‘You want me to take over?’ Sylvie’s amused voice creeps over my shoulders and makes them sag. It’s no use. No matter how many times I try, I always end up in the same pickle. This spaceship and I are not friends.

I sigh dramatically and turn, handing Sylvie the big metal handle thingy. ‘I’m sorry. The machine hates me.’

Her bright-pink lips break out in a fond smile, and her black shiny bob swishes as she shakes her head. Her patience is commendable. ‘It’ll come. Why don’t you go and clear table seven?’

I move fast, grabbing a tray and making my way over to the recently vacated area in the hope of redeeming myself. ‘He’ll sack me,’ I muse, loading the tray. I’ve only been working here for four days, but on hiring me, Del said it would only take me a few hours of training on my first day to get the hang of the machine that dominates the back counter of the bistro. That day was hideous, and I think Del shares my thoughts.

‘No he won’t.’ Sylvie fires the machine up, and the sound of steam rushing from the froth pipe fills the bistro. ‘He likes you!’ she calls louder, grabbing a mug, then a tray, then a spoon, a napkin and the chocolate sprinkles, all while rotating the metal jug of milk with ease.

I smile down at the table as I wipe it before collecting the tray and making my way back to the kitchen. Del’s only known me for a week, and he’s already said that I haven’t a bad bone in my body. My grandmother has said the very same thing but added that I’d better grow some soon because the world and the people in it are not always nice or gentle.

I dump the tray on the side and start loading up the dishwasher.

‘You okay, Livy?’

I turn toward the gruff voice of Paul, the cook. ‘Great. You?’

‘Top of the world.’ He continues cleaning out the pots, whistling as he does.

Resuming stacking plates in the dishwasher, I think to myself that I should be just fine as long as I’m not let loose on that machine. ‘Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I get off?’ I ask Sylvie as she pushes her way through the swing door of the kitchen. I envy the way she carries out all tasks with such ease and speed, from dealing with that damn machine to stacking mugs on top of each other without looking.

‘No.’ She turns and wipes her hands on the front of her apron. ‘You get off. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’ I remove my apron and hang it up. ‘Bye, Paul.’

‘Have a good evening, Livy,’ he calls, waving a ladle above his head.

After weaving my way through the tables of the bistro, I push my way out the door and onto the narrow back street, getting immediately pelted by rain. ‘Wonderful,’ I smile, shielding my head with my denim jacket and making a run for it.

I hop between the puddles, my Converse doing nothing to keep my feet dry, squelching with each hurried stride as I make my way to the bus stop.

Taking the steps up to our house, I barge through the door and rest my back against it, catching my breath.

‘Livy?’ Nan’s husky voice instantly lightens my wet mood. ‘Livy, is that you?’

‘It’s me!’ I hang my soaked jacket on the coat hook and kick off my sodden Converse before making my way down the long hallway to the back kitchen. I find Nan stooped over the cooker, stirring a huge pot of something – soup, undoubtedly.

‘There you are!’ She drops the wooden spoon and wobbles towards me. At eighty-one, she is really quite remarkable and still so on the ball. ‘You’re drenched!’

‘I’m not so bad,’ I assure her, ruffling my hair as she assesses me from top to bottom, settling on my flat stomach as my T-shirt rides up.

‘You need fattening up.’

I roll my eyes but humour her. ‘I’m starving.’

The smile that graces her wrinkled face makes me smile, too, as she embraces me and rubs my back.

‘What have you done today, Nan?’ I ask.

She releases me and points to the dinner table. ‘Sit.’

I do as I’m told immediately, picking up the spoon she’s set down for me. ‘So?’

She turns a frown on me. ‘So what?’

‘Today. What did you do?’ I prompt.

‘Oh!’ She flaps a tea towel at me. ‘Nothing exciting. A bit of shopping, and I baked your favourite carrot cake.’ She points across to the other worktop, where a cake is sitting on a cooling rack. But it isn’t carrot cake.

‘You made me carrot cake?’ I ask, watching as she returns to serving up two bowls of soup.

‘Yes. Like I said, Livy. I made your favourite.’

‘But my favourite’s lemon cake, Nan. You know that.’

She doesn’t falter in her serving, bringing the two bowls to the table and setting them down. ‘Yes, I do. That is why I made you lemon cake.’

I flick a glance across the kitchen again, just to check I’m not mistaken. ‘Nan, that looks like pineapple upside-down cake.’

Her rump hits the chair, and she looks at me like I’m the one losing my mind. ‘That’s because it is pineapple upside-down cake.’ She plunges her spoon into the bowl and slurps off some coriander soup before reaching for some freshly baked bread. ‘I made your favourite.’

She’s confused, and so am I. After that last few seconds’ exchange, I have no clue what sort of cake she’s made, and I don’t care. I look across at my dear grandmother, studying her feeding herself. She seems okay and doesn’t look confused. Is this the beginning? I lean forward. ‘Nan, are you feeling okay?’ I’m worried.

She starts laughing. ‘I’m pulling your leg, Livy!’

‘Nan!’ I scorn her, feeling immediately better. ‘You shouldn’t do that.’

‘I’m not losing my marbles yet.’ She waves her spoon at my bowl. ‘Eat your supper and tell me how you got on today.’

My shoulders sag dramatically on a sigh as I stir my soup. ‘I can’t get on with that coffee machine, which is a problem when ninety per cent of customers order some kind of coffee.’

‘You’ll get to grips with it,’ she says confidently, like she’s an expert on the damn thing.

‘I’m not so sure. Del won’t keep me just for clearing tables.’

‘Well, apart from the coffee machine, are you enjoying it?’

I smile. ‘Yes, I really am.’

‘Good. You can’t look after me for ever. A young thing like you should be out enjoying herself, not tending to her grandmother.’ She eyes me cautiously. ‘And I don’t need tending to, anyway.’

‘I like looking after you,’ I argue quietly, bracing myself for the usual lecture. We could argue about this until we’re blue in the face and still be in disagreement. She’s fragile, not physically but mentally, no matter how much she insists she’s okay. She draws breath. I fear the worst. ‘Livy, I will not be leaving God’s green pastures until I see you pull things together, and that’s not going to happen if you spend all your time henpecking me. I’m running out of time, so get your skinny little arse in gear.’

I wince. ‘I’ve told you. I’m happy.’

‘Happy hiding from a world that has so much to offer?’ she asks seriously. ‘Start living, Olivia. Trust me, time soon passes you by. Before you know it, you’re being measured for false teeth and you won’t dare cough or sneeze through fear of pissing yourself.’