The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Look, Rox, I really don’t think—’

  ‘… And I won’t overstay my welcome if it doesn’t work out,’ Roxanne added, aware of desperation creeping into her voice. Ridiculously, she had almost convinced herself that Della would be grateful for some extra help.

  Della cleared her throat. ‘I just worry that you’d find it too sleepy around here, that’s all.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said vehemently. ‘I’d keep busy. I wouldn’t stop—’

  Della chuckled. ‘Okay, we do get quite busy sometimes, and we are fitting out the new room so there’s plenty going on. But it’s still just a village bookshop, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ Roxanne peeled a fleck of polish off her nail.

  ‘I mean,’ Della added, ‘it’s not at all glamorous. A lot of the day-to-day work is pretty mundane.’

  ‘Trust me, mundane is exactly what I need right now.’

  ‘Yes but …’ An awkward hush settled between them. ‘I didn’t think you liked coming back here very much.’

  Roxanne was aware of a sinking feeling in her stomach. ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘Come on – you know why. Remember how things were when Mum was ill?’

  Roxanne’s breath caught in her throat. Guilt prickled at her – not fashion guilt, but something darker and heavier. She had tried to bury it, but it was still lurking there: the feeling that she had let her sister down, and would never be able to make up for it. ‘Dell, look – I know I wasn’t there for you then, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that,’ Della said briskly. ‘I just meant … well, whenever you’ve been here, you’ve always seemed in a terrible hurry to get back to London. Are you sure this is what you want?’

  Roxanne nodded, which was silly because Della couldn’t see her; and so she found herself trying to explain how it had been when their mother was dying. ‘I felt ashamed,’ she murmured. ‘You were so brilliant, so capable – and I felt as if I was getting in the way, just like when we were kids, you know? It was wrong. I was a coward. It was easier to stay in London and pretend to be too busy with deadlines and press day and dump it all on you. I’ll never forgive myself for that—’

  ‘Roxanne, stop.’ Della’s voice was firm. ‘It’s okay. I probably had to take charge of things – and look at all the good that’s come out of it. I have Mum’s cookbooks, and the bookshop, and I’m with Frank now …’ She paused. ‘Hey, how are things with Sean?’

  ‘Um, that seems to be sort of over.’

  ‘Rox, you should have said! Is that why you want to come up?’

  ‘No. Well, sort of, I suppose. I don’t know, Dell. I just need a change—’

  ‘Fine, okay. So when are you thinking of coming?’

  Roxanne hesitated, hoping her sister wouldn’t think she had gone mad. ‘Would, er … would tomorrow be okay?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m just not sure I can handle being here, by myself, with no job to go to.’ Roxanne winced. How terribly feeble that sounded.

  ‘Okay then,’ Della said, in a softer tone. ‘Let me know your arrival time and I’ll meet you at Heathfield station.’

  ‘Thanks so much …’

  ‘That’s all right. Look – of course I want you here, as long as you remember what the village is like and don’t act all Londony.’

  ‘When have I ever done that?’ Roxanne retorted.

  A pause hung in the air, and Della laughed. ‘I’m teasing, Rox. Come on – you’re always welcome here, on one condition. Promise me you’ll bring some sensible shoes.’

  By the time she was ready for bed at 11.30, Roxanne had called Amanda to tell her of her plans (‘You lucky thing!’ she’d enthused), booked her train ticket and was almost ready to go. She far preferred to travel by train than driving these days, as it gave her the chance to watch the world go by. Roxanne’s last car, a red Audi convertible, was bought in a flash of madness and frequently vandalised, then stolen and had never been replaced. ‘Maybe next time,’ her brother Jeff had remarked, ‘you might choose a car that doesn’t scream “I’m loaded” when you live in a dodgy area?’ Islington, a dodgy area? she’d thought furiously. But then Jeff – like Della – was under the impression that pretty much every area in London, with perhaps the exception of Knightsbridge, was riddled with knife crime and guns.

  Now she checked her suitcase, to ensure she had all she needed to see her through a summer in the country. This was always the best part of going away: the outfit planning. She had pulled together her bookshop look, for when she was helping out at the till, comprising a snug cardi worn over a soft cotton top with a knee-length bias-cut tweed skirt; rural librarian was the look she was going for. Flat shoes, of course. You didn’t clop around a second-hand bookshop in heels, and you didn’t over-accessorise either. Shame she didn’t wear spectacles. Maybe she could buy some, with clear glass, just to lend herself a bookish air? She had also packed chunky sweaters for dog walking (it could still be chilly up there, even in summer), and several print dresses for trips to Heathfield on farmer’s market days, when she would pick up some groceries for Della. Her sister would soon discover what an asset she was to have about the place. It felt terribly important to put things right once and for all.

  She had just zipped up her suitcase when her mobile rang on her dressing table. Sean’s name was displayed. She glared at it, steeling herself against answering it. For days, she had willed him to call, and now she was all set for Yorkshire – effectively running away – and didn’t want to have to explain anything to him. Nor did she wish to delve into the whole Tina business again or even shift awkwardly into some kind of ‘let’s be friends’-type scenario. In her mind she was already the country bookshop lady, perhaps with her hair in a bun – nice touch, she decided – and now Sean was threatening to interrupt her soothing vision of herself happily pottering about, dusting the shelves.

  The ringtone stopped, then immediately started again. But then again, what if he needed her? She snatched her phone. ‘Sean, hi,’ she said dryly, as if they were merely casually acquainted.

  ‘Hey, Rox. Um, how’s things?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She didn’t know what else to say. Whilst the sensible part of her brain was reminding her to feel cross with him, the very sound of his soft Dublin lilt was triggering all those physical reactions in her: a quickening of the heart. An overwhelming desire to hurl herself into his arms.

  ‘You left your jacket at my party,’ he continued. ‘I noticed it when I popped in to check on the cleaners on Saturday.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ So he was only calling about lost property matters. He, too, still had to collect the photography book he’d left at her flat.

  Sean cleared his throat. ‘So what are you up to tonight?’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m sitting here in my PJs and going to bed in a minute.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘It’s just, I heard a little rumour that you’re taking some time off work, is that right?’

  Roxanne frowned. ‘Uh-huh. That news travelled quick. Who told you?’

  ‘Oh, er, Britt heard through Serena, I think. It just came up …’

  ‘Right.’ She pressed her lips together. In her industry, gossip spread with impressive speed. ‘So, um, I’m leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘Wow, so soon! So, what’s that all about?’

  ‘I just fancied a break,’ she said briskly. ‘Marsha suggested it and, with Tina starting, it seemed like a good idea to just let them get on with things.’ No need to tell him she’d tried to quit, she decided. ‘Look, Sean,’ she added, ‘I thought we were finished?’

  He exhaled heavily. ‘Oh, Rox. Look … I’m sorry about Saturday morning. I think I overreacted a bit. I was just, you know …’ She waited for him to finish. ‘You weren’t actually that bad,’ he added, which surely ranked alongside You certainly know how to have a good time! in terms of cringeworthy post-party feedback.

 
‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ she muttered.

  ‘And I’m sorry about Tina showing up like that. Honestly – I should have paid better attention and not just left the organising to Britt. You know how I am with these things …’ He tailed off. ‘It was really insensitive of me,’ he added. ‘I guess I screwed up.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ she murmured, ‘because I wouldn’t have wanted us to finish on such bad terms.’ Without warning, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Rox, we’re not finished,’ Sean exclaimed. ‘That is, unless you really want us to be?’

  She blinked rapidly in order to clear her vision. How she missed him. What she’d give, right now, not to be going to bed alone but having him here with her, in her arms. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. Can I come over?’

  No, Mr Sanctimonious of Moral High Ground, you absolutely can-bloody-not.

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  ‘I’ll call a cab now. Darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Christ, I know I can be such an idiot sometimes.’

  They finished the call and, despite everything, she felt her spirits lifting as she made a pot of tea. Perhaps it wasn’t ideal that she was about to leave for Burley Bridge, if she and Sean were about to try to fix things. But then, Yorkshire wasn’t far. He could visit, and they could spend time together up there, perhaps booking into a hotel for a couple of nights. It could be the making of them, Roxanne decided, even moving things on to a new level. She pictured them strolling, hand in hand, as she showed him all her childhood haunts.

  As she waited for Sean, she texted Della her arrival time at Heathfield tomorrow afternoon, then realised she had forgotten to leave Isabelle a spare key. Throwing on a sweater over her PJ top, she padded downstairs, checking first that music was still playing in her neighbour’s flat. She tapped on the door, and Isabelle opened it.

  ‘I’m so pleased for you,’ Isabelle enthused, when Roxanne had filled her in on the day’s events. ‘They’ll fall apart without you. Make them realise what they’re missing!’

  Roxanne smiled, touched by her loyalty. ‘Thanks, Isabelle. It will feel strange, though, not being there for two months. I mean, the magazine’s my whole life—’

  ‘Then maybe you need more going on in your life?’ Isabelle asked, not unkindly.

  Roxanne smiled. ‘You’re probably right. Oh, and on that note – Sean’s coming over in a minute. Looks like we’re not finished after all.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Isabelle raised a brow. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Who knows?’ She laughed dryly. ‘Anyway, thanks for keeping an eye on my place. Lunch is on me, as soon as I’m home.’

  Roxanne hugged her neighbour farewell and returned to her flat. She was attempting to zip up her overstuffed toiletry bag when Sean arrived, looking contrite and smelling deliciously freshly-showered. How good it felt to be in his arms again; she stood for a moment, feeling the warmth of him as he held her close.

  ‘Hey, darling. I’m so sorry,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, me too,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I’m so sorry—’

  ‘Shush, babe. It doesn’t matter.’ His smile seemed to illuminate his face as he stood back and looked at her, and she sensed a twang of missing him already. ‘So, you’re off tomorrow,’ he added as she handed him a mug of tea in the kitchen. ‘No hanging around.’

  She shrugged. ‘I sort of wish I wasn’t going so soon, but then, if I’m not at work, I don’t really want to just hang about here …’

  Sean kissed her softly on the lips. ‘You may as well get going.’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’ She glanced at him, willing him to try to persuade her to stay.

  ‘The change of scene’ll be good for you,’ he suggested gently.

  Roxanne nodded. ‘Well, I need to spend time with Della, if nothing else.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s a great idea.’

  She glanced up at those clear green eyes that made her heart turn over, hating the neediness that was welling up inside her now. ‘You seem pretty keen for me to go.’

  He frowned in bafflement. ‘You want me to cling to your ankles, weeping and begging, “Don’t go”?’

  ‘No, of course not! It’s just—’

  ‘I think you need some time and space away from everything,’ he cut in. ‘It’s only a few weeks and it’ll go in a flash. Most people would give their right arm for the whole summer off, knowing they still had their job to come back to at the end of it.’

  He was right; she had a charmed life. Fashion guilt niggled at her once more.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She paused and looked at him. Something else still bothered her; as she didn’t know when she would see him next, she was seized by an urge to bring it up now. ‘Can I ask you about something? About something I overheard at your party?’

  Sean’s eyes met hers, full of concern. ‘’Course you can. What was it?’

  Roxanne sensed her cheeks reddening as she sipped her tea. ‘It was Marsha and Tina. They were gossiping about us, and Marsha said something like, “Oh, everyone thought it’d just be a fling.” Between me and you, I mean …’

  ‘Jesus, Rox—’ He exhaled loudly.

  ‘“Because you know what he’s like.” That’s what Marsha said …’

  ‘What the hell did she mean by that?’

  ‘I have no idea!’ she exclaimed.

  He stepped away from her and stood at the kitchen window, glaring out to the street below. ‘And Marsha knows me, does she? For God’s sake, I hope you don’t think—’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I don’t …’

  He turned back to her and wrapped his arms around her. ‘I’m glad to hear that, baby. You know what it’s like – how people love gossip and, when there isn’t any, how they like to speculate or just make things up.’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

  Then they were kissing and tumbling, still entwined, into her bedroom. As they undressed and fell into her bed, Roxanne pushed any lingering concerns from her mind. He was right; there was nothing to worry about and, of course, people in their industry would always have something to say. It was a side of working in fashion that she deplored sometimes – the love of gossip, the superficiality. Lying in his arms now, she refused to give anyone else’s opinions another second’s thought.

  At around 2 a.m., Roxanne studied Sean’s face as he slept. Such a finely honed, handsome face, she thought. She wanted to photograph him with her phone, so she could take the picture with her to Burley Bridge, but feared that he might wake up. She would just have to hold the image in her mind.

  Later that morning, as she boarded her train at King’s Cross, Roxanne could still feel him close as if they were still entangled together. He hadn’t been able to see her off, but that was fine; he’d had a job to rush off to, an important client who’d been keen to kick off at 9 a.m. sharp. And now Roxanne was stashing her unwieldy suitcase in the luggage area in the carriage, then waiting patiently as the woman sitting at the window begrudgingly moved her tartan rucksack from Roxanne’s seat.

  She sat down and sipped from her bottle of water, still not quite comprehending that she wouldn’t be going to work for two whole months. The concept seemed both thrilling and faintly terrifying. Her job had always been pretty much everything to her – but perhaps, as Isabelle had suggested, that wasn’t such a healthy state of affairs.

  As the train started to move, her phone bleeped with a text. Love you beautiful, Sean had written.

  She blinked, sensing a sharp pang of missing him already. Love you too, she replied.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was something about the way Della drove, Roxanne noticed. It was that rural politeness – ‘After you’, ‘No, after you’ – and it struck her every time she was a passenger in her sister’s ancient navy blue Punto. Even a manoeuvre as simple as exiting a car park necessitated a myriad of encouraging gestures be
fore, finally, someone edged forward first amidst mouthed thank yous (‘No, thank you!’).

  ‘Sorry if the shop’s in a bit of a state at the moment,’ Della was telling Roxanne as they made their way along Heathfield High Street. ‘Knocking through to next door sounded so simple when I bought the place.’ Della glanced at her sister and grinned. ‘Knocking through – like, a few taps with a hammer and we’d be done.’

  Roxanne chuckled. ‘Well, I’m here to help, okay? We can get stuck in together. Just ask me to do whatever you need …’

  ‘Oh, the guys are taking care of everything,’ Della said briskly. ‘The fitting out, the electrics – it’s all in hand and, amazingly, we’ve managed to stay open while all that’s been going on.’

  ‘What about painting?’ Roxanne asked.

  Della threw her a quick glance.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Della said with a smirk.

  Roxanne could sense herself bristling already, mere minutes since she had stepped off the train. ‘Dell, I can paint, you know. I’m capable of moving a roller in an up and down motion without ruining your property or maiming myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Della said, insincerely, as if Roxanne were a child asking to ‘help’ with an electric carving knife. ‘But you don’t want to get paint all over that lovely cardigan.’

  Roxanne scoffed and looked down at the soft pink cashmere. ‘This old thing?’

  ‘It doesn’t look old to me.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ she fibbed, ‘and I have brought other clothes with me, you know.’ Roxanne glanced at her sister. Della was clearly tickled by the idea of Roxanne involving herself in anything practical, or indeed deigning to wear an outfit suitable for manual work. That was one aspect of her job that Roxanne didn’t enjoy so much: the assumption, by her siblings mainly, that she was permanently kitted out in designer attire. In reality, often entire weekends were spent in her comfiest old jeans and any old washed-out top.

  ‘Anyway,’ Della continued, ‘you don’t want to spend your time here up to your neck in DIY. Aren’t you here for a bit of headspace away from the hectic whirl?’