Rainy Days and Raspberry Jam

1

It was the sort of drizzly afternoon that made you grateful for thick socks and strong tea. Lily, twenty, wrapped in a mustard-yellow jumper and clutching a half-read novel, ducked into Wren & Daughters, the old tearoom on Rose Lane. The bell above the door gave a polite little chime, and the air greeted her like an old friend — warm, sweet, and smelling faintly of scones and wood polish.

She took her usual table by the window, the one with the slightly wobbly leg and the best view of the rain sliding down the glass. As she opened her book, she noticed someone new at the next table — a man, early twenties, tousled hair, striped scarf, and a look of quiet curiosity as he studied the menu like it was written in code.

Which, to be fair, it rather was. The British tearoom had its own language.

“Need a translator?” she asked, half-teasing, half-kind.

He looked up, surprised, and smiled. “Ah. Maybe. What is... ‘Toad in the Hole’?” His French accent wrapped around the words in a way that made her grin.

“Oh, that’s dinner food. You don’t want that in a teashop.” She pointed helpfully. “Go for the cream tea. That’s the classic. Scones, jam, clotted cream, and a pot of tea.”

He looked relieved. “That sounds... safer.”

She closed her book and tilted her head. “First time in England?”

He nodded. “Oui. I mean — yes. I’m Étienne. I’m staying here for three months. Exchange programme.”

“Lily,” she said. “Local. Bookworm. Jam snob.”

They shared a smile, the kind that’s just a flicker too long to be entirely casual.

The waitress came with their tea orders, and Lily reached across with a conspiratorial whisper. “Put the cream on top of the jam. There are rules. People have fought over less.”

He raised a brow. “You British. Very passionate about the food.”

“Only the beige food,” she said, sipping her tea. “And queueing.”

Over the next hour, Étienne asked questions about every item on the table — the scone texture, the proper way to stir tea, whether it was acceptable to dunk. She answered with mock seriousness, like she was inducting him into a secret society. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the world felt still and golden.

When she stood to leave, he looked genuinely disappointed. “Will you come back here?”

“I always do,” she said, tucking her book into her bag. “Same table, same jumper, same weird obsession with jam.”

He smiled, hopeful. “Then maybe... I’ll come back too.”

She paused at the door, watching the rain with the kind of contentment that only came with full stomachs and new beginnings. Without turning back, she said, “Just remember: cream on top. That’s non-negotiable.”