by Ellen Berry
Chapter Sixteen
And from then on, of course, it was excruciating sitting with Michael. He was no longer just the man from the bakery down the road; he was a potential set-up. Perhaps that was why Della had suggested dinner at the Red Lion in the first place – as an opportunity to engineer the two of them spending some time together. As Michael himself had suggested, she seemed to have forgotten that Roxanne was in a relationship – a rare situation, perhaps, and maybe Sean fell short of Frank’s exemplary standards, but still, she was going out with someone, to use an inappropriately teenage phrase. Roxanne had a boyfriend, even if that made her sound nineteen years old. Lately, the word ‘partner’ had slipped from favour in her circles, the b-word having been reclaimed (Roxanne liked the breezy playfulness of it, even if it did sound rather juvenile; she was certain she would never be anyone’s ‘other half’).
The conversation around the table had turned to everyone’s offspring, and Roxanne tried to fix on an expression of rapt interest. Normally, she didn’t mind child-related talk; after all, Sophie was her niece, and Roxanne had always been keenly interested in what she was up to. She had eleven-year-old twin nephews too – her brother Jeff’s children – and she tried to be an attentive auntie, as much as distance allowed. However, now she just felt rattled. She glanced at Frank, whose nine-year-old, Eddie, was with his mother tonight. Naturally, Frank would be party to Della’s little matchmaking project too.
‘How old are your kids, Michael?’ Roxanne felt uncomfortable sitting there mutely, even though she was hardly in the mood for small talk now.
‘Elsa’s sixteen and Jude’s nineteen,’ he replied.
‘Would it have been Jude who made me a coffee just before closing time today?’
Michael smiled. ‘Yep, that was my boy …’
‘Your kids must be a big help to you,’ she added.
‘Well, yes – Jude seems to have no plans for any sort of alternative career at the moment, so it’s kind of convenient that there’s a ready-made job for him.’
‘What an obliging dad you are,’ Della said with a smile.
Amusement glinted in Michael’s eyes. ‘Yeah. Funnily enough, most days he forgets to thank me.’ He turned back to Roxanne. ‘I’m kidding. They’re both pretty good really. The sourdough workshop was Elsa’s idea, so please try to come, won’t you?’
‘Oh, um – I’ll do my best …’ As if her schedule here was jam-packed.
‘Elsa thinks we need to give things a big push,’ Michael went on. ‘She’s always on at me to put on events in the shop, be more active on social media, anything we can do to drum up publicity …’ He broke off. ‘She’s just about stopping short of finding a giant loaf costume and making me dance down Rosemary Lane in it.’
‘Maybe that could work,’ Roxanne remarked, chuckling.
‘You think Burley Bridge could handle that?’
‘I mean the publicity side,’ she said, feeling more relaxed again now. As Michael clearly wasn’t making a big issue of Della’s matchmaking endeavour, so Roxanne felt able to shrug it off too. ‘You wouldn’t believe how seemingly ordinary businesses have taken off,’ she added, ‘just because a journalist has mentioned it in their magazine …’
‘You think we’re ordinary?’ He raised a brow and smirked.
‘No! Oh, you know what I’m saying.’
Michael nodded. ‘Yes, I do. You work on a glossy magazine, don’t you? Della mentioned it …’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, glancing at her sister who was now deep in conversation with Frank. So, she had given him some background info. What else had she said? she wondered.
‘I’m not sure I understand anything about that world,’ Michael added.’
‘Most people don’t,’ Roxanne said with a smile. ‘It’s a peculiar industry and it doesn’t really have much bearing on reality, although I’ve always loved it …’ She paused and drained her glass. After the earlier quizzings from Bev and the others, she was keener to find out more about Michael’s working life than talk about her own. ‘So,’ she started, ‘how’s it been, setting up your bakery in a place like this?’
He sipped his beer. ‘It’s still early days but we’re getting somewhere, I think. At the moment I’m still focusing on getting things right in the shop – like, making bread that people will come back for again and again.’
‘It’s the best for miles around,’ chipped in Della.
‘Glad you think so.’ He smiled and turned back to Roxanne. ‘We’ve only been going for six months and it’s taken a lot of experimenting and tweaking.’
‘Hence you buying all those vintage books from us,’ Della remarked. ‘To study traditional methods …’
‘Yep, that’s the plan – and we’re almost there, I think.’
Having offered to fetch a final round, Frank went to the bar and returned with more wine and beers. If she hadn’t discovered that Della was trying to set them up, Roxanne might have tried to ascertain when Michael and his wife split up, and what his situation was now. The way he’d been speaking about her, there didn’t seem to be any particular animosity between them – but perhaps he was just a decent sort who preferred to live his life without bitterness. Anyway, it didn’t feel right to ask him about anything too personal now.
They left the pub at ten-thirty and stopped to part company as they reached the bakery.
‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ Michael said.
‘Hope we didn’t keep you out too late,’ Della remarked with a smile, turning to Roxanne. ‘Michael’s up at five to start baking every morning.’
‘That still counts as night time,’ Roxanne said, now keen to flop into bed herself in Della’s cosy spare room.
‘Occupational hazard,’ Michael remarked. ‘So, see you around the village?’
‘Bound to,’ she replied with a smile. As she, Della and Frank wandered further down the lane, past all the shut-up shops with their window boxes and prettily painted signs, Roxanne reflected upon what a bizarre evening it had been. It was only her first night, and already she had been grilled about her marital and child-free status and unwittingly steered into a sort of blind date.
Della let them into her flat. ‘Anyone like a pot of tea?’ she asked brightly.
‘No thanks – I’m done in,’ Frank replied. He turned to Roxanne. ‘Night, Rox. Early start for me too so I’ll probably be gone by the time you’re awake.’
‘Oh, I’ll be up at the crack of dawn to walk Stanley,’ Roxanne insisted, keen to show she was planning to launch herself into country life.
As Frank disappeared into Della’s bedroom, Roxanne strode to the kitchen and filled the kettle. Della wandered in after her and set out two mugs. ‘Please don’t ever do that to me again,’ Roxanne murmured.
Della frowned. ‘Do what again?’
‘Try to set me up.’
Della’s face fell. She glanced at Stanley, who was curled up on a matted tartan blanket in his basket. ‘What? I mean, how did you—’
‘I heard Michael,’ Roxanne said quietly, keen for Frank not to overhear, ‘when I came out of the ladies’.’
Della pressed a hand at the side of her face. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I just thought …’ She broke off. As if sensing Della’s discomfort, Stanley eased himself out of his basket and pottered towards her, plonking himself down at her feet with a small thud. ‘I just thought you’d get along. That it would be a nice thing for both of you, and you could enjoy each other’s company while you’re here …’
‘Well, it was just a bit awkward.’
‘I know, but just—’
‘D’you know what, Dell?’ Roxanne cut in. ‘I’m actually a little bit tired of people thinking on my behalf, making assumptions about me. You know, like – “Oh, funny Roxanne and her London ways, heading out in the pouring rain in her LK Bennetts” and, “Oh, there’s poor Roxanne – d’you know she hasn’t managed to find herself a husband or have any children? And now of course it’s far too late!”�
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She stopped. To her horror, tears had flooded her eyes.
‘Rox, I’m so sorry.’ Della looked aghast.
Roxanne wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Also, whether you like the sound of him or not, I’m seeing Sean, so I’m really not in the market for meeting anyone else right now.’
‘No, I realise that, and he sounds like a great person, he really does.’ Of course, Roxanne knew Della didn’t really believe that. From her perspective, he had failed to see Roxanne safely into a taxi after his party, and he seemed to have an irrational aversion to the photographing of small pedigree dogs.
Roxanne turned away to make tea, trying to calm herself with slow, deep yogic breathing. Everything starts with the breath, Lily, the office yoga teacher, always said – whatever that meant. Yet thinking about the office made her feel anything but calm. She pictured Marsha, cramming that Danish pastry into her mouth, and Tina suggesting – probably just to humiliate her – that she blogged about style in the country. Well, that’s what Roxanne would give her – starting from tomorrow. Had Tina cooked up the blog idea just to humiliate her? It occurred to her now that that was a distinct possibility. Well, if that was the case, Roxanne would show she was game; just because she had worked in fashion all her adult life didn’t mean she couldn’t laugh at herself. She would appear on the online edition of a top fashion magazine, clad in hideous wet weather gear if that was what was required of her. She would gambol across the fields in a wretched cagoule and Della’s glittery red wellies. What did it matter if she looked deranged? She was past caring what anyone thought of her anyway.
‘Rox? Are you okay?’ Della placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. It was silly and badly judged of me. I just thought, Michael’s such a lovely person, all on his own, working his fingers to the bone and—’
‘It’s all right,’ Roxanne interrupted, mustering a faint smile now. ‘You thought you’d put two tragic, lonely souls together.’
‘No!’ Della exclaimed.
‘I’m joking – and it’s okay.’ She placed the crocheted tea cosy over the pot, poured two mugfuls and handed one to Della. ‘It’s just a bit embarrassing, and of course, now I’m going to be running into the poor man every time I leave the flat …’ She broke off. ‘What happened with him and his wife, anyway? From what he was saying, the bakery had been all her idea.’
Della nodded. ‘Yes, it was – and now he’s stuck with it, having to make a go of it as all their money went into buying the shop and the flat above it.’
‘So, why did they break up?’ Roxanne blew across her mug of tea.
‘Michael was doing some supply teaching to keep the money coming in while Suzy supervised the conversion into a bakery. Only, she’d been supervising more closely than anyone realised because she and the twenty-eight-year-old kitchen fitter …’ Roxanne raised a brow. ‘That’s who she’s with now. She left Michael for him – a man twenty years younger than her.’
‘Wow,’ Roxanne breathed.
‘So, really, is it any wonder he doesn’t completely love being in the bakery all hours, surrounded by the ovens, worktops and shelving his wife’s new boyfriend installed?’
Roxanne shook her head. ‘I’d want to rip the place to pieces. I certainly wouldn’t want to be up at five every morning making loaves.’
‘Why doesn’t he just sell it and go back to teaching?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Della replied. ‘You’ll have to ask him. Maybe it’s a pride thing – I mean, he’s achieved such a lot already, but there must have been times when he just wanted to give up. But the kids are into it – Elsa especially. I suspect he’s kept on going for them …’
‘Do they see much of their mum?’ Roxanne asked.
‘A little, I think, but from what he’s said they’re still pretty angry with her.’
Roxanne sipped her tea. ‘And you wanted to cheer him up,’ she added with a smile. ‘You said, “Oh, you should meet my sister”.’
Della’s cheeks flushed. ‘I might have said something like that. So, d’you forgive me?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Roxanne said, hugging her goodnight, before carrying her mug of tea off to bed.
She pulled off her clothes and slipped on her cosiest pyjamas, the pink and white spotty ones Amanda had bought her for her last birthday, which felt so soft and were never worn when Sean was staying over. On those nights, it was the black lacy slip, or similar – if anything at all. Enticing, but hardly snug.
Roxanne stretched out on top of the bed, just for a moment, to collect herself. The bed was covered by a beautiful blanket of crocheted squares – ‘granny squares’, as they are now known – made by her mother from scraps of wool. Kitty had been a frugal sort, unravelling old sweaters once worn by her three children, in order to reuse the wool.
Closing her eyes momentarily, Roxanne could almost smell her childhood. Perhaps Della’s heart had been in the right place, she reflected, when she had had the bright idea of trying to set her up with Michael. Bringing them together like that now seemed like an act of kindness, rather than meddling. However, she still wished Della had simply invited him along, without any ‘You should meet my sister!’ agenda.
Roxanne clicked off the bedside lamp, and was snuggling down beneath the duvet when her phone bleeped with a text. Sleepily, she groped on the floor to retrieve it.
Darling, it read, so sorry was such a grump on phone about Tommy’s dog. Just been working too hard lately. Why do you put up with me? I love you and miss you. Are you okay up there? Are you stomping across the fields, talking to yourself yet? Are there more than three channels on TV? Do they still dance to Abba up there? (Joke!) Hope you’re behaving yourself sweetheart. All my love, Sean xx.
She smiled, trying to think of a suitably witty reply. But sleep was already folding over her like a blanket – was it always this exhausting, being in the country? – and she drifted off with her phone still clutched in her hand.
Chapter Seventeen
Then, somehow, eleven hours later, it was morning.
Eleven hours! Roxanne blinked awake, aware that the air was different. It wasn’t London air. It was fresher, sharper, and this wasn’t her bedroom with the flamboyant French wardrobe or the tumble of clothes strewn all over the spindly chair. Of course, she was back in Burley Bridge.
She sat up, pushed back her mussed-up fair hair and looked around the simply-furnished, white-painted room. How had she managed to sleep so long? Perhaps it was due to this wonderful bed, with not a pancake-flat duvet like the one she had at home, but a gorgeously thick one, puffy as a cloud, and the plumpest pillows she had ever encountered. Or maybe it was due to devouring a cod the size of a Viking longboat last night, and three large white wines? Of course, the quietness here was all-enveloping. Back home, although she was well used to constant, round-the-clock noise – evidence that London simply never shut down – sudden sounds outside would often wake her. Here, there was absolute silence.
Roxanne slid out of bed, picked up her phone and re-read Sean’s text, just to remind herself that he had actually sent it. Love you too, she texted, rather belatedly, but never mind.
Della had hung a white towelling dressing gown on the hook on the door, and Roxanne pulled it on, luxuriating for a moment in the feeling of waking up somewhere that wasn’t home. She wasn’t about to be confronted by her dismal fridge containing the small carton of skimmed milk that was teetering on the edge of sourness. She didn’t have to go to work. She was free to do exactly as she pleased.
Roxanne noticed knitted slippers paired up at the foot of the chest of drawers, and smiled. Her sister had made the room all ready for her, and yesterday she had just dumped her suitcase in here and not even noticed. She hadn’t even unpacked or hung anything up in the wardrobe. Della was trying to look after her, she realised – and yesterday she had berated her, simply for being concerned about her getting drenched in the rain. Roxanne glanced at the window – yet more rain, streaming down the glass in rivul
ets – and tried to quell a niggle of guilt. Pulling on the dressing gown, she stepped into the hallway.
‘Dell?’ she called out.
No response.
Of course, it was almost ten-thirty so Della would have been manning the shop for at least an hour. Frank had obviously gone too. Only Stanley was here, eyeing her dolefully in the hallway. She showered quickly and pulled on jeans and a sweater, then called for him, which he failed to respond to. In the kitchen, she found him apparently dozing in his basket.
‘We’re going for a walk,’ she told him. Stanley eyed her briefly, as if she had suggested a trip to the vet’s, and turned away. ‘A walk!’ she repeated, lifting his red leather lead from the back of a chair and dangling it. Still no signs of enthusiasm. Roxanne frowned. Della would have taken him out for a quick pee first thing – but weren’t dogs supposed to jump at any opportunity for proper exercise? Surely he wasn’t aware of the rain outside from his current location of his basket …
Roxanne turned her attention to a small pile of clothing laid out on the kitchen table, with a small scribbled note placed beside it. PLEASE WEAR!! Della had written. Frowning, and with rain patting insistently against the window, Roxanne examined each item in turn.
There was an anorak, of the thick, waxy type, in a particularly dismal shade of murky brown. This is the country, Roxanne reminded herself. It really didn’t matter what you looked like. The navy blue waterproof trousers were more troubling. Were they really necessary? Imagining Della’s mouth set in a firm, faintly disapproving line, she pulled them on over her skinny jeans. You don’t know until you’ve tried them! Well, she was trying them now and they were, Della would be satisfied to note, as hideous as Roxanne had expected. Roxanne pictured Sean creasing up with laughter, thankful at this moment that he was two hundred miles away.
Next to the kitchen table sat a pair of stout walking boots. Clearly, these had been put out for her too, lest she should consider venturing out in her LK Bennetts again and cause a national furore. She put them on – each one seemed to weigh roughly a tonne – and grabbed a wodge of poo bags from the gingham holder on the back of the door.