The Bakery at Seashell Cove: A feel-good, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  On impulse, I emailed Alice Denby with an update and asked if she could thank the buyer on my behalf, perhaps on her next show. Then – in spite of my intention to go to bed – I googled Nathan Walsh, and found some links to a couple of features in the Telegraph, about little known travel destinations. There was a tiny photo of him in profile, and my heart gave a flutter as I studied the angle of his face, wishing he’d turn so I could see what was in his eyes, or – better still – that I could dive into the photo and see what he was seeing.

  One of the places he’d written about was a mysterious ‘Crooked Forest’ in Western Poland, with four hundred pine trees all growing with a ninety-degree bend at the base, and another was about the indigenous people of Pakistan’s Rumbur Valley, who lived without electricity, phones, and newspapers, and were known for throwing harvest celebrations. Another link took me to a series he’d written for a construction magazine, featuring unusual homes around the world, such as a soccer-ball shaped house in Japan that had been built to withstand an earthquake. It was fascinating reading. Nathan had a way with words that drew the reader in.

  Finally, my eyelids grew heavy, and the room darkened as the sky outside deepened to indigo. After locking up the house, I stood for a moment in the stillness of the hallway, letting the silence settle. It was nice not having to watch Sam do a hundred press-ups or squat lunges before getting into bed, or listen to him talk about work, which he often did before falling asleep. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been sympathetic to the problems of costing a job, and difficulties with documents submitted by designers, but he tended to use ‘quantity surveyor’-type phrases like ‘The QS compiled the BoQ’ and ‘Evaluated as a variation, in terms of the contract condition’, which I didn’t understand, however much I’d tried.

  I didn’t bother turning any lights on, feeling my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and after I’d undressed, I turned the photo of Sam and me to the wall, got into bed, and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  I rose just after six and drove to the bakery, nourishing the spark of excitement that had ignited the minute I opened my eyes. I was determined to hold on to it, and to not think about Sam for at least a few hours.

  Light from the morning’s sunrise poked fingers of gold into the water at Seashell Cove, and streaks of orange and apricot flared across the sky. I opened the car window, and breathed in the warm, salty air, a surprising feeling of well-being washing over me.

  Big Steve was standing by his rust-coloured Fiat when I drew up, as if struggling to motivate himself to get in the car and drive to work.

  His face brightened when he saw me. ‘Someone looks like the cat that got the proverbial,’ he observed, as I tried to get out without unfastening my seat belt, lolling towards the ground. He chuckled, and came over to help. ‘Has the mouse been playing while the cat’s away?’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Seen your gorgeous estate agent, by any chance?’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ I said, my voice perkier than his comment warranted as I stepped out of the car.

  ‘Ooh, so there is something going on?’

  ‘Steve!’ I retrieved my bag, trying to hide a blush.

  Steve’s barrel-like tummy wobbled with laughter under his Tesco’s shirt. ‘Touchy subject, hmm?’

  ‘I won’t tell you my good news, if you don’t stop.’

  He gave a theatrical gasp and pressed his fingertips to his mouth. ‘A showbiz agent’s been in touch and wants you to present your own show.’ He flung his arm out. ‘Meg’s Kitchen,’ he said, in an announcer’s voice. ‘Meg Larson chats to a member of the public, while baking their favourite cake. This week…’ He made a sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Nathan Walsh, agent extraordinaire. His favourite cake…’ He thought for a second. ‘Something dark and sinful, with cherries.’

  I giggled, anticipating Steve’s reaction when he heard the real news. ‘He’s not James Bond,’ I said, fishing my keys out of my bag. ‘He’s not even an estate agent, he’s just helping his brother out.’ I smiled. ‘I do like the name Meg’s Kitchen though. And the sound of the show.’

  ‘You’d ace it,’ he said, following me to the bakery door, instead of back to his car. ‘So, what’s your amazing news?’

  I let myself into the kitchen, heart racing with anticipation. ‘Come in,’ I said, twirling round to face him, like a hostess welcoming a dinner guest.

  He gingerly stepped over the threshold, eyes darting from side to side as if suspecting an ambush. ‘What gives, Larson?’

  I flung my bag down and went to stand behind the wooden table, smoothing my hands across its worn surface. ‘How would you like to work here?’

  Steve’s face gave a little quiver. ‘You mean…?’ He pressed a hand to his cheek. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  A smile spread over my face. This must have been how Nathan had felt telling me the day before. Except there wouldn’t be any kissing with Big Steve. ‘What do you think I’m saying?’

  ‘I… don’t know.’ His gaze flicked round in wonderment, now, as though finding himself in Narnia. ‘That you’ve talked Mr Moseley’s brother into letting you continue running the place at a loss, and you need my bread-making skills to help you win over the public?’

  I could see he was trying not to get his hopes up, even as he was starting to believe it. ‘Half right.’ I was enjoying myself. ‘The bit about me needing your bread-making skills.’

  This time his gasp was genuine. ‘Tell me you’re not joking?’

  ‘I’m not joking.’ I filled him in, including that he’d be paid a proper salary thanks to my bakery angel – as I’d whimsically started to think of him – and while it wouldn’t be more than he got at the supermarket, he’d save money on travel costs.

  ‘I love this guy, whoever he is.’ Steve was moist-eyed by the time I’d finished explaining. ‘I didn’t think this sort of thing happened in real life.’

  ‘Me neither.’ We were silent for a second, contemplating my good fortune. ‘How soon can you start?’

  He moved to the oven, arms outstretched like a zombie. ‘How about now?’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Sadly, no.’ He pirouetted around. ‘I’ll have to give notice at the big T, but I’ve loads of holiday due, so they might let me go right away. There’ll be plenty of applicants queuing to take my place there,’ he said, as if he thought I might be about to protest. ‘And, if you reopen before I’ve worked my notice, I could always bake a batch before I go in to work.’

  I grinned. ‘I’d like that very much, if it wouldn’t be too much for you.’

  Grabbing his proffered elbow, we did a dignified Highland fling, picking up pace until we were slumped over the table, breathless and panting, and complaining of having a stitch.

  ‘Going on that programme was the best thing you ever did, Meg,’ Steve said, hand pressed to his chest, as if to steady his heart. ‘I won’t let you down. Or Mr Moseley, god rest his soul.’

  ‘I know you won’t.’

  He gave me a tight hug that smelt of sleep and yeast. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Your family won’t mind you working right next door?’

  ‘They know I’m wasted at Tesco’s.’ He released me from his clasp, and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘And they’ll have free loaves on tap, so what’s not to like?’

  ‘They can make sausage sandwiches,’ I said, a touch hysterically, and we performed another jig, before he realised what time it was and let out a yelp.

  ‘Better go, or I’ll be sacked before I can hand in my notice.’ He rushed to the door, and I was glad he wanted to do the right thing, and not leave his boss at the supermarket in the lurch.

  ‘I’ll talk to you soon,’ I called after him.

  When he’d gone, tooting his horn as he drove off, I went through to the shop and looked around. Sunshine pushed through the window and spilt across the counter, and I imagined the shelves brimming with golden loaves, and the display cabinet f
ull of cakes, and a queue of customers trailing to the door. I couldn’t wait to get started, and hoped that, wherever he was, Mr Moseley approved.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After ringing the local wholesalers and placing an order to be delivered later that morning, I closed and locked the back door, to minimise the temptation to look out for Nathan, and opened the window instead to let in some air.

  Still buzzing from Big Steve’s reaction, I cleaned down the surfaces and set to work, baking a lime and pistachio cake for the café, and a date and walnut loaf to take to Mum’s. If she was feeling better, I wanted to ask if she’d take on the accounts for the bakery, and if Kath was around I was hoping she’d agree to come and work with me. The date and walnut cake was a bribe for Kath, as it was her favourite. Not that I thought she’d need any persuading.

  As I worked, I sang along to an Abba playlist, and whenever a negative thought threatened to interrupt the flow, I sang louder. It was hard to be miserable while singing ‘Dancing Queen’. Providing Nathan stayed away (had his ‘Good luck, Meg’ been a farewell?) and I didn’t think about Sam (how much time had he spent alone with George?) or Beverley (did she actually hate me?) or Sadie (why had she decided not to say anything, when she thought the world of Sam?), I’d be fine.

  When I’d finished and cleared everything away, and signed for the delivery of fresh ingredients, the cakes had cooled. I boxed them up, still humming ‘Does Your Mother Know’, and drove to the café to drop off the lime and pistachio cake.

  ‘’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell do you spell pisstatcheeo?’ Gwen said, acting as if Dickens wasn’t rolling about in the middle of the sun-warmed floor, being fussed over by twin girls with waist-length plaits. ‘You’d better write it on the board, before you bugger orf.’

  After complying with her sweetly worded request, pretending I hadn’t noticed Dickens slip back behind the counter, I drove to Bray’s Property and Commercial Solicitors in Kingsbridge, trying not to think about what Sam would say if he knew I was doing it without him. Words like ‘reckless’ and ‘haven’t thought it through’ came to mind, but I’d given him an opportunity to say something the night before, and he hadn’t taken it. Anyway, I didn’t need Sam’s permission, or his approval. He hadn’t asked for mine when he took on his cycling challenge. And, anyway, we had bigger things to talk about when he got back than me signing some documents without him knowing.

  I eyed myself firmly in the rear-view mirror and noticed I had a dusting of flour on my forehead. Once I’d parked, I brushed it off, and nervously tidied my hair with my hands, hoping my fifties-style rockabilly dress, patterned with lemons, didn’t make me look frivolous.

  In Mr Bray’s light-filled office, we went through the documents together, and after he’d checked I had no further questions (no, he couldn’t reveal the buyer, even if I said pretty please, but would certainly pass on my heartfelt gratitude), I signed the employment contract, and once he’d taken my hand in an iron clamp, and wished me all the best, I emerged on the sunlit pavement, feeling as if I really had won the lottery.

  Wanting to mark the occasion in some way, I treated myself to an ice cream, which made me think of Freya, and how furious she must be with Don for withdrawing his offer (I almost felt sorry for him, having to deal with the fallout). After browsing a homeware shop, and treating myself to some heart-shaped cookie cutters, I drove back to Salcombe with the radio at full volume to blast any thoughts of Nathan from my head.

  Arriving at Mum’s twenty minutes later, the first thing that struck me was that her bedroom curtains were still drawn. I’d have thought she’d have recovered enough by now to be out of bed – her text had been so chirpy – and a slight disquiet rose, but before I could approach the front door, Kath came up the road, pushing the sort of all-terrain pram I knew cost an absolute fortune. When Mum had gone into her frenzied phase of pre-baby excitement she’d started emailing me links to the Mothercare website, with comments such as, Prams didn’t have detachable baby seats when you were little! and What’s the difference between a pram, a pushchair, a buggy and a stroller, they all look the same?!

  ‘He’s here again,’ Kath said, and for a second I thought she meant Milo and peeped obligingly into the pram where he was sleeping, long lashes kissing his cheeks.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ I said, then realised Kath was angling her beehive at a car, parked a little way down from Mum’s house: a grey hatchback I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Obviously trying to be discreet,’ Kath said, leaning over to adjust the hood to shield Milo, her pillowy bosom almost escaping her baggy vest top. ‘It’s only because I’m a nosy mare, or I wouldn’t have noticed it,’ she said, straightening. ‘That and the fact that it’s been there all night, and your mum’s not answering the door.’

  ‘All night?’ Startled, I looked from the car to the house, with its closed curtains like shut eyes. ‘Have you seen him?’

  Kath shook her head, her mouth turned down. ‘I popped round last night for a chat, and to see how she was but there was no answer, even though I could hear music coming from upstairs.’

  Upstairs? Music? A man? I didn’t know where to start. ‘You heard music?’

  Kath’s flush deepened to crimson. ‘I might have had a peep through the letterbox, but only because I had visions of Rose lying at the foot of the stairs in a pool of blood. And because I really needed a chat.’

  I looked at Kath properly and noticed the whites of her eyes were red, and she wasn’t wearing her false eyelashes, and her baggy trousers and vest top looked more like pyjamas. ‘What’s happened?’ Even her beehive wasn’t secured properly. I could see pins poking out. ‘Kath?’

  Her chin wobbled, and she bent over the pram again, but when she straightened, tears had pooled in her eyes. ‘Freya’s gone.’

  I stared. ‘Gone?’

  ‘She’s left Don. And Milo.’ She glanced at the baby again, a tear spilling down her cheek. ‘Can you believe that girl?’

  Actually, I could. ‘But why?’

  ‘She was bloody furious with me, because I had a word with Don about buying her the bakery. I said it wasn’t on, that it should be yours, and that Freya’s got a son to take care of, and that she’d lose interest after five minutes, like she does with everything, and she doesn’t even like bloody ice cream.’

  Another glance at Milo, the tears falling faster than she could brush them away. ‘Apparently Don withdrew his offer and told her she should wait a while before making any decisions about her future. I didn’t think he had it in him, but Freya went bloody ape. Came storming round first thing with Milo, and said she’s going to live in Marbella, she’s got a friend out there, and divorce Don and take him to the cleaner’s, and she’s never coming back.’

  I swallowed. Even for Freya, this seemed extreme. ‘Do you think she means it?’

  Kath nodded. ‘I think she does. She said I can bring up Milo, if I bloody love him so much. She actually said that, Meg, as if she didn’t love him at all.’ A sob erupted and she pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘How can she not love her own baby?’

  ‘Oh, Kath.’ Shifting the cake box I was holding, I gave her a one-armed hug. ‘I should never have said anything to you about Don putting in an offer.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ She sniffed and squeezed my hand, not taking her eyes off Milo. ‘I’d have found out at some point,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know what’s wrong with that girl. I’ve done my best, but I think there’s something missing, you know? Inside her. Maybe she’s like her dad, or it’s to do with losing him at such a young age, I don’t know, but I’ve obviously failed her terribly.’

  ‘No you haven’t.’ I was almost crying myself. ‘Maybe you’re right, and Freya’s looking for something she hasn’t found yet, but it’s not your fault, Kath, you’ve been a brilliant parent.’ I peppered her hair with kisses. ‘You’ll always be my second mum.’

  ‘Oh, you.’ She gave a watery smile as she fished a tissue out of her trouser (pyjama?) pocket and
passed it over her face. ‘You’re a credit to yours.’

  We looked at baby Milo, sleeping on, blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama that looked set to shape his life.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked her.

  Her shoulders lifted. ‘Help take care of him, as if he was my own. He’s got my blood in him, somewhere. I’ve got to hope that means something, and Don’s a good man,’ she said. ‘He called me after Freya walked out, to tell me what had happened. He’s coming round later, to talk, but he’s already said I can have as much access to Milo as I want. Apparently, his younger sister’s never had kids and wants to be involved, so he’s already asked her to stay.’

  ‘He doesn’t think Freya will be back?’ I remembered the way he’d looked at her at the bakery. ‘He must be devastated.’

  ‘He is, but more for Milo,’ said Kath. ‘He actually sounded more angry with her than anything.’ She sniffed and dabbed at her nose. ‘Whatever was said, I think he’s finally seen her in a different light.’

  ‘I can’t help thinking it’s partly my fault.’

  Kath shook her head. ‘I’m just sorry the offer for the bakery’s fallen through.’ Her voice was thick with tears. ‘That’s my fault, for sticking my oar in.’

  I realised she couldn’t have spoken to Mum since I’d texted her my news. ‘Actually, Kath, another buyer came forward.’ I pressed her close. ‘I’m going to be running the bakery, and I was going to ask if you’d like to come and work there.’

  She twisted to look at me, a smile bursting over her face. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Meg, that’s the best news I’ve had all week.’ Her watering eyes flicked to Milo. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to be needed a lot more here, so I might have to work around that.’

  ‘That’s fine, I can take on someone else too,’ I said, remembering Valerie Jones from the café saying she’d like to work at the bakery if it ever reopened. I thrust the cake box at Kath. ‘I made you a bribery cake.’