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      ‘Have you completely lost it this time, Charlie?’

      At least Bea Fishington wasn’t one for mincing her words.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ Charlie replied, following her from the kitchen into the main café, carrying a plate of freshly baked raspberry flapjacks. ‘I think this could be a real turning point, for me and Gertie – and for you and The Café on the Hill.’

      Bea folded her arms over her large chest, the silk of her cream blouse straining across it. ‘Serving cakes on your uncle’s bus? I know you’re sad about losing him – completely understandable; he was a gentleman – but you’re looking for harmony where there is none to be found.’

      ‘I disagree,’ Charlie said, sliding the flapjacks into place behind the glass counter. ‘It would be a way to get this place known, to expand its range beyond these four walls.’ She gestured to the smart, well-appointed café. The walls in question were slate grey, complemented by a black-and-white chequerboard floor. Accents around the room in lemon yellow and sky blue gave it a modern twist. There were high benches in the window and a mixture of squashy sofas and upright chairs, inviting lone workers with laptops, couples, large families and groups of friends.

      Early in the morning on a dull Monday at the beginning of March it was quiet, with a couple of post-school-run mums drinking lattes and two men with grey hair sitting by the window sharing a toasted teacake.

      Bea glared at her, but Charlie stood up straighter and refused to look away. She had a height advantage over Bea – over most other women, if she was honest – and a determination that had got her into trouble on more than one occasion. But she knew this was a good idea. The area around Cheltenham and Ross-on-Wye, England’s glorious, green Cotswolds, was always hosting fairs, festivals and myriad other events, where a beautiful vintage bus selling cakes would be popular. Every time Charlie had moaned to Hal that she had nothing to do at the weekend, that Juliette was with Lawrence or Stuart was staying in London for some posh bankers’ do, Hal would reel off a list of all the classic car shows and autumn fêtes and dog owners’ carnivals that were happening, leaving her with no room to complain.

      ‘I’m not after world domination,’ Bea said, turning to the coffee machine. ‘I know you’re ambitious, Charlie. I could see that from the moment I met you, and I have no doubt that you’ll be running your own café or catering empire before too long. But selling cakes from a bus? It sounds too tricky. How would you store ingredients, make drinks en masse?’

      ‘People live on buses,’ Charlie countered. ‘They cook and shower and sleep on buses, so selling a few coffees and scones couldn’t possibly be a problem.’

      ‘You say that like you’ve not researched it at all.’ Bea frothed the milk, pausing their conversation while a loud whooshing sound filled the space between them.

      ‘That’s what Google’s for.’ She grinned and shrugged, her smile falling when Bea didn’t return it. ‘I’m going to speak to Clive, one of my dad’s friends, tomorrow. He’s coming to give Gertie a once-over anyway, and he’s refurbished a few buses, so he’ll know exactly how I can get a coffee machine and a fridge installed on it.’

      Bea handed Charlie a cappuccino, and she sprinkled it with chocolate dusting. ‘Is it even laid out like a café?’ she asked.

      Charlie leaned against the counter and blew on her drink until a dent appeared in the thick froth. ‘It’s got front-facing seats. But I thought, to begin with, I could just serve from it. People can sit on the bus if they like, but I’ll treat it like a takeaway food truck, just to see if it’s possible. Then I can think about modifying it properly. The Café on the Hill could have an offshoot, like a cutting from a plant. The Café on the Bus. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? And you know the food will be good quality; I’ve never let you down in that respect, have I? Why not spread your wings? Give yourself some wheels, expand your horizons.’

      ‘You have put so many mixed metaphors into that sentence, I don’t know where to begin.’

      ‘Begin by saying yes, Bea. Just to the Fair on the Field. People in Ross-on-Wye know your café. It’s big enough to be a proper test, and small enough that if it all goes hideously wrong – which it won’t,’ Charlie added quickly – ‘then your reputation won’t be dented. One event, one chance.’ She clasped her hands together in front of her.

      ‘And you’re definitely speaking to this Clive person tomorrow? There can be no cut corners with food hygiene or health and safety. Everything has to be done properly.’

      ‘It will be,’ Charlie said.

      Bea’s shoulders dropped, her lips curving into what could almost be considered a smile. ‘I’ll need to see plans. Exactly how it’s going to work. Then I’ll make a decision.’

      ‘Of course,’ Charlie said, nodding.

      ‘And just the Fair on the Field. One gig, and we’ll take it from there, OK?’

      ‘OK. Absolutely. Thank you, Bea. You won’t regret it.’

      ‘I’d better not,’ she muttered.

      Charlie went to adjust the window display where one of her daffodils, lovingly crafted out of tissue paper and card, had drooped and was giving off a despondent air. Her pulse was racing. Serving cakes on Hal’s bus, to the general population, at a public event. Somehow, in light of Bea’s

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