Pru and Milly were in the sitting room. It had been rather a long day and both were looking forward to an early night. It was only late April, but the unseasonably sticky London night air was so thick you could stir it with a spoon. Milly had thankfully ditched her tiger suit and was wearing cool cotton PJs. The sash windows were open and the French doors in Pru’s bedroom that led to the little Juliet balcony were thrown wide, yet hardly a breeze crept in.
Pru stood and fanned her face with a copy of a glossy bridal magazine that Bobby had left on the floor. ‘I think I’ll turn in, Mills.’ She stretched her arms over her head, instantly regretting the pull on her shoulder muscles. ‘Oh I’m getting old!’ she grumbled, and arched her back and dropped her chin into her chest, trying to fix her aches.
The front doorbell buzzed in their hallway.
‘Who’s that at this time of night?’
‘How do I know, Milly? What am I, psychic?’
Pru trod the pale, carpeted stairs and slid the bolts, untwisting the double lock before opening the door on to its security chain. This happened on occasion. Living on a busy street meant they were prey to the occasional drunk and prank doorbell ringer, both of whom she found particularly unhilarious. Through the crack beneath the door chain she saw neither a drunk nor a dandy in a dinner jacket with grinning mates standing behind. Instead, she stared, wide-eyed with surprise, into the face of Sir Christopher Heritage. He stood close to the door; the toes of his shoes rested on the polished brass step and his hands were buried in his trouser pockets. Pru fumbled with the chain and released it.
‘Actually, I lied to you,’ he said.
‘What?’ Pru’s heart thudded as much at seeing him again as at the prospect of an unpleasant revelation.
‘I do know why I talk to my late wife. I talk to her because I’m lonely and it makes it slightly better to think that I can still tell her about my day and what’s going through my head. There’s no one else for me to talk to. And you’re right, it makes me feel that she’s still around in some way.’ He was almost gabbling now. Pru had to concentrate hard to keep up. ‘And when you left, I wasn’t wondering about your route home, I was wondering if I could see you again, but I lost my nerve and I’ve been kicking myself ever since. It’s been over forty years since I’ve had to say something like that and I’m rather out of practice.’
Pru beamed. She’d caught every word. ‘Well, for someone that’s four decades out of practice, you seem to be doing rather well.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
‘So, what I wanted to say was, can I see you again, Pru Plum, Chief Whip?’
‘Are you asking me out?’
‘Yes. Yes I am.’ This time he sounded confident.
‘When?’
Christopher sighed and looked up and down Curzon Street. ‘Now. Right now. Let’s go wandering in the park and continue our chat. That is if you’re free. It’ll be nice and cool in the park.’
Pru exhaled. ‘Well, there is a cup of cocoa with my name on it, a plate of hazelnut shortbread and a pillow awaiting my tired head, but I guess they’ll keep.’
She wished she hadn’t rubbed at her eye make-up and removed her lipstick while she’d watched the telly. It was too late to reapply; he would just have to take her as she was. She felt a swell of excitement rush through her, banishing the tiredness that had gripped her only minutes earlier.
‘I better go and get some shoes!’ She wiggled her bare toes.
‘Yes, sensible walking shoes, not those silly high ones you carried around for half the day; they were more useful as gloves! And you might want to lose that magazine, could give a chap the wrong idea.’ He loosened his collar with his index finger to let out imaginary steam.
She giggled at the Brides magazine in her hand. It felt rather like he was being bossy, looking after her, and she liked it.
Christopher barely had time to admire Guy’s latest window display before Pru reappeared beside him, suitably shod. They walked along Curzon Street, keeping at least a foot of pavement between them. Christopher gripped his hands behind his back as they strolled and Pru wondered if this was to stop him reaching for her hand. Her stomach lurched at the idea.
‘I didn’t expect to see you,’ she offered.
‘Oh, really? I knew I’d see you.’ He winked.
‘Did you?’ She felt her chest cave with anticipation.
‘Yes, definitely. We had such a lovely time in Oxford. I would have come sooner had I been in London.’
Would have come sooner… ‘Have you been away then?’
Christopher stopped and turned to look at her. ‘Yes. Do you not listen to or watch Parliament?’
‘No. It’s not really my thing.’ She smiled.
‘Not your thing? Well it should be your thing; it should be everyone’s thing! If you don’t listen and watch how your country is being governed, you might miss something of great importance.’
‘Ooh dear, I don’t want to miss anything of great importance.’
‘Exactly. Plus it’s my job and I have a regular speaking slot. So it might be nice for you to take some interest.’ He feigned hurt. ‘I mean, can you imagine if I said cakes were not my thing?’
‘Are cakes not your thing?’
‘Dammit!’ he boomed. ‘Yes, cakes are my thing. I love them! However, had you been tuned in, you would have known that I have been up to my neck in beer, cold sausage and debate in Berlin.’
‘And not avoiding me.’
‘Avoiding you? Perish the thought.’
The two chuckled into the warm night air. Their conversation and demeanour were so relaxed that no onlooker would have guessed it was only the second time they’d met. They crossed Piccadilly and meandered through Green Park and across The Mall, until they found themselves in St James’s Park. They strolled along the winding path, disturbing ducks that hovered on one leg trying to sleep, and ignoring lovers who sat entwined on benches. They found themselves on the bridge, where they leant on the pale blue railings. The sky had started to lose its colour and the trees took on ominous shadowy shapes. They heard but could barely see the swans that broke the surface of the water with beating wings and honks of arrival. Other couples, indistinct in the half light, walked arm in arm without giving them a second glance. Pru beamed into the encroaching darkness. She felt connected to these dreamy-eyed couples, like they were all in the same secret club.
‘This is my favourite place in the whole of London.’ He inhaled a deep, appreciative breath.
‘Mine too!’ And if it wasn’t before, it would be now.
‘We’re lucky, aren’t we, to live in the middle of a city and have this green space on our doorstep.’
‘We are. I’ve never lived anywhere else, mind, always London, so I haven’t really got anything to compare it with.’
‘Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. A snapshot from the day she’d moved to Kenway Road flashed into her head. Relocating from her childhood home in Bow to Earls Court had felt like a big adventure, another world. As if she had crossed oceans and not in fact less than ten miles, door to door. She remembered looking out from the sixth-floor window at the washing lines, hidden windows and secret gardens that were only visible at that height; it had felt peculiarly intimate. In this vast city, she’d thought to herself with a little jolt of pleasure, where millions of strangers co-existed without ever interacting, she would know who washed their bed linen and when because she would see it arching against the breeze.
‘London’s in my blood,’ she continued. ‘I never take it for granted.’ She thought of the awe and excitement she felt each time she drove along the Embankment at night, along the curve of the river, with the buildings lit up on both sides and the different bridges. ‘For me it’s a city that gets more beautiful – the London Eye, the Shard. The skyline is constantly changing and that keeps my interest.’ She paused and waved her hand. ‘Sorry,
ignore me, I’m waffling.’
‘No, don’t apologise. It’s lovely to hear you being so positive. I spend my life replying to complaints from people who want things to stay exactly as they are, especially if any potential build might overlook their back garden. People don’t like change.’
‘Not all people.’
‘No, quite.’ He smiled at her. ‘Not all people. But I think most find change frightening, especially at our age.’
‘At our age? Oh my word, we sound ancient! It’s funny, I don’t think of myself as getting on; sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m quite shocked to see this old face staring back at me, because inside I feel the same as I always did. Having said which – at least I’m still standing! Getting old is a privilege, really, don’t you think?’
Christopher nodded, slowly. ‘Oh, I definitely do.’
Pru put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, Chris, I wasn’t thinking about Ginny. I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.’
‘Not at all, it’s fine!’ He put his hand on her arm.
She felt the shockwave from where he had touched her; it shot through her entire body. She was sure that if she looked, his fingers would have left a glowing imprint on her skin. She gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Gosh, you’re getting chilly now it’s dark. Come on, a brisk walk back should warm you up!’
This time she linked her arm through his and they strolled through the dark streets, grinning at each other at the end of what had turned out to be the most wonderful day.
They paused outside her front door.
‘This is very strange for me, Pru. I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was away. I feel like a schoolboy with one eye on the windows in case your angry father is twitching the net curtains.’
‘He’d be bloody angry if he was and understandably so. He’s been dead for over fifty years and being brought back to twitch net curtains would try the patience of anyone!’
Christopher laughed and looked at his shoes. ‘I would very much to see you again, if that’s okay?’
‘I’m not sure about that, I’ll have to ask my dad.’
‘In the same way that you’d ask your brother?’
‘Ha! Actually, no, I don’t talk to my dad in that way. That’s strange, isn’t it? Maybe I was too young to know him like I knew Alfie.’
‘What a funny pair we are.’
She smiled up at him. She liked being considered part of a pair.
Pru slipped into sleep with a grin on her face, but only a few hours later she was drenched in sweat, claimed by a horrible nightmare. She woke up suddenly and reached with a shaking hand for the glass of water that sat on the bedside table. She clicked on the lamp and sat up, trying to shake the dream from her head. It was the same one she always had, of a man with a puckered eye weeping a solitary tear. As the man blotted his face with a starched white handkerchief, Pru always felt a sense of terrible fear, as if a band were tightening around her chest. Only this time the fear was even greater, for someone else had featured in the dream.
‘Oh God, Alfie,’ she whispered, ‘I heard his horrible laugh and there he was, with his hand outstretched, introducing himself to Christopher—’ She broke off and breathed deeply. ‘It felt so real. I was rooted to the spot and even though I was trying to speak, no words would come out.’
Pru sank back against the pillows, her heart thumping, too scared to go back to sleep in case the dream was still lurking.
Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it and held it at arm’s length – her eyes were not that good in the early hours. It was a text from Christopher! She beamed at his words: Thanks for a lovely evening! Can’t sleep!
Pru replied with, Me too! x Then she wriggled down under the summer duvet, her face scarlet with embarrassment, instantly regretting the addition of a kiss. She lay under the covers until the dark filled every space inside her and her joy turned to something closer to panic. Her breath came in shallow pants. Slowly she peeled back the covers and sat up against the pillows. Her stomach lurched as she closed her eyes and imagined the moment, the conversation that she would have to have. Her bowels turned to ice. It wasn’t fair. This should be a happy time and yet for her it was like walking on a beautiful cliff edge – a cliff edge from where she was unable to admire the view or feel at peace because she knew that at some point she would have to jump. And that knowledge clouded everything. Maybe it would be easier to run in the opposite direction, avoiding the jump – and the view. Was she going to have to make that sacrifice just to keep hold of what she had?
Pru looked around her beautiful bedroom. She and Milly had worked so hard for all they had achieved and her success was the one thing that gave her happiness and confidence. The idea of it all coming crashing down around her was more than she could bear. She forced herself to think back to the first time they had seen the premises on Curzon Street, knowing the memory would distract and cheer her.
It had been Mills that had spotted the advert, running into the shop with a snippet of newspaper, which talked of a ‘neglected gem in the heart of Mayfair, in need of a little redecoration’. The description alone had been enough to set their pulses racing. The shop and upstairs flat they were renting on Argyll Street, a short stroll from Oxford Street, were small and they were fast outgrowing them. Pru wanted a café, shop and showroom as well as the bakery, and she had always known that Argyll Street would be only a stepping-stone. A useful place in which to build up their custom and save hard, until they had enough to move into the sort of premises they had always dreamed of.
The funds had been in place for a year and customers continued to flock to their doors, eager to get their hands on pain au froment, pain aux noix, beignets aux pommes, pain baguette and their world-famous, flour-dusted, crusty boules de pain. The pleasure of hearing the ping of the till and the rustle of stiff brown paper bags filled with fresh goods baked on site hadn’t waned and Pru knew that the right address and space could take Plum Patisserie to a whole other level.
Trudy, always wary of fanciful ideas that weren’t grounded in good practical common sense, had insisted on coming with them to look over the Curzon Street premises. While she bantered with the cab driver, Pru and Milly sat with faces pressed against the windows. They gazed at the grand façades of W1, at the hotels and corporate offices, and the specialist businesses that sat between them – Silvers Milliner’s, Tregowan’s Glove Shop and Bijoux the Chocolatier among them – each with a gleaming brass front step and a brightly painted sign suspended over the door. These were just the sort of establishments they wanted to emulate. Pru turned to Milly and grinned. The taxi pulled up on the corner of Curzon Street and Shepherd Market. The brakes had hardly been applied when Pru and Milly leapt from the back of the cab. They stood in the road, taking in the entire building. Pru looked up with her hand shielding her eyes, noting the deep-set windowsills, the sash windows, the sturdy brick construction and the heavy wood-panelled front door.
The building had been empty for the last few years. The family that owned it had closed shop on their pharmacy after fifty years in business. Remnants of their history, however, still lingered. A tall Georgian bow window held a large blue glass apothecary bottle with a pointed top and a slender glass stopper. The word ‘Chemist’ was written across the bulge of its body in a fancy gold script, just visible through the thick layer of dust that clung to it.
Inside the shop there was the faintest whiff of chemicals and in certain corners you could smell violets, possibly one of the scents they’d sold or maybe the calling card of a loitering ghost. Mirrored panels edged in brass sat high on the walls, tilted slightly to reflect the scenes below. Pru looked up into them with her teeth biting her bottom lip: she could see reflected the shelves stacked with bread, dark wooden bistro tables with chatting customers clustered around them and ladies lifting pastry forks towards expectant mouths. The old apothecary counter would be remodelled to carry their plates of tortes, meringues, sponges and pastries. And behind the counter, on s
helves also edged in brass, they would store the ornate boxes in which people would take home their wares.
As Pru looked at the crumbing plaster walls, which had taken on an orange hue, she saw vintage fruit baskets and fishermen’s woven willow panniers, in which they could display a selection of loaves. She raised her hand and, squinting, used her finger to outline the shape on the walls. Then she turned to Milly, who smiled and nodded.
‘Yes!’ Milly spoke as if answering a question. ‘With lavender sprigs interspersed in the weaving to give it a rustic feel.’
Pru laughed. The two of them had spent decades discussing and planning Plum Patisserie. No detail had been left to chance and so clear were they about their vision that they could both see it now clearly.
Milly patted the wall between the old dispensary and the shop. ‘With this wall gone—’
‘We’ll have the right floor space,’ Pru finished. ‘And we’ll keep the bow window—’
‘Use it like a display case for our most dramatic cakes!’
The cousins rushed towards each other and gripped hands, jumping in a circle like excited six-year-olds.
‘This is it, Mills,’ Pru managed to utter through lips that quivered with emotion.
‘Yes, Pru. This is it.’
Trudy watched the duo and wrinkled her nose at the intricate cobwebs that looped from the mirrors to the broken chandelier, whose vast arms whispered of former grandeur. She cast her eye over the dull green brass fixtures and tried to hide her distaste.
‘It’s nothing a good going over with some Brasso won’t fix, Trudy!’ Mills reassured her.
‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ Trudy rubbed her fingers together, trying to rid them of dust. ‘And let’s hope it also works on rotten woodwork, broken windows and mould.’ With that she flicked her head and reached for a cigar.
Pru and Milly laughed.
‘Don’t you see, Trudy? This is the place! It’s been waiting for us, waiting for us our whole lives.’ With these words, Pru finally gave in to the tears that had threatened.
Trudy took a deep drag. ‘Oh my God, you actually think that’s the case, don’t you?’
A Little Love Page 6