The Traveling Tea Shop Read Online Free

pavement.
    I pause before I enter, looking around me and wondering what Pamela’s impression will be.
    A 1920s matriarch out walking her short-legged pooch would not be out of place. But then neither would the
Sex and the City
girls. If they were coming for tea they would all be in jewel-colored dresses and glinting metallic heels. I shift the dragging laptop bag on my shoulder, straighten my cotton frock and reach for the chrome door handle.
    Instant cool. I love the frisk of air-conditioning on a sauna day.
    “May I help you?” A gamine server with a black head-kerchief greets me.
    “Hello, I’m Laurie—I called earlier?”
    My heart is palpitating as I go through the arrangements.
    With everything in order, I slide onto one of the molded plastic chairs and try to convince myself that this isn’t a big deal. Even though it is.
    I just pray I’ve made the right choice. This place definitely has a snoot factor. And I’d forgotten how bijou the tables are. I hope Pamela doesn’t come with a lot of paperwork or anything that needs fanning out.
    “Would you like anything while you are waiting?”
    “No, no, thank you, I’m fine.”
    I could actually do with a glass of water but I don’t want a half-drunk glass with a lipstick smudge ruining the pristine setting, so instead I focus on my posture and forming an open, welcoming expression. Every now and again my heart loops as a figure passes the window, but so far each person who has entered has been male. And Chinese. I look at my watch. Any minute now . . .
    At 3 P.M. I expect a siren to go off and balloons and streamers to drop from the ceiling. But nothing happens. Life goes on as normal. Without Pamela.
    A further five minutes pass.
    Anticipation turns to anticlimax.
    What if she doesn’t show? What if she’s having such a great time with one of the other itinerary experts she’s decided she doesn’t need to take any more meetings? I check my messages, no polite let-down from the agent. Just an invitation to try out the new ramen burger craze.
    I’m starting to get fidgety. I could catch up on my Words with Friends games but I don’t want to look like one of those people always zoned in on their phone, letting the world pass them by. Besides, there are far prettier things to gaze upon in here . . .
    “I’m just going to have a little look,” I tell the server as I approach the counter.
    I feel a mix of serenity and awe as I contemplate their pristine cake selection. It’s just so unique. Take the Gâteau aux Marrons—it looks as if a pan of spaghetti has been heaped atop the almond flour cake, when in fact the strands are lavish pipings of chestnut-infused cream, dusted with snow sugar.
    Snow sugar!
    I’m telling you, this place is in a league of its own. You never saw a glossier ganache finish. The only item I’m not sure about is the Green Tea Mousse Cake on account of its lurid chartreuse coloring. Then again—
    “These are the ones I saw in Oprah magazine!” a voice bustles in beside me.
    She’s pointing to Lady M’s Mille Crêpes—twenty paper-thin handmade crêpes layered with light pastry cream to form their signature cake. You can even keep “tiering up” until you create a wedding cake.
    “Aren’t they incredible?” A quieter, more reverent voice inquires. “Like the most delicate of petticoat layers.”
    I look up to smile in confirmation and find myself face-to-face with the legendary Pamela Lambert-Leigh.

Chapter 3

    It’s a strange thing, standing so close to a celebrity. There’s an initial jolt of recognition and then a questioning as you review their multifaceted 3-D form—is it really them? You look away and then look back—if you didn’t know better, they could almost pass for human . . .
    Turns out those paparazzi shots weren’t far off. Pamela’s formerly radiant face is washed out, her nails polish-free and her casual back-of-a-cab dab of lipstick doesn’t match anything that she’s wearing, which