The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  Beautiful old things – to wear or just to enjoy. Was that such a crazy idea? By the time she turned into her street, Roxanne had designed the whole place in her head. Would such a boutique work in Burley Bridge? she wondered. A few years ago she would have said no, but then, the place had changed, thanks to Della. The village seemed filled with possibilities now.

  As she crossed the street towards her block, something caught her eye on the pavement ahead. It was a record. She thought she had gathered them all up, but now she spotted several more, still lying in the street. People must have been messing about with them, she realised: throwing them around. She gathered them all up. One was a blues compilation, another a live Billie Holiday album. The third depicted a stunning young woman on the sleeve, wearing a sparkly dress, a string of tiny pearls and matching earrings. She was singing into an old-fashioned microphone and this album, too, was a live recording.

  Isabelle Jerome: Live at the Palladium.

  Isabelle Jerome?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  One week later

  Although a wonderful neighbour in many ways, Isabelle could be incredibly frustrating. She had ducked out of answering Roxanne’s barrage of questions, muttering that it was ‘just an old record’ and that she hadn’t known where it was. Roxanne knew she was fibbing, and only now – with nothing else to distract them – could she finally persuade her to tell the truth.

  They were travelling north together by train to Heathfield, where Della would meet them and take them back to Burley Bridge. The two women were on holiday together; at least, after resigning, Roxanne had decided to return to Yorkshire for a bit, and it occurred to her that Isabelle would never get around to having her flat redecorated unless she took charge and booked someone to do it. With Isabelle’s slightly reluctant permission, she had booked a painter and decorator and persuaded Isabelle that she could enjoy a few days up north while he got on with the job. When she returned to London, her flat would be freshly painted with all the terrible evidence of the burglary gone.

  In the meantime, Roxanne could finally apologise face to face to Michael for standing him up the other day. The thought of seeing him again made her smile. Of course there was the slight chance that he might be a little cross with her; he hadn’t returned her calls, after all. She would have to wait and see.

  But now, she fetched teas from the buffet car and, when she settled back into her seat, she decided it was time to find out all about Isabelle Jerome.

  In fact, it was the surname of the love of her life, Isabelle told Roxanne as the train sped north. That was the name she performed under, and also why Roxanne had never found any evidence of Isabelle’s career as a jazz singer when she had done a little searching online.

  Monty Jerome, a jazz saxophonist, had played on the album Roxanne had found. That was why Isabelle never listened to it. He had died of a sudden heart attack on stage fifteen years ago and she couldn’t bear to hear him play.

  ‘I left my husband for Monty,’ she explained as they sipped their tea. ‘He was devastated, but he did get over it and married someone else fairly quickly. Unfortunately, Simon never forgave me.’

  ‘Your son Simon?’ Roxanne asked.

  She nodded. ‘Well, he was only ten when it happened, and of course, it was terrible for him. I’d been having an affair, you see. Monty and I often found ourselves performing on the same bill, and we just fell madly in love. We tried to resist each other but it was terrible. It broke our hearts.’ She blinked at Roxanne, her eyes misting at the memory. ‘When I left my husband, I took Simon with me, but he was never happy and went to live with his daddy a few months later.’

  Roxanne touched her hand across the table. ‘How awful for you.’

  ‘It was my own fault. I deserved it, really …’

  ‘Yes, but you loved this man, didn’t you?’

  ‘Monty? Oh, yes. We loved each other very deeply for the rest of his life.’

  Roxanne nodded, taking this in. Was it worth losing your child to be with the man you loved? she wondered. She had no idea. But she realised now that whatever she’d had with Sean – or anyone at all – was nothing compared to Isabelle’s adoration of this man.

  ‘Oh, I have something for you,’ Isabelle said, delving into the large canvas bag beside her. She pulled out her own record and handed it to Roxanne.

  ‘I can’t take this!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely you want to keep it yourself, even if you don’t play it?’

  Tears shone in Isabelle’s dark eyes as she shook her head. ‘Music is meant to be played, Roxanne, and anyway, you really must have it. You rescued it, after all.’

  They were met at Heathfield station by Della, and had dinner at the Red Lion where Isabelle took charge of the jukebox and enthused over the pub’s rustic charms. Then the three of them strolled slowly back to the flat above the bookshop. Exhausted after the journey, Isabelle excused herself just after ten, and retired to bed in the spare room. Roxanne was spending the night on the sofa, which was fine with her. Della had tried to insist she took her bed, while she slept in the living room, but Roxanne wouldn’t hear of it. Della’s sofa was big and squashy and perfectly comfortable.

  And now, with Isabelle’s soft snores drifting out of the spare room, Roxanne set off, relieved that Michael hadn’t sounded remotely annoyed with her when she had called just before the train had pulled into Heathfield station. He’d seemed delighted, in fact. It was his fault, he’d insisted, for dropping his mobile on the kitchen floor, and of course he would love her to pop round later. No – it didn’t matter how late it was.

  She buzzed the door.

  Michael’s face broke into a huge, wide smile as he opened it and beckoned her in. ‘Back so soon!’ he said teasingly.

  ‘I just couldn’t stay away,’ she said with a grin as they headed upstairs to his flat. ‘Oh – and I brought you a present.’ She handed him the book, and he gushed his thanks and turned the pages reverentially.

  ‘This is wonderful, Roxanne! Thank you. It’s a real classic, you know – and very rare.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy it.’

  In his living room now, he poured them glasses of wine, then they sat beside each other on the sofa, and Roxanne told him everything that had happened since she’d seen him last – about her job, and Sean, and what on earth she might do next.

  ‘I’m thinking of possibly opening a shop of my own,’ she ventured. ‘I’ve seen how happy it’s made Della and I think … I really think I could make it work. Is that crazy?’

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps I’m the wrong person to ask. But, you know, there is a vacant shop at the moment, just down the road – the one next to the greengrocer’s …’

  ‘Really? I might take a look while I’m here. You know, in some ways my editor’s right. Glossy magazines are lovely things but they had their heyday a while ago. I think it’s time for something new.’

  ‘I really believe in just following your instinct,’ Michael murmured, ‘and doing what feels right.’

  ‘Yes, me too.’ She sipped her wine and looked around the room. It was cosy, just the right side of cluttered, with shelves of books and clusters of photos of Elsa and Jude crowding the mantelpiece. ‘I notice you have a record player there,’ she remarked.

  ‘Oh, yes – Elsa just bought it. Isn’t it funny how young people are mad on vinyl again?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She pulled the album from her bag. ‘D’you mind if I put this on?’

  ‘No, not at all. Here, I’ll do it for you …’ He took the record and placed it carefully on the turntable. There was a crackle as the needle hit its groove, a gentle piano introduction, and then the most beautiful, soulful and smoky voice filled the room.

  Roxanne looked at Michael as he settled back beside her, her heart seeming to flip as his eyes met hers.

  ‘How long are you staying this time?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m really not sure,’ she replied. ‘Isabelle’s travelling back the day after tomorrow, but I�
��m planning to be here a while longer.’

  He nodded, and his hand brushed against hers. She smiled, and that’s when she found herself looking at him properly, knowing he was about to kiss her and wanting him to, very much.

  His lips met hers, and her head seemed to spin as they kissed and kissed, with the beautiful music playing. They kept kissing through track after track, all sense of time lost until, finally, she pulled back and became aware that the record had finished.

  Michael smiled. ‘That was lovely,’ he murmured.

  Whether he meant the kiss or the album, she wasn’t sure. ‘Yes, and the music was wonderful too,’ she said with a smile.

  Michael chuckled and took hold of her hand, kissing her so softly on the lips, she thought she might dissolve. In that moment, Roxanne felt more certain than ever before that, right now, this was exactly where she belonged.

  ‘Who was it anyway?’ he asked, winding his arms around her and holding her close.

  ‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Roxanne replied. ‘Her name is Isabelle Jerome.’

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to Chris and Sue at Atkinson Pryce Books, the wonderful independent bookshop in Biggar, Lanarkshire, where I’ve spent many a happy hour browsing and escaping from life. Incidentally, this bookshop ‘magically’ doubled in size! Thanks also to my ever-brilliant agent Caroline Sheldon, and to Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, Helen Huthwaite, Sabah Khan, Helena Sheffield and all of the fantastic team at Avon towers. Many ‘mwahs’ to the ever-stylish Dame Wendy Rigg, who inspired me so much with her love of ‘clobber’ (and somewhat shakier relationship with kale). Big thanks to Tania Cheston for huge help in reading, checking and suggesting, and to Jen, Kath, Cathy, Michelle, Marie and Susan for being such brilliant friends since we all met in magazine offices way back in ye olden days. Finally, thanks to my lovely family – Jimmy, Sam, Dexter and Erin – and to Sheila, Ruby, Elaine and all the staff at McClymont House, who look after Mum with such thoughtfulness and care.

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  About the Author

  Ellen Berry is an author and magazine journalist. Originally from rural West Yorkshire, she has three teenage children and lives with her husband and their daughter in Glasgow.

  When she’s not writing, she loves to cook and browse her vast collection of cookbooks, which is how the idea for this story came about. However, she remains the world’s worst baker but tends to blame her failures on ‘the oven’.

  Also by Ellen Berry

  The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane

  By the same author, writing as Fiona Gibson:

  Mum on the Run

  The Great Escape

  Pedigree Mum

  Take Mum Out

  How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas: a short story

  As Good As It Gets?

  The Woman Who Upped and Left

  The Woman Who Met Her Match

  About the Publisher

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  HarperCollins Canada

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  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

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