2005

MAPLE GOLD COFFEE COMMERCIAL SCRIPT

VOICEOVER: ‘Maple Gold is here for endings and new beginnings . . .’

The scene opens with a young woman, Greta, standing on the pavement, waving as a car pulls away. She’s holding a small cardboard box.

GRETA (WHISPERING): ‘Bye Mum.’

She turns to face a pretty white house, straightens her back and smiles bravely. She’s ready to enter a new phase of her life—moving into her first home.

The front door is ajar, and she enters a hallway, then a sitting room. We can see there are more, bigger boxes sitting around the place, sealed and ready to unpack.

VOICEOVER: ‘It’s here for the good times and the even better ones . . .’

Greta looks apprehensive but takes a moment to take in her new surroundings. She switches on the kettle and opens a cupboard, disappointed to find it empty.

She spies her name written on the side of the box she carried in and opens it. Inside is her old teddy bear and a jar of Maple Gold coffee, a gift from her mum. Greta takes the jar out, becoming misty-eyed as she makes herself a cup of coffee. Wrapping her fingers around the cup helps her to feel more at home.

The doorbell rings, and she opens the door to find a group of her new neighbors gathered outside. They present Greta with flowers and another jar of coffee as a welcome present. It’s Maple Gold, of course.

They all laugh, and she invites them inside for coffee.

A CAPPELLA GROUP (SINGING): ‘You’re always at home with Maple Gold.’

Chapter  1

Present Day

GRETA PERKS LOVED three things in life more than anything—her family, the thrill of performing, and a fine cup of coffee. When she could combine all three, it was as satisfying as a frothy cappuccino on a cold day. But recently, a happy home life and sparkling career seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

‘I wish you could stay longer,’ she said, glancing between her husband, Jim, and their daughter, Lottie, as coffee cups clattered in the background. ‘Tonight’s important to me.’

She’d volunteered to be the guest speaker at Brewtique’s monthly Coffee Lover’s Night Out, talking about her acting career. It had been a while since she’d last performed in public, and her nerves were jumping around like frogs in a pond.

Jim offered her a smile. ‘I wish we could, too. But I promised Lottie I’d get her back to school.’ He passed Greta a shopping bag like it was a peace offering. ‘Just brought a few things you might need . . .’

‘Talent show rehearsal,’ Lottie muttered, not looking up from her phone. ‘Total waste of time.’

Greta and Jim shared a glance, a silent understanding of the challenges of raising a fifteen-year-old together while living apart.

 ‘A talent show? Sounds fun.’ Greta gave Lottie’s arm a quick reassuring rub. ‘What are you doing? A show tune, or a monologue? Perhaps even a Shakespeare sonnet?’

Lottie shrugged a disinterested shoulder.

Greta’s spirits dipped a little. ‘Well, whatever you do, I bet you’ll be great,’ she said.

‘We’ll grab a burger afterward, then I’ll drop her back at your place.’ Jim opened his mouth slightly, as if wanting to say something more. ‘Stay safe returning to your car tonight, okay?’

Greta nodded, hoping for a word of encouragement, perhaps a ‘good luck,’ ‘break a leg,’ or even a quick hug. But Lottie was already heading toward the door.

Jim’s fingers lightly brushed Greta’s arm, but didn’t linger.

Then he turned and followed their daughter outside.

Through the window, Greta watched as her family dashed across the road without her. She smiled brightly and waved, even though her stomach was twisting.

‘Drop her back at your place.’ The words stung like a paper cut. 

She and Jim were over four months into a trial separation, with just a few weeks left until their self-imposed New Year’s Eve deadline. At that point they’d agreed to make a final call on the future of their marriage.

It didn’t seem as clear-cut as Greta had hoped. What had once felt like a simple decision—to try to rebuild their marriage or let it go—now felt tangled with uncertainty. After almost twenty years together, was she still in love with Jim? Was he still in love with her?

Greta peeked inside the bag, her mood lifting when she saw Jim had brought her herbal throat lozenges, a new notebook, and a spare pen.

Outside, the wet, grey pavement was the same color as the inky November sky, and she suddenly craved a rich mocha.

 Greta turned to face the room. In half an hour, the place would hopefully be buzzing with people. She was determined to deliver an entertaining talk, even if it wasn’t exactly her kind of coffee shop.

She preferred cozy spaces where she could curl up with a good book, sipping coffee from mugs the size of plant pots. The type of place that served homemade rocky road and had a corner dedicated to board games.

Brewtique, on the other hand, had industrial-style light- bulbs and blackboards showcasing quirky concoctions, such as rhubarb and custard lattes. A pink neon coffee cup on the wall cast an eerie pink glow on her face. The spindly branches of a Christmas tree on the counter looked like they’d been pecked by crows.

Her long-time agent, Nora, had applauded Greta for spotting Brewtique’s Facebook post asking for local speakers. ‘Putting yourself forward shows brilliant initiative, darling. Well-done,’ Nora had gushed. ‘You never know who might be in the audience. Any exposure could help give your career a little boost. Plus, it’s a great way to plug your acting classes.’ 

A boost? Greta knew her career needed a defibrillator. If one human year equals seven dog years, the same rule definitely applied to actors out of the spotlight. She felt like her career had been on pause for too long, and she was ready to hit Play again.

Greta missed the camaraderie on set, filming the iconic Maple Gold coffee commercials she’d starred in with Jim and Lot- tie a decade ago. Nothing compared to the soar of her senses when the director called, ‘Action,’ and everything clicked into place. She longed to find that spark again, not just for herself, but in the hope of pulling her family back together again.

If Greta was honest, she also missed the attention. Champagne on ice in a silver bucket, fans queuing around the block for her autograph, and the occasional limousine whisking her to grand events had been cherries on top of the cake. Those memories felt almost unreal now, as if they belonged to someone else.

The students she’d coached since then seemed to enjoy her acting classes, but it wasn’t the same. Guiding nervous amateurs through voice projection techniques or stage presence didn’t give her the same buzz as stepping in front of a camera or an audience. Hopefully, tonight would rekindle some of that feeling, proof she still had something to offer.

The sound of dropped cutlery pulled her out of her thoughts. Greta turned to see Brewtique’s owner, Josie, rushing around, a dusting of flour in her hair. Meanwhile, her young pink-haired assistant, Maisie, dawdled in a corner, glued to her phone.

‘Need a hand with anything?’ Greta called out.

‘Oh gosh, no.’ Josie shook her head frantically. ‘You’re the talent. I’m just running a bit late with everything . . .’

‘Are you sure? I’ve already prepped for my talk.’

Josie bit her lip, tempted. ‘Well . . . setting up the refreshment table would be helpful, while I get changed. I’ve just popped fresh brownies in the oven. Maisie knows to keep an eye on them.’ She gave Greta a pointed look. ‘She’s new here.’

‘Sure,’ Greta said, catching her drift. ‘Leave it to me.’

Greta set out coffee cups with vigor, arranged cookies on plates, and laid out napkins. Her pulse quickened when she saw the time. ‘Maisie!’ she called out. ‘We need to hurry. There’s only fifteen minutes left until showtime.’

The young woman barely raised her eyes. ‘Didn’t your family once star in some coffee ads or something?’ she asked. ‘One day, I’ll get discovered like that. Want to see my latest TikTok audition?’ She held out her phone.

‘Yes, we starred in them.’ Greta briskly polished a spoon on her apron. ‘I’ll look at your clip later. Now, please check all  the glasses. Some of these are scratched, and Josie said you’re in charge of the brownies…’

When Josie reappeared wearing fresh clothes, she glanced out of the window and sighed. ‘Looks like we’ve got a smaller crowd than usual.’

‘How many are you expecting?’ Greta asked, joining her. ‘Six or seven. I’ve just checked my messages and had quite a few cancellations. Christmas is coming, and it’s the Strictly Salsa final on TV tonight.’

Greta chewed her lip. Disappointment was part of an actor’s life—the rejections, the scathing reviews, and the occasional inappropriate behavior from a director she’d once respected. She hadn’t expected a theatre-sized crowd, but six?

‘An intimate gathering,’ she said with a nod. ‘I’ll make it work.’

Josie welcomed the guests inside. When they were settled down around tables with coffee and cake, she launched into her introduction.

‘Welcome to the monthly Brewtique Coffee Lover’s Night Out. We’ve been fortunate to hear some incredible stories from our speakers this year—conquering Mount Everest, training guide dogs for the blind, and a brain surgeon who worked in war-torn countries. And tonight we’ve got the former star of the Maple Gold coffee commercials. Let’s bid a warm welcome to our special guest, Greta Perks.’

No pressure, Greta thought, smiling brightly as she stepped forward.

‘G . . . good evening, everyone,’ she started, feeling woefully out of practice. ‘Thanks for coming.

‘I’m going to tell you a story about how I became the face of the Maple Gold coffee commercials. Yes, for ten years, I was the lady who made you believe coffee could make your life perfect.’

 A few chuckles rang out, and Greta soon found her flow. She paced up and down, commanding the little coffee shop as if starring in a West End theatre production.

‘Did you know that Maple Gold was born in 1950, as a humble roastery in the back streets of London? Over the years, it became a household name, beloved for its delicious blends and vintage appeal.’ She leaned in, as if sharing a secret. ‘And who wouldn’t want to live in Mapleville, the idyllic town from the commercials? The sun always shone, the grass was emerald green, and the whole town thrived on cups of Maple Gold.’

She took out her phone and played the jingle.

When you wake at sunrise, 

and open your eyes.

You’re ready to start your day, the Maple Gold way.

You’re always at home with Maple Gold.

From the faraway looks on a few faces, it seemed like nostalgia was working.

‘I locked eyes with my love interest, Jim, when he painted my garden fence in the commercial, and things went a bit further off-camera,’ Greta said with a wink. ‘We got married and then had Lottie, our own little star. We were such a happy family, on-screen and off . . .’

She paused as a twinge of sadness crept in, like how bitter- ness stays on the tongue after an espresso. A screech of metal chair legs against wooden floorboards made her flinch.

A woman in the audience called out, uninvited. ‘Are you guys still working?’

Greta blinked, the question taking her by surprise. ‘Yes, everything’s going wonderfully,’ she said, feeling guilty at embellishing the truth. ‘Jim’s still gracing the stage and screen,

 Lottie’s currently rehearsing for a school Christmas talent show, and as for me . . . well . . . I run some excellent acting classes, if anyone is interested?’

A few seconds of silence followed before more questions flew at her like arrows.

‘How’s Lottie?’ 

‘Where’s Jim?’

‘How do you feel about Maple Gold replacing you with a different family?’

‘Does Lottie resent you putting her on-screen at such a young age?’

‘Those are some great, um, deep questions,’ Greta said with a swallow. She grabbed her notes, hurriedly trying to recover her thread. ‘I think my talk will cover most of them . . . Now, where was I?’

Then, suddenly, the shrill scream of the smoke alarm pierced the moment. Greta jumped and spun around to see smoke billowing from the oven.

Josie shouted out over the bleeping alarm. ‘Maisie. Did you forget about the brownies?’

Maisie’s head snapped up, her eyes widening when she noticed the grey clouds. ‘Oops.’

A flurry of activity broke out.

Maisie darted behind the counter and yanked open the oven door, waving her arms as the grey smoke curled out. ‘It’s fine. Totally under control.’

Josie grabbed her oven gloves and pulled out the tray. The burnt brownies looked like steaming lumps of coal, and she tossed them into the sink.

Greta rushed over to help, spinning on the tap so the brownies spat and sizzled. She threw open the front door to let in some fresh air, then grabbed a tea towel and wafted it in front of the smoke alarm until it stopped. ‘Is everyone okay?’ she called out.

 An elderly couple had already put on their coats and scuttled outside. The remaining four guests had drifted toward the buffet table, their focus now on cake rather than conversation. Greta followed them, trying to salvage what was left of the evening.

One man wrapped cake into a napkin and slipped it into his pocket. A couple of women wearing matching blue anoraks conversed loudly.

‘I didn’t recognize Greta at first, did you? She’s put on quite a bit of weight,’ one said.

‘I know. Age isn’t kind to some ladies,’ her friend replied. ‘Ahem.’ Greta stood beside them and picked up a cookie.

‘I’m forty-five and proud of it,’ she said, biting it into it. ‘Worth every extra pound, don’t you think?’

The women paused with their cakes suspended mid-air, before nodding sheepishly.

Greta attempted to spark interest in her acting classes, but the attention was elsewhere, mostly on the kitchen, which looked like it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo.

She joined Josie at the door, wearily bidding goodnight to the guests as they filtered out.

‘Sorry everything didn’t go to plan. I can’t thank you enough,’ Josie said. She handed Greta a brown envelope containing her small fee. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to run a coffee shop . . .’

Greta mustered a tired smile. After tonight, she felt the same way about performing in public.

She said goodnight, then called Lottie while trudging to her car, leaving a message on her voicemail. ‘Hi, sweetheart. I’ll be home soon. Hope your rehearsal went well.’

Rain pelted down, and Greta hunched her shoulders against the cold. The streets were empty and quiet, and icy droplets snaked down her neck, making her shiver. In the dark, she noticed a hunched figure approaching, and Jim’s warning about staying safe echoed in her mind. She tried to swerve, but the person bumped her arm.

Startled, Greta dropped her car keys and stooped to pick them up. When she looked up, a woman in a long, dark coat stood over her. Her face was part hidden by a voluminous hood, and long tendrils of her damp white hair hung down. With a quick muttered apology, the stranger handed a piece of paper to Greta and hurried across the road.

As she stood up, Greta’s heart thudded in her chest. Under the dim street lamp, she uncurled her fingers and glanced at the flyer. It was probably just a pizza menu, but the vintage-style design caught her eye. It featured an illustration of a white rabbit and the words ‘Looking for the Perfect Blend?’ Beneath it was an image of a jar with the label ‘Drink Me.’

She gripped the flyer tighter, unsure what it was even promoting. A strange feeling of curiosity rippled through her body. Looking for the perfect blend? In her life, she most certainly was.

She climbed into her car and tossed the flyer onto the passenger seat. Sitting there for a moment, she flopped her head against the steering wheel as the evening’s events raced through her mind. Was she ever going to get her life back on track?

With a deep sigh, Greta turned the key in the ignition and waited for the engine to rumble to life. The light from the street lamps twinkled orange in the raindrops on the wind- screen, and she released the handbrake.

It was probably just a trick of the light, but as Greta pulled off the car park, she could have sworn the white rabbit on the flyer gave her a wink.

From The Time Hop Coffee Shop by Phaedra Patrick. Copyright © 2025 by Phaedra Patrick. Published by Park Row Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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Before…

Year 495 after Nuh’s great flood,

Era of the heavenly birds

Tezmi’a Mountains, Azadniabad Empire

I would inherit the power of the Heavens, Uma had said so.

But my power was a curse, this she did not have to say. Like any great legend, my tale began with tragedy.

In the stories later recounted from my maternal uncle, my uma had a glad-tiding the night of my birth, as all mothers of gifted children did. It was near the winter solstice in the year 495, she dreamt of light emanating from my infant body, bathing her in a cool glow. She knew the Divine had shown the power I would come to inherit: nūr, cold Heavenly light, the same spiritual power that flows through the firebird.

But that night when I sprang free of Uma’s womb, our chieftains dreamt of a world of darkness. War and destruction. She is an omen, the tribe murmured, despite my uncle the khan reprimanding their frivolous superstitions. Her mother refuses to name her, nor does her father, the Great Emperor, accept her. With his many wives and heirs, this child is but one of many. But Uma knew in her heart that blessings came with a little suffering, that was the Divine’s way. My child is neither cursed nor omen. She has the affinity of light. Uma liked her secrets. This one she tucked close to her chest.

In the spring pastures of our valley Tezmi’a, that year brought a drought that starved the lands, killing portions of herd. Other peculiar happenings sowed fear in the tribe: more raids, more deaths. When Uma suckled me, wild birds would encircle the yurt before flapping into the felt tents, spilling dried meat, spoiling the yak milk and provoking our hunting birds.

‘The girl is cursed,’ my clansmen argued.

‘The girl is simply a girl. And we are God-fearing men,’ my uncle would reprimand. ‘We blame misfortune on no one but our own sins.’

‘But the birds,’ the tribe would insist, ‘they surround the babe. She is unnatural!’ It was true – wherever I was carried there was the sweep of wings above, and birdsong from the trees.

Swaddling me close, the khan’s most favoured wife spoke. Babshah Khatun. To her, not one dared argue. ‘Enough, you superstitious fools. She is a blessing who has brought forth more birds for hunting. She is unusual; but, unusual children bear the greatest gifts. However I hear your fear. The chief folkteller has the hearts of their kinsmen, for they carry the histories of our sorrows. As your folkteller, Divine as my witness, I will make this babe my apprentice. She will carry with her the tales of your greatest joys and fears until the end of her days.’

The stern lady, though young, never broke her oaths. In irony, her oath became my curse. 

In the winter quarters, the best pastures were south of the alpine lake. That year, the khan’s tribe erected their yurts and herded thousands of yaks, wild mares and lambs at the base of the harsh snow-capped mountains, amongst the rolling green alpine meadows, thin grass growing above cold dirt. From the lake, icy streams broke through the rocky grasslands of Tezmi’a.

It was my seventh Flood Festival, commemorating the day Nuh left the ark after the Great Flood. That morning, the children competed, to see whose prized hunting bird would find the keenest prey. Before long, the khan’s favoured wife interrupted and led the children up the pastures until they reached the end of the settlement of tents, toward the thick woodland. 

Some of the tribe’s warriors, who’d escorted goods and cattle across the mountain pass for the emperor’s merchants, rested against the boundary of trees, waxing their compound bows. Others sipped apricot tea to fling back the wet chill, nodding to us in greeting. The khan sat with them, my uma – his sister – beside him. When she spotted our group, Uma scowled and stalked toward us.

‘O, Babshah, what senseless idea do you have now?’

Babshah Khatun merely smiled in silence. Uma placed a hand against my back, staring at the hunting birds cowing upon my shoulder. She warned, ‘Do not go too south of the mountain pass. There are patrols from the enemy clans who snatch away children like her.’

Still Babshah Khatun continued deep into the womb of the valley, past protruding boulders, and clumps of elm, into the tall deep grasses that fattened the wild onagers. Trails where humans rarely ventured, and the jinn-folk still reigned. The wind whispered into the children’s hair. The entombed roots of wizened trees sprawled through the woodlands, and whizzing sprites, those mischievous little apprentices to the long-passed fae of these lands, showered seeds to pollinate the flora. A deceivingly drowsy day for the violence that it promised. A place where the old ways still mattered and the Divine-made boundary between jinn-folk and human blurred.

Determined, I tripped along next to Babshah, resisting the urge to clasp the long end of her yak leather tunic, lest she think me not brave. Even my hunting buzzards on my shoulders canted their heads, curious.

Babshah sat squat and brushed her pale hand across the dirt. Her black hair swung with the wind, a dozen thin braids clasped in silver beads and an array of hawk feathers, not dissimilar to my own. The only difference was a camel-skin cord around her temple with a blue wooden block indicating her status as a wife of the khan.

‘Today, we will do a new type of hunt,’ Babshah declared. ‘Hunting by folktelling.’

The children murmured amongst themselves, but Babshah did not elaborate. Instead, she latched on to my hand – ‘Prepare yourself, my apprentice’ – before continuing along the fir path.

When we stopped, and it came time for our hunting pairings, my milk-sibling Haj refused to take me as a partner. He was ten years old, only three years my senior, but the gap was large enough to fuel his arrogance. He took his complaints to Babshah.

‘My uma says to stay away from her, else she will curse my bird’s game! I train with a spotted sparrowhawk. The girl trains with a pair of sooty buzzards. Smaller and useless, just like her. With all the birds that follow her, she will scare away the prey.’

‘I may be Ayşenor’s only child, but I am not useless,’ I muttered, keeping my lip from trembling.

***

Excerpted from Dawn of the Firebird by Sarah Mughal Rana, Copyright © 2025 by Sarah Mughal rana. Published by Hanover Square Press.

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