The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  A little way down Rosemary Lane, Michael was sitting at the small, wobbly desk in the corner of his bedroom, trying to write a short, succinct note. He was aware that it might seem odd, and wasn’t sure this was the right way to go about things. However it was better, he felt, to put his feelings down this way, as he wasn’t brilliant at explaining things face to face either.

  Dear Roxanne, he wrote on the blue lined notepad. I think I owe you an apology for tonight.

  He stopped, unsure as to how to proceed. His confidence had taken quite a bashing after Suzy had left him for that cocky little shit, Rory King – or ‘His Royal Asshole’, as he thought of him privately. Six foot four, gym-honed, with an infuriating swagger and a lazy cockney accent that Michael suspected was fake, or at least exaggerated for effect. Are you happy with the tiling, mate? Pretty neat, innit, mate? It was all mate-this, mate-that. Some people, they get in a tiler ’cause they think it’s fiddly and boring but not me, mate. I find it therapeutic. It transpired that tiling wasn’t the only activity he found therapeutic – not that Rory had been entirely to blame, of course. Suzy had been a more than willing participant. In fact, she had broken it to Michael that the stud kitchen fitter was ‘the love of her life’.

  She and Michael had just ‘run out of steam’, she’d told him, and hadn’t he noticed? Well, yes, he had – sort of. However, he’d assumed they’d been chugging along fine, and if things weren’t as thrilling and sparkly as they had been at the start – well, perhaps that was something to do with the fact that twenty-four years had passed, during which they had raised two teenagers and sunk all their money into a little hardware shop which, Suzy kept insisting, ‘will make such a darling little bakery’. Michael had supported her idea; encouraged her, even: Christ, when you had tried to teach first-year science for the twenty-sixth year, and someone found it hilarious to direct the bunsen burner at someone’s bum … well, he’d conceded that perhaps he and Suzy were ready to start a new life. Then she had hotfooted it before the bakery had even opened.

  Even now, six months on, the very thought of the home-wrecking tradesman made Michael’s blood bubble up like his undeniably active sourdough starter. Perhaps his insides were fermenting too, because something pretty awful seemed to be happening to him. The teenage stud – okay, he was twenty-eight, but that was galling enough: he was born in the 80s for crying out loud – had stepped into their lives, recommended by a friend of Suzy’s, and in one fell swoop destroyed his family. Before all of this, Michael had never been a bitter or vengeful man. Now, on a particularly off day, he could quite easily take a hammer to those cripplingly expensive shelves Suzy reckoned they just had to have.

  The kids had taken it reasonably well, amazingly – at least, Jude seemed to be no surlier than when Suzy had been here, nagging him to have his hair cut and worrying about his asthma. Recently they had even started to visit their mother from time to time, at the home she had set up with Rory King in Ormskirk in Lancashire; a situation which Michael conceded was probably healthier than wanting to incinerate any photos that featured her. Despite everything, he didn’t want his kids to hate their mum. And Elsa had … well, she had rallied, was the only way he could put it – urging him to give his all to the business, starting with choosing the right paint colours to make the place look fresh and inviting, as opposed to announcing ‘The owner of this bakery is severely depressed!’ to passers-by.

  Quite frankly, without Elsa being all-round brilliant (apart from her aversion to housework, but then no one was perfect), he didn’t know how he’d have coped. He padded through to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of wine and sat back down at the desk in his bedroom.

  The thing is, he wrote in his neat rather old-fashioned handwriting, I was sort of embarrassed when so few people turned up for the workshop tonight. With you being there and, I don’t know, bringing something new and different to this little village of ours, it seemed important that it went well. I was glad you were there, once I got things started. You were very kind and seemed so engaged and interested. I hope it was genuine, that you did enjoy yourself (I’m sure it’s not your usual sort of evening entertainment!). If you didn’t, then you played the part extremely well.

  He stopped and sipped his wine. Was he fawning? Did it sound overly formal? He hoped not. He pictured her lovely face, her light blue eyes and bright, unguarded smile, and remembered the first time Della had mentioned her sister’s imminent arrival in Burley Bridge. ‘Just come and meet her,’ Della had said. ‘As friends, I mean. She’s been having a tough time at work and I know she’d love to meet you.’ As friends, indeed. ‘Well,’ Della had said, laughing, ’why not just be open-minded and have a fun evening, see what happens? What is there to lose?’ Conveniently, she had omitted to mention that Roxanne had a boyfriend back in London – some hotshot photographer by all accounts. So why on earth was he sitting here writing to her now?

  But there had been that moment, when they’d been out walking the dogs. The way she’d looked at him, when they’d seen the rainbow – had he imagined it? He’d wanted to kiss her then. How ridiculous, he thought now. A moment of madness; just as well she’d had that phone call from her boyfriend, the one who seemed obsessed about small dogs.

  Fortifying himself with more wine, he continued: So, and I hope this isn’t presumptuous of me, I was wondering if you might like to come over for lunch one day, just so I can sort of apologise for being so offish before you left tonight, and to say thank you?

  He signed it, added his mobile number, and frowned. To thank her for what? He re-read his words, wondering again if it did sound too gushing, or as if he was asking her on a proper date – which he absolutely was not. This was crazy. It now felt less like a chatty note and more of a terribly stressful homework assignment. Perhaps he was worrying too much over what was really just an invitation to a casual lunch? Yet he so wanted to get it right. He hardly knew her but, for the first time since Suzy had left him for Rory King, something had happened to him. He wanted to get to know Roxanne – how could he not, when she was so lovely and unaffected and had asked him if he named his sourdough starter? Yet his faltering attempt at a friendly note seemed quite ridiculous now. He couldn’t possibly drop it through the bookshop letter box. He’d look like an idiot and it would be so uncomfortable if she replied saying thank you, but no. That was the thing with living in a village like Burley Bridge. The downside of all the beauty and tranquillity was the fact that you ran into everyone pretty much every day; there was literally no escape.

  Michael scrunched up the note and pinged it in the general direction of the waste-paper basket. Draining the last of his wine, he bent to pat Bob, who had sidled up beside him, and wondered what on earth he was going to do with the rest of his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Come Thursday – the day before the party – the newly arrived books had all been allocated to their correct sections on the new shelves. A new burgundy velvet sofa had been sourced on Gumtree, and vases filled with fresh spring flowers were dotted all around. It all looked immensely cheery. There were even jars of old-fashioned sweets and lollipops for younger customers.

  For the actual party there would be drinks and retro snacks – a modern take on vol-au-vents, cheese straws and even things on sticks, just for fun. Michael was taking care of the edibles and had nipped in to go over the menu. Leo, the Red Lion’s landlord, knew a local band, and there would be competitions to win limited editions of classic vintage books.

  ‘But the main focus,’ Della said to Roxanne as she switched the sign on the front door to ‘Closed’ – it was 5.30 p.m. – ‘will be the retro cocktail demonstration.’ She paused and grimaced. ‘Hopefully we won’t see a repeat of—’

  ‘Michael’s workshop?’ Roxanne sighed. ‘I’m sure we won’t. Look how many regular customers you have. Everyone’s been talking about the party all week.’

  Della rubbed at her eyes. ‘It still feels like there’s so much to do, though. I can’t believe I�
�ve left it so late.’

  ‘Yes, but we have all of tomorrow, don’t we? The party doesn’t kick off till six so I can run around picking up any last minute bits and pieces during the day. Just give me a list and I’ll help.’

  Della looked at her and smiled. ‘You know what, Rox? I don’t know what I would have done without you …’ She broke off to retrieve her ringing mobile from the counter. ‘Slow down, darling,’ she said, frowning. ‘I can hardly hear you. Take a deep breath and tell me again what’s happened …’

  Roxanne busied herself with pinning up bunting along the tops of the shelves.

  Della was pacing back and forth behind the counter, phone clasped to her ear. ‘Sophie, love, it’ll be okay. Don’t panic … Okay, listen to me please, darling,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll call my bank and see if there’s any way to transfer money if you have no ID. There must be some way to do it …’

  She broke off, glancing at Roxanne with an alarmed face. Sophie was still talking. Roxanne could hear her niece’s voice, frantic yet distant, a nineteen-year-old young woman now, but sounding like a frightened little girl.

  ‘Soph,’ Della cut in, ‘listen to me, please – of course you’ll be able to get back home. We’ll figure out the money situation, but what you need to do is report it to the police, okay? Have you done that yet?’ Small pause. ‘Okay, well, that’s important. You have to do that. Then you’ll need to go to the British embassy and they’ll be able to help you. They’ll probably give you a temporary passport – I can look online for you, see what happens? Honey, please don’t cry. It happens to lots of people. I just wish you’d put your valuables in the hotel’s safe, like I said—’ Sophie’s voice rattled tinnily from the phone. ‘Okay!’ Della exclaimed. ‘Okay, sweetheart. No need to shout. I’m sorry. I know there’s no point in saying that now …’ She tried to placate Sophie some more, then finished the call with a loud groan and slumped into the chair behind the counter.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Roxanne exclaimed. ‘Is she okay?’

  Della rubbed her hands all over her face. ‘Christ, Rox, the thing is with being a parent, it never stops. The worrying, I mean, the stress of it all …’

  ‘She’s not hurt, is she?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank God. Well, not in that way, not in a physical sense …’ Della emitted another low moan of despair. ‘She’s travelling with Jamie, right? This boyfriend from her course, who’s supposedly wonderful? They’re in Berlin now and things were getting a bit tetchy, she said. They weren’t getting along. I’m not sure about the details – just that he was panicking over every little thing and she … well, you know what Sophie’s like. She just takes things as they come.’

  Roxanne nodded.

  ‘Then last night they had a row, and he just stormed off and left her. Left her alone in the hostel which was okay-ish; she thought he’d be back, that he’d call at least when he’d got over himself – but he didn’t. And in the morning she woke up to find her bag had gone from under her bed. Someone had come in and nicked it – wallet, passport, tickets, her decent camera, the lot. The only reason she still has her phone is because she’d been texting Jamie in bed and fell asleep and it must have fallen under her sheets …’ Della shook her head.

  ‘That’s so awful. So, you’ve told her to go to the police, and then the embassy …’

  ‘Yeah. I just wish I could be there. That’s what it’s like, Rox. When something happens …’ She broke off as tears filled her eyes. Roxanne kneeled beside her and held her close. ‘When something happens to your children,’ Della added, ‘all you want is to be there. Does that sound silly? I know she’s a grown-up …’

  ‘But she’s still your girl.’ Roxanne pulled back and looked at her. ‘So, Jamie hasn’t come back?’

  ‘Nope – he just texted her to say he was going home and that was that.’

  Roxanne shook her head in disbelief. Of course, she didn’t know how her sister felt exactly; she didn’t have a child thousands of miles away, stranded with no money or means of travelling home. However, she couldn’t remember seeing Della looking so distressed – not even after all the Mark stuff: finding out about Polly Fisher in her fancy detached house.

  They moved to the sofa and just sat together, quiet for a while and then going over what Sophie could do, and venting their anger at Jamie – what had he been thinking, abandoning her like that in a city she didn’t know? He was supposed to love her!

  ‘I just feel like a terrible mum because I’m not with her,’ Della added. ‘I feel helpless, Rox.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but come on – she’ll do the things you said, and you can find out how to send some money over, and she’ll be fine …’

  ‘She has literally not one euro on her!’

  Roxanne nodded, aware that it wasn’t enough to just sit here, listening, trying to reassure her. ‘Could Mark help in any way?’ she ventured cautiously.

  ‘Oh, he’s completely useless,’ Della exclaimed. ‘He pays his share of her rent, as we agreed, and slings her the odd bit of birthday and Christmas money. But apart from his financial contribution, he doesn’t seem to want to be involved at all. He hasn’t bothered to go and see her in months. Sophie and I think he’s sulking because she’s not terribly enamoured with the idea of going to stay with him at Polly’s.’

  ‘That’s not so surprising.’ She paused. ‘Could I go, then?’

  Della stared at her. ‘What – to Berlin?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But … I couldn’t ask you to do that!’

  Roxanne frowned at her. ‘Why not? I could take her some money, help her to sort out a passport – I’d just be there for her …’

  Della rubbed at her eyes with her sweater sleeve. ‘It just feels like too much.’

  ‘Why is it too much? I travel for work, it’s not a big deal, Dell. Come on, one of us should go …’ She broke off. ‘Would you rather go?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ she said softly. ‘I really want to see her, make sure she’s okay – but it’s the party tomorrow. What a mess, Rox. What bloody awful timing …’

  ‘Does that really matter, though? I know you’ve worked so hard to get to this point. But the main thing is, the shop’s all ready and it looks fantastic …’

  Della picked at a nail. ‘I suppose I could just cancel the party and get a flight tomorrow. I could put a notice in the window, apologising, for when people turn up …’

  ‘Or I could do it,’ Roxanne suggested. ‘Take care of the party, I mean. Be a sort of surrogate you.’

  Della gave Roxanne an incredulous look. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that either. That’s ridiculous—’

  ‘You’re not asking – I’m offering,’ she said firmly.

  Della pondered this for a moment. ‘But … d’you think you could cope?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rox.’ Now Della was eyeing her as if she were a seven-year-old who had just wandered in and asked if she could play shops.

  ‘What are you worried about exactly?’ Roxanne asked, losing patience now. ‘Come on, you must admit, you’re surprised how well I’ve managed in here these past few days …’

  ‘You have been quite a help,’ Della conceded.

  Roxanne smiled. ‘So, can’t you trust me to hand a few vol-au-vents around?’

  Della was still studying her, almost suspiciously, for goodness’ sake. Roxanne inhaled deeply, knowing she had to tread carefully. ‘I know you’d hate to miss your own party,’ she added.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Della murmured. ‘It’s more important that I see Sophie …’

  ‘Just go then,’ Roxanne urged her, ‘and remember it won’t just be me all by myself. Faye will be here, and I’m sure Frank will help out.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘… And maybe Elsa and Jude wouldn’t mind handing out drinks. And then there’s Michael …’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure everyone’ll pitch in …’ Della bit her
lip. ‘But what about my cocktail demo?’

  ‘That might be a bit beyond my capabilities,’ Roxanne conceded, ‘but we’ll think of something – if we need a demonstration at all. Isn’t it really about welcoming your customers to the new shop? There’ll be plenty going on.’

  Della looked a little calmer now. ‘Yes, I guess there will be. Okay, so I’ll try to fly back early Saturday morning in time for the shop opening …’

  ‘Why?’ Roxanne exclaimed. ‘I can look after things here.’

  ‘Yes, but after the party it might be too much—’

  ‘Dell, listen to me, please. I’m not ninety-five years old and it won’t be too much. We’re talking a party in a bookshop – not an all-night rave …’ She stopped and smiled. ‘Do people even go to those anymore?’

  ‘No idea,’ Della said, a hint of a smile on her lips.

  ‘Well, anyway, I can take care of Saturday so please don’t worry.’

  Della exhaled. ‘Okay, I will go, even if I have to fly from Heathrow. I’ll tell Sophie now.’ She picked up her phone from the coffee table and started to text. ‘Thanks, Rox,’ she added. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Roxanne swallowed. ‘Well, I sort of owe you.’ Their eyes met, and Della put her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

  ‘You don’t owe me anything – truly. Are you really sure about this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Roxanne said. ‘Now, off you go and see if you can book a flight.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Of course Michael would pitch in.

  ‘I’m going to be there anyway, aren’t I?’ he said, handing Roxanne a coffee over the bakery counter. He had just opened up on Friday morning and a delicious aroma filled the bakery; warm and comforting, it was like being enveloped in a hug. After their curt conversation after the baking demonstration, Roxanne was pleased that things seemed to be back to normal between them.