But I Said Forever

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  I shudder inwardly. I tried that, pre-James. A load of women sitting around, playing one-upmanship and achieving absolutely nothing that I could see. Maybe the local groups are better, but I’m not inclined to take the risk.

  “It’s only a month’s trial, anyway,” I say. “It might not come to anything.”

  “By the end of the month, you’ll be glad to quit. You’re not likely to find anything of interest in a place like that.” He goes over to the en suite. “I’m going to have a quick shower. Don’t wait up.”

  I roll over. “Goodnight.”

  “Sleep tight,” he says, like I’m a five-year-old.

  I try to sleep, but I have to get up and put his dirty clothes in the basket before I can.

  Even after order is restored, I lie awake for a long time, thinking about the gap between what I expected from my marriage and what I actually have, and wondering if it’s normal for it to be quite so large.

  Chapter 2

  I’m outside the bakery before eight the next morning. Hair tied back, a cool-but-modest floral sundress and sensible shoes on, a bag full of spare clothes by my side, nails neatly trimmed (they weren’t excessive anyway - having James knocked the inch-long nails on the head) and heart pounding so loud I’m in danger of going deaf. I don’t remember ever being this scared before - I wasn’t this scared on my wedding day. Although, that was mainly because I was busy trying to keep all Phillip’s relations straight in my mind, and dealing with my sister’s increasingly desperate efforts to pull everyone’s focus.

  Before long, I see Kristine striding towards me.

  “Zack will already be here,” she says as she approaches. “But, for heaven’s sake, don’t disturb him. Take your things upstairs and stuff them in a locker. I’ll be back in five minutes - I have to run to the chemist for some more nicotine patches. I’m almost out again and you don’t want to see me without one.”

  “Okay,” is all I have time for before she sweeps past me.

  I take a deep breath, push open the door - making the starfish chimes jangle - and make my way into the bakery. The moment I step through the door to the stairs, the décor goes from bright colours and cute decorations to ripped wallpaper and grubby paintwork. My fingers instantly start itching. I don’t like dirt, or mess - which, come to think of it, is another reason why full-time motherhood is stressful for me. And that I could have predicted. Oh, well.

  The staff room holds a tall bank of lockers, a solid-looking sofa and a scratched table. A door leads off it to the toilet, which I strongly suspect I’m going to end up cleaning. My bag of clothes and handbag go in a battered locker. Kristine has left a padlock, key and an apron with the bakery’s logo on it on the sofa. I hesitantly put the apron on. I’d like to see how I look, but there’s no mirror handy.

  I hear the door chimes jangle and realize there’s an intercom up here too. I quickly secure my locker, thread my key onto the chain around my neck and hurry downstairs.

  “Badge,” Kristine greets me, holding one out. “For now your name’s only taped on. I’ll get a proper one made up if you last the month.”

  I wish she would stop saying that. I’m nervous enough as it is. It takes me several tries to pin my badge onto my apron.

  “Once Abby gets in we’ll hash out your hours and I’ll go through stuff with you, but for now go find something to clean while I slap half a dozen of these patches on Zack and see what needs doing in the kitchen. I hope you’re a fast learner because it’s tourist season and having me out front all the time means we’re struggling.”

  She slips into the kitchen and I’m alone again.

  I retrieve anti-bacterial spray from the cupboard and start cleaning the display cabinets. Cleaning always calms me. My big sister, Mel, says I have OCD because I can’t stay in her flat for more than ten minutes without grabbing a cloth. I hope her boyfriend realizes he’ll have to hire a maid when they finally get married. Mel might dress up as one, but that’s as close as she’s going to get.

  The door chimes jangle again and I look up to see a pretty, chubby teenage girl with gorgeous dark curly hair coming in. She looks suddenly uncertain. “This is still For Goodness Cake, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think so. That is, yes, it is. I’m Brittany. I’m new.”

  “Oh, okay then!” She gives me a big grin. “I thought I’d gone to the wrong bakery again! I’m Abby, I’m old.” She giggles. “Well, not that old. Is Krissy here?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Oh, I’ll go and say hello.”

  I open my mouth to warn her off, but then close it again. She’s obviously been here a while. Perhaps Zack has graciously granted her permission to enter his domain.

  She disappears into the kitchen as I take up my cloth again. A moment later she bounces out again, accompanied by a roar of, “… and stay out!”

  She giggles. “He’s so silly!”

  Not the word I would have chosen.

  Kristine reappears. “Abby, remember that discussion we had about the kitchen?”

  “About the buns?”

  “About not going in there.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Do I need to put a sign on the door?”

  She looks confused. “There is a sign on the door. It says, ‘Staff Only’.”

  “Not that one. One only for you.”

  “Oh, that would be nice. Can I put stickers on it? And glitter?”

  Kristine rolls her eyes at me. “Go and put your apron on.”

  “Okay, Krissy!”

  “And, for the final time, don’t call me Krissy!”

  Abby disappears upstairs, humming merrily. Kristine turns to me. “That was Abby. She’s here because the customers like her and because nothing Zack says to her sinks in. It’s my theory that she’s suffered some form of brain damage. She knows what she’s doing, but save any questions for me.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling a bit dazed.

  Kristine walks over to the door and flips the sign around to tell the world that For Goodness Cake is now open for business.

  Help.

  By afternoon, my head feels more stuffed than the apple turnovers we sell - as if Kristine has lifted the top off my skull and tried to pour every detail about the running of the bakery straight into my brain. I’m convinced that every other fact I’ve ever learnt has dribbled out of my ears to make space for it all.

  It hasn’t helped that the bakery has been packed all day. Apparently, there’s some sort of event going on and tourists are flooding into town.

  The intercom buzzes.

  “Brittany, go to the kitchen and get the trays from Zack,” Kristine says, ringing up another purchase. “I can’t leave the till.”

  “Um…”

  “Abby’s still at lunch, so it’s either that or take the till yourself.”

  I go cold. I don’t want to be in charge of the money. Not when I can barely remember what comes after three.

  “Go, go, go!”

  I hurry to the back of the bakery, but stop outside the kitchen door. I thought I wasn’t supposed to go in here?

  I gently push the door open.

  “Out!”

  I jump back and let it swing closed. It opens again a second later and Zack holds out a tray of baked goods. “Stay out of the kitchen!” he snaps, glaring at me. “Come to the door and knock. Surely you’ve got enough brain cells to remember that?”

  I just about manage to grab the tray before he lets go. The door falls closed against it and I nearly drop it. I steady myself, blinking back tears. Why does he have to be so rude? It’s my first day, I have massive information overload and I feel wiped out. I don’t know why I ever thought getting a job was a good idea.

  I carry the tray carefully back to the counter and unload the contents into the display cabinet as neatly as I can with shaking hands.

  “What’s the matter, B?” Abby asks, coming back in from her lunch break.

  I come close to hugging her. With her back, I’m off
kitchen duty. “I tried to go into the kitchen.”

  She giggles. “Oh, Zacky’s being so silly, isn’t he? Don’t worry! He’s threatened to kill me loads of times this week and he hasn’t done it once.”

  How comforting.

  “Aw, come here.” Suddenly, I’m snuggled against her chest. At first, I feel horribly awkward hugging someone I’ve only just met, but then I decide to enjoy it. It seems like a long time since I’ve been properly hugged. James doesn’t really count, since our snuggles are one-sided. And Abby is wonderfully cuddly.

  Kristine raps on the counter with her knuckles. “Working, please.”

  “But B needs some love.”

  “Well, she’s had it now, so back to work.”

  Abby releases me. I smile awkwardly. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, anytime. I love hugging, don’t you? I don’t think people hug enough. Maybe I should start hugging the customers.”

  “Not if you want to keep working here.”

  “Do you need some love too?”

  Kristine gives Abby a dirty look. “Not from you, thank you.”

  Abby is still smiling.

  “Doesn’t it bother you when people talk to you like that?” I ask, when Kristine has popped upstairs.

  “Like what?” Abby asks.

  “I think I need a drink,” I tell Carly, when I get home. I go down on hands and knees and crawl across the marble-tiled lounge floor to James, who thinks this is hilarious.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Not bad, just… overwhelming.”

  At least Carly has tidied the place, so I won’t have to race around cleaning up.

  I collapse on the rug next to James. He rakes his fingernails down my face.

  “Ow!”

  “Oops, sorry. I meant to cut those this afternoon.”

  “I think that particular hateful task is one of mine,” I say, touching the delicate area under my eye, which is smarting. “It’s easiest when he’s asleep.”

  “True.”

  “Well, I have hours. We’re closed Tuesday and I’m off Wednesdays and Friday afternoons.” I sigh. “It’s only a month, anyway.”

  “But you’ll probably get taken on for longer.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be.”

  “It’s only your first day. On my first day of nannying, I swear the baby cried non-stop. I tried everything I’d been taught and nothing worked. By the evening, I was ready to quit and go home. But then he came down with the measles overnight, so it turned out it wasn’t my fault at all. You’ll be fine. Give it a week and you’ll wonder what you were worried about.”

  “I really hope you’re right.”

  She is. By the end of my first week, things don’t seem so overwhelming and I’ve learned a lot. Like what brand of nicotine patches Kristine and Zack use, because she sent me out to buy more. And how much this place needed someone who likes cleaning (not that it was dirty, but… well, a bakery can’t be too clean). And... I like it here. I love the painted driftwood panelling on the walls, the fisherman lights and the smell of baked goods all the time. Even if it does make healthy eating a challenge. Every day Zack produces a spread that makes my mouth water: éclairs dipped in chocolate and oozing cream, Danish pastries glistening with sugar glaze and overflowing with jam, fluffy cupcakes almost collapsing under lashings of butter icing, and a rich, sticky chocolate fudge cake Mel might actually move down here for. He clearly loves cakes, even if he doesn’t like people.

  Kristine is demanding, but not unreasonable. And, so long as I knock and wait at the kitchen door, Zack just hands me trays of food and disappears back inside. The customers are (usually) friendly and there are tons of regulars, which must say something. During quiet periods, I’ve cleaned some of the upstairs and everything downstairs. If Kristine is to be believed, even Zack made an appreciative comment.

  “I think I might go along to this taster session for nail design,” Abby says, peering at the summer prospectus for the local college, which someone has left behind. “That sounds like fun. I think my brother’s got some in the cupboard.”

  “Fingernails,” I say, suppressing a smile. “Not wood nails.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, I see! That’s even more fun.”

  Kristine is definitely right about the brain damage.

  When she’s finished with it, I flick through the prospectus myself. Maybe it would be fun to take a course. The tasters are only one or two days, after all. I could even do something related to the job. I like cooking and the people I’ve cooked for seemed appreciative. Well, except James, but I think that’s normal.

  Cake decoration - that would be good. I went to a fair a while back where there was a competition and some of the designs were amazing. Before James was born, I used to mess around with icing sometimes. I made and decorated a cake for his christening, but Phillip didn’t feel it looked “professional” enough and ordered one in.

  I feel a rush of nerves, mixed with something like pride. Look at me. I have a job and I might go back to school – sort of.

  I expect most 23-year-olds wouldn’t be impressed by a job in a shop and a day-long course, but they’re a big deal to me. I live the life my parents dreamed of for me - a housewife, married to a doctor (from a wealthy and generous family to boot). I was raised to it - right from when Dad got me a bridal Barbie when I wanted a workbench. And it gets inside your head, without you even noticing. The prospect of any other life starts to seem… silly. Fanciful. Impossible.

  I feel like a rebel. I’m a working mum. I’m sure my dad has sworn in a rant about them.

  And, finally, I feel like I’m making something of my life.

  Chapter 3

  The following Monday, however, I get home to find James in an appalling mood.

  “Remember that story I told you about my first day on the job?” Carly asks, as she hands him over. “Well, it’s been a day like that. I’m positive he’s sickening for something.”

  I instantly start checking him over. “What symptoms has he got? Is there a rash? Is he vomiting?”

  Maybe I should call Phillip. Even if he will moan about me calling him at work.

  “No rash, no vomiting. He’s got a temperature and he’s rejected all his solids today, but he’s still drinking milk and he’s not dangerously hot, so I don’t think we need to panic. I’ve given him some paracetamol and I reckon we’ll have a better idea by morning what he’s got.”

  I kiss James’s head as he screams in my ear and try to rally my strength for a long night ahead. Thank goodness I’ve got two days off.

  “Do you want me to stay and help?” Carly asks. “We can do half the night each if you like?”

  As tempting as it sounds, I shake my head. “No. I’ll never be able to sleep anyway. I never can when he’s sick.”

  “Then I’ll call round in the morning and see if you need respite care.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling the tension between my shoulders ease just a little. “That would be wonderful. You really don’t have to, though. It’s your time off, after all.”

  “It’s no problem. Aunty Brenda is staying with Mum this week, and it’s hard enough caring for a sick baby all day, without having to do it all night as well. Honestly, I don’t know how you mothers manage.”

  I bet she has no idea how good her words make me feel.

  By Tuesday morning, it’s obvious that James has chicken pox. He is one cranky, itchy baby. On Thursday morning, after Carly has finally convinced me that she can manage, I plaster six layers of concealer under my eyes and yawn my way through the bus journey into town. We have a second car, but I’ve left it for Carly just in case. Phillip has attitude about buses – he seems to think there’s nothing between the local service and the night bus to Brixton – but there’s no need for him to know.

  Abby is waiting outside, flipping her hair at a man standing with her. He’s in his mid twenties, tall and skinny, with slightly straggly dirty blonde hair. Not ugly, but definitely not bless
ed in the looks department.

  “Hi, B,” she waves as I approach. “This is Toby.”

  She takes his arm as she speaks. He doesn’t appear to mind. “Hi, er… B.”

  “Brittany,” I say, smiling at him.

  “Toby’s here because it’s Thursday.”

  “I’m the swing cook. I fill in on Zack’s day off.” He smiles awkwardly. “So, you can come and explore the forbidden realm if you like.”

  “I’ve said it before, Toby,” Kristine says, striding up behind us and unlocking the door, “and I’ll say it again. Zack’s kitchen, Zack’s rules. X-nay on the guided tours.”

  Toby shrinks back and Abby pats his arm as we follow Kristine into the bakery.

  “I love Thursdays,” Abby says happily, switching on the cappuccino machine with a flourish as Toby and Kristine vanish into the kitchen.

  “Because Toby’s here?” I ask, giving her a friendly nudge.

  She goes a lovely shade of pink, which compliments her farm-fresh milkmaid look. “Oh, it’s not like that. He’s not my boyfriend or anything.”

  “But…?”

  “But he’s so gorgeous,” she sighs. “Way out of my league.”

  Well, they do say love is blind.

  “I wouldn’t say so. Although he’s quite a bit older.”

  She blinks. “Is he?”

  “Less yakking, more working,” Kristine says, coming back. “There’s all the cold stuff Zack made last night to put out and we’re running late, so go, go, go.”

  The morning crawls by. I manage to limit myself to only running upstairs three times to phone Carly, who assures me that James is showing nothing more than the usual symptoms.

  “I’ve done this before,” she says calmly, while soothing a crying James. “I know what to look for. It’s paracetamol, calamine lotion and baking soda baths until he feels better. Though I’m afraid I have had to gaffer tape his scratch mitts on. Nothing else worked.”