Kitabı oxu: «The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018»
Copyright
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Ellen Berry 2017
Ellen Berry asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008157142
Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008157159
Version 2018-11-26
Dedication
For Tania with love, hugs and sufficient fuss xxx
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Ellen Berry
About the Publisher
Prologue
Something peculiar had happened to Marsha Kennedy.
She had found herself editor of Britain’s most popular fashion magazine. While she had already edited several publications, they had been in the diet and fitness markets, promising taut bodies and rapidly shed pounds; she knew virtually nothing about fashion and had even less interest in it.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Rufus had said when he had first suggested she step into the role. ‘In fact, view it as a positive. You’re commercial, Marsh – you know how to sell copies and that’s what this lot need. A kick up the backside, a wake-up call. They’ve had it too good for far too long, floating about and creating their … pretty pictures.’
As publisher at Walker Media Inc., Rufus was in charge of a whole raft of magazines, and as he said the words ‘pretty pictures’, his nostrils seemed to flare in distaste. Unconcerned by the creative aspects, his job was to ensure that his magazines raked in maximum profits. He was also Marsha’s married boss with whom she was having a somewhat frenetic affair.
‘We need to be radical if the magazine’s going to survive,’ he’d added, twitching as Marsha traced a finger through the reddish, sweat-dampened hair on his slightly paunchy stomach.
They had been lying on plastic sun beds on the rectangle of Astroturf that covered her south-facing roof terrace in Dalston in East London. It was an uncharacteristically hot April day, and the pair had spent most of it massaging sunscreen into each other. Rufus had muttered that he would have to shower it off so as not to return home to his wife smelling of sickly shea butter. (His rather sunburnt hue would be a trickier matter, he realised, glancing down in alarm at his chest. He was supposed to be visiting his mother at her care home in Stroud, so how would he explain why his chest was the colour of bacon?)
‘I want to put you in there,’ he’d said, ‘like a heat-seeking missile. If anyone can sort things out it’s you, Marsh, sweetheart.’
‘You really think so?’ She’d twisted her shoulder-length chestnut hair into what she hoped was a cute little braid.
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Because it’s not my market, darling.’
‘Oh, come on. I know what you’re like. You can do anything when you put your mind to it.’ He winked, and she laughed. ‘And believe me,’ he’d added, pulling her close to his clammy chest, ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
He had, too – financially as well as in other, more immediate ways. Marsha had now been installed at the helm of Britain’s best-loved fashion magazine for two weeks. Although sales had dipped over the past couple of years, she was confident that this would soon be rectified. Rufus had been right: of course she was capable of running a glossy fashion magazine. She just needed to scare everyone senseless. And, so far, this was working a treat.
First up, she had established a new start time of 9 a.m., instead of the more relaxed ten o’clock kick off. She had also introduced daily yoga classes, which were to be held on the office’s scratchy grey carpet. ‘It’s optional, of course,’ she had explained, baring her eerily white teeth at everyone, ‘but I think you’ll all benefit and I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t at least give it a chance.’ Jacqui, the PA Marsha had insisted on bringing with her, had ordered in mats and bolsters for everyone, and booked two teachers to take classes on alternate days. To Marsha, who could conduct an important phone call while assuming a full headstand, there was something intensely amusing about watching the facial contortions of the less supple members of the team.
People like Roxanne Cartwright, the fashion director and longest-serving staff member, who had just this morning hurtled in, slurping coffee from her takeaway cup. Typical, Marsha thought. Everyone else was ready to start the session with their legs neatly crossed and eyes closed.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Roxanne blustered, placing her coffee on the edge of Zoe the beauty director’s desk, where it sat for a moment, half-resting on an eyeshadow compact before tipping over. ‘Oh God!’ Roxanne gasped, running to the kitchen and returning with a wad of paper towels. ‘So sorry, Zoe,’ she added.
‘Rox, it’s fine,’ Zoe murmured from her mat on the floor. ‘Calm down, darling …’
However, it wasn’t fine, as far as Marsha was concerned. She sighed irritably as, with the coffee lake now blotted, Roxanne rushed off to change in the loos into her yoga gear. Apparently, she couldn’t bring herself to travel to work in it as everyone else did. Finally ready for class and back in the main office, Roxanne assumed the required seated position on a mat next to Marsha. Funnily enough, that space was always the last one taken.
Whilst pretending to sit completely zen, Marsha snuck a glance at Roxanne, who was still panting a little. Marsha had already spent an awful lot of time observing her over the past fortnight. She was always running, Marsha had noted – off to appointments and shoots, cheeks flushed, hair askew, phone clasped to her ear. And she was in some state this morning. Her cheeks were bright red and her casual topknot was tumbling loose, with strands of fair wavy hair flapping in her face. However, although it pained Marsha to admit it, Roxanne was still striking for her age (when you were a mere thirty-three, ‘late forties’ sounded geriatric), her natural beauty quite captivating. Her light blue eyes were stunning and she was blessed with the kind of delicate bone structure that gave a person an air of elegance and dignity.
On top of this, Roxanne had a casual, bohemian way of dressing that Marsha could only hope to emulate – just how did one throw a perfect outfit together, seemingly without effort? Whenever Marsha tried to do that, the ‘quirky’ accessory – even something as innocuous as an Indian scarf – had the appearance of being flung at her by a passer-by as a cruel joke. As a result, Marsha tended to stick to the safe territory of fitted shirt in cream or white, plus black trousers; a uniform, really, which eliminated the hassle of thinking about what to wear every morning. Rufus had assured her that the editor of a fashion magazine was there to drive sales, not appear as if she had just stepped off the catwalk.
There was something else about Roxanne that Marsha had noticed, apart from the natural beauty and effortless style, damn her; she had a childlike enthusiasm that drew people to her and commanded fierce loyalty. Marsha had already had informal chats with Zoe and the other department heads, all of whom had been pleasingly compliant about the direction the magazine should take. Where Roxanne was concerned, she suspected things might not be quite so simple. Marsha’s intention was to put a stop to the stunning fashion photography for which the magazine was known, and instead feature hundreds of cheap-as-chips outfits, promising figure-shaping miracles. Miracle knickers, bum-slimming trousers, boob-hoisting bras: that was what Marsha wanted to see. Of course, Roxanne would hate that. It hardly fitted in with her romantic aesthetic of achingly beautiful girls on horseback, swathed in chiffon – but who cared? Marsha’s job was to sell more copies, reversing the circulation decline, and maximise profitability. This would secure her not only a whopping bonus but may also be the trigger for Rufus to leave that dreadful wife of his, and be truly hers. She loved the man deeply, and her favourite pastime was picturing the two of them – London’s media power couple – scooping every accolade going at all the industry awards.
Whilst holding a perfect downward dog pose, Marsha glanced around at her team. All were obligingly trying their best, although she caught the odd anxious glance at the wall clock. Poor Tristan, the art director, was trembling visibly, a vein protruding from his neck. She caught a whiff of cigarettes from Grace, the beauty assistant, and Kate, the fashion assistant, let out a groan.
Meanwhile Marsha held the pose firm – muscles taut, wobble-free bottom hoisted high in the air – as she glanced at her potentially troublesome fashion director. She would have to be tough with Roxanne, but Marsha wasn’t fazed by that. In all areas of life – such as achieving a tightly honed body and stratospheric career success – she had a clear end goal in sight, and she wasn’t about to let Roxanne Cartwright stand in her way.
Chapter One
Gently melt the butter, sugar and golden syrup in a small saucepan …
That sounded simple enough. This was a children’s cookbook – a gift from her older sister Della, and intended as a joke. Roxanne was no cook. She couldn’t see the point of baking anything you could quite easily buy from a shop. However, if a seven-year-old could manage it then surely, at forty-seven years of age, Roxanne could follow a simple step-by-step recipe without setting her kitchen on fire. Couldn’t she?
Roxanne had chosen to make brandy snaps, her attention caught by the photograph in the book. As fashion director of YourStyle, she liked things to look pretty, and what could be more eye-pleasing than lace-textured biscuity curls? She opened her fridge, averting her gaze from the clear plastic sack of kale, which she had bought with the intention of throwing it into smoothies – to boost her energy and make her ‘glow from within’ – and which was now slowly decaying whilst awaiting a decision to be made regarding its destiny. Throw it away, like last time, and endure the wave of disquiet that was bound to follow? (‘I can’t even get it together to use up my kale!’) Or just leave it sitting there, quietly rotting? Deciding to pretend it wasn’t there, she grabbed the butter, checked the use-by date on the packet and shut the fridge door. It was still edible – just. As Roxanne lived alone, a single packet could last her for weeks.
Not being in possession of kitchen scales, Roxanne estimated quantities, all the while picturing Sean’s look of surprise and delight when he came over later and saw what she’d made for him. An edible love offering for his fiftieth birthday! How sweet was that? In the nine months they had been together, she had never made anything more complicated for him than toast, a coffee or a gin and tonic. ‘My undomesticated goddess,’ he called her, fondly, often teasing her about the kale supply: ‘Why not just stop buying the wretched stuff?’ Well, that would have been far too logical, and would have highlighted that she had given up on self-improvement. It would be like accepting she would never again fit into those size eight jeans stuffed in her bottom drawer and donating them to charity.
You kept them, just in case. Surely any woman understood that?
Anyway, never mind that right now. With all that syrup and fat, brandy snaps hardly counted as ‘clean food’, but on a positive note, an unusually delicious and heady aroma was filling her small, cramped kitchen.
While Roxanne might not exactly be glowing from within – a spate of late nights with Sean had dulled her light blue eyes and fair skin – she still experienced a flurry of anticipation for the evening ahead. Pushing back her long, honey-coloured hair, she smiled at the unlikeliness of the situation: Roxanne Cartwright, actually baking! She owned just one saucepan, one frying pan and a single wooden spoon with a crack in it. As children, her big sister Della had been the one to potter away contentedly with their mother in the kitchen; she now owned a quaint little shop back in their childhood Yorkshire village of Burley Bridge, which sold nothing but cookbooks. Initially stocked with their mother’s collection after she’d died, the shop was now thriving, a real hub of the close-knit community up there. Yet to Roxanne, that kitchen back in Rosemary Cottage had never felt welcoming. If she’d tried to help, she had botched things up and been snapped at by her mother: For God’s sake, Roxanne, how hard is it to chop a few onions? Oh, just give me that knife. Might as well do it myself! At the sound of a bicycle approaching along the gravelled path, Kitty’s expression would brighten. Ah, that sounds like Della. Thank goodness someone around here is capable of helping. Off you go, Roxanne. You’re just getting under my feet …
‘Getting under my feet.’ How those words had stung. I won’t, then, Roxanne had vowed. I’ll get well out of your way – as soon as I possibly can. She had dreamed of escape and adventure; of stepping onto a London-bound train and never looking back. Her mother smacking her bare arm with a fish slice – ‘Go on, scarper, can’t you see I’m busy?’ – had been the final straw.
Right here, in North London, was where Roxanne had landed at eighteen years old, having talked her way into the lowly position of fashion junior on a women’s magazine. From her Saturday job in the newsagent’s back home, she had saved up enough for an overnight coach fare to Victoria station and so was able to attend the interview without having to ask for money. Kitty had taken a dim view of the capital and all that she imagined went on there; ‘That London,’ was how she always referred to it. The intimidatingly chic magazine editor could hardly believe a fresh-faced teenager from a sleepy West Yorkshire village could be so keen to learn, so passionate about photography and fashion. She had gazed in wonder as this eager girl had spread all her sketches and scrapbooks over the desk. The fish slice incident had propelled Roxanne into action, and thankfully the editor offered her the job there and then. And here she still was, on a different magazine and fashion director now, with almost three decades of hard-earned experience to her name. Not that she was entertaining any fashion-related thoughts right now. She hadn’t even considered what to wear tonight for dinner with Sean. Right now, she was focusing hard on the job in hand:
Allow to cool slightly, then sieve in the ground ginger and flour. Stir in the lemon juice. Line a baking tray with a sheet of parchment and drop on teaspoons of mixture …
Parchment? What was this, Ancient Egyptian times? Of course, they probably meant greaseproof paper or something along those lines. She remembered that much from her mother’s kitchen. As she didn’t have such a thing – and Sean was due in less than an hour – she made do by liberally buttering her sole baking tray, then blobbed the mixture onto it and slid it into the oven. The used cooking utensils were dumped in the sink, and a tea towel draped over them for concealment purposes. That hadn’t been too difficult, she reflected with a smile. Really, it had just been a matter of mixing a few ingredients together. Why did people talk about baking as if it were some mysterious art?
In her windowless bathroom, with the fan whirring noisily, Roxanne pulled off the indigo shift dress with pretty crocheted Peter Pan collar which she had worn to work, followed by her plain black underwear. She stepped under her rather feeble shower, sluiced herself down, then wrapped herself in a scratchy towel before making her way to her bedroom, where she flipped through the rail in her enormous antique French wardrobe.
A common assumption was that a woman in her position would live in a truly beautiful home, as photo-shoot-worthy as the models who trooped into her office on castings for shoots. Yet, perhaps because Roxanne lived and breathed her job, her domestic surroundings had always held little interest for her. Much of her furniture was, frankly, pretty scabby, having been hauled from flat to flat and more befitting her younger years as an impoverished fashion junior. In lieu of a proper bedside table, she still had a crate.
In fact, this wardrobe was the only item in her home which she truly cared about. With four doors and swathes of lavish carving, it was adorned with rococo swirls and carved angels picked out in gold. It was outrageous, really – an overblown folly crammed into the bijou top flat of a three-storey Victorian conversion in Islington. It was more befitting a French country home, somewhere with powder-blue shutters and gardens filled with lavender. It had been the flat’s previous owner’s, and once Roxanne had set eyes on it, she hadn’t been able to focus on anything else. How could she possibly formulate sensible questions about boilers and council tax banding when she had fallen headlong in love with a piece of furniture? ‘They did mention that they’re quite happy to sell it,’ explained the estate agent, catching Roxanne fondling it lovingly. ‘It was a nightmare to get in – had to be hoisted through the window by a crane, apparently. You’ll see a small chunk out of the left side. That’s where it smacked against the window frame.’ Poor injured thing; she couldn’t bear the thought of it being hoisted back out again, and possibly ending up being dumped. She had to have it.
With her wet hair bundled into a towel now, Roxanne pulled on her prettiest lingerie – scalloped indigo lace – followed by a simple bias-cut dress in charcoal linen. She blow-dried her hair upside down for maximum fullness, although, in reality, fullness was proving a little trickier to achieve than it used to. Where was all the volume going to? Perhaps it was time to consider subtle extensions? Her hairdresser, Rico, had already suggested she try some, in a way that had made it sound like a fun thing to do, rather than an emergency measure to compensate for middle-aged thinning. ‘No woman has the thickness of hair in her forties that she had in her twenties,’ he remarked cheerfully.
Now for make-up, with underplayed, natural eyes and strong red lips being her default look in a hurry. Forty-seven wasn’t that old, she reassured herself. It was just that the glossy world she inhabited revered youth and made her feel quite ancient sometimes; she suspected that in fashion years, she was something like 167. However, she still scrubbed up okay as long as the light was right, and the restaurant she had chosen was enhancingly dim. Just last week, she and Isabelle, her seventy-five-year-old neighbour from the ground-floor flat, had had lunch at the local Italian Roxanne had booked for tonight, and barely been able to read the menu – which was a good thing, she decided, even if they had had to ask the waitress to read out the tiny print.
As she blotted her lips on a tissue, the intercom buzzer sounded. Was that Sean already? Roxanne frowned and checked her phone. Time had run away with her; it was 8.26 p.m. and their table was booked for 8.30. She scampered through to her hallway to buzz him in. She had seen him two days ago but still, her spirits rose like champagne bubbles as she heard the front door close behind him two floors down. No one else had ever had that effect on her. All the terrible boyfriends, the compulsive liars, drunks and narcissists (impressively, some of Roxanne’s lovers had combined all three qualities): how joyful to be free of all that.
Once, her sister Della had joked that she had a talent for choosing men whose job titles required quotation marks: ‘DJ’, ‘record producer’, ‘design consultant’ – and, at one particularly unhappy point, ‘socialite’, which just meant he went out every night and could often be seen with cocaine-speckled nostrils, draped over models. Still, Roxanne had reassured herself: at least these men made life interesting – and what was so great about feeling safe and cared for and loved? Who really wanted a man who would cook for you and cuddle you when you were feeling down? Who’d show up when he’d promised to and didn’t sleep with anyone else? What was so great about that?
Roxanne’s own father, William, had plodded along, finally leaving her mother years after it had come to light that she’d had an affair with an artist from Mallorca. In fact, just a couple of years ago it had transpired that this artist, a man named Rafael, was Della’s real father. Although shocking, the revelation had explained the perpetual tensions between their mother and William at Rosemary Cottage when the three Cartwright children were young, and the simple fact that Della, with her dramatic dark colouring, looked strikingly different to the fair-skinned and blue-eyed Roxanne and their brother Jeff.
For Roxanne, the most baffling aspect had been the fact that William had known about Della’s parentage all along – and chosen to bury his head in the sand. Roxanne never wanted a man like that. She was attracted to fiery, irresponsible types; like Ned Tallow – a ‘party organiser’ – who had once ‘lost’ a ready meal in his oven, having flung it in with such force, it had tipped over and gummed itself to the back. She had always found it almost impossible to resist the charms of the glamorous, the unhinged and frequently out of it – men whom she had supposed epitomised thrilling London life, in contrast to the rather safe and reliable Yorkshire lads she had known back home in Burley Bridge.
However, with Sean she had finally discovered how wonderful it was to be with a properly grown-up man who thrilled her yet still cared. He was cool, sorted and hugely successful as a freelance fashion photographer (in other words, he had a proper profession that needed no quotation marks). Clever, funny and charming, he looked as good in bespoke suits as he did in old, faded jeans, and the only Coke he acquainted himself with came out of a red can.
Sean’s smiling, handsome face appeared as he hurried up the last flight of stairs towards her. It was his fiftieth birthday today, and Roxanne was determined it would be one he would never forget.
Chapter Two
‘Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I’m a bit late …’
‘That’s okay. Happy birthday, darling.’ Her lips landed on his, and his arms slid around her waist as he pulled her in tight. Sean O’Carroll’s kisses felt so good. She stood back and smiled, still a little dizzy from the feel of his mouth on hers.
‘Thanks, Rox. You look gorgeous. That’s a very cute dress …’ He glanced down. ‘But aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘Oh yes.’ She looked down at her bare feet and laughed, wondering if the attractiveness of his soft Dublin accent would ever wear off for her. His cropped dark hair was speckled silvery at the sides, and his wide, unguarded smile seemed to brighten the gloomy landing. He was wearing smart jeans, a pristine white T-shirt and a dark grey jacket.
Leaving him loitering in her living room, she hurried to her bedroom, deciding that her planned footwear – preppy lace-ups – looked too dumpy for the simple elegance of the dress. Dropping to her knees, Roxanne began to burrow amongst the muddle of shoes stashed in the bottom of her wardrobe, excavating deeper and deeper until a vintage suede sandal revealed itself like a prized fossil. She burrowed further amongst ballet flats, ankle boots, knee-high boots, loafers, stilettos, slingbacks, pumps, kitten heels, espadrilles, clogs – yes, actual wooden clogs; she had worn them just once and they had nearly hospitalised her – and every conceivable style of mule until the other suede sandal was found. Roxanne was not one of those highly organised women who stored her shoes in their original boxes with a photograph of them stuck to the lid.
‘Aren’t we going to be late?’ Sean called out.
‘No,’ she lied, flicking through the tangle of shoulder bags which hung from the foot of her bed, and locating the correct one – a beauty in soft caramel leather – before pulling on her black jacket and smiling apologetically as they stepped out of her flat.
‘So, where are we going?’ he asked as they made their way downstairs.
‘I told you, it’s a surprise.’
‘Oh, c’mon, honey. Are we getting a cab?’
She smirked. ‘Don’t need to.’
Sean shot her a quizzical look. In fact, there were so many restaurants within walking distance of her flat, they often spent half the evening debating where to go. ‘Is it that Lebanese place?’ he asked.
‘No …’
‘Manny’s? Nonna’s? Lol’s Kitchen?’
She shook her head.
‘Not that burger place?’
By this, he meant the crazily popular new restaurant at Angel tube station, where you couldn’t book, and therefore had to stand outside for roughly fifty minutes and then, to add insult to injury, when you were finally allowed in, you couldn’t sit down either; you had to munch your dripping beef pattie whilst standing at the bar. Roxanne felt far too old to stand anywhere. ‘Just wait,’ she teased him.
‘Or that Nordic place where everything comes on a slab of rock?’ His clear green eyes glinted with amusement.
‘Nope, we won’t be repeating that …’
‘And not even your own, personal rock,’ he went on, enjoying himself now, ‘but a sharing one. Basically a communal paving slab for everyone to eat off. I blame Jamie Oliver.’
She laughed as his warm hand curled around hers. ‘You can’t blame Jamie Oliver for everything.’
‘Yes, I can. Last book of his I bought, everything was presented on planks. He’s single-handedly destroyed the crockery industry. Been in the china section of John Lewis lately?’ She shook her head. It was not a department she frequented. ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste,’ he added with a smile.
‘Surely that trend must be coming to an end?’ she suggested. ‘Slate, wood—’
‘I should hope so, but then, what’s next? Bricks? Roof tiles?’
Roxanne chuckled. ‘You needn’t worry about that because we’re going to an old-fashioned place where they wouldn’t dream of serving your dinner on anything but a proper plate.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’ His trace of cynicism evaporated immediately. Despite his high standing in the fashion world, Sean had no time for poncery where food was concerned. It was one of the countless things Roxanne loved about him.
‘It’s an Italian,’ she explained as, still holding hands, they darted across the main road. ‘You don’t know it – neither did I. It’s tucked down a little lane by the canal, just along here …’ They turned off the main street towards the towpath.
‘Really? I thought you knew everywhere around here.’
‘I thought so too, but Isabelle came across it on one of her walks …’
‘Isabelle?’ He groaned. ‘Christ, Rox, so she’s managing our nights out now …’ Roxanne smiled, well aware of how Sean viewed her elderly neighbour.
‘No – listen. She finds places. That’s what she does, she goes on these rambling explorations …’
‘When she’s not topping the bill at Ronnie’s Scott’s,’ he cut in with a smirk.
‘She’s never claimed to have sung at Ronnie’s Scott’s.’
‘Well, other jazz clubs, then. Any that’ll have her …’
Roxanne smiled as he squeezed her hand. The late May evening was bathed in golden sunshine, and jovial groups had already congregated outside the well-kept Islington pubs, where hanging baskets were ablaze with freesias and petunias. Relaxed and companionable, just tipping into summer: this was the London she loved, and there was no one she would rather enjoy it with but Sean.
Roxanne had found him immediately attractive and charming when he had shown up in London five years ago after a lengthy stint of working in New York. She had booked him for a relatively low-budget shoot, and the elegant shots he produced had sparked the beginning of a fruitful working relationship. It had tipped from professional and friendly to much more when, after several margaritas, they had kissed like teenagers in the velvet-lined booth of a Hoxton bar and he had asked her back to his flat. While there were no signs just yet of the relationship progressing beyond what it was now – he clearly valued his space, and they only saw each other around three nights a week – Roxanne had managed to convince herself that she should just enjoy things the way they were. They were having fun, and his busy diary was simply testament to his popularity; everyone loved him, from the interns in her office to the elderly fashion PRs who had been around since the 70s and were personal friends of Vivienne Westwood. Sometimes, she couldn’t quite believe they were together.
‘Don’t tell me she’s joining us,’ he teased.
‘Of course not,’ Roxanne laughed. ‘It’s just us, sweetheart.’
‘Well, that’s a relief …’ In fact, he was right to regard Isabelle as a whacky eccentric. A Londoner born and bred, she was suspiciously hazy about the venues she claimed to have performed at – and still sang at now, occasionally, or so she said – and a Google search of Isabelle Hudson had thrown up nothing of note. But who cared if she had fabricated an illustrious career as North London’s very own Nina Simone? Squirrelling out delightful, tucked-away little restaurants and pubs – that was something she did for real, and from time to time Isabelle would invite Roxanne to try out one of her latest finds. She was just lonely, Roxanne had decided, when she had first moved into her top-floor flat twelve years ago, and got to know the curious single lady who lived alone on the ground floor. Apparently the great love of Isabelle’s life had died before Roxanne had moved in, and although there was a son, there had been no visits that she was aware of. To say that mother and son weren’t close seemed to be an understatement, as far as Roxanne could make out. In fact, Isabelle barely mentioned him and gave the distinct impression that she wasn’t happy to discuss him at all. It seemed to echo Roxanne’s own, rather fractured family, and to her seemed terribly sad.
Sean’s arm wrapped around Roxanne’s slender shoulders as they made their way down the steps to the towpath. A few turns later, and there it was: the small, slightly shabby Italian, its hand-painted sign crying out for a freshen up, but still welcoming with the glow of orangey lamps inside.
‘This is it?’ Sean asked with a note of surprise.
‘Yes, we were here for lunch on Sunday …’
‘“We”?’ he teased her. ‘So you and Isabelle are a we now?’
‘Oh, stop it,’ she chuckled as they stepped into the hubbub, where they were immediately greeted by a cheery young woman, her sleek dark hair secured in a neat chignon.
‘Hi, d’you have a reservation?’
‘Yes, Roxanne Cartwright …’ Roxanne glanced around the room. Its dark wood-panelled walls were hung with oil paintings of Italian coastal scenes, and shelves bore numerous, rather dusty-looking bottles of wine and leafy pot plants, which may or may not have been artificial. Apart from one vacant table right at the back, the place was full. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ she added.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that – let me take your jackets …’ As they were shown to their table, Roxanne glanced at Sean.
‘Hey, this looks great,’ he enthused as they took their seats.
‘I knew you’d love it,’ she said as they were handed unadorned hand-written menus. Sean smiled with approval as he registered the simple Italian dishes: not remotely trendy, and certainly nothing served on a plank. After the waitress had taken their orders, Sean clasped Roxanne’s hand across the table and beamed at her.
‘Maybe Isabelle does know a thing or two after all,’ he conceded.
‘Well, I hope it’s special enough for your fiftieth.’
‘I don’t need special – you know that …’
‘And you are having a ridiculously extravagant party tomorrow night,’ she teased him.
‘Yeah, but only because Britt forced me to. You know what she’s like, taking charge of my life, saying she knows what’s good for me …’
Roxanne nodded. Britt was Sean’s formidable agent, and had poo-pooed his initial suggestion of a small gathering in the pub.
‘I’m not planning to keep you out too late tonight,’ he added. ‘Remember you have that meeting first thing …’
‘Yes, I know.’ She grimaced. Sean was aware that her former editor, Cathy, had been shunted off without warning to be replaced by Marsha, who had come from the terribly depressing diet magazine that was published by the same company.
‘I can’t understand why she got the job, Rox,’ he added. ‘It seems nuts to me, and what about poor Cathy?’
Roxanne sighed. ‘She’s okay, apparently. She knew changes were afoot and she was given a huge pay-off. It is awful, but what can we do? All management keep saying is that we need to sell more copies if we’re going to survive …’ She tailed off, keen to change the subject. After a pretty dismal couple of weeks, during which the office had hummed with speculation about whose job might be in jeopardy, Roxanne just wanted to forget about work for one evening.
‘I take it that optional morning yoga’s still happening?’ Sean asked with a smirk.
‘Yes – you mean optional as in, it’s the law?’
He nodded, amusement glinting in his eyes. ‘I’d say that contravenes acceptable working conditions. It’s blatant cruelty to fashion journalists …’
She chuckled and turned to thank the waitress as she poured their wine. ‘But let’s not talk about all that stuff tonight,’ she added.
‘Okay,’ Sean conceded. ‘But you do know everything’s going to be okay, don’t you?’
She didn’t know, and, frankly, she was worried – but nothing would be gained from dwelling upon it now. ‘Yes, of course I do,’ she replied.
Their talk turned to fashion-industry gossip, and by the time their plates were set down, the crisp white wine – and simply being with the man she loved – had helped to convince Roxanne that, somehow, everything would work out fine. While Sean tucked into a retro chicken parmigiana, she had chosen a comforting spaghetti carbonara with lashings of cream. Hell, why not? Her many years of unrelenting dieting were behind her now. At her age, when she could no longer drop a few pounds by existing on black coffee and cereal for a couple of days, it was simply too misery-making to be perpetually ravenous. While she still tried to be ‘good’ – witness the purchase of kale – she now refused to deny herself the occasional bowlful of silken pasta or steamy, salty chips.
‘That was amazing,’ Sean enthused when they had finally finished. Roxanne smiled and studied his face. He was ageless, really, in the way that men blessed with striking bone structure often were; his hair showed no sign of thinning, and his green eyes had lost none of their sparkle. She had seen photos of him from when he was much younger and, if anything, he was even better-looking now. How she longed for more time together, rather than just their nights dotted throughout the week. She had an urge to go away with him – to escape from their hectic London lives, just for a week or two, and be able to focus fully on each other. So far, they had yet to manage a holiday or even a weekend away together. Whenever she had mooted the possibility, Sean had proved impossible to pin down regarding possible destinations and dates. Of course, she understood why. He was incredibly in demand, and travelled constantly for work; even Britt complained that she had to beg him to take the odd break occasionally. However, Roxanne was finding it harder to ignore the persistent voice in her head which reminded her that going away on romantic little trips was something ‘normal’ couples did. Surely he could make the time for a night or two away with her, for goodness’ sake?
‘You don’t fancy a weekend up at my sister’s, do you?’ she ventured as they were handed dessert menus.
‘Uh, what for?’ he asked.
‘Remember I mentioned it? She’s having a party at her bookshop …’
‘Oh, yeah – what’s that all about again?’
‘Remember I told you she’d spent her share of her inheritance from Mum on buying the dilapidated shop next door, so she can expand her empire?’ She beamed at him hopefully.
‘Er, yeah,’ Sean said vaguely, clearly not remembering at all. To him, Yorkshire was just part of that mysterious territory called ‘The North’ – supposedly cold and uninviting, inhospitable to human life. Many of her colleagues were of the same opinion. Roxanne found it amusing and quite baffling, this fear of venturing further than a couple of hours’ drive up the M1.
‘Well, she’s had the two places knocked into one,’ she continued, ‘and she’s having a party to celebrate the opening of the new, double-sized bookshop.’ She paused. She had mentioned this too – several times. ‘So, d’you fancy coming up with me?’
He frowned. ‘What, to your sister’s? C’mon, Rox – you don’t need me there.’
Frustration bubbled inside her now, but she tried to keep her tone light. It was his birthday, after all, and the last thing she wanted was a tetchy exchange. ‘I don’t need you there, but I’d like you to be. Why is that so weird to you?’
‘Oh, baby, it’s not weird.’ He touched her hand across the table.
She forced a smile, trying to ignore the slight prickling sensation behind her eyes. ‘So, why are you so reluctant to come to Yorkshire with me?’
‘Because there’s nothing there?’ His crooked grin indicated that he was teasing.
‘How can you say that?’
‘Honey, I’m joking …’
‘Don’t you want to see where I grew up?’ She paused to sip her wine. ‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘Rox, darling.’ He squeezed her hand tightly. ‘You told me you couldn’t wait to get away – that once you’d been offered your first London job you made a little chart to stick on the inside of your wardrobe, where you’d cross off the days …’
‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘but it still has charm – it’s beautiful, actually – and I’d love you to meet Della and see her shop. She’s put her heart and soul into it …’
‘I know, it sounds amazing …’
‘Shall we go, then?’
‘Uh, sure, babe. We can go sometime. Just leave it with me, okay?’
But it’s my sister’s party! she wanted to add, trying to shrug off her irritation. None of her previous boyfriends had deigned to meet her family, even though she had tried to lure them north – so why was she feeling miffed that Sean was clearly un-thrilled at the prospect of a party in a cookbook shop? The only trouble with seeing a lovely, properly grown-up man, she realised, was that you started to hope for more commitment, whereas, with your Ned Tallows, you expected nothing.
She finished her wine as Sean studied the menu. ‘Mmmm,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘Haven’t seen these kind of desserts for years. D’you reckon they come on a trolley? Tiramisu, trifle, brandy snaps with whipped cream …’
Roxanne let her own menu drop. ‘Brandy snaps?’
‘What’s wrong?’ He frowned at her.
‘Oh my God, Sean. I’m so sorry …’ She scrambled up from her seat and glanced around in panic for the waitress. ‘I was making some for your birthday. Oh hell, I can’t believe what I’ve done!’
‘You were making brandy snaps, for me?’ He couldn’t have looked more astounded if she’d announced she had bought him a camel. ‘You mean you’ve actually been … baking?’
‘Yes,’ she barked, loudly enough for the couple at the next table to spin around, alarmed, ‘and they’re still in the oven. I’m sorry, darling, but we have to leave right now.’
Chapter Three
‘Excuse me?’ Roxanne waved to attract the waitress’s attention. ‘Can I have our bill please? We’re in a terrible hurry …’
The woman nodded, signalling that she’d be over in a minute. She was carrying two cream-laden desserts and chatting jovially as she placed them on the customers’ table.
Tension seemed to clamp itself around Roxanne’s ribcage. Sean was murmuring something – telling her not to panic – but she wasn’t really listening. The restaurant, which until a few moments ago had seemed so charming and intimate, now appeared to be criminally understaffed. For goodness’ sake, the place was packed – surely they could employ some more people? And why was the sole waitress now chatting away about the couple’s recent holiday (‘If you loved Corsica, trust me, you’ll adore Sardinia!’) when the confectionery currently smouldering in Roxanne’s oven could quite feasibly burst into flames?
‘Rox, just sit down,’ Sean hissed, trying to grab at her wrist. She shook him off.
‘Please,’ she called out, her voice rising in panic, ‘I really do need our bill right now …’ Despite having risen to lofty heights in the fashion world, Roxanne hated to cause a fuss. In a world where kindness wasn’t always apparent, she was renowned for being a delight to work with, no matter how difficult or spoilt a model happened to be. On a shoot, she was virtually unflappable, even if the make-up artist fell out with the hairdresser, or a hovering seagull happened to do its business on a £1000 chiffon gown. However right now, she felt her blood pressure soaring. ‘Excuse me!’ she shrieked.
All heads swivelled towards her. The waitress widened her eyes.
‘Sorry, but we really have to go,’ Roxanne implored, conscious of Sean gawping at her.
‘We can still have dessert,’ he insisted.
‘We can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘Rox, they’ll just be a bit burnt. Nothing terrible’s going to happen …’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘Well, I don’t want to seem rude,’ he said, sighing, ‘but I probably know ovens better than you do. How many times have you used yours?’
The waitress reappeared with their bill, and Roxanne snatched her purse from her bag. ‘That was the first time,’ she muttered.
‘You’d never turned on your oven before?’ Sean exclaimed.
‘I’ve never needed to,’ she mumbled, deciding not to add that she had in fact used it – continuously – as a storage facility for the vintage china tea sets she had taken from Rosemary Cottage when her mother died.
She handed the waitress her credit card and stabbed her pin number into the little machine. ‘Thank you,’ the woman said primly. ‘I hope you enjoyed—’
‘It was lovely, thanks,’ Roxanne cut in quickly.
‘Sorry you’re having to dash …’ But Roxanne didn’t hear any more as, rude though it was, she had blundered out into the humid London night without properly saying goodbye.
She wasn’t a natural runner. Just as she had failed to fully engage with the new mandatory workplace yoga, so Roxanne had managed to get by for almost half a century without ever having participated in aerobic exercise apart from the occasional dash through the rain into a heated shop. However, she was running now, in a rather ungainly style, sandals clattering on the pavement.
‘This is mad,’ Sean exclaimed at her side. ‘We don’t have to run; it’s not going to make any difference …’
‘It might. What if the place is on fire?’
‘Don’t be crazy! It’s just a few biscuits …’
Just a few biscuits! She must remember not to bother baking anything for him ever again.
‘You’ll break your neck in those,’ he added, meaning her beautiful suede sandals which she had spotted in the window of a vintage shop, a size too small as it happened, but heck, she had managed to cram her feet into them and they’d eventually stretched enough so as not to be completely agonising.
She stopped abruptly and tugged them off. Damn Sean and his practical trainers.
‘You’re not going to run home barefoot?’ he gasped.
‘It’s fine …’
‘It’s not fine. You’ll cut your feet or stand in something disgusting. Come on, darling, put your sandals back on and let’s just walk …’ She glared at him, then realised he was probably right and slipped them back on. Sean took her hand as they fell into a brisk walking pace. ‘I still can’t believe you were baking something for me,’ he added, throwing her a fond glance.
‘Hmm. Well, I probably won’t again.’
‘No, it’s really sweet of you. But it’s not very … you, is it?’
‘Obviously not,’ she muttered.
‘I mean, it seems more like something your sister would do. Didn’t she send you that tin of edible tree decorations at Christmas?’
‘Yes. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t got it together to buy a tree …’ In fact, Roxanne had taken the delicious snowflake-shaped butter cookies into the office, and everyone had swooped upon them over drinks one afternoon. This was when Cathy was still editor and it was possible to have fun at work, in the days when there were frequent gales of laughter and the sound of a cork being popped.
‘I’d never have thought of you as a baker,’ he added.
‘Yes, okay, Sean …’
‘It’s quite sexy actually,’ he added, grinning now.
Despite the turn of events, she couldn’t help smiling. ‘I knew it. You actually want a wifey type in an apron, don’t you? That’s what you’ve been holding out for …’
‘God, yes,’ he teased. ‘Floury hands and lipstick on, waiting for your man to come home …’ He fell silent as they turned the corner into Roxanne’s tree-lined street.
‘Sean, look!’ They both stared. A fire engine was parked outside her block.
‘It’ll be okay,’ he said quickly, taking hold of her arm. ‘It might not be your place. It could be another flat …’ But this time, she shook him off and broke into an actual sprint. Despite her unsuitable footwear, she clattered towards the vehicle. She quickly spotted Isabelle, who was looking her usual elegant self – chic silver bob, simple navy blue dress – and hovering at the main door.
‘It was Henry who called them, love,’ she announced. ‘I told him it’d be nothing – that you’re always burning toast. A waste of resources, I said! I phoned your mobile a couple of times but it just rang—’
‘Sorry, Isabelle, I didn’t realise …’ Roxanne hurried past her and charged upstairs. She always put her phone on silent when she was out on a date with Sean.
‘I said you once burnt your fringe off the gas ring,’ Isabelle called after her, ‘when you were lighting a cigarette …’ The elderly woman’s voice faded, to be replaced by strident male tones on Roxanne’s landing on the top floor: ‘Sounds like someone’s coming now – finally. Christ, what a bloody waste of time …’
Sean had lagged behind. Roxanne could hear him being accosted by Henry, the boorish thirty-something solicitor who must have sprung out of his flat on the first floor, one short flight of stairs below hers. ‘Sorry if I called them over nothing but the smell’s awful. Emma’s worried that her clients will complain. I mean, it’s hardly conducive …’ Never mind Emma, Henry’s wife, and her psychotherapy clients. What about Roxanne’s irreplaceable French wardrobe? She reached the top floor to find two firemen emerging from her flat.
‘How bad is it?’ she gasped.
The younger man frowned. ‘This is your place?’
‘Yes, it is …’ Sean appeared at her side, catching his breath as she took in the damage. Her door was splintered, having been smashed open, and an acrid stench hung in the air.
‘You’re very lucky,’ the fireman remarked as his companion made his way back downstairs. ‘Your neighbour smelt smoke but there hasn’t actually been a fire.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Roxanne felt like hugging him.
‘But there could have been.’
‘Yes, I know …’ Impatient now, she peered behind him into her flat but this young man – this boy, who looked barely old enough to have any sort of paid job – was blocking her way.
‘You need to understand that it’s very dangerous to go out and leave something in the oven.’
She rearranged her expression so as to look suitably chastised. ‘I do realise that, and I’m very sorry for taking up your time.’
He squinted at her, seemingly not done with lecturing her yet. ‘You won’t believe how many fires I’ve seen that have started this way. It’s the fat, you see. Grease spits over the edge of the tray and then ignites …’ He frowned. ‘What were you making anyway?’
‘Brandy snaps,’ she replied, at which he looked baffled; well, of course he did, they belonged to a bygone era. This child before her had probably cooked nothing more taxing than a microwaveable pouch of Uncle Ben’s rice – but then, neither had she.
He stepped aside to let Roxanne and Sean pass. ‘Well, just make sure, any time you’re baking in future …’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said quickly, ‘there won’t be any baking in future, I can promise you that.’
She and Sean stood for a moment as the fireman clumped downstairs to join his colleagues.
‘Okay up there, Roxanne? Need any help?’ Isabelle called up from the hallway.
‘We’re fine here, thanks,’ she shouted back brightly.
Sean shook his head and frowned. ‘Bit of an over-reaction from Henry, wasn’t it, calling the fire brigade? Look at the damage to your door …’
‘Oh, it can be fixed. It’s not the end of the world.’ In fact, she surmised as they strode through to her kitchen, perhaps she had got off lightly. Apart from a terrible stench and the urgent need for a joiner, there was really nothing to worry about. The oven was open; the blackened tray of brandy snap mixture having being dumped in the sink and water poured onto it. The kitchen window had been opened, and a cool breeze was wafting in. She met Sean’s gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. This isn’t quite how I imagined your fiftieth would turn out.’
‘Hey, darling, it’s okay.’ He kissed her forehead softly, then wound his arms around her waist and held her close to his chest. ‘I’m just relieved your place didn’t burn down.’
She nodded and stepped away. ‘I’d better see if I can find a joiner …’
‘Yes, of course …’ However, before she could even do a Google search, Sean had said, ‘Hey, I’ll do it,’ and taken her phone from her, and was jabbing at it – because, of course, he was a man and this involved a tradesman with tools. Blokes’ stuff, Roxanne thought wryly as Sean made the call on her behalf, as if she were incapable of communicating that her front door was broken. At least he was being helpful, she decided. What use would any of her other boyfriends have been, in a situation like this? They’d have laughed and called her an idiot, then raided her fridge for beer while she sorted everything out.
‘Yeah,’ Sean chortled into her phone, having lapsed into conversing-with-tradesman mode. ‘Girlfriend left something in the oven, fire brigade called … yeah, you could say that, hur-hur-hur …’
She jammed her back teeth together. You know what women are like, was the unspoken theme.
Sean finished the call and beamed at her. ‘Well, that was a bit of luck. He’s local: says he’ll be here within the hour.’
‘Great.’ Roxanne mustered a wide smile. ‘Oh – let me get you your present.’
‘Darling, I’m sorry.’ He frowned in mock regret. ‘I really think they’re too burnt to eat.’
‘That was just a little treat—’
‘Come here. I want this kind of treat …’ He grabbed her playfully and went in for a kiss, but she spun away.
‘Hang on a minute …’ She rushed off to her second bedroom – a box room really, that served as overspill storage for clothes and accessories – to retrieve the gift she had wrapped so beautifully in matt duck-egg blue paper with a perfect silver bow.
Sean was lounging on the sofa in her living room when she handed it to him.
‘Here you go. Happy fiftieth, darling.’ As she curled up beside him, she experienced a rush of pleasure at having tracked down a wonderful gift for a man who really did have everything.
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He peeled away the wrapping paper with care. ‘Oh, wow! This is amazing, Rox. You know I love his work …’ He gazed at the hefty coffee-table book of photographs by Laurence Grier, one of his photographic heroes.
She snuggled close as he turned the pages reverentially. Grier, who had been active since the 50s, specialised in black-and-white photographs of achingly beautiful women in rather shabby surroundings. They always looked as if they had been caught off guard, applying lipstick in a dingy cafe, or drawing a picture with a finger on the steamed-up window of a bus.
‘Glad you like it,’ she said with a smile.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
