What a civilised thing to do when you’re about to tear someone’s world apart. This being the oh-so-cool Northern Quarter, it’s not actually a coffee shop but a tea shop, as this is the latest trend. It’s the kind of place you would absolutely hate: laden with ironic chintz, mismatched tablecloths and ‘shabby chic’ chipped-paint birdcages and picture frames. There are jars of different varieties of tea lined up on the counter, tied with spotty ribbons, and huge slabs of Victoria sponge and coffee cake. A smell of baking teases the back of the throat. A beaming girl in a gingham apron takes our money and cheerfully offers us a complimentary newspaper. In here, every day is Sunday. Alice perches on the edge of a sofa, the hard lines of her face incongruous among the cushions, but I choose a straight-backed, wooden chair and point it directly at her. I look at her coldly. ‘Go on then – say your piece.’ She takes such a deep breath that for an insane split-second I think she is going to burst into song.
