Читать книгу The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018 - Ellen Berry - Страница 9

‘Excuse me?’ Roxanne waved to attract the waitress’s attention. ‘Can I have our bill please? We’re in a terrible hurry …’

The woman nodded, signalling that she’d be over in a minute. She was carrying two cream-laden desserts and chatting jovially as she placed them on the customers’ table.

Tension seemed to clamp itself around Roxanne’s ribcage. Sean was murmuring something – telling her not to panic – but she wasn’t really listening. The restaurant, which until a few moments ago had seemed so charming and intimate, now appeared to be criminally understaffed. For goodness’ sake, the place was packed – surely they could employ some more people? And why was the sole waitress now chatting away about the couple’s recent holiday (‘If you loved Corsica, trust me, you’ll adore Sardinia!’) when the confectionery currently smouldering in Roxanne’s oven could quite feasibly burst into flames?

‘Rox, just sit down,’ Sean hissed, trying to grab at her wrist. She shook him off.

‘Please,’ she called out, her voice rising in panic, ‘I really do need our bill right now …’ Despite having risen to lofty heights in the fashion world, Roxanne hated to cause a fuss. In a world where kindness wasn’t always apparent, she was renowned for being a delight to work with, no matter how difficult or spoilt a model happened to be. On a shoot, she was virtually unflappable, even if the make-up artist fell out with the hairdresser, or a hovering seagull happened to do its business on a £1000 chiffon gown. However right now, she felt her blood pressure soaring. ‘Excuse me!’ she shrieked.

All heads swivelled towards her. The waitress widened her eyes.

‘Sorry, but we really have to go,’ Roxanne implored, conscious of Sean gawping at her.

‘We can still have dessert,’ he insisted.

‘We can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Rox, they’ll just be a bit burnt. Nothing terrible’s going to happen …’

‘You don’t know that!’

‘Well, I don’t want to seem rude,’ he said, sighing, ‘but I probably know ovens better than you do. How many times have you used yours?’

The waitress reappeared with their bill, and Roxanne snatched her purse from her bag. ‘That was the first time,’ she muttered.

‘You’d never turned on your oven before?’ Sean exclaimed.

‘I’ve never needed to,’ she mumbled, deciding not to add that she had in fact used it – continuously – as a storage facility for the vintage china tea sets she had taken from Rosemary Cottage when her mother died.

She handed the waitress her credit card and stabbed her pin number into the little machine. ‘Thank you,’ the woman said primly. ‘I hope you enjoyed—’

‘It was lovely, thanks,’ Roxanne cut in quickly.

‘Sorry you’re having to dash …’ But Roxanne didn’t hear any more as, rude though it was, she had blundered out into the humid London night without properly saying goodbye.

She wasn’t a natural runner. Just as she had failed to fully engage with the new mandatory workplace yoga, so Roxanne had managed to get by for almost half a century without ever having participated in aerobic exercise apart from the occasional dash through the rain into a heated shop. However, she was running now, in a rather ungainly style, sandals clattering on the pavement.

‘This is mad,’ Sean exclaimed at her side. ‘We don’t have to run; it’s not going to make any difference …’

‘It might. What if the place is on fire?’

‘Don’t be crazy! It’s just a few biscuits …’

Just a few biscuits! She must remember not to bother baking anything for him ever again.

‘You’ll break your neck in those,’ he added, meaning her beautiful suede sandals which she had spotted in the window of a vintage shop, a size too small as it happened, but heck, she had managed to cram her feet into them and they’d eventually stretched enough so as not to be completely agonising.

She stopped abruptly and tugged them off. Damn Sean and his practical trainers.

‘You’re not going to run home barefoot?’ he gasped.

‘It’s fine …’

‘It’s not fine. You’ll cut your feet or stand in something disgusting. Come on, darling, put your sandals back on and let’s just walk …’ She glared at him, then realised he was probably right and slipped them back on. Sean took her hand as they fell into a brisk walking pace. ‘I still can’t believe you were baking something for me,’ he added, throwing her a fond glance.

‘Hmm. Well, I probably won’t again.’

‘No, it’s really sweet of you. But it’s not very … you, is it?’

‘Obviously not,’ she muttered.

‘I mean, it seems more like something your sister would do. Didn’t she send you that tin of edible tree decorations at Christmas?’

‘Yes. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t got it together to buy a tree …’ In fact, Roxanne had taken the delicious snowflake-shaped butter cookies into the office, and everyone had swooped upon them over drinks one afternoon. This was when Cathy was still editor and it was possible to have fun at work, in the days when there were frequent gales of laughter and the sound of a cork being popped.

‘I’d never have thought of you as a baker,’ he added.

‘Yes, okay, Sean …’

‘It’s quite sexy actually,’ he added, grinning now.

Despite the turn of events, she couldn’t help smiling. ‘I knew it. You actually want a wifey type in an apron, don’t you? That’s what you’ve been holding out for …’

‘God, yes,’ he teased. ‘Floury hands and lipstick on, waiting for your man to come home …’ He fell silent as they turned the corner into Roxanne’s tree-lined street.

‘Sean, look!’ They both stared. A fire engine was parked outside her block.

‘It’ll be okay,’ he said quickly, taking hold of her arm. ‘It might not be your place. It could be another flat …’ But this time, she shook him off and broke into an actual sprint. Despite her unsuitable footwear, she clattered towards the vehicle. She quickly spotted Isabelle, who was looking her usual elegant self – chic silver bob, simple navy blue dress – and hovering at the main door.

‘It was Henry who called them, love,’ she announced. ‘I told him it’d be nothing – that you’re always burning toast. A waste of resources, I said! I phoned your mobile a couple of times but it just rang—’

‘Sorry, Isabelle, I didn’t realise …’ Roxanne hurried past her and charged upstairs. She always put her phone on silent when she was out on a date with Sean.

‘I said you once burnt your fringe off the gas ring,’ Isabelle called after her, ‘when you were lighting a cigarette …’ The elderly woman’s voice faded, to be replaced by strident male tones on Roxanne’s landing on the top floor: ‘Sounds like someone’s coming now – finally. Christ, what a bloody waste of time …’

Sean had lagged behind. Roxanne could hear him being accosted by Henry, the boorish thirty-something solicitor who must have sprung out of his flat on the first floor, one short flight of stairs below hers. ‘Sorry if I called them over nothing but the smell’s awful. Emma’s worried that her clients will complain. I mean, it’s hardly conducive …’ Never mind Emma, Henry’s wife, and her psychotherapy clients. What about Roxanne’s irreplaceable French wardrobe? She reached the top floor to find two firemen emerging from her flat.

‘How bad is it?’ she gasped.

The younger man frowned. ‘This is your place?’

‘Yes, it is …’ Sean appeared at her side, catching his breath as she took in the damage. Her door was splintered, having been smashed open, and an acrid stench hung in the air.

‘You’re very lucky,’ the fireman remarked as his companion made his way back downstairs. ‘Your neighbour smelt smoke but there hasn’t actually been a fire.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Roxanne felt like hugging him.

‘But there could have been.’

‘Yes, I know …’ Impatient now, she peered behind him into her flat but this young man – this boy, who looked barely old enough to have any sort of paid job – was blocking her way.

‘You need to understand that it’s very dangerous to go out and leave something in the oven.’

She rearranged her expression so as to look suitably chastised. ‘I do realise that, and I’m very sorry for taking up your time.’

He squinted at her, seemingly not done with lecturing her yet. ‘You won’t believe how many fires I’ve seen that have started this way. It’s the fat, you see. Grease spits over the edge of the tray and then ignites …’ He frowned. ‘What were you making anyway?’

‘Brandy snaps,’ she replied, at which he looked baffled; well, of course he did, they belonged to a bygone era. This child before her had probably cooked nothing more taxing than a microwaveable pouch of Uncle Ben’s rice – but then, neither had she.

He stepped aside to let Roxanne and Sean pass. ‘Well, just make sure, any time you’re baking in future …’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said quickly, ‘there won’t be any baking in future, I can promise you that.’

She and Sean stood for a moment as the fireman clumped downstairs to join his colleagues.

‘Okay up there, Roxanne? Need any help?’ Isabelle called up from the hallway.

‘We’re fine here, thanks,’ she shouted back brightly.

Sean shook his head and frowned. ‘Bit of an over-reaction from Henry, wasn’t it, calling the fire brigade? Look at the damage to your door …’

‘Oh, it can be fixed. It’s not the end of the world.’ In fact, she surmised as they strode through to her kitchen, perhaps she had got off lightly. Apart from a terrible stench and the urgent need for a joiner, there was really nothing to worry about. The oven was open; the blackened tray of brandy snap mixture having being dumped in the sink and water poured onto it. The kitchen window had been opened, and a cool breeze was wafting in. She met Sean’s gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. This isn’t quite how I imagined your fiftieth would turn out.’

‘Hey, darling, it’s okay.’ He kissed her forehead softly, then wound his arms around her waist and held her close to his chest. ‘I’m just relieved your place didn’t burn down.’

She nodded and stepped away. ‘I’d better see if I can find a joiner …’

‘Yes, of course …’ However, before she could even do a Google search, Sean had said, ‘Hey, I’ll do it,’ and taken her phone from her, and was jabbing at it – because, of course, he was a man and this involved a tradesman with tools. Blokes’ stuff, Roxanne thought wryly as Sean made the call on her behalf, as if she were incapable of communicating that her front door was broken. At least he was being helpful, she decided. What use would any of her other boyfriends have been, in a situation like this? They’d have laughed and called her an idiot, then raided her fridge for beer while she sorted everything out.

‘Yeah,’ Sean chortled into her phone, having lapsed into conversing-with-tradesman mode. ‘Girlfriend left something in the oven, fire brigade called … yeah, you could say that, hur-hur-hur …’

She jammed her back teeth together. You know what women are like, was the unspoken theme.

Sean finished the call and beamed at her. ‘Well, that was a bit of luck. He’s local: says he’ll be here within the hour.’

‘Great.’ Roxanne mustered a wide smile. ‘Oh – let me get you your present.’

‘Darling, I’m sorry.’ He frowned in mock regret. ‘I really think they’re too burnt to eat.’

‘That was just a little treat—’

‘Come here. I want this kind of treat …’ He grabbed her playfully and went in for a kiss, but she spun away.

‘Hang on a minute …’ She rushed off to her second bedroom – a box room really, that served as overspill storage for clothes and accessories – to retrieve the gift she had wrapped so beautifully in matt duck-egg blue paper with a perfect silver bow.

Sean was lounging on the sofa in her living room when she handed it to him.

‘Here you go. Happy fiftieth, darling.’ As she curled up beside him, she experienced a rush of pleasure at having tracked down a wonderful gift for a man who really did have everything.

‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He peeled away the wrapping paper with care. ‘Oh, wow! This is amazing, Rox. You know I love his work …’ He gazed at the hefty coffee-table book of photographs by Laurence Grier, one of his photographic heroes.

She snuggled close as he turned the pages reverentially. Grier, who had been active since the 50s, specialised in black-and-white photographs of achingly beautiful women in rather shabby surroundings. They always looked as if they had been caught off guard, applying lipstick in a dingy cafe, or drawing a picture with a finger on the steamed-up window of a bus.

‘Glad you like it,’ she said with a smile.

‘Of course I do. You’re so thoughtful. I love you, babe.’ He kissed her gently on the lips.

‘I love you too, darling,’ she murmured, beaming with pleasure. ‘Look, there’s something else too.’ She leaned over and turned to the book’s inside front cover, on which the photographer himself had written: Happy 50th birthday Sean, with all good wishes, Laurence Grier.

Sean stared at the inscription. ‘It’s signed! Is this for me?’

‘Well, yes,’ she said, laughing, ‘unless it’s a remarkable coincidence.’

His eyes widened. ‘How on earth did you get this?’

‘I bribed him with enormous amounts of money,’ she said with a grin.

He closed the book and placed it on top of a muddle of magazines and newspaper supplements on her coffee table. ‘Seriously? You actually met him?’

She nodded. ‘Yes – when I was in Paris for the shows.’

‘Really? Wow. You planned ahead …’

‘It was just luck really,’ she said quickly, a little embarrassed now: Paris fashion week was back in October. Did it seem overly keen to have planned Sean’s birthday present seven months ago – and only two months after they’d started seeing each other? ‘He was staying at my hotel,’ she added.

Sean kissed her again. ‘You’re amazing, Rox. Gorgeous, sexy and amazing …’

She smiled and pushed back her tangled hair. ‘And I noticed that he liked to sit with a gin and tonic in the hotel bar every evening, so I went out and bought a copy and hoped he’d be there, just one more time …’ She omitted to mention that it taken visits to four different bookshops before she had managed to track down a copy, and even then, it had a torn cover so they had to order another for her to pick up the next day.

The intercom buzzer sounded. Sean leapt up to answer it. ‘That’ll be Tommy!’ he exclaimed.

She stared before scrambling up after him. For a moment, it seemed as if the excitement over the joiner’s arrival had surpassed that of the photography book.

Sean hared towards the front door ahead of her in order to greet him. ‘Hi, mate, that was quick …’

‘Only three streets away,’ Tommy replied with a grin. He had cropped ginger hair, a soft Liverpool accent and scratched at his stubbly chin as he examined the door. ‘Whoa, that’s some mess you’ve got here.’

‘Yep, think the whole door needs replacing?’

‘Yeah, for sure – but I can do a temporary patch-up right now, make it secure …’

‘… And fit a new door at some point?’ Sean enquired, as if this was his flat, and he was in charge here.

‘Uh-huh, I can get you some prices …’

‘That would be great,’ Roxanne said firmly, forcing the man to register her presence. ‘A temporary patch-up, I mean. It’s actually my flat.’

‘Oh, is it? Right …’ Tommy darted a quick look at Sean as if to say, Is that okay with you, her expressing an opinion? before starting to unpack his tools. Roxanne gave them a cursory glance, then strolled away to get on with the business of chipping the brandy snap mixture off the tray, to the soundtrack of the two men bonding.

‘My missus once left the iron on,’ Tommy was saying. ‘On our way to the airport, we were, in a taxi. “Christ, Tommy,” she screams, “I think the iron’s still on!” So we had to turn around, get the driver to take us all the way back …’

‘God, yeah,’ Sean sympathised. ‘I know that feeling …’

What feeling? Roxanne wondered, using a bendy kitchen knife to hack at the charred confectionery. She didn’t recall that she had ever subjected Sean to an iron-left-on incident – although she supposed after tonight’s episode she could hardly occupy the moral high ground.

‘… And d’you know what happened?’ Tommy crowed. ‘We get all the way home and the iron’s stone-cold …’

‘It was off all the time? You’re kidding me!’

‘Nah, isn’t that typical?’

‘Did you miss your flight?’

Tommy snorted. ‘’Course we did! Cost us over three hundred quid for new tickets.’

Their laughter rumbled through Roxanne’s flat as the two men revelled in that hoary old topic: the idiocy of womankind. Oh, what fun they were having. Roxanne understood what was going on here, as shards of black stuff pinged off the tray, occasionally hitting her cheek and landing in her hair. Sean spent most of his life in the company of rarefied fashion types. Most of his conversations were about whether the model’s hair should be up or down, or if a necklace was required to finish the look. His professional life was all about capturing beauty, which was fine; there were far worse ways to make a living than photographing the world’s most breathtaking women wearing exquisite clothes. Yet, despite Sean’s creative talents, he was a pretty down-to-earth bloke, who had grown up with a ferocious single mother in an area of Dublin he always described as ‘lively’. Opportunities to flex some masculine muscle were few and far between.

‘So, what’s your line of business?’ Tommy was asking now.

‘I’m a photographer,’ Sean explained.

‘Oh, right. Weddings, portraits, that kind of thing?’

‘Well, I’m more kind of—’

‘Would you do one of our Jessica? She’s a right little character – just turned eighteen months. Me and my girlfriend, we’d love a proper picture of her to have framed for the living room.’

‘Er, that’s not quite my—’

‘You know – looking cute, sitting on one of those sheepskin rugs?’

Roxanne chuckled to herself as she sensed Sean struggling to remain on his new best mate’s good side. ‘Uh, yeah, I know the kind of pictures you mean, but I’m actually more of a—’

‘She’s just adorable,’ Tommy added fondly. ‘D’you have a card or anything, so I can contact you?’

‘Uh, not on me, no …’

‘Aw. Well, I’ve got your number.’

‘I called you on my girlfriend’s phone,’ Sean said quickly.

‘Right. So, will you text me yours, so we can arrange to do the pictures?’

‘Yeah, ’course I will …’

No, of course he won’t, Roxanne mused as she sanded off the last of the burnt crust with a Brillo pad. He happens to be a top fashion photographer whose latest campaign for a high-street chain is currently gracing enormous billboards all over Britain. Sean O’Carroll does not photograph babies on fluffy rugs.

Drilling and hammering curtailed their conversation, and once Roxanne had finished cleaning the tray, she found Sean lurking in her living room. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’ she teased him.

‘I’m not hiding,’ he murmured defensively. ‘I’m just letting him get on with the job.’

‘Right. It’s just that, a few moments ago, it sounded as if you were about to arrange a holiday together.’

Sean’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

She laughed, just as Tommy called out to say he’d finished.

‘So that’s it secure,’ he remarked as she inspected his work. Sean had failed to reappear from the living room.

‘Brilliant, thanks so much – and, yes, I’d like to go ahead with the replacement door, please. Could you send me an estimate?’

‘Yeah, no problem.’ He seemed disappointed at having to deal with her now.

‘Shall I pay you for this now, or will you invoice?’

‘Now would be great, if you don’t mind …’

‘Sure, no problem.’ She fetched her purse from her bedroom and doled out a bunch of tenners. Sean remained in hiding, perhaps hoping that the matter of baby photography would be forgotten as soon as Tommy left Roxanne’s flat.

After he’d gone, they curled up companionably on the sofa together. Sean was drinking wine, while Roxanne sipped chamomile tea – not because she enjoyed it especially but because it seemed like the right thing to do the night before a meeting with one’s new boss. She rested her head on Sean’s chest, once again picturing them together in her childhood village, with her showing him around, delighting him with its quaintness. After nine months together, it seemed important for him to understand where she was from, and get to know the place that helped to shape the person she was now. Plus, it would be fun to share a bottle of wine in the Red Lion, where she was occasionally allowed a Coke and a bag of crisps as a little girl. Sean would love its olde-worlde charm.

‘So, what d’you think about that weekend in Yorkshire with me?’ she ventured, turning to study his reaction.

‘What’s the date of the party again?’ Sean asked.

‘The ninth of June. Couple of weeks away.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I told you, darling – I’ll have to check what’s on. You know how crazy-busy it’s been lately …’ Of course, Sean was never merely busy, like a normal person; he was always crazy-busy.

‘I’d just like to show Della some support, and I think it’d be fun,’ Roxanne added, hating the pleading tone that had snuck into her voice.

‘Sure, we can go away sometime. I’m just not quite sure about this time, okay?’ He smiled and kissed her.

‘Okay,’ she said flatly, realising her suggestion was being treated in the same way as Tommy’s request for a baby-on-fluffy-rug photo, in that it was clearly not something Sean wanted to do. She wondered then, as they settled in front of the TV to watch a late-night music show, whether their relationship would ever progress from how it was now. Of course, compared to Ned Tallow and the other reprobates, Sean was an absolute saint. Yet they still dated as if they were in that tentative early stage (‘So, how are you fixed this week?’), their time together dotted in amongst their numerous other social engagements. Roxanne’s evenings were often taken up with work-related events, and Sean was often shooting on location and didn’t return until late. Around half the week, he stayed alone at his own sparsely furnished warehouse apartment with its bare-brick walls and enormous red fridge. But what more did she want, or expect from him?

Although she hadn’t brought it up, she sensed that he wasn’t exactly itching to live with anyone. He had twice before, each time for a decade or so – first with a model (naturally!) called Lisa who had, by all accounts, left him broken-hearted when she had fallen in love with a fellow model on a shoot in the States. Then had come Chianna, a jewellery designer from whom he had simply ‘grown apart’; she now lived in Devon with a brood of wild-haired children and a famous drummer. Sean had never been married, had no children and didn’t seem saddened by the fact.

As for Roxanne, a few boyfriends had moved in with her for brief periods – although usually due to their own shaky financial circumstances rather than any real desire to cohabit with her. She had never had any yearnings for marriage and, obviously, children were out of the question now – which was fine. Yet, deep inside her – and it irritated her to even think this way – she needed to feel as if things were moving on. A few weeks ago, she had had the audacity to leave her spare toothbrush in the porcelain holder in Sean’s bathroom, plus a small pot of night cream on his shelf. ‘I think these are yours, Rox,’ he remarked next time she’d stayed over, looking rather startled as he handed them to her, as if they were her false teeth. The more she felt he was keeping her at arm’s length, the more commitment she craved. Roxanne had never felt so needy before, and she despised herself for it.

Later, at around 12.30 a.m., she found herself unable to sleep as they lay curled up in her bed together. He was spooning her, with one arm resting gently on the soft curve of her stomach. Roxanne stared at the glow of the street lamp through her cheap white Ikea curtains, failing to be soothed by Sean’s rhythmic breathing.

This was happening more frequently: an inability to drift off and, instead, a tendency to fixate on a whole raft of worries – such as, why had Henry found it necessary to call the fire brigade tonight? Which segued neatly into growing panic over the meeting with Marsha in a few hours’ time – and the realisation that, really, the one person Roxanne wanted to talk to right now was her sister, up in Burley Bridge. Of course, she couldn’t call Della now; it was the middle of the night. However, she fully intended not to just go to her party, but to spend time with her sister beforehand to help her prepare.

Would Marsha let her have some time off? she wondered. She would have to. Roxanne was still battling with residual guilt over the period leading up to her mother’s death from cancer two years ago, and she was keen to make up for it. She knew she should have spent more time up in Yorkshire. Pretty much all of Kitty’s care had fallen to Della. Della’s ex-husband Mark had been useless; he had left her for another woman soon after Kitty’s death, just as Sophie, their daughter, had flown the nest for art college. Roxanne was well aware that several Burley Bridge villagers assumed she had been flouncing from fashion show to fashion show whilst her mother had been dying in the hospice.

In truth, a lurking sense of ineptitude had kept Roxanne away. ‘You need to get yourself up there,’ Isabelle had chastised her, ‘and help that poor sister of yours.’ And so Roxanne had eventually driven north – but felt, just as she had as a child, that she was merely getting in the way.

One of her visits after Kitty’s death had coincided with her brother Jeff and his wife Tamsin descending on Rosemary Cottage. As they had grabbed what they wanted from the house, so it had looked as if Roxanne, too, was only there to snatch her share of the pickings. She had taken an emerald felt hat with a short net veil, a string of jet beads and the pretty rose-pattered tea sets, which until recently had resided in her unused oven – and that was all. She had watched, feeling faintly disgusted, as Tamsin breezed past with boxes piled high with silverware and, at one point, a vast fur coat. Roxanne hadn’t wanted the coat – she never wore fur, and refused to feature it in the magazine. She had principles, although it hadn’t seemed like that, as Jeff, Tamsin and their twin sons had swarmed like locusts all over the house, cramming their estate car with Kitty’s possessions while Roxanne just stood there, feeling helpless.

‘Can I do anything to help with the funeral, Dell?’ she’d asked.

‘No, it’s all organised. There’s nothing left to be done.’ Her words had been delivered with a note of bitterness.

‘Can’t I make sandwiches, help with the food—’

‘We’re fine with the food, thank you!’

Well, her sister hadn’t seemed fine. She had launched herself into scrubbing and packing up their mother’s house, and announced that all she wanted was Kitty’s vast collection of cookbooks. Even more startling, Della then decided to use them to stock a clapped-out old shop she had decided to rent, and subsequently bought, along with the flat above and then the vacant shop next door – how crazy was that? Not at all crazy, as it turned out. Eighteen months down the line, Della’s bookshop had been featured in numerous magazines and even on TV. On the other hand, Jeff was still working in banking – and clearly despising it – while Roxanne had almost burnt down her flat and endured a stern ticking-off from a fireman who looked about nine years old.

Looking at it that way, she mused, still wide awake at 1.47 a.m., who ranked highest on the craziness scale?