The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  Anyway, Roxanne had a boyfriend – that tall, confident man from London who had showed up tonight – so this suggested lunch date was obviously just meant to be a friendship thing.

  She hesitated, wondering if she should actually be dabbling in her dad’s life at all. It had been awful at first, when the whole thing about her mum had come out – although in a weird way, it had been a relief too, because Elsa had known about it before anyone else had. She had been over at Mitzie’s one night – she lived in Larksop, a village about five miles away – and Mitzie’s mum had driven Elsa home. It was just after 10 p.m. when she had pulled up, let Elsa out of her car and drove away.

  Elsa had stood in shock on the pavement outside the shop that would soon be a bakery. At first, she wondered if she had made a mistake and it was the wrong shop. But no – it was definitely where she lived. Through the open interior door that led to the back room, she could see her mum, although she couldn’t quite believe what she was doing. In the room that would soon be the bakery kitchen, she was kissing a man.

  At first, Elsa couldn’t figure out who he was, but she knew he wasn’t her dad. For one thing, this man was much younger. And for another thing, her father was hundreds of miles away, staying at his mum and dad’s.

  Her mum and this man were locked in an embrace in front of the new stainless-steel oven. When they pulled apart, Elsa realised he was that builder – the one who was doing all the work in the shop, and always flirting with her mum in the most awful, cringeworthy way. Elsa felt sick. She almost vomited up Mitzie’s mum’s lasagne right there on the pavement. There was only one way up to the flat, and that was through the shop – so she made a point of waggling the door handle and taking her time to step into the shop, giving them a chance to separate and make out they were just hanging out and chatting.

  ‘Hey, Else,’ her mum called through from the back, ‘have a good time at Mitzie’s?’

  ‘Yeah, great, thanks.’ She was already halfway up the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be up soon, darling,’ she trilled. ‘We’re just discussing tiles …’

  Oh, was that what you called it? Her mum must have thought she was an idiot. People often did, just because she struggled with maths and English at school – not the reading part but the interpreting of texts. It baffled her. What she loved was drawing and taking photos. Elsa’s dad – and now Roxanne, this fascinating woman who had just arrived out of nowhere and become her friend – were the only people who had ever encouraged her to believe that she might be a real photographer one day.

  For weeks after seeing her mum kissing that man, Elsa had kept the secret close to her heart. Telling Mitzie would have meant going over and over it, so she decided not to say a word. She hadn’t even told Jude; she knew he’d have freaked out and gone straight to their dad and all hell would have broken loose. Although it had been a proper snog – there was no mistaking that – as time went on she worried that she had somehow misinterpreted it, and they’d just been messing around. Perhaps they’d been drunk, or she’d somehow imagined it? She tried, unsuccessfully, to force herself not to think about it at all.

  Now Elsa stood for a moment, remembering how devastated her dad had been when it had all come out about that awful man. She had been distraught, too – but there had also been a certain amount of relief, as now the secret was out.

  She dropped her gaze to the letter. Why had he thrown it away? she wondered. Perhaps he’d lost his nerve or worried that Roxanne wouldn’t want to come over for lunch. However, Elsa was sure she would. They seemed to get along well, and it was good to see him looking happier.

  She heard movement downstairs, and the sound of the front door being locked. Her dad was talking to Bob. ‘C’mon, old fella. Good boy …’ Footsteps were approaching now, her father’s heavy ones, accompanied by the scuffle of Bob’s paws on the stone stairs. Elsa’s heart was racing as she stuffed the letter into the back pocket of her jeans.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Before Roxanne was even fully awake, she was aware of soft, slow breathing and the warmth of Sean lying beside her. For a moment, she assumed they were in her bed in London, which suggested that the bookshop, the party and country-style band had just been one happy, retro-themed dream. But no – Sean was here, in Burley Bridge. He had attended a party at her sister’s bookshop where sausage rolls and vol-au-vents had been served. A party with a raffle – and a doggie bites demonstration. The very idea made her smile.

  Now he was awake too, blinking in the pale morning light and kissing her gently on the cheek. ‘What time is it?’ he murmured.

  She glanced at the small clock on the bedside table. ‘Only seven-thirty. No need to get up just yet. I’ll have to work in the shop today, I’m afraid, but we don’t open until nine-thirty.’

  ‘Oh, I’m wide awake,’ Sean announced, stretching now, then rolling straight out of bed.

  ‘Must be the country air,’ she teased. ‘You’ll be suggesting we go on a hike next.’

  He smirked. ‘That might be bit extreme, darling. I was thinking more a wander through to the kitchen. I assume there’s decent coffee here?’

  ‘Of course there is,’ she scoffed. ‘Believe it or not, they’re not limited to Nescafe up here. I mean, there’s the real stuff. Della even has a cafetiére.’

  ‘Whoo!’ He laughed.

  How bizarre, she mused, to see her boyfriend wandering nakedly around her sister’s spare room, now retrieving his black stretchy boxers from the chair and pulling them on. He was in particularly good shape at the moment, she noticed. His stomach was taut, his bottom nicely shaped and, actually, pretty pert for fifty – or for any age, in fact. A little light running, and a couple of gym sessions every week, seemed to be keeping everything in check.

  She watched him as he pottered around bare-footed, picking up his jeans and a T-shirt from his bag. He had terribly attractive feet, she reflected. Terribly attractive everything, really: those impish green eyes still did things to her, and he only had to smile for her to melt a little.

  He went to stand at the window, with his back to her. At first she thought he was admiring the view – Della’s guest room looked out onto the fields at the back – but then she realised he was poking at his phone.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ she urged him.

  He turned to her and grimaced. ‘Look, Rox—’

  ‘Sorry I’m having to work today,’ she added. ‘I’ll see if Faye can do a shift, but I doubt it at such short notice. But never mind. You can hang out with me in the shop …’

  ‘Erm, I don’t think …’

  ‘And we can have dinner tonight at the Red Lion. Does that sound good to you?’

  He was pulling on his jeans now, doing up his favourite worn brown leather belt, and then tugging on the T-shirt. ‘It does, darling. It really does.’ He blinked at her.

  ‘It’s much better than you might think,’ she added. ‘I mean, it used to be all greasy chicken in a basket but now they have this new chef, and the cod and chips, oh my God …’ She pulled an ecstatic face, which melted away rapidly when she noticed the oddly strained look on Sean’s face. ‘You like that kind of place, don’t you?’ she added. ‘Nice, simple, un-mucked-around food. No slates,’ she added, with a feeble laugh.

  Sean came over and sat heavily on the edge of the bed beside her, causing it to dip a little. ‘Sweetheart, it’s not about the pub or the food. It’s – oh, God, I’m so sorry, darling. I was hoping we could at least have today together, and I’d head back tomorrow night. But I’m going to have to set off now …’

  ‘Now?’ she gasped, staring at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

  He pursed his lips in exasperation and shook his head. ‘Louie’s been texting me.’

  Roxanne frowned. ‘What about, at this time on a Saturday morning?’

  ‘Just a really complicated shoot tomorrow,’ Sean muttered, up on his feet again now, and pacing back and forth. ‘Seems like I can’t trust him to put it together …’

&
nbsp; ‘Put what together? I mean, what needs to be done that can’t be handled here, with a few calls?’ She exhaled loudly. ‘And anyway, you don’t usually shoot on Sunday …’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He turned and stared at her.

  ‘Well, not very often …’

  ‘Honey,’ he said, adopting a patronising tone now, ‘I’m freelance. It’s an occupational hazard, having to work weekends. I hadn’t planned to – Christ, if I’d known I wouldn’t have driven all this way just for one night …’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t you?’ she said witheringly.

  Sean’s face crumpled. ‘Please don’t be like that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’m just a bit disappointed – but it’s fine. Of course it is. And I’m really glad you came.’

  His expression softened, and he kissed her, then gathered together his few possessions and strolled through to Della’s kitchen while Roxanne showered and dressed. By the time she joined him, he had poured two mugs of coffee.

  ‘You will have something to eat before you go, won’t you?’ she asked, flinging open the cupboard, and listing the cereals – ‘Rice Krispies, Shredded Wheat, Alpen’ – as if he were nine.

  ‘Don’t worry, babe. I’ll pick up something at a service station on the way home.’ Catching the look on her face, he added, ‘I’m really bloody annoyed about this. Maybe I should find myself an assistant who can just get on with things rather than needing to be babied?’

  ‘You’re not thinking of getting rid of Louie, are you?’ She frowned. ‘He worships the ground you walk on.’

  Sean chuckled wryly. ‘Maybe he should concentrate more on using his initiative. Anyway,’ he added, shrugging, ‘I’ll see you soon, darling, I promise, and I’ll stay for longer next time.’

  ‘Great,’ she murmured.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, love, I’m going to head off now …’ He hugged her tightly, protesting that she didn’t need to come outside to see him off.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she insisted, clipping on Stanley’s lead.

  Minutes later, she and the little terrier watched as, without having even showered or drunk his coffee, Sean climbed into his slightly mud-dappled black BMW and drove away.

  In the shop that day, despite a steady flow of customers, Roxanne couldn’t shake the feeling of flatness that seemed to have settled over her.

  ‘Yes, it was a brilliant night,’ she said for the umpteenth time as another villager complimented her on the party. ‘Oh, yes, I was thrilled by how many people turned up. It’s a shame Della had to miss it …’ She felt rather phoney, claiming any credit whatsoever as all she’d had to do was be there, basically, and enlist Elsa’s help with the doggie bites – a masterstroke of delegation.

  Then Della herself was on the phone, thanking her again. ‘I really owe you for this,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Roxanne told her.

  ‘Well, I’m just so glad you were there. Oh, Frank called – told me Sean showed up, out of the blue!’

  ‘Yeah – that was a bit of a shocker. He’s already gone back to London – had some shoot to set up. It was hardly worth him coming …’

  ‘He was obviously missing you madly,’ Della said with a chuckle.

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure, actually – but it was lovely to see him. So, how’s everything with you and Soph?’

  ‘Oh, great – it’s amazing here. So vast! She’s going mad for all the vintage stores and flea markets. It’s lovely, actually, having some time together. A kind of bonus I hadn’t expected.’ She paused. ‘So, what’re you up to tonight?’

  ‘Um, I’m just about to shut up the shop. I think I’ll just chill out, watch some TV …’

  ‘I should have asked Frank to meet you for a drink,’ Della remarked.

  Roxanne laughed. Her voice was a little hoarse after all the chatting last night, and she coughed to clear her throat. ‘Honestly – I have no inclination at all to go out tonight.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s a bit boring with only the Red Lion on offer …’

  ‘Dell,’ she said firmly, ‘please don’t think that. I’m really enjoying being here, honestly.’

  ‘Oh, but I just thought, with it being Saturday night—’

  ‘I hardly ever go out on Saturday nights,’ Roxanne cut in, truthfully. ‘Please don’t worry about me at all. Me and Stanley have planned a cosy night in.’

  By the time they finished the call Roxanne had managed to persuade Dell that she was perfectly happy in her own company. She was used to it, after all.

  Roxanne locked up the shop and headed upstairs to the flat, grateful, in fact, for some time to herself. Sean had texted to say he’d arrived home, and she had sent a brief reply, but she felt no real urge to speak to him now. All too often these days, their phone conversations ended in tetchiness.

  She was prowling around in the kitchen, plundering Della’s cupboards in order to assemble herself a makeshift supper, when her phone bleeped with a text.

  It was from Della, and had a photo attached – her and Sophie in a fabulously glamorous revolving restaurant in Berlin, the city visible through the huge window behind them, a haze of sparkling lights against an inky sky. The message read: Us last night, love you xx. Roxanne smiled. In some ways, although the timing had been rather off, it was probably doing Della the world of good to spend time away with her daughter. After all, Frank was often around these days, and although Sophie approved of him wholeheartedly, Roxanne was sure she would appreciate some time with her mum alone. She studied the photo, the two of them all bright, wide smiles, the restaurant decor fabulously futuristic in a 1960s sort of way, aware of a small stab of … what exactly? Envy? They just looked so happy together.

  Roxanne pulled her hair up into a messy bun, put on a pot of linguine to simmer, and checked her emails from the past couple of days. There was nothing of note: just reams and reams of junk mail and impersonal press releases, invites to product launches and fashion-related events, most of which should have gone to her work email but often seemed to wing their way to her personal account too. No, she wasn’t interested in attending a lunch to celebrate the launch of un-snaggable fishnet tights or a new kind of pair of jeans that somehow managed to shrink your bottom. She couldn’t care less about a brand of frankly hideous diamanté-encrusted T-shirts or 3-D stickers for nails, or exercise wear in Barbie pink that claimed to boost the number of calories burned. It was all tosh, a load of fake promises playing on women’s insecurities. At the very least, it was stuff nobody needed. Although Roxanne loved fashion, she was patently aware that the world would not cease to turn if no new collections were created ever again, and everyone just had to make do with what they had. They could mend things, the way her mother used to, granted rather badly – cursing as the needle stabbed at her finger. Of course, if there was no new fashion, there would be no fashion director’s post because her magazine wouldn’t exist. But would that be so terrible?

  Roxanne continued to scroll through her emails, flagging up a couple she would need to reply to, and quickly reading another brief, praising missive from Marsha, thanking her for her latest blog post. Her editor was being far more responsive than she had expected, considering when they were in the office together, she had barely acknowledged Roxanne’s existence unless they were having an actual meeting.

  She closed her laptop, devoured her linguine and watched a little TV. Just before 10 p.m., she went to draw Della’s living room curtains. As she looked down to the street, she spotted a young woman and a dog striding along towards the bookshop. A moment later and she could see it was Elsa with Bob. Perhaps Michael had asked her to do his last walk of the day. Odd, she thought: it struck her that he was the kind of dad who’d prefer to do that himself, rather than sending his daughter out late at night. But then, this was Burley Bridge, not London. It was hardly riddled with crime.

  Now Elsa had stopped, presumably to look into the bookshop window. But no – she seemed to be extracting something from h
er jeans pocket, which she quickly posted through the letter box before turning and marching back home.

  How odd, Roxanne thought. Unable to quell her curiosity, she hurried down to the shop to retrieve it. It was a slightly crumpled letter, not from Elsa herself, but her father. Elsa, she realised as she came back upstairs, had just been the delivery girl.

  Dear Roxanne, she read, I think I owe you an apology for tonight …

  She stepped back into the flat and frowned. Did he write this last night, and was referring to the way he’d snuck out of the party without saying goodbye? There was no need to apologise for that. She read on:… I was sort of embarrassed when so few people turned up for my sourdough thing tonight … Ah, he was talking about Wednesday evening. That was strange too. Why was it only delivered tonight?… 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!).

  Roxanne smiled at his rather formal, hesitant tone.

  If you didn’t, then you played the part extremely well … 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?

  She re-read his words, flattered to be asked, yet somewhat confused.

  Seeing that he had included his mobile number, she picked up her phone and texted him:

  Hi Michael, Roxanne here. Thanks so much for your lovely note. You have nothing whatsoever to apologise for! In fact, it’s me who should be treating you to lunch after your help at the party. Your food was lovely and it really helped knowing you were there. But yes, if you’d still like lunch together I’d be delighted. How about tomorrow seeing as it’s both of our days off? Thanks again, Roxanne

  With that, she pressed send. By the time she had taken Stanley out for his night walk and returned to the flat, Michael’s reply had appeared.

  Roxanne – Lovely to hear from you and you’re very welcome about last night. Sorry to dash off the way I did (here I am, apologising again!). Must have seemed a bit rude, I realise now. But you looked busy and happy and I didn’t want to interrupt. Yes, tomorrow is good for me. Shall we say one o’clock? If the weather’s decent we could eat in my terribly neglected garden! Looking forward very much, Michael.