by Julie Caplin
Poor girl deserved more than the current palimpsest of sticky rings of Prosecco and crumbs of Monster Munch (Mel’s favourite) littering its surface. Grabbing a pair of scissors, Sophie advanced on the balloon and with a satisfying snip cut it down. She’d done the right thing turning Angela’s offer down. The thought of taking over Brandi’s desk on the other side of the Atlantic was far too much of a terrifying prospect. And poor Brandi coming here. To a strange city. All on her own. Sophie almost shuddered. Maybe she should make her some cookies, big fat squidgy ones with lots of chunky chocolate to welcome her and make her feel at home. And coffee. Americans did coffee big time. Perhaps a little welcome to England pack. An A-Z of London. An umberella. A …
‘Earth to Soph. How do you spell clafoutis?’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’ She tugged the balloon down and punctured it with her scissors.
‘Well done,’ said Ella, the other cookery writer on CityZen. ‘I meant to do that. Well I thought about it. And how do you spell clafoutis? I can never remember.’
Sophie reeled off the spelling and sat down at her desk opposite Ella.
‘What did Angela want? You in trouble?’
Sophie shook her head still slightly bemused at the suggestion she went to work on CityZen’s sister publication in Manhattan. If she told Ella she’d never hear the end of it.
‘How was your weekend?’ Ella screwed up her face. ‘Oh for feck’s sake, spell check’s changed it to clawfoot. Can you spell it again for me? I went to that new French place in Stoke Newington. A bit of a trek but … oh, how was Le Gavroche on Saturday? Oh … no, he didn’t.’
Sophie winced and summoned up a blithe smile. ‘Unfortunately, we didn’t get there. His mum was ill.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud, the woman’s always ill.’
‘She can’t help it,’ Sophie protested, ignoring the inner bitch that agreed whole-heartedly. Was it wrong to wish Mrs Soames could time being unwell just a tad more conveniently? ‘And it was an emergency this time. Blue lighted to hospital. Poor James spent all night in A&E waiting for news.’
With a scowl Ella said, ‘You are too bloody nice. And far too damn forgiving. He doesn’t deserve you.’
‘I wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t so nice. How many men do you know that put their family first?’
Ella pursed her pale pink sparkly lips. It looked as if she’d been pillaging the beauty editor’s cupboard again. ‘True. Greg forgot Mother’s Day, my birthday and our anniversary.’
Sophie wanted to roll her eyes but refrained. Greg barely remembered anything but his next five aside football fixture.
‘You’re such a brilliant cook,’ said James putting down his knife and fork. Sophie nodded, rather pleased with the way her Massaman curry had turned out, sweet and spicy with just the right amount of heat and the potatoes not too soft and not too firm.
They were sitting in her spacious kitchen, with a candle burning between them. Mondays were her favourite night of the week when she would cook a special meal because she knew James had been running around after his mother all weekend. He lived with her three days of the week and stayed at Sophie’s flat the other four. Sophie suspected Mrs Soames wasn’t really that unwell but just liked having her son at home. And who could blame her.
‘I should marry you one day.’ He winked and picked up his wine glass, swirling the ruby red liquid and sniffing with appreciation. As well he might, it was a very nice Australian Merlot that she’d tracked down on the recommendation of the wine writer at work and had cost a small fortune.
‘You should,’ she replied, her heart bumping uncomfortably. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. And she’d thought on Saturday, at Le Gavroche, the second anniversary of their first date … well she’d hoped …
‘So how was work today?’ That was the lovely thing about James, he was always interested.
‘Remember I told you Mel left on Friday. She broke her leg. Can’t go to New York now.’ Sophie hesitated, and laughed. ‘Angela offered me her place.’
‘What – to go to New York?’ James looked alarmed.
‘Don’t worry, I turned it down. I wouldn’t leave you.’
James smiled and patted her hand, ‘If you really wanted to go, I wouldn’t have minded.’ He paused and then pulled her hand to his lips. ‘But I would have missed you dreadfully, darling. I’d hate it if you went away.’
Sophie got up and wrapped her arms around him, glad that she’d not given too much credence to Angela’s flattery. She would love to go there one day. Maybe she and James could go together. A honeymoon perhaps.
James turned and nuzzled her neck. ‘Early night? I’m knackered. Driving back from Cornwall is such a killer.’
‘I just need to tidy up.’ Sophie gave the utensil strewn kitchen a quick look, wishing she hadn’t made quite so much mess and that James wasn’t always so tired but she could hardly ask him to help when he’d just driven over two hundred miles.
And she really couldn’t complain, how many people her age had a kitchen like this? Or lived in a palatial flat in Kensington? Dad had insisted. It would have been mean to say no, she loved him to bits but that didn’t mean she was going to let him help her find a job (have a word with someone on the board), or send her to an expensive private school (she was already settled in the local comprehensive) and it just didn’t feel right using the title.
By the time she’d wiped all the surfaces down, loaded the dishwasher and washed the wine glasses and went into the double bedroom, with its king-size bed, James was sound asleep and the room in darkness. He never remembered to leave a bedside light on for her. Quietly, she undressed and slipped into bed beside him, snuggling in but there was no response. Poor thing was exhausted. Dead to the world. She smiled and pushed his floppy fringe from his forehead. He was a good man. Looking after his mother without a complaint. Sophie closed her eyes. She was so lucky. Who needed New York?
Running late, see you there. And it’s my day off but love that you’re so loyal Kx
Sophie smiled at the text, her friend Kate was even worse than she was, always trying to cram too much in and she could bet her last pound that Kate had stayed overnight at her boyfriend Ben’s last night, which was the real reason she was running late. They were still in that loved up, passion boiling over, can’t bear not to touch each other all the time phase. Not that Sophie could quite recall anything like that with her and James. Theirs had been a much gentler, soft landing into love rather than a plunge off the cliff-edge fall. Sophie wasn’t sure she’d know how to deal with that sort of fiery sexual chemistry. It wasn’t her style at all and part of her wondered if it wasn’t a tiny bit selfish. Shouldn’t love be gentle, embracing and warm? Something that grew with nourishment and care. Although Kate’s happiness and joie de vivre was heart-warming and when Ben suddenly narrowed his eyes while looking at Kate, she couldn’t deny the intensity of his look gave her goose-bumps.
As she waited for her Cappuccino, listening to the industrial hiss of the espresso machine operated by one of the Saturday girls, she gave the Danish pastries a second look. She shouldn’t but they looked so delicious. Nope, it was no good; she couldn’t possibly resist the cinnamon rolls.
Balancing a plate in one hand, the cup in the other and trying to keep her shoulder straight so her bag didn’t slip off and bash any of the tables she managed to weave her way through vacant chairs to her favourite spot in the corner, looking out onto the busy street.
Unfortunately, her usual table was taken by a tired looking woman with a young baby who was squeaking with indignation, her big blue eyes flashing outrage as she waved a plastic spoon at the pot of yoghurt her mother held just out of reach in one hand. Sophie could see why the pot was out of the danger zone, the little girl had already managed to smear most of it into her hair and her mother was trying to clean her up, with her spare hand. From where Sophie stood it looked more like octopus wrestling.
She sat down at the adjacent
table watching their antics with a gentle smile and was about to turn away when the young woman looked up and shot her a vicious glare, her mouth pinched tight in sneering disgust.
Taking a far too hasty gulp of hot coffee, which burnt its way down into her stomach, Sophie looked away shocked by the fierce, direct hatred which made her feel almost as if she’d been physically assaulted. She took a couple of deep steadying breaths. The poor woman was probably just very stressed, it wasn’t personal. Plastering a smile on her face, she took a more measured sip of coffee and looked over at the woman, hoping that a reassuring, friendly face might make the woman feel a bit better.
Whoa, she got that wrong. If anything, the spite on the woman’s face intensified, wrinkles fanning out around her lips like an ancient walnut and she was dabbing angrily at the child’s face, the wipes in her hand flying like sheets in the wind.
It was impossible not to feel the woman’s distress. Sophie hesitated for a second, she couldn’t ignore the poor woman, who was clearly very unhappy.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Sophie with a tentative smile, feeling as if she were attempting to reason with a lioness.
‘Am I alright?’ spat the woman, as the little girl began to wail and then her face crumpled, falling in on itself, the anger and spite replaced by pure misery. ‘Oh Emma, baby.’ She scooped the little girl up, sticky fingers and all, and hugged her to her body, rubbing her back. ‘There. There. Mummy’s sorry.’
Sophie felt the slight pang of envy and the very merest tightening in her womb. One day.
The little girl held on tight to her mother and stopped crying, lunging with sudden glee towards the yoghurt pot. Her mother smiled, resigned and shook her head. ‘You pickle.’ She pressed a soft kiss on the top of the child’s candyfloss soft curls and put her on her lap moving the yoghurt in front of them, giving her the spoon.
With a calm measured look, although her eyes were still full of anger and dislike, the woman stared back at Sophie. ‘You asked if I was alright?’ Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, her head tilted defiantly.
‘Yes, did you want a hand? It looks like hard work.’ Sophie smiled at the little girl who seemed a lot happier now. ‘She’s gorgeous. Although I don’t envy you the mess. Do you want me to get you some more napkins or anything?’
‘Gorgeous and mine,’ said the woman looking alarmed, wrapping a protective arm across the little girl’s chest.
‘Yes,’ said Sophie warily, surely this woman didn’t think she was a child-snatcher or something.
‘Although that doesn’t bother you, does it, Sophie? Sharing things?’ The woman’s tone turned weary and her shoulders slumped, an expression of pain darting across her face.
Sophie’s smile froze into place, something about the woman’s tone suggested she should have some inkling of what was going on here. How did she know her name?
‘I was just trying to help.’ She regretted even making eye contact now.
‘You? Help?’ The woman let out a bitter laugh. ‘I think you’ve helped enough. Helped yourself to my husband.’
‘Sorry?’ Sophie’s hand stilled as she paused about to take another sip of coffee. She’d had a lifetime of hearing similar accusations, from her half-sister about her own mother.
‘Are you proud of yourself? Miss Rich Bitch with your flat in Kensington and Daddy’s country estate in Sussex. I looked you up. Lady Sophie Benning.’
Sophie’s mouth dropped open. This woman had done her homework. None of her colleagues at work had any idea. She kept her passport well out of sight from prying eyes. In fact, Kate was the only one that had seen it and at the time, she’d been professional enough not to say a word.
‘I don’t use-’ she protested automatically because she always did, but the woman interrupted.
‘Nice cushy life. No wonder James would rather spend half his life with you. No washing hanging everywhere. No babies crying in the night.’
‘James?’ Sophie stiffened. Even as she opened her mouth, she knew her words sounded like every last cliché in the book. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
‘James Soames. My husband. Lives in London four nights, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Comes home to his wife and daughter in Newbury Friday to Monday.’
‘But he goes to Cornwall.’ Sophie’s legs felt leaden as if she were weighted into her seat. ‘He’s in Cornwall now.’
‘No, he’s not, you stupid cow. He’s mowing the lawn at 47 Fantail Lane in Newbury and then he’s going to build a swing for Emma.’
Coming Soon from Julie Caplin
Grab your passports and get ready to fall in love all over again with…
The Little Brooklyn Bakery
Acknowledgements
A humungous thank you to the flaxen haired, should-have-been-a-Viking-princess, Charlotte Ledger who first suggested Copenhagen as a destination. Her passion and enthusiasm for this project has been utterly heart-warming and she deserves a pile of cashmere blankets. Ever grateful thanks to brilliant Broo Doherty, for her wisdom, support and general all-round fabulousness (especially when I’m having one of those, I’m completely rubbish at this, sort of days).
A big thank you to Katie Young, Bristol based PR star, who very kindly shared all things Copenhagen and directed me to some of the city’s finest haunts, as well as some amazing restaurants and bars.
Particular thanks to the lovely Katie Fforde for her ever-generous support, encouragement and cover quotes. If you ever have to spend three hours in a tiny BBC radio booth, Katie’s definitely the person to do it with.
And last but not least the awesome pods at Heathrow that transport you Star Wars style from the car park to Terminal 5. Possibly the best start to a trip ever!
About the Author
Julie Caplin is addicted to travel and good food. She’s on a constant hunt for the perfect gin and is obsessively picky about glasses, tonic and garnishes. Between regular gin tastings, she’s been writing her novel which is set in just one of the many cities she’s explored over the years.
Formerly a PR director, for many years she swanned around Europe taking top food and drink writers on press trips (junkets) sampling the gastronomic delights of various cities in Italy, France, Belgium, Spain, Copenhagen and Switzerland. It was a tough job but someone had to do it. These trips have provided the inspiration and settings for the trilogy, The Little Café in Copenhagen, The Little Brooklyn Bakery and The Little Paris Patisserie.
Julie also writes as Jules Wake and her latest novel Covent Garden in the Snow is a kindle bestseller.
@JulieCaplin
www.facebook.com/JulieCaplinAuthor
About HarperImpulse
HarperImpulse is an innovative, award-winning digital imprint. In the four years since launch, we have continually hit digital bestseller lists, hosted the UK’s first online romance festival, published into over ten countries and grown an exciting stable of commercial women’s fiction authors.
Readers, come and say hi to the team and your next read…
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Writers, our vision is to publish the very best in digital-first commercial women’s fiction and we are simply looking for good stories! So, what are you waiting for? To submit, e-mail us at [email protected].
About the Publisher
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