tight, isn’t it?” she muses. “Not a lot of room for delays?”

“No room for delays.” I try to sound authoritative.

“You know, I’ve just decided: I’m not coming on this trip. New England is just full of old people looking at leaves. I’m going to stay here in New York.”

Oh god. As much as this is music to my ears, I know Pamela won’t go for it.

“You know that’s not possible,” I begin.

“Why not? She doesn’t want me there anyway.”

“Your mother?” I’m about to beg to differ when she says: “No. The other one.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She can’t stand being around me.”

“Well . . .” I stop myself from saying, “She does have a point.”

“It’s just going to be boring. Cake after cake after cake . . . What am I supposed to do?”

I shrug. “What every person your age does: tune out, text, listen to music, play games, go on Facebook. I mean, does it really matter where you are to do that?”

Her eyes narrow.

“Besides, you’d be doing your mother a huge favor.”

“Huge is the word—have you seen the size of her? It’s just so embarrassing! Who does she think she’s fooling? Eat my delicious cakes and end up obese like me!”

“Stop!” I halt her. “I won’t have you talking about her like that.”

Ravenna scoffs at my objection. “You know, it’s really none of your business what I say about my own mother.”

“When you say those things in front of me,” I counter, “you make it my business. It is not acceptable to my ears. Have you got that?”

She stares at me. And then she stares at the floor. Eventually her eyes return to mine.

“You know, you’re right. It’s the least I can do for her.”

I can’t believe it. “Really?”

She nods. “Forget what I said. I just want to pick up a little something at Diesel and then we can head back to the hotel. Is that okay?”

“Y-yes, that’s fine. Let me just look up the directions.”

“Okay, I’m going to nip to the loo.”

Wow. That was a narrow escape. Maybe she’s more reasonable than I thought? I was worried I’d gone too far, but something obviously got through to her. Thank goodness!

I tap at my phone. Perfect! Diesel is just three minutes’ walk from here. We’d have time for a quick mani afterward, if she’s game. Maybe I’ll treat her to one of those rad new designs—I saw this dip-dye effect that I think she’d like. That’s if she ever comes back.

I turn to the shop assistant. “Excuse me, where are the restrooms in here?”

“Up on the sixth floor.”

Oh. That could explain it. She’s probably got distracted, looking at more goodies. Until today I didn’t realize Tiffany did so many non-jewelry items. There’s even a tea set (tea pot, milk jug and sugar bowl) in angular sterling silver with rosewood handles and jade cabochon accents: $23,000 a pop. But that does include a matching tray.

I strum my fingers. I wonder how Pamela and Gracie are getting on. She did mention she wanted to try the Cronut craze (croissant-doughnut hybrid originating here in Manhattan), but the bakery is all the way down in SoHo. I’m not sure she’ll have time. I look at my watch. I look at Tiffany’s watches—the rose gold, the diamonds, the ticking hands . . .

Still no sign of Ravenna.

Perhaps it’s best if I wait over by the door. I smile at the security guard.

“I’m just waiting for my friend.”

“The one you came in with?”

“Short skirt, crazy mess of hair . . .” I squiggle my hands around my head.

“She left.”

“What? When?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Oh god. Oh god, oh god. She just totally played me. What do I do now? Once again I find myself freaking out in an entirely inappropriate environment.

“Krista!” I wail as soon as I get outside. “I’ve lost Babycakes!”

I find myself instinctively heading for the Apple store, as if I might be able to harness their technology to create some kind of tracking system using her mobile phone number. Not that I have it. And not that I can ask Pamela for it, since that would give the game away.

“Okay, let’s be logical about this,” Krista calms me. “It’s too early to file a Missing Persons report and there’s no better place for a person to disappear than in New York City, so scouring the streets isn’t going to work.”

“So what should I do?”

“Have faith.”

“Have faith?” I’m not convinced. “You think she’ll have her little run-around and then see the error of her ways?”

“No, I just mean that without her mum’s credit card, she won’t have enough money to last a whole week in NYC. Very few people do.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip. Then I see some men leering at a woman in hot pants. “What if she turns to prostitution?”

“You’ve seen the state of her. Even punters have standards.”

I sigh. “So what now?”

“Go back to the hotel and wait for her. Her things are still in the room, right? She’ll have to go back for them.”

“Actually, I asked everyone to check out before they left this morning, so we wouldn’t have any holdups leaving at noon.”

“Then her luggage will be in storage.”

“Unless she went straight there from Tiffany’s and nabbed it.”

“Then you’d better get a move on!”

“All right! I’m on my way. And Krista?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for always being there for me.”

“My god, you’ve
always
been there for me. It’s nice to be able to help you for a change.”

I smile, put my phone away and then duck and dive through the crowds like an American footballer hurtling for the touch-down line.

•   •   •

Her bag is still here. That’s something. I fall into the nearest seat, waiting for my heaving chest to settle.

Of course there’s no need for her to come back to collect it before our departure deadline. She could easily wait us out. Check-in at her next accommodation wouldn’t start until 3
P.M.
Unless she’s just planning on sleeping under some railway bridge, of course.

I get a swimmy-swampy feeling in my head. Could this trip be over before it’s begun? Will the blame for its failure fall at my feet? I can’t deny—I went too far, I let things get personal. My head falls into my hands.

“Laurie!”

“Gracie!” I jump up. “Where’s Pamela?”

“Still with Charlie. They’re working on some kind of Velvet-Victoria hybrid.” She pulls a face. “It was all getting a bit technical for me, fractions of ounces, I thought I’d come up for a cup of tea. Care to join me?”

“Er-um . . .”

Gracie studies me. “Is something the matter?”

“Well . . .” Dare I tell her?

“Ravenna ditched you once she realized you didn’t have her mum’s credit card?”

I blink back at her.

“I thought she probably would.”

I sigh. “I should have just taken it.”

“What did she try to get you to buy?”

“A thousand dollars’ worth of bracelet from Tiffany’s.”

Gracie hoots. “Little minx. She was totally trying it on.”

“Really? Because I might have slightly crossed the line in terms of what I said to her . . .”

Gracie smiles broadly. “Got a bit of Supernanny in you, haven’t you?”

“I’ve got a big mouth on this topic.”

“Me too. For all the good it does.” She places a comforting arm around my shoulder. “Let’s see if a cup of tea can make everything better . . .”

•   •   •

So this is the plan: we say nothing. And if anything needs to be said, I let Gracie do the talking.

Gracie is with Krista, in that she thinks Ravenna will turn up at the last minute.

An hour ago, this reassured me. But, as of now, there are just ten last minutes to go. And still no sign.

We’ve already loaded the car and lied to Pamela, telling her that Ravenna has just nipped to the hotel gift shop.

“I think I might go and chivvy her up.” Pamela goes to turn back into the hotel.

“No, no!” I protest. “Allow me.”

“Why don’t you get comfortable in the car?” Gracie guides her to the Mercedes.

I take one last look up and down Park Avenue.

And that’s when I see her. Directly across the street from us.
Watching us.

I daren’t blink for fear that she’ll disappear. She looks so fragile, so small in this land of giants. I take a step in her direction just as a sightseeing bus passes between us, and then she’s gone.

Nooo! My shoulders slump.

What did that mean? Was she just there to taunt me? Or see if we’d really call her bluff?

“Ms. Davis?” A male voice calls to me.

I turn back; it’s the doorman.

“Mr. Romano has something for you.”

Charlie is beckoning to me from the other side of the glass.

“I know you missed out on Pamela’s Victoria Sponge, so I saved you a slice.”

I gasp out loud, squishing him in a hug and then tearing into the box.

“You don’t have to eat it now!” Charlie hoots.

“Yes I do,” I muffle. “This might be my last chance to taste her cooking.”

“But . . .” he frowns.

“Don’t ask!” I hold up my hand. And then I close my eyes and, just for a moment, surrender to the cake—the moist-light sponge, the dairy creaminess of the filling blending with the strawberry stickiness . . .

“Good?” Charlie inquires softly.

“Ohhhhh!”

“I know!” he grins. “Please tell her that she’s welcome back anytime!”

“That may be sooner than you think,” I mutter as I dust off the blonde crumbs and head out to face her.

The time has come. I take a deep breath, dip into the backseat, only to find Ravenna occupying the front passenger slot.

“Wha—?”

“What’s the holdup?” she asks before I can form a sentence. “I thought we had a schedule to keep to?”

I don’t know whether to kiss her or slap her. But I don’t get the chance to do either because, no sooner am I buckled up than Gracie whiplashes us into traffic.

All too soon the yellow cab escorts and iconic buildings morph into a scene from a gritty, lowlife movie—grimy streets, clunky railway bridges and menacing characters, all bundled up even though it’s a sunny day. I always used to turn my nose up at the London suburbs when I was heading home from Heathrow, but no more. They are a bucolic dream compared to this.

“Watch out!”

Vehicles weave, break and honk around us, as if they are in cahoots to keep us from staying our course. While I grip the hand-rest and resist the urge to close my eyes during the dicier moments, Gracie is astoundingly calm under pressure.

“Oh no you don’t buddy, you can wait your turn.” She denies a Mustang trying to barge into our lane.

I turn, openmouthed, to Pamela.

“How the hell does she do this?” She predicts my question.

“It’s extraordinary. This is a total white-knuckle ride—my heart is in my mouth and she’s as cool as a cucumber.”

Pamela smiles. “She’s spent the last fortnight memorizing every nuance of the journey. She’s even planned which lane she’s going to drive in.”

“Are you serious?”

“She loves it!” Pamela takes a quick sip of water. “She took The Knowledge on her seventieth birthday, just to put a smile on her husband’s face.”

“Was he a taxi driver?”

“Bus actually.”

“Ahhh, hence the connection in Newport?”

She nods, explaining how, about twelve years ago, her father helped a billionaire named Arby Poindexter to pick out the double-decker of his dreams.

“They actually became pals during his stay in London, and Arby was so impressed with Dad’s knowledge and passion, he invited him and Mum out to stay with his family in Newport.”

“So Gracie’s been there before?”

Pamela nods. “And she can’t wait to go back.”

“All right!” Gracie announces. “It should smooth out from here.”

She’s quite right—suddenly the urban chaos streamlines into a green-bordered freeway. We can’t see much of the places we’re passing—Greenwich, Stamford, Norwalk—but I know we’re in Connecticut now.

Most people know this state as a commuter belt, but it is also the home of PEZ candy’s U.S. manufacturing facility and the first lollipop machine. As in the hard candy globes on a stick, rather than the British iced version.

“The idea started before the Civil War, when children used to have a bit of sugar candy stuck to the end of a pencil,” I read from my notes.

“No concerns about lead poisoning back then,” Pamela notes.

“Would anyone object to having the windows down, now we’re away from the grime?” Gracie asks.

“Fine with me,” I reply, quite enjoying the bluster. And then I ask Gracie if her husband taught her to drive. He did.

“And how did you two meet? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all.”

I settle in for story time.

“I was seventeen, still living at home but yearning for some independence. My parents were very formal—even breakfast was a fixed sit-down affair—and I took every opportunity I could to get out of the house, just so I could breathe. When I finally persuaded them to let me have a dog, I started to explore our grounds a little more and one day I saw this chap tramping across the bottom of our lawn. I tried to catch up with him but he was walking at quite a clip. I asked the gardener if he’d hired an assistant, but he said no. So who was he and where was he heading? I went back the next day to find out.”

“By yourself?”

“With the dog.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Are you aware that this is private property?’ He hesitated and then he said, ‘I am.’

“‘Where are you going?’ I asked him.

“‘To work,’ he said. ‘It saves me a good twenty minutes if I cut through here. Do you mind?’

“He had the most open face I had ever seen. Everyone I knew was either snooty or sly. He was just so straightforward. I looked at him some more and then I looked at this package in his hand—a little block covered in waxed paper.

“‘What’s that?’ I asked.

“‘My lunch,’ he said.

“And it just seemed such a little lunch for such a big man. So I told him I would see him tomorrow.”

I laugh. “Just like that?”

“I wasn’t a very chatty child. I just spent a lot of time being silent around adults until I met Georgie. That was his name.” She looks pleased even to say it.

“So what happened next?”

“Well, I decided I would make him a cake to go with his sandwich.”

I look at Pamela. “Is this where all the baking began?”

She nods.

“I thought it should be the heaviest, most filling cake I could muster, so I made a fruit cake. Cut it into four, wrapped his wedge in a cloth napkin and sat in wait . . .” She smiles. “The next day he said it was the best cake he’d ever tasted and that everyone else at the bus depot was jealous. So I made another one and gave him the whole thing so he could share it.”

“Gosh! I bet you were popular!”

She smiles. “I didn’t meet the other chaps straightaway. For a couple of months it was just me and Georgie and our morning tea flasks under the oak tree. I wouldn’t see him on the way home because the busses were running by then. But I was always thinking about him, always thinking about what I could make him next for lunch. Scotch eggs were his favorite.”

“The way to a man’s heart, eh?”

“Oh, he had such a lovely heart!” She swoons. “No rules. No caution. He didn’t worry what anyone thought of him.”

“Not even your parents?”

“Well, I didn’t leave a lot of room for negotiation there. He gave me such confidence—when I presented him it was as my fiancé and that was that. And they grew to love him dearly. As did everyone who ever met him. It’s a wonderful thing, when someone can make you laugh, all other concerns go out of the window.”

I think how true this is. How disarming laughter can be. You can’t be defensive and guarded while you are laughing. All you are is delighted.

“Did you ever get to drive his bus?”

“Oh yes. He taught me everything he knew. Sixty years we were together . . .”

She looks so proud.

It must be wonderful to be filled with admiration for your other half. I know Krista feels that way about Jacques. So that’s two role models I have now.

“Have you ever been married, Laurie?” Gracie asks me.

“Oh no,” I shudder. “No, no, no.”

“Is that aversion toward the institution itself or—”

“Oh, I’ve nothing against marriage as a concept. It’s just the thought of being married to anyone I’ve actually been in a relationship with.”

“That diabolical?”

“Let’s just say I’ve yet to find my Georgie.” No need to gloom them with my romantic history. I turn to Pamela. “But you’ve done well too—how long is it with Brian, twenty years?”

“Mmm.” Pamela turns to look out through the window.

Okay. We’ll leave that there.

“What about you, Ravenna? How long have you been with . . .”

“Kevin.” Gracie helps me out with her boyfriend’s name.

Ravenna’s eyes narrow. “It’s Eon now, as well you know.”

“Eon?” I raise a brow.

She juts her chin. “We’ve been together two years.”

“God help us.”

“What did you say?” Ravenna snaps at her grandmother.

“Are those giant headphones affecting your hearing? I said, ‘God help us!’”

“How can you be so rude?” Ravenna gapes.

“Oh, when he speaks so fondly of us?”

“He’d never say any of that stuff to your face.”

“How very discreet!”

“Um,” I scoot forward in my seat, eager to change the subject. “We’re just approaching New Haven if you would like to take a little break? It’s not part of our official itinerary, but it is home to Yale University, and Louis’ Lunch—the birthplace of the American hamburger—if anyone’s peckish?”

“I’m happy to keep going,” says Gracie, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel.

Ravenna gives a “don’t care either way” shrug and Pamela doesn’t even reply, she’s so deep in her own thoughts.

“Okay, well we’ll just keep on trucking.” I slide back into my seat.

Gracie catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “You look disappointed?”

“Oh no, it’s fine! I’ve just got a bit of a thing for university towns.” I pull my cardigan around me. “Even though we’re just getting into summer, they still make me think of argyle socks and scrunchy leaves and armfuls of books.” I don’t really mean to keep talking, but I do. “It seems so romantic to me—the idea of sitting at some creaky desk listening to a whiskery intellectual spouting mind-expanding wisdom—”

“I take it you’ve never actually been to university?”

“Ravenna!” Gracie scolds.

“It’s okay,” I respond. “I haven’t. I got offered a travel rep job as soon as I left school and, at that point, the idea of getting paid to spend a year in Greece was rather more appealing than student loans and more exams. Not that I’m saying that was the smarter decision,” I quickly add, conscious that Ravenna is still in uni mode.

Mercifully Gracie suggests some music: “My friend’s grandson put together a CD for me . . .”

Ravenna rolls her eyes and lodges her headphones in place before she’s even heard a note—Gracie could have opened with “Highway to Hell” for all she knows.

In actual fact it’s the most laid-back, borderline melancholic selection from the 1940s—“One for My Baby (And One More for the Road),” “Sentimental Journey” and a rather ironic “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” . . .

•   •   •

By the time we get to our official first stop, both Pamela and Ravenna have nodded off.

“Now this is more like it,” I whisper to Gracie, acknowledging the hand-carved, welcome-to-our-town sign (settled 1654), picture-perfect, pointy-spired white church and ye olde seaport with Captain Pugwash-style sailing vessels.

“Delightful,” she agrees.

“Are we here?” Pamela croaks as we pull into a parking spot beside the wooden boardwalk.

“We are.”

She reaches to jiggle Ravenna’s shoulder.

“Don’t wake her!” Gracie hisses.

“What do you mean? We can’t leave her in the car!”

“It’s fine—we’ll crack the window.”

“Oh Mum!” she tuts and gently touches her daughter’s hair—guaranteed to render her wide-awake and riled.

“Where are we?” Ravenna asks—a simple enough question, though it sounds more like an accusation with her tone.

“Mystic,” I announce.

She snorts. “What, as in
Mystic Pizza
?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

She jolts upright and looks around her. “You’re telling me the film was set here?”

“Set here, filmed here, inspired by here.”

She releases herself from her seatbelt and steps out to survey the waterfront. We all follow.

“So Julia Roberts was actually here?” She seems to need a lot of convincing.

“Yes.”

“Is there really a pizza place?”

“There is. In fact, we’re a little early for our appointment, if anyone fancies a slice?”

Gracie and Pamela are keen, whereas Ravenna tries desperately to shrug off her eagerness.

Ah, the universal power of Julia Roberts.

We cross the Meccano-esque drawbridge to the main high street and find it crammed with tourist-friendly temptations like Mystic Sweet’s fresh fudge and an array of nautical-themed knick-knacks. (I’m extremely drawn to a set of octopus, starfish and coral-print cushions but admit they wouldn’t necessarily make sense in a Manhattan setting.)

“Mystic Pizza—A Slice of Heaven,” Pamela reads the sign as we stop outside the pale-gray clapboard building at the top of the town. “It really is just like in the movie!”

“Apparently they renovated it to look more like the one in the film,” I chuckle as we head inside.

Every inch of wall-space is filled with framed photos—either stills from the movie or freeze-framed sports stars. There’s a friendly, family vibe and, best of all, the girl behind the counter is just about as lovely as Julia herself—a wild tumble of curls swept over the side, dancing eyes and huge, perfect-toothed grin. She serves us our triangles of thin crust Margherita with an impressive amount of
joie de vivre.
Looking between her and Ravenna, I see the great chasm between choosing to be sunny and sweet versus sullen and sulky. Apparently Gracie sees it too.

“Pretty girl,” she notes. “Probably about your age, Ravenna?”

“You didn’t get one for me?” she asks as we dig in to the juicy, drizzly tomato sauce and bronzed, bubbling cheese topping.

“Oh,” I apologize as I dab my chin. “I didn’t think you ate.”

She gives an indignant pout. “I just need one as a prop for my picture.”

“No problem!” I order Ravenna an individual box to go. “Would you like me to snap you outside by the sign?”

“I’ll do it,” she says, hurrying away with her stash.

“Another day, another selfie,” Gracie mutters as she takes a sip of iced tea.

I smile. She’s really a very savvy granny.

•   •   •

It’s time for us to be heading on to our appointment at the other end of town. I feel as if I’ve pulled off quite a coup, setting up a cake-baking session with Warren Brown, host of the Food Network’s
Sugar Rush
show and author of
United Cakes of America: Recipes Celebrating Every State
(including a rather intriguing Tomato Soup Cake from New Jersey, where Campbell’s launched their condensed soup empire).