Issy felt her heart beat faster. Was this crazy? The fireplace was lovely, so beautiful, but she couldn’t put tables and chairs in front of it if it was lit. She was 100 per cent sure the fire officer wouldn’t let her light it. That Austin chap had been full and definitive on the subject of whether or not to cross a fire officer. It seemed to be pretty much up there with crossing a US immigration officer.

‘There’s plenty to do,’ said Des jovially, hoping he could wrap this up speedily enough to get back before his mother-in-law started to impart to Jamie what she considered to be a few home truths. ‘But I know it’s going to be fine.’

‘Do you?’ said Issy, frantically taking snaps on her digital camera. What had seemed so easy to visualize before – a nice fresh green on the walls; sparkling windows to let the light in; beautiful pastel cakes temptingly set out on cake stands – suddenly was a lot harder to see in this dusty, dingy space.

‘And downstairs of course,’ said Des.

Issy had seen the basement on the plans but hadn’t actually been down there yet. She hadn’t told anyone this. She didn’t want to admit that she’d taken on a business without inspecting every corner of it. Everyone would tut at her.

Tentatively she followed Desmond down the narrow, rickety staircase illuminated by a bare bulb. There was a toilet halfway down, then at the bottom what she had hoped for – a huge space opening out, with clear venting and plenty of room for the industrial oven she now knew she’d need. There were standpipes for plumbing and a good spot for a desk for paperwork. One poky window at the back looked out on to the basement of the next building along; the light wasn’t great, but it would have to do. It would get warm down here too, warm enough to heat the shop. With her perfect, running-to-schedule, high-temperature oven, the kind her grandfather still dreamed of.

‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ she exclaimed, turning to Des with her eyes shining.

Des squinted. It looked like a mucky old cellar to him, but who was he to judge?

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Now, I just have a few things here for you to sign … You must be signing a lot of stuff.’

‘Yes,’ said Issy, who had come away with files full from the bank, and was waiting for her trading licence to come through. The shop already had permission for café usage; it was just getting it to be her café that would be the problem, although Austin had said if her application was successful he’d be happy to look over the paperwork.

When they stumbled back upstairs, the weak afternoon sun had come round to the front of the building and was sending a watery stream of yellow through smeared glass and motes of dust, and lighting up the fireplace. Yes, it was mucky, Issy thought, revived. Yes, it needed work doing. But she could work. She could do it. She would show Graeme, who would be so proud of her, and she would bring Gramps down on opening day – she wasn’t quite sure how she’d manage that but she’d figure something out – and she’d totally impress Helena and all their friends and bring a whole new clientele to the street and get written up in Metro and the Evening Standard as a hidden gem, and people would come, and have coffee, and a delicious cake and be perked up by the lovely little courtyard and the beautiful shop and …

Des spotted the woman’s face dropping into reverie again.

‘OK!’ he said, slightly desperately. ‘Shall we get on? Or I can leave you here if you like, it is yours now.’

Issy smiled. ‘Oh no, I have lots to do and sort out. I’ll leave with you.’

He smiled back at her happily.

‘How many kilos of coffee are you planning through here anyway?’ he asked casually as Issy got to grips with the locks.

‘What?’ said Issy.

Des grimaced. He’d expected her to at least be au fait with the most basic levels of coffee-shop jargon. The brief moment of hopefulness he’d felt at her excitement with the cellar evaporated. He was going to be showing this place again in three months. Oh well, it was all more commission, he supposed, although Mr Barstow was getting pissed off at him, as if he wasn’t the one who selected the tenants in the first place.

‘Never mind,’ said Des, getting out his car keys.

‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘Well, you’ll pop in for a cup when we’re open, won’t you?’

Des thought of his slashed bonus. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘If I can.’

And he shot off to rescue Jamie from the sharp-taloned clutches of his grandmother.

Chapter Seven

Double Chocolate Cupcakes (commercial)

Makes one morning’s worth.

2500ml double cream

4500g good-quality dark chocolate

50 eggs

1650g caster sugar

1500g plain flour

10 tbsp good-quality cocoa powder

5 tsp baking powder

sugar flowers to decorate

Chocolate sauce

1000g dark chocolate, broken into pieces

800ml single cream

Stir double cream and chocolate in a pan over low heat until smooth. Cool slightly.

Place eggs and sugar in the bowl of your industrial mixer, and beat on high until pale and doubled in volume. Slowly beat in chocolate mixture.

Sift in flour, cocoa and baking powder and combine.

Divide the mixture between cases. Bake for 15–20 minutes at 180°C/gas mark 4 until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean. Cool slightly in pans, then remove cakes from cases. Drink a pint of water.

Meanwhile, for the sauce, place the ingredients in a heatproof bowl over a vat of simmering water (don’t let bowl touch water). Stir until the chocolate has melted. Consider calling ex-boyfriend and old boss and crawling on hands and knees begging till he gives you back your old paperwork job.

Remove from heat and stir until smooth. Wonder how much weight you’ll lose doing this. Taste delicious mixture. Decide, probably not that much.

Cool slightly. Serve cakes topped with sauce. Decorate with flowers if using. Collapse in heap, convinced this is never, ever going to work on a daily basis.

‘Oh God.’

Issy was sitting neck-deep in a pile of paperwork. It had not been as easy to deal with the admin as she had hoped. It was, in fact, a big long chore of filling out the same details over and over again. She had hygiene courses to attend, buying trips to make and all of this before she had sorted out the fixtures and fittings. She had received quotes for the catering oven she wanted and it would have swallowed up her entire budget for everything. So she started looking at second-hand, but even that seemed perilously expensive. And the look she had envisaged for the shop – reclaimed-looking tables and chairs, in pale colours of cream and eau de Nil – was proving pricey too; as if she’d do better actually to reclaim old tables and chairs. And she still hadn’t heard from the bank. Why did everything take so long? She couldn’t hire anyone till she had a business account, but it felt like they wanted to wait until she had a business before they would give her an account. It was very frustrating. And that was before you even got to the baking.