Then, best of all, at 4pm, just as they were calming down, the door pinged open to reveal Keavie, pushing her grandfather in a wheelchair. Issy rushed up and flung her arms around his neck.

‘Gramps!’

‘I don’t think,’ the old man said, heavily, ‘you quite know what you’re doing with a meringue.’

‘I totally do!’ exclaimed Issy, affronted. ‘Taste this.’

She set in front of him one of her new miniature lemon meringue tarts, the curd so thick and fondant it sank right into the thin pastry. You could scoff the whole thing in two seconds, but the memory of it would stay with you all day.

‘That meringue is too crunchy,’ pronounced Grampa Joe.

‘That’s because you have no teeth!’ said Issy, indignant.

‘Bring me a bowl. And a whisk. And some eggs.’

Pearl made a hot chocolate for Keavie and they looked on as Joe and Issy gathered together the ingredients, and Issy sat on a stool next to him. With her dark curls next to his wispy pate, Pearl could see instantly how they must have looked together in her childhood.

‘You’ve got the elbow action all wrong,’ said Gramps, even at his age cracking the eggs one-handed without even glancing at them, and separating them in the blink of an eye.

‘That’s because …’ Issy’s voice tailed off.

‘What?’ said Gramps.

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘That’s because I use an electric whisk,’ said Issy, blushing, and Pearl laughed out loud.

‘Well, that proves it,’ said Gramps. ‘No wonder.’

‘But I have to use an electric whisk! I have to make dozens of these things every day! What else can I do?’

Gramps just shook his head and carried on whisking. At that moment the ironmonger passed by the window, and Joe beckoned him in.

‘Did you know my granddaughter uses an electric whisk on meringues? After everything I’ve taught her!’

‘That’s why I don’t eat here,’ said the ironmonger, then when he saw Issy’s shocked face, he added, ‘Apologies, madame. I don’t eat here because, lovely though your shop is, it’s a little out of my price range.’

‘Well, have a cake on us,’ said Issy. ‘One without meringue.’

Pearl obediently handed one over, but the ironmonger waved it away. ‘Suit yourself,’ said Pearl, but Issy pressed it on him till he relented.

‘Very good,’ he said, through a mouthful of chocolate brownie cupcake.

‘Imagine how good she’d be if she hand-whisked,’ said Gramps. Issy smacked him lightly on the head.

‘This is industrial catering, Gramps.’

Grampa Joe smiled.

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Stop just saying.’

Grampa Joe handed over the bowl of perfectly crested egg whites and sugar, standing up stiff and glazed.

‘Stick it on some greaseproof paper, give it forty-five minutes …’

‘Yes, I know, Gramps.’

‘OK, I just thought you might be putting it in the microwave or something.’

Pearl grinned.

‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Mr Randall,’ she said, leaning down to his wheelchair.

‘I know,’ said Grampa Joe in a stage whisper. ‘Why do you think she’s so brilliant?’

Later, after they’d eaten Gramps’s amazing meringues with freshly whipped cream and a spoonful of raspberry coulis over the top, Keavie had taken Gramps – and a huge box of cakes for the residents – off to the van, and the cleaning up was finally done.

Issy could feel a solid bone-weariness deep down, but there would be wine tonight, and they didn’t open till 10am on a Saturday, which felt like a huge lie-in, then early closing and the whole of Sunday off, and maybe it would be warm enough to push Gramps into the garden in his wheelchair (even though he was always cold, these days), and she could lie on a rug and read him bits of the paper, then maybe Helena would be around for a curry later on and a good natter. She was enjoying this little dream, and the way the late afternoon sun came through the clean panes of the windows, the ever-dinging bell of fresh customers and the happy faces of people on the brink of cake, when the door burst open, once more, in a panicky way.

Issy glanced up. At first she didn’t recognize the woman who crashed into the room. Then she realized it was Linda, haberdashery Linda, normally so composed, whose life was never upset or the least bit disorganized.

‘Hello!’ Issy said, pleased to see her. ‘What’s up?’

Linda rolled her eyes. She glanced around the shop and Issy realized with a slightly annoyed pang that this was the first time Linda had ever been in. She’d thought she might have been a bit more supportive, seeing as she was local and everything, and they’d stood together in rain and shine.

Issy’s irritation was swept away in an instant, however, when Linda stopped and took a breath.

‘Oh dear, it’s lovely in here. I had no idea, I thought it was just a little sideline. I’m so sorry! If only I’d known.’

Pearl, who’d leafleted her at least three times, harrumphed, but Issy nudged her to stop it and Pearl went back to serving the postman, who came in after his rounds far too often. (Issy was worried eating cupcakes twice a day wasn’t terribly good for him. Pearl reckoned he was just after her. They were both right.)

‘Well, you’re here now,’ she said. ‘Welcome! What would you like?’

Linda looked anxious. ‘I have to … I have to … Can you help me?’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s … it’s Leanne’s wedding – tomorrow. But her cake company … A friend said she would make her cake and then she got it all muddled up or something and anyway Leanne’s paid hundreds of pounds but she doesn’t have a wedding cake.’

Issy later realized what it must have cost Linda to utter these words about her perfect daughter who never put a foot wrong. She looked close to breaking down.

‘No cake on her wedding day! And I still have five hundred things on my checklist.’

Issy remembered that this was the wedding to end all weddings, the wedding Linda had been talking about for over a year and a half.

‘OK, OK, calm down, I’m sure we can help you,’ she said. ‘How many are we talking about? Seventy?’