Little Beach Street Bakery Page 18

  ‘Well this is lovely,’ she said, smiling.

  Tarnie looked at her. His eyes were suddenly very blue, his teeth very white. And it seemed like the easiest thing in the world to bob a little closer to him, to close her eyes to the sun and the bright blue sky; to let him pull her in and kiss her.

  It had been the contrasts: the warmth of the sun and the coldness of the water; the roughness of his beard and the softness of her skin; the freshness of the open air and the closeness of being with someone again after so long, someone new, and exciting, and different.

  All the way back in the boat, Polly lay replete, slightly giggly, a little sleepy, feeling quite unlike herself. She was in the front, facing him. Occasionally they would share a smile, a glance. Otherwise she trailed her hand once again in the water, just enjoyed the lovely sense of being in her own body, in her own time; not worrying about the future or dreaming about the past, or distracting herself with daily chores, but simply, truly being and feeling. The sun was starting to sink and a few of the clouds were tinged with pink. She was happy, she realised. She was happy.

  The boys were already loading up the sloop when they puttered gently back into Polbearne harbour. There was enough good-natured waving and cheering for Polly to realise they were both going to be the object of some ribbing. Tarnie had gone pink too, not just from the sun.

  ‘Ach,’ he said, grinning at her by way of apology.

  ‘I’m guessing you can’t come back?’ she said, boldly.

  ‘I have to work,’ he said. He gently put out his rough, calloused hand and stroked her face. She nestled into it.

  ‘Soon, though,’ he said, his intense blue eyes meeting hers.

  ‘Soon,’ she whispered.

  ‘HELLO,’ said Jayden, helping her off the boat. ‘DID YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY?’

  ‘All right, Jay, settle down,’ said Tarnie gruffly.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Um, thank you for a lovely day,’ said Polly.

  Tarnie stared at the ground.

  ‘Er, it was my pleasure,’ he said. Then in front of all the boys, he leant in and kissed her gently on the cheek. Blushing, Polly retreated with her wicker basket.

  ‘You did what?’ said Kerensa. ‘On an ISLAND? Oh GOD, I am so jealous.’

  ‘Why don’t you go out with one of the millions of people who ask you out all the time?’

  ‘Because I have standards,’ said Kerensa. ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.’

  ‘You SO did,’ said Polly. She was sitting with her feet up on her window ledge, sipping a beer, watching the sun going down and feeling ridiculously contented. ‘But that’s okay, because today I don’t mind.’

  ‘Because you have the sex hormones making you crazy.’

  ‘I don’t feel crazy,’ said Polly. ‘I feel good.’

  ‘That’s their secret,’ said Kerensa. ‘That’s what they do.’

  Polly rolled her eyes. ‘I thought you were the one telling me to get back on the horse.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Polly remembered something.

  ‘Oh, that little American bloke is in love with you.’

  ‘HA,’ said Kerensa. ‘Well tell him from me he’s disgusting.’

  ‘You know he’s incredibly rich.’

  ‘Oh well, let me whore myself out to someone I don’t like for money,’ said Kerensa. ‘Thanks for the wonderful advice.’

  Polly took another sip of beer.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It was lovely. Gorgeous.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Kerensa. ‘Listen, could you call Chris sometime?’

  ‘Why?’ said Polly, suddenly jerked out of her reverie.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just… he’s awfully down. I think he feels that you’re doing well and he’s doing so very badly. He’s a bit bitter.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Kerensa simply. ‘Perhaps you need to convince him to face up to things and move on.’

  Polly sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll call him.’

  ‘Women are always better at getting on with their lives,’ said Kerensa. ‘Did you know that? Men are terrible. That’s why they’re always getting married by mistake.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Polly. ‘Or maybe you should tell him to call me.’

  ‘Try not to sound too happy and sexed up.’

  ‘I’m…’ Polly smiled. ‘Well, maybe a teeny tiny little bit.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kerensa. ‘About bloody time.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Polly was still smiling the next morning, and her smile only grew wider as she explained her new idea to Mrs Manse – her in one bakery, Gillian in the other, but Polly handling all the heavy lifting – and found her to be quite amenable.

  ‘For as long as you’re here,’ she sniffed, which counted as encouragement coming from Mrs Manse.

  ‘Well if this works out, I might stay,’ pointed out Polly, but Mrs Manse gave her a dark look and hoisted her bosom ominously. Polly could tell, though, that the idea of being in her own shop without Polly getting in the way was making her happier, even though she was reluctantly coming round to the idea of Polly doing all the baking, or at least realising it was beyond her own capabilities.

  So Polly uncomplainingly worked a sixteen-hour day helping Mrs Manse rearrange things back to how she wanted them, and moved the flour over to the other building.

  It was dilapidated, of course, but workable now that it had stopped raining all the time. If she could get it running and make a little money, she could have it patched up for the winter. She was slightly shocked to find herself planning so far ahead, but she couldn’t help it. She felt the excitement bubbling up inside her. Her own bakery! Well, not exactly, but… She must phone Huckle and thank him for the idea. And maybe Tarnie would come in later and… She blushed at the memory and told herself sternly to get to work.

  She remembered as she turned on the big plug for the electricity to start up how nervous she’d been the first time she’d gone down there, for poor little Neil. The oven fired up first time with the wood placed in there – Reuben had bought absolutely top-of-the-range, and it gave out an astonishing heat. She could use the traditional ovens to bake the standard loaves, and there was plenty of opportunity to do more with the big industrial mixers, but she figured starting simple was the best way. Mrs Manse was going to pay her on commission and take her loaves, but would also stick to her original pasties and sandwiches to begin with, and they would see how they went from there. It was a very informal arrangement. Polly sensed that Mrs Manse would have done almost anything to get her out of there. Only by clinging on to the idea that it wasn’t personal – Gillian didn’t really like anybody – could she avoid getting her feelings hurt.

  She put her first six loaves of focaccia into the wood-burning oven and immediately burnt her fingers on the long serving stick. She also burnt the bread. It took three shots of fresh dough for her to finally bake a loaf properly – it went far faster than she was expecting – with the right amount of olive oil and the right balance of salt and rosemary.

  When she finally managed it, however, the difference in quality was unbelievable. It tasted like nothing else she’d ever made before: crispy and sharp on the outside; soft and yielding inside. The scent was heavenly: the warm fragrance of baking bread with a slightly burnt, crispy smell cutting through it. It was all Polly could do not to stuff the entire thing in her mouth.

  Next she tried a pissaladière, with some slow-cooked onions. It was even better; the onions caramelised in the smoky heat of the oven, becoming soft and sweet and contrasting with the sharpness of the anchovies and olives that she’d sprinkled on top. Next, her cheese loaf was infused with a toasty, melted mellowness.

  This oven, Polly thought, looking at it sideways, was making her a far better baker than she could ever have been without it. She texted another thank you to Reuben and invited him over any time. Then, tentatively, she pick
ed up the ancient ‘Closed’ sign on the door and pushed it round to ‘Open’.

  Nobody could resist strolling in to see what was going on – either that, or the smell simply physically dragged them in. Within fifteen minutes Polly had attracted what passed in Mount Polbearne for a crowd. She put out little tasters on the top of the counter with toothpicks sticking out of them so people could sample them.

  ‘SAMPLE,’ she said to Jayden, who couldn’t speak, his mouth was so full. ‘That means you take one to see if you like it.’

  ‘I DO like it,’ said Jayden, murkily. ‘I like it a lot. That’s why I’m eating more.’

  ‘No, now you buy some.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jayden. ‘I thought it was too good to be true.’

  ‘You’re in a shop.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘Can I have some of those?’ He pointed to some cheese breadsticks she’d made up. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘Ooh, good point,’ said Polly. ‘I should probably have thought that one through. Um, a pound?’

  Jayden counted out three coins carefully.

  ‘I would like three.’

  ‘Are you sure? They’re quite big.’

  Jayden looked at her.

  ‘I went to Exeter once and ate four Big Macs,’ he said. ‘I was sick, but I did it.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Polly.

  ‘Best day of my life,’ said Jayden.

  He looked crafty for a minute.

  ‘So, um, have you spoken to Tarnie?’

  Polly gave him a look.

  ‘I would hate to ban you from this shop,’ she said sternly.

  ‘Wow, you’re turning into Mrs Manse,’ said Jayden.

  Polly shook out one of the paper bags she’d carted down from the other bakery.

  ‘Off you go,’ she said, wrapping up his breadsticks.

  ‘I’ll tell him you said hi,’ said Jayden cheekily.

  ‘I’ll tell him to kick your butt,’ said Polly, then realised she’d said that far too close to the elegantly dressed woman who’d just stepped into the shop.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said the woman. Judging by her accent, and her clothes, she wasn’t local.

  ‘You new around here?’ asked Polly, feeling a tiny secret thrill at the idea of there being someone in Polbearne even newer than herself.

  ‘Yes, well…’ The woman glanced around. ‘We were looking for a holiday home – you know? Somewhere to buy to get away from it all? We want somewhere really quiet, but the problem is, the really quiet places don’t have a lot going on, no restaurants and so on.’

  She was pretty, Polly supposed; very thin, with highlighted hair and fuchsia lipstick.

  ‘Well yes,’ said Polly. ‘That’s why they’re quiet. No restaurants or things to do.’

  ‘So you see my problem,’ said the woman. ‘We want unspoiled, but with amazing traditional fare and local produce and so on.’

  ‘That is a problem,’ said Polly, thinking she’d probably be better off in one of the bigger resorts. ‘Have you thought about Rock?’

  The woman shuddered. ‘Oh yes, ghastly. Full of awful second-homers sitting outside restaurants braying.’

  ‘And that totally isn’t what you want to do?’

  To her credit, the woman smiled.

  ‘Ugh, I know. But we want to be first! It’s not easy at all!’

  ‘Well I can’t help you with that,’ said Polly. ‘But I can provide you with bread.’ She indicated the loaves nestling in new baskets she’d bought from the pound shop but which actually looked pleasantly rustic.

  The woman studied them for a moment. Then her face suddenly brightened.

  ‘Is that… is that a sun-dried tomato?’

  Polly picked up the tomato loaf.

  ‘Certainly is.’

  The woman’s eyes widened even more.

  ‘And is that a… wood-burning oven?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Polly gave her a little of the bread to try. She ate a morsel, then squeaked loudly.

  ‘Henry! Hen!’ she called in loud, carrying tones to the huge Range Rover that was taking up most of the road outside. ‘I think we’ve found it! We’ve done it! The Hambleton-Smythes will never even have HEARD of this place! It’ll be our undiscovered gem!’

  A beefy man with the collar of his pink rugby shirt turned up got out of the car. He was a lot older than his wife.

  ‘Thank Christ,’ he said to Polly. ‘She needs bragging rights or nothing ever gets done. Seems a pretty enough place.’

  ‘I’ll bring my decorator down to choose us a house,’ said the woman.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anything for sale,’ said Polly. She’d seen Lance the plump estate agent in the pub on Saturday night and he’d been pretty glum about the whole business.

  The couple started laughing.

  ‘Oh, they always sell to me in the end,’ said the man.

  ‘Yes, they do, darling,’ said the woman.

  ‘Everyone has their price. Now, I’ll take one of everything you’ve got. Not for you, though, honey pie. Don’t want you puffing up, do we?’

  ‘No, Hen,’ simpered the woman. ‘I’m just your ickle baby pie.’

  Polly watched them after they’d gone, the man delving eagerly into the large paper bag. She felt obscurely guilty that she’d let something in that didn’t quite belong in Polbearne – she felt fairly sure that if they’d gone to Mrs Manse’s shop, the big man wouldn’t have left his Range Rover parked right over the street like that. On the other hand, all the locals had come in that morning, from Muriel in the corner shop, to Patrick the vet, who’d kindly enquired after Neil and bought a white sliced, to the steady procession of fishermen, partly to eat, she knew, and partly to have a gander at the woman who’d pulled Tarnie. She felt something tugging at her; part of her wished she hadn’t come back with him in the boat in full view of everyone, although there wasn’t much she could have done about that. She wondered when he was going to phone her.

  He was going to phone her, surely? Of course he was. This wasn’t some gruesome date set up in a loud nightclub where they’d shouted at each other all night, or an awkward dinner in a mid-range restaurant where they’d tried to find common ground on sport or music or politics. This was something organic, wasn’t it. Had arisen naturally out of the time they’d spent together? Surely. That was it. So she didn’t have to worry about him phoning, because of course she’d see him – he worked right outside her window – and when she did, it would be easy and sweet and not at all awkward, even with a bunch of friendly fishing folk sniggering in the background.

  She thought back, slightly embarrassed, to the day before. She had got carried away, of course she had. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have… but what with the beautiful day, and having fun for once… She resolved not to feel guilty about it.

  It had been strange, too, her first time in so very long. The feel of his body, different from Chris’s, which had grown soft and slack in the years they’d been together; too much takeaway food, too many nights hunched over the computer or the drawing board, too much beer at the weekend. Tarnie had felt sharp and angular. Not better, or worse, she thought: just different. But that was to be expected after being out of the game for so long. You weren’t going to click with anyone first time; you needed practice to get used to one another, she was sure of it.

  She rubbed her neck, then made up another batch of the little cheese sticks; they were proving hugely popular. The honey loaf sat in the corner – possibly a little bit ambitious for the clientele so far, but that was okay, she could give it time. And sure enough, by two o’clock she’d sold every single thing in the shop. People turned up later, and went away disappointed.

  She glanced at her watch, then counted the takings. Mrs Manse would be pleased, surely – if anything pleased her. And now that summer and the tourists were upon them, it struck her that it might be possible to finish work at two every day. She tried to kee
p down a rising excitement. If she could do this every day – and it was a big ‘if’, depending a lot on her difficult boss – it would be a job, a real, proper job.

  And so different. She made bread, she sold it. She thought back to when she and Chris had worked together: the endless schmoozing for possible contracts; all those exhausting nights out, discussing future work in endless meetings, trying to get to a yes, trying to plan ahead, trying to deal with constant changes and a million different ways of doing things.

  Whereas here, if people wanted a bun, they bought a bun. If they wanted some bread, they bought some. If they didn’t, they didn’t. There was something earthy, something very real in the transaction that she’d simply never known before. If she didn’t make the bread, she wouldn’t make any money and she wouldn’t get paid. If she did, and it was good, she’d have people coming back – even buying a house to be closer to where she did it.

  Suddenly, here in the little Beach Street bakery, it all felt possible. It really did.

  She turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and started clearing up. She would have to become a bit more tidy and efficient while she worked. Or maybe she could get someone in to help part time with the cleaning. That could work too. She was trying to keep down the fizzing excitement when her phone rang.

  Her old mobile had been paid for by the business; handing it over to Mr Bassi had been one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She’d got a new, cheap one, but she hardly bothered to use it or give the number out; when she was ready to see her friends again, she promised herself, she would. She definitely would.

  The number was unknown. It must be Tarnie, she thought. She smiled, suddenly much more nervous than she’d felt before. What were they going to do? Would they go on a date? It was suddenly ridiculous to imagine Tarnie sitting nicely in a restaurant or a cinema; Polly had never even really seen him inside. He wasn’t an indoors creature at all; he belonged in the open air, with the salt spray in his hair.