by Karen Clarke
‘Er, that’s still cheating.’ Cassie frowned. ‘And what if they fell in love?’
‘Well, then she can call off the wedding.’ Tilly made it sound obvious. ‘But I’m telling you, it’s just chemistry.’
‘So, she’d be starting married life on a lie.’
I felt the prickly sting of perspiration breaking out. It was like listening to my conscience talking, except…
‘Stop!’ They froze, mouths half-open. ‘No one’s in love, or having a fling, or a one-night stand,’ I said, though no one had even mentioned a one-night stand. ‘For a start, Nathan’s probably got a girlfriend already, and just because I had a daydream about him doesn’t mean I don’t want to marry Sam.’
‘Of course it doesn’t,’ said Tilly, as if soothing a feral cat.
‘Of course not,’ agreed Cassie, but neither of them looked convinced, and I remembered how Tilly in particular had never been keen on Sam, and since she’d come back to Devon they hadn’t even met. Because she was single, it had made more sense to meet up with her on my own, especially if Sam was out training, which had been most evenings this year – apart from Sundays – and afterwards he went for a drink with the other cycling club members to ‘unwind’.
‘I think I know what this is,’ said Cassie.
‘Pre-wedding nerves.’ We spoke as one and I laughed, a little shakily.
‘I suppose it’s like taking a high dive,’ said Tilly, a keen swimmer. ‘There’s a moment before you jump when your life flashes in front of you, and you think of all the things you haven’t done. You know, in case you don’t make it.’
Cassie and I stared at her. Tilly’s relaxed attitude to life made it hard to imagine her having any regrets. As far as I knew, she wasn’t given to bouts of introspection.
Then again, I wasn’t given to bouts of daydreaming about strange men. (Joey from Friends didn’t count.) ‘Listen, you won’t say anything to Sam about this, will you?’
They looked aghast that I’d had to ask. ‘Of course not,’ said Cassie.
‘Isn’t he going away next Monday?’ Tilly gave a sly little smile.
‘On his cycle challenge, yes.’ I realised too late what she was getting at. ‘I’m not having a fling while he’s away, so please don’t mention it again.’
‘MEEEEG!’
My throat closed around a scream. ‘I wish Gwen wouldn’t yell like that.’ I clutched my chest as I pushed my chair back and stood up. I must have overshot my break, which wasn’t like me. ‘I’d better get back inside.’
‘It’s so hot,’ said Tilly, her eyes drifting to the cove and the inviting blues and greens of the glimmering water. ‘I think I’ll go for a swim.’
‘I’ve another client in a minute, then I’m finished.’ Cassie rose and stretched, the strap of her cotton dungarees slipping off her shoulder. ‘Danny and I are taking Nan to the salvage yard later on.’ Her grandmother’s latest hobby was repurposing junk into something useful as part of a mission to be more environmentally aware.
‘Good luck with that,’ I said, grabbing her in a boob-squashing hug, then doing the same with Tilly who endured it more than enjoyed it. ‘And thanks for, you know, not judging me.’
‘Just think about what I said,’ Tilly called after me.
I entered the café with her words ringing in my ears, to see Gwen point me out to a woman in tailored cream trousers and a floaty chiffon blouse, her beach-blonde hair scraped high in a topknot.
‘’Ere she is,’ Gwen boomed as I approached, and I realised she was smiling. Or as close to smiling as she ever got, which meant she wasn’t scowling and her eyes held an unaccustomed twinkle.
‘Hello!’ I fixed the woman with what I hoped was a sunny expression, praying she wasn’t going to ask me for a recipe. Although flattering, I never knew what to say and Sam’s suggestion of, ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you!’ hadn’t gone down well in the past. I tended to leave it to Gwen these days. Her ‘Mind your own bleedin’ business,’ seemed to work a treat without causing offence. ‘How can I help?’
The woman, who looked to be in her late thirties and oddly familiar, pointed an elegant, pink-varnished fingernail at what was left of my chocolate and raspberry cake. ‘I believe you’re responsible for this beauty?’
‘Already told you that,’ said Gwen. ‘She could do a baking book, if she put ’er mind to it.’
I looked at Gwen in astonishment. She’d never said that to my face.
‘I’m Alice Denby, from Britain’s Hidden Gems.’ As the woman extended her hand, I felt a thrill of recognition. That’s why she looked familiar. But why was a presenter from a popular Friday evening TV show shaking my clammy hand?
‘Meg… Meg Larson,’ I stuttered. ‘Just one Meg, actually.’
Alice Denby’s smile was wide, revealing flawless teeth. ‘Seashell Cove is this week’s hidden gem,’ she explained, putting the words in italics. ‘We’ve been filming around the area and someone recommended this adorable café, and your cakes in particular.’
‘That was nice of them.’ My face suffused with colour.
‘I must say, I’ve never tasted anything quite as delicious.’ She looked at the remaining slice of cake in much the same way my mum looked at newborn babies and patted her flat stomach with an exaggerated sigh of longing. ‘I only came in to make some notes. I didn’t expect to find our star of the week.’
‘S-star?’
‘You probably know that we run a segment at the end of the show, spotlighting local talent.’ Alice’s slightly posh, husky voice warmed up even further. ‘We invite them to give a demonstration of their skill, and the chance to promote themselves or their business.’ She looked at me with lively, intelligent eyes the colour of well-brewed tea. ‘What do you say, Miss Larson? Would you like to be our guest this week?’
Chapter Five
‘You want to be on television?’ Sam said it as though I’d agreed to appear on a reality show, or have uninhibited sex on live TV.
‘Britain’s Hidden Gems is practically a documentary,’ I said, handing him his plate of quinoa, kale and salmon as I dropped beside him on the grey, suede sofa he’d picked because it wasn’t too ‘girly’. ‘It’s a brilliant opportunity for me to plug the bakery.’ I waved my fork around, excitement still humming through my veins. ‘They’re going to film me in the kitchen—’
‘Won’t you need permission?’
‘Yes, but we’ll sort that out,’ I said. I’d have to talk to Nathan. ‘I can mention how the bakery’s been in Seashell Cove for over a hundred years, and that people still talk about Mr Moseley’s loaves.’ I could barely sit still as I poured out the words that had been building in my head ever since Alice Denby’s invitation.
‘Do they, though?’ Sam paused his hungry chomp through his dinner. ‘I thought people had stopped buying bread there ages before it closed.’
‘Not everyone.’ I gave my dinner a desultory prod. Even if I hadn’t been too excited to eat, I hated kale. Obviously it was healthy, but I’d have preferred something with a crust. Or some chips. Anything carb-based really, but I liked to support Sam when he was eating healthily, and I could always eat the shortbread I’d brought home later on. ‘Well, maybe I can talk about how good the bakery could be again, given a new lease of life.’ I slid my plate onto the coffee table Sam’s dad had made out of an old front door. ‘If I mention it’s for sale, someone might put in an offer,’ I continued. ‘The show has a pretty big audience.’
‘Even if someone puts in an offer, it doesn’t mean they’ll keep you on, babe.’ Having witnessed my heartbreak when the bakery closed, I knew Sam was only worried about my hopes being dashed.
‘I was thinking I could treat it like an interview.’ Leaning over, I poked my kale beneath a wedge of salmon with my fork. I couldn’t even bear to look at it. ‘It’ll help that I’ve worked there already, and I’ll bake such an amazing cake for the show that whoever buys the bakery is bound to keep me on.’
‘You couldn’t make a bad cake if you tried,’ Sam said loyally, but it sounded half-hearted. He’d been supportive when my hours were cut because there wasn’t enough money to pay me, and again after Mr Moseley died, but I knew he was having trouble understanding my attachment to the place, or why I couldn’t just find a job somewhere else, and I’d struggled to articulate the reason why myself. Maybe it was because the bakery had been like a child to Mr Moseley, who’d had no dependents of his own, or because I’d been so happy working there, developing my baking in the kitchen after hours, secretly dreaming that the bakery was mine. Or, maybe, I just couldn’t bear the thought of it passing to someone who might not love it as much.
Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t ready to let it go without a fight.
‘I’ll need the perfect recipe,’ I said as Sam finished his dinner, his attention drifting back to the television news. ‘It needs to be something special.’
I’d thought of little else since accepting Alice’s offer, thoughts of Nathan Walsh stashed at the back of my mind. OK, so the thought of appearing on television was weird and scary, especially as the programme had captured the public’s imagination after one of their guests – a woman from a hamlet in Yorkshire – had won an award at the Edinburgh Fringe after doing a stand-up routine for the chickens on her farm, but I doubted I’d get another opportunity like this.
‘It could be my big break, Sam.’ I bounced back against one of the many flowery cushions lining the back of the sofa, all covered by Beverley, who sewed things for a living – the more garish the better, which was one of the reasons I’d been loath to let her make my wedding dress. ‘It could change everything.’
‘You know, I really thought you’d come to terms with the bakery closing.’ Sam’s eyes flipped round to mine, a trace of hurt in their depths; as if I was being unnecessarily stubborn. ‘Why can’t you let it go, Meg?’
I stared, the elation that had gripped me since Alice had left the café slowly fading. Even Gwen had been infected, clapping me hard on the back – the first physical contact we’d ever had – before making Dickens ‘talk’ to me in a terrifying cat-voice, ‘’Ain’t she a clever girl, then, our Meggy-weggy?’
‘You know it was always my dream to run a bakery, Sam. Of course I’m going to try my best to persuade someone to buy it.’
‘But even if someone does, they’ll want to run it themselves, and probably go all artisan.’ He adopted a hippy voice. ‘Yeah, we like, specialise in breads made of sourdough and beards.’
‘Sam, don’t.’ Ending up without a role at the bakery was my worst-case scenario. ‘And people want artisan breads. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘Babe, I’m sorry.’ Sam put his empty plate down next to mine. ‘I’m being an arse,’ he said, dropping to his knees in front of me and taking hold of my hands. ‘I just think whoever buys it won’t make a profit because of its location, and they definitely won’t be able to afford staff.’
‘I know, you’ve said that before.’ I noticed a sliver of kale between his teeth. ‘I just thought you’d be proud of me for… you know. Giving it all I’ve got.’
‘Oh, Meg, it’s not that.’ He lowered his eyes and I followed his gaze to my engagement ring: a rose-gold band, set with a flower-cut sapphire (to match my eyes) and surrounded by diamonds that twinkled in the light flowing between the chintzy, ruffled curtains that Beverley had made, and that we’d had to put up to avoid offending her. ‘Of course I’m proud of you,’ he said, with what sounded like forced conviction. ‘And it’s Mum’s favourite show, she’ll be made up…’
‘But?’
He lifted his head, briefly meeting my eyes full on, and it struck me again that he rarely looked at me these days. ‘No buts.’ He squeezed my fingers. ‘I’ll have to watch the show on catch-up though. I’ll be training on Friday evening.’
Disappointment flared, even though he trained pretty much every evening and weekends. ‘I thought we could watch it together, maybe at Mum’s.’
He got up, wincing as his knee protested. ‘You know I can’t let the team down.’ He clenched a fist over his chest. ‘I love those guys.’ It was an attempt to make me smile that didn’t work.
‘You can see your guys any time.’ I reached past him for my plate of uneaten food and got to my feet. The guys at the cycling club saw more of Sam than I did, and although I’d once suggested joining so that we’d have a hobby in common, he’d pointed out that the last time I got on a bike, I fell off and bruised my coccyx. ‘I’m going to be on television,’ I said.
‘Hey, you already sound like a diva.’ His tone was teasing. ‘What will your dressing room rider be?’ He followed me through to the kitchen. ‘How about a basket of puppies and a bowl of blue M&M’s? Or some diced-up butternut squash, three white doves, and a pesticide-free apple?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. There won’t be a dressing room.’
‘Meg, I’m just joking.’ He slid his arms around my waist as I tipped my dinner into the food-recycling bin. ‘That’s what catch-up TV’s for,’ he said, trying to nuzzle my neck.
‘That’s not the point.’ I shrugged him off and started unloading the dishwasher. ‘You should be supporting me.’
‘Hang on, I am supporting you.’ He leaned against the worktop and stroked the back of his neck. He’d changed into the grey joggers and white T-shirt he always pulled on after work, and had ruffled his helmet-flattened hair into clumps. ‘I don’t have to be there in person.’
‘But it’s nice to share experiences.’
He drew his chin back. ‘You don’t watch me training, but I don’t accuse you of not supporting me.’
‘I came to cheer you on when you did the Dartmoor cycle sprint last year and you said it put you off.’ I crashed a pair of clean mugs onto the mug shelf, wishing we had proper cupboards with doors, instead of the open shelves that looked ‘authentic’ (weren’t things only authentic because something better hadn’t been invented?). Spinning round to face him, I said, ‘And being on TV is different, Sam. It could be life-changing.’
‘And I’m pleased for you, I really am.’ He deftly plucked a dinner plate out of my hand and put it on the worktop. ‘I’ll be there with you in spirit, Meggle, I promise.’
‘Don’t call me Meggle.’ I twisted away as he undid a couple of buttons on my shirt and tried to slide my skirt zip down. I hadn’t even showered and changed. I’d been desperate to call Mum, or Cassie and Tilly to share my news, but had felt Sam should be the first to know, so had started preparing dinner as soon as I got in, while mentally running through my recipe database, trying to decide which cake to make on the show.
‘I’m just trying to distract you.’ Sam advanced towards me again with a sexy look in his eyes I hadn’t seen for a while. ‘Don’t you want to get jiggy?’
‘Oh, Sam, please don’t say that, it’s such a turn off,’ I said, fumbling my shirt buttons closed like a housewife caught cheating with the window cleaner. ‘And I don’t want distracting, I want you to take me seriously.’ I regretted my words as hurt spread over his face. We hadn’t ‘got jiggy’ for weeks as he was so intent on training, and depriving himself of carbohydrates so as not to raise his body fat percentage made him a little bit grumpy. ‘Sorry,’ I said, softening my voice. ‘I’m just a bit preoccupied.’
‘It’s fine.’ His gaze slipped past me to the plate of shortbread on the worktop, lips tightening as if he was trying not to salivate. ‘I haven’t got much time, anyway.’
‘I’m sure you could spare ten minutes,’ I said, aiming for a playful tone. ‘Five?’
He looked at his watch, and seemed to make a mental calculation. ‘Go on then,’ he said, as if squeezing in a last-minute work client. ‘I’ll have a shower and wait for you in the bedroom.’
As he bounded upstairs, my mind flipped back to the bakery, and I released an unsteady breath that had a lot less to do with sexual longing, and everything to do with the notion that maybe – just maybe – I could tu
rn around its fortunes and resurrect my old job.
‘Oh, and Meg,’ Sam called from the landing. ‘Mum was wondering which song we’re going to have as our first dance.’
My mind went blank. Did we have a special song? We must have a special song; all couples had one. ‘What did you tell her?’ I called back.
‘I said I’d ask you.’
Great. ‘I’ll have a think about it.’ Why didn’t we have a special song?
‘Oh, Meg, shouldn’t you be slowing down, not going on TV?’
‘Mum, I’m thirty, not seventy, and why do I need to slow down?’ As if I didn’t know. She was in the corner of her sofa, cradling baby Milo, giving me pointed looks over his fuzzy-haired head.
‘I was reading somewhere that stress can affect the reproductive system.’
Here we go. She’d been thumbing through The Baby-Making Bible again, partially hidden behind a jade figurine of a horse on her bookshelf. ‘I’ve got plenty of time, Mum. I’ve told you, we’re not even going to try until after the wedding.’
‘Give her a break, Rose, she’s going to be famous.’ From beside her, Kath gave Mum’s knee a gentle shove. ‘About time she got proper recognition for those cakes of hers.’
‘This is what’s important, not being famous.’ Mum glanced down at Milo, a mushy smile on her face, and I half-wished I hadn’t popped round while Sam was out training, but I’d been too hyped up to stay at home – just as I’d been too excited to join Sam in the bedroom after his shower. Luckily, he’d taken it cold and hadn’t seemed to mind.
‘This is what it’s all about.’ Mum hunched over the snoozing baby as one of his tiny hands curled around her finger. ‘Isn’t he precious?’
Kath was looking after her grandson again – fortunately (depending how you looked at it) the discount clothing shop where she’d worked had recently closed down so she was out of a job – while Freya caught up on some ‘beauty sleep’, and they were clearly relishing every second; Mum, no doubt, wishing he was mine.