The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Or throw myself off a bridge,’ quipped Johnny.

  What? ‘Honestly, it’s not a big deal,’ Roxanne said, a shade too loudly as the DJ had misjudged the end of a track and the music stopped abruptly. ‘And of course I’d be here for Sean’s birthday.’

  ‘Well, you’re very stoical!’ Louie gushed.

  ‘You show them, Rox,’ Britt added. ‘You poor, poor thing. It’s so demeaning for you …’

  ‘Erm, would you excuse me for a minute?’ Roxanne hoisted a rigid smile, still catching snippets of conversation as she strode away. She really had to escape from this group, before she drowned in a pool of pity.

  ‘She should get her CV out pronto …’

  ‘D’you think she’ll resign, or what?’

  ‘Christ – I would …’

  And worst of all: ‘I suppose she has been in that job a terribly long time …’

  As Roxanne wended her way through the crowds, she tried to emit an aura of quiet dignity. She gulped her champagne and glanced around, looking for someone to talk to who wouldn’t go on about Tina Court joining the team and her own career being truly up the spout. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she could gather everyone around to decide which bridge exactly she should hurl herself off? If only her old friend Amanda was here – but then, this wasn’t her sort of party at all. After her stint as a magazine publisher’s receptionist Amanda had retrained as a primary school teacher; i.e., got herself a proper job. The parties she threw were casual affairs with bunting, sausage rolls and cheap prosecco in her kitchen or unruly back garden.

  What was the big deal about Tina Court anyway? Amanda taught children to read and write – she helped to shape their futures – and here Roxanne was, despairing just because someone new was being brought in to oversee the fashion pages and drag them downmarket. She stood for a moment, sipping her now-lukewarm champagne, aware of an unpleasant tightening sensation in her chest.

  Fashion Guilt, that’s what it was. It had happened before when she was trying to pull together a cover shoot and a PR had sent the wrong fake fur jacket for the model to wear. Roxanne had been moaning to Kate in the office when a little voice in her head (the Fashion Guilt voice) hissed, ‘You watched Syria being bombed on the news last night. And you’re sitting there, nibbling your Pret a Manger sushi and drinking your coconut water and grumbling about a fluffy jacket?

  Wondering what to do with herself now, Roxanne found herself back at the Indian street food stall. She wolfed another cone of bhel puri, then regretted it immediately: all that puffed rice seemed to be swelling up inside her. Uncomfortably bloated, she stood tall and tried to hold in her stomach. No sign of Serena or Kate, and Sean appeared to be busy, still surrounded by friends, filling the studio with his wonderful infectious laugh which she had loved from the moment she first heard it. She would go over to join him soon, but right now it felt better to give him his space. She caught his eye, and he smiled. How handsome he looked tonight in a crisp white open-necked shirt and smart dark grey trousers. She didn’t mind in the slightest that legions of younger women were perpetually clustered around him. That was what it was like, in this sort of world – just harmless flirting. Roxanne was overcome by a rush of pride in him, and almost wished she could fast-forward to the moment when they were home together, undressing and tumbling into his bed.

  However, it was only 9 p.m., and there were hours to go yet. Aware of her tipsy state, Roxanne fixed her gaze on the area of floor in front of the DJ booth. She inhaled deeply, reassuring herself that she was perfectly capable of holding her own as she strode towards it and started to dance.

  That felt good. She could sense any remaining tension floating out of her pores, dissipating into the fragrant air, as she started to move. Never mind yoga with its slow pace and emphasis on breathing; Roxanne had one of those restless minds, so was it any wonder she found it so hard to concentrate in eagle pose? This was far more her sort of thing. As the music filled her consciousness, she no longer cared about Marsha or whether Henry from the flat below would be banging on her door to tell her off again for the lingering burnt smell. Stuff all that, she thought, closing her eyes and swaying her body, barely aware that she was the only one on the floor.

  Roxanne had always loved to dance, right from when she was a little girl; back then, no one had known as she’d done it in secret, in her bedroom, having put on one of her favourite records to mask yet another of her parents’ monumental fights downstairs. As she’d twirled on her faded floral carpet, she had ceased to hear them at all.

  An escape, that’s what it had been back then in Rosemary Cottage – just as it was now. There was something magical about music, the way it could transport you to some other place. With her vast collection of crackly old jazz records, her neighbour Isabelle understood that too.

  Roxanne caught the DJ’s eye and he grinned at her. He had a full, bushy beard, as was mandatory amongst a certain breed of twenty-something males right now. What would happen when the fashion was over? she mused. Would the companies that made all the necessary beard oils, balms and pomades – she wasn’t entirely sure how these products differed – go out of business?

  The track ended, and she was seized by an urge to hear something from way back, something she had danced to as a little girl in her bedroom in the eaves.

  Another track started but it wasn’t right: all this music was all too esoteric. What the DJ needed to play was … what was it called again? Heck, it was her absolute favourite, she’d danced to it a billion times and now she’d forgotten it. She wobbled slightly on her black patent heels and pushed a slick of damp hair away from her face. Across the room, Serena waved and gave her an everything-okay? sort of smile, but Roxanne didn’t really register it. She was too busy approaching the DJ, trying to explain over the pulsing music, ‘D’you have, er …’

  ‘Sorry, love? What was that?’

  She frowned, trying to flick back through her mental Rolodex of songs that had meant so much to her as she was growing up. The DJ was peering at her in a bemused sort of way. ‘I can sing it for you,’ she yelled at him. ‘Can you listen for a minute?’

  ‘Aw, don’t worry, darling,’ he said with a patronising smile, as if she was an old lady who had just biffed him with her wheeled shopping trolley.

  ‘No, no, I’ll remember it if you let me sing the start. Could you turn your music down, please?’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘Sorry …’

  ‘I remember it now! Dancing Queen by Abba. D’you have it?’

  The DJ sniggered again. ‘No, love, it’s not really my kind of—’

  ‘You must have!’ she begged. ‘It can’t be a party without Dancing Queen …’

  ‘Oh, you reckon?’ The young man grinned.

  ‘Could you at least have a look?’ She wobbled on her heels and clung to the front of his booth as if it were a swaying ship.

  ‘Off you go and dance,’ he urged her. ‘You’re a great dancer. Pretty impressive moves, you’ve got there …’

  She peered at him squiffily, wondering if there had been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. No, she was just being paranoid, and no wonder – it had been a terrible day, so of course she’d drunk too much and was feeling sensitive. But what the hell? She was tottering off now and dancing, still on her own, feeling happy and light and not caring that Sean had just thrown her a concerned look, and was shaking his head and muttering into someone’s ear, or that she was one of the oldest women in the room.

  Sean waggled his hand to beckon her over but Roxanne just laughed and turned away. How boring he was, never venturing onto the dance floor. Age didn’t matter one bit! Britt was beside her now; skinny, sexy Britt, who Sean reckoned to be around forty, although no one was sure and she refused to divulge her age.

  Roxanne glanced back at Sean and cried, ‘C’mon, it’s your party! Come and dance!’ He just gave her an inscrutable look and disappeared back into the crowd.

  Now more people had joined Roxanne and Britt o
n the dance floor: Johnny, Serena, Kate, Louie and a couple of new girls from Roxanne’s preferred model agency. They were all dancing and whooping, hair flying, and nothing mattered to Roxanne anymore. Not until she glimpsed a new arrival who was looking around expectantly. Marsha! What was she doing there? Sean didn’t even know her. Roxanne stopped dancing and stared, realising now that Marsha hadn’t come alone, and that Tina Court was hovering at her side. Tina, who’d been hired as the new fashion-director-in-chief! Roxanne had seen her at enough events to recognise her, even in dim light. She was a tiny woman, bird-like with pointy features and brows plucked to the point of near-invisibility. Her long, straight black hair hung in a glossy sheet, and her wincingly tight outfit comprised a shimmery cobalt blue dress with a silver belt and towering nude heels. Marsha was still wearing the same cream shirt and dark skirt she had had on all day. Now the two women were laughing together as if enjoying a particularly hilarious joke.

  Roxanne glanced around wildly for Sean, seized by an urge to demand to know why they were here. Okay, so Britt had probably pulled together the guest list, but Sean must have been involved at some point. He’d have been happy to delegate responsibility for the bar staff, the DJ and drinks – but not who was coming. Maybe Britt had insisted Sean invited Marsha, with her being an editor of a glossy magazine now? Roxanne supposed that made sense. But why Tina – the one Roxanne was apparently being so brave and stoical about? Her blood seemed to pulse at her temples as she watched them accept drinks from a waiter and gaze around as if they were utterly entitled to be there.

  ‘Okay, Rox?’ That was Serena, gently touching her arm.

  Roxanne flinched. ‘Yes, I’m fine …’ She tried to carry on dancing, realising how terribly drunk she was now, and aware of several glances in her direction. She needed water or more of that puffed rice. It was too hot in here, that was the trouble; lately, her internal thermostat seemed to have gone haywire. She tottered away and stepped outside, onto the red metal fire escape where she inhaled the evening air. From here, she took in the view of London; it was unusually warm, even for late May, verging on stuffy. Perhaps a storm was brewing.

  Further down on the steps, a couple of models were smoking. Usually, Roxanne didn’t mind the smell of cigarettes. She had been a smoker herself until she had finally managed to quit last year, after visiting Della and feeling like an idiot, puffing away on the pavement outside her bookshop with virtually every passer-by stopping to say hi. But now, as the girls’ cigarette smoke plumed upwards, she felt queasy. She looked out again over the city she had loved with a passion since she had arrived here at eighteen years old, and felt nausea rise in her.

  Back in the studio, she scanned the vicinity for Marsha and Tina, keen to avoid bumping into them. They were nowhere to be seen. A waiter glided towards her with a tray laden with more glasses of champagne. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, knowing it was the last thing she needed, but since when was champagne about need?

  As she took a sip, a familiar voice floated above the hubbub: ‘Yep, Roxanne’s definitely here. I spotted her dancing like a nutter a few minutes ago.’ That was Marsha – and what did she mean by that? Roxanne whipped around to see her, still with Tina at her side, turned partly away and facing the seafood bar. A fresh wave of nausea rose in her stomach, and for a moment she feared she might be sick.

  ‘I thought she might not turn up tonight after your big announcement,’ Tina replied.

  ‘Of course she has,’ Marsha retorted. ‘You do know she’s seeing Sean, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Tina gasped, still clearly not registering her presence.

  ‘No – honestly, they’re a couple. Everyone thought it’d just be a fling, ’cause you know what he’s like …’

  ‘Oh God, yeah,’ Tina murmured.

  ‘But apparently those days are over,’ Marsha crowed. ‘They’ve been together a while now …’

  Roxanne’s throat felt dry and sour. Fuzzy with booze, she felt incapable of confronting them or even wobbling over to talk to them and making any sort of sense. What was Sean like exactly? What the hell was she implying? Sure, he’d dated plenty of women during the lengthy periods between his serious relationships – but there was nothing wrong with that, and she’d never heard that he’d treated anyone badly. She frowned, trying to fathom out what Marsha and Tina had meant. Of course, the fashion business was rife with gossip, most of it widely overblown or patently untrue.

  Roxanne sipped from her glass, feeling quite desolate now after having her dancing and her boyfriend criticised, virtually in a single breath. Kate was waving from the dance floor, trying to coax her to join them. However, Roxanne wasn’t really registering her.

  ‘I thought everyone knew about them,’ Marsha added.

  ‘Everyone apart from me, obviously,’ Tina exclaimed with a high-pitched laugh. ‘Always last with the gossip. God, though – Sean and Roxanne Cartwright? That’s hysterical …’

  Roxanne stood for a moment, clutching her glass which she might once have termed half-full but was now most definitely half-empty. She turned away and placed it on a windowsill. However, being made from uneven bricks, the windowsill was too wonky a surface for the glass to rest on without toppling. Topple it did, landing with a smash on the concrete floor, causing a momentary hush as Roxanne turned and ran out of the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Normally, Roxanne wouldn’t have dreamed of making a ‘French’ exit, as a hasty departure from a social event was known in her circles. She would do the rounds, saying all her goodbyes; although it could easily add an extra half-hour to the night, to duck out of an event would seem rude. Tonight, though, she had just run out and was now clattering rather unsteadily down the concrete stairs and across the cobbled courtyard, pulling her phone from her bag only when she was safely out in the street.

  She scrolled for Sean’s number, reassuring herself that he’d be fine, all his friends were there, and he’d understand why she had left abruptly. Anyone would. Even aside from overhearing Marsha and Tina, how could she be expected to endure one more second of a party at which pretty much everyone felt sorry for her?

  At the sound of his voicemail, she cleared her throat. ‘Hi, darling, s’me. Look, I’m sorry but I’m going home early. You’ve probably realised. It was a lovely party but I’m just not in the right frame of mind and I don’t want to be a wet, um … a wet blanket or a wet leek or whatever it is, so I think it’s best …’

  She glanced left and right, hoping to spy the yellow light of a taxi, but there was nothing.

  ‘The other thing is, did you invite Marsha and Tina Court tonight? Oh, I know it’s none of my business and it sounds horribly petty and maybe you didn’t ask them and they just thought they’d come along anyway. But if you did, couldn’t you have warned me, honey? I heard the two of them … blabbing on about us, about our thing, our relationship – can you believe their bloody cheek?’

  Roxanne broke off and rubbed at an eye, past caring that she might be smudging her make-up. ‘Anyway,’ she charged on, ‘you know I’ve been feeling a bit wobbly about work and, well, I just couldn’t face them tonight – is that ridiculous of me? A bit silly? It probably is and maybe I just need a break. I really want to see Della, hang out in the bookshop … d’you fancy that – coming to Yorkshire with me? Oh, I know I’ve gone on about that! Anyway, enjoy the rest of your party, darling. The seafood was amazing – actually I didn’t have any but it looked amazing, all those gnarly little creatures all piled up. I had that puffed rice, that was good! And the little cones it was served in. So cute. Anyway, I’m going now. Happy birthday darling, I love y—’ With that, his voicemail cut off.

  Roxanne exhaled forcefully and shoved her phone back into her bag. She’d have preferred to speak to Sean, rather than Sean’s voicemail, but, on the plus side, at least she hadn’t left a rambling message. Less happily, it had started to rain. She had somehow managed to leave the party without her jacket, and her left shoe was rubbing at
her heel. On closer inspection, the heel appeared to have acquired a nasty abrasion and was all sticky and raw. A dancing injury – at her age! She was a fashion director, for goodness’ sake. She should be capable of putting together an outfit that wouldn’t injure her. Wincing now, and still glancing around for a cab, she started to limp towards Islington. She would find this funny one day, she tried to reassure herself. How the girls at work would chuckle over the time she ran out of Sean’s party and hobbled home with a bleeding heel.

  Halfway up Pentonville Road, she stopped and looked to see whether Sean had called to check on her welfare and she hadn’t heard it ringing. No missed calls. But there was a text, from Serena: Kate thinks you’ve gone home, are you ok?

  She replied: Fine thanks just bit tired xx.

  Yearning for a friendly voice now – and since it was only 10.45 p.m. – she called Della.

  ‘Rox, are you okay?’ She sounded startled.

  ‘Er, yes. Sorry. You weren’t in bed, were you?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. So, um, how’re things? What’ve you been up to tonight?’

  ‘I’ve just been at Sean’s fiftieth actually …’

  ‘Oh! Was that fun?’

  ‘Kind of,’ she muttered.

  ‘So, where are you now?’

  ‘Um, I’m just going home,’ Roxanne replied in her best sober voice. ‘I’ve had quite a week and I need to go to bed.’

  ‘Right. So, er … how are you getting home?’

  Roxanne coughed and considered fibbing but wasn’t sure she could pull it off. ‘I’m walking but it’s fine, I’m nearly there now.’

  ‘You’re walking home at this time, on your own?’ Della gasped.

  ‘Yes, but I told you, I’m nearly—’

  ‘Rox, for God’s sake, you’re in London!’

  ‘Yes, handily, because that’s where I live.’ Roxanne was striding along now, head bent against the rain. She was regretting calling Della because, of course, her sister was under the impression that you only had to pop out for milk in London and you were likely to be stabbed.