Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
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Polly looked at him.
‘Are you absolutely a hundred per cent sure it wasn’t, like, maybe possibly a tiny bit you?’ she said.
‘Don’t be a putz,’ said Reuben, eating all the Sachertorte without asking either Polly or Kerensa if they’d like any. ‘It was them. Everyone. I hate everyone. Except you,’ he added, speaking directly to Kerensa.
‘Ahem,’ said Polly.
‘Yeah, whatevs,’ said Reuben. ‘Did you bring me anything else to eat?’
They followed him through into the vast, gleaming kitchen, which was flooded with light even on a cold grey day like today. It contained what appeared to be every single appliance in the history of kitchens, all of them shining and mysterious and mostly untouched. There was, incredibly, another kitchen downstairs where the chef cooked.
‘You know about food: what should a pregnant woman be eating? To make her glow. I want one of those hot, glowing pregnant wives with utterly gigantic breasts.’
Polly smiled. ‘I only know how to make toast, I’m afraid. Although it might help a bit.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Kerensa. ‘I just need to juice some more.’
‘That juicer cost four thousand bucks,’ said Reuben. ‘You totally should. But also you’d think at that price it would do it for you.’
‘Gosh, Kez, I wonder if the baby will look like your dad’s side of the family,’ said Polly. It was out of the blue, but she was doing her best.
‘No,’ said Reuben shortly. ‘It’ll look exactly like me. I look exactly like my dad and he looks exactly like his dad. Finkels have been getting rich and marrying absolute knockouts for generations, but we still get short freckled redheads. Who can pull knockouts.’
Kerensa looked as if she was about to start crying again. ‘Show me how the juicer works,’ said Polly in a hurry, but Kerensa didn’t know, so they had to leave it.
Reuben went upstairs to answer his emails, and Polly held Kerensa whilst she wept silent tears all over the cashmere blanket.
‘It’ll be okay,’ promised Polly. ‘It’ll be okay. I’ll be here every step of the way.’
‘Good,’ said Kerensa. ‘Because I think I’ll be raising this gigantic swarthy baby by myself.’
Reuben came charging back down the stairs.
‘Crud!’ he was shouting. ‘CRUD CRUD CRUD CRUD CRUD.’
Kerensa blinked in alarm.
‘What is it?’
Reuben sniffed. ‘Oh, my entire family has just decided to come for Christmas. Man, they’re going to hate my small paltry house.’
He sighed.
‘This is going to totally suck.’
Chapter Eight
‘You said what?’ said Huckle.
‘Ah,’ said Polly.
‘I mean it, seriously. You didn’t want to check with me?’
‘Ah,’ said Polly.
‘I mean, I have no say in this?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Sheesh, I know you don’t know these people, but let me tell you, I do. And.’
‘And what? They aren’t good people?’
‘They’re rich people,’ said Huckle. ‘Good or bad doesn’t really come into it for them. They’ve all got lawyers for that kind of morality stuff anyway, so it’s kind of beside the point.’
‘What is the point?’
‘The point is sitting around telling you how rich they are. My God, they make Reuben look like Mother fricking Teresa. With the witty conversation of Stephen Fry. Oh Polly, how could you?’
Polly knew she was in the wrong. But the look Kerensa had given her had been so full of yearning and sadness that she hadn’t even considered not immediately offering. Actually, it hadn’t even been a case of offering, not really; Reuben in his inimitable way had simply turned round and announced, ‘Hey, you guys can come.’
‘I think… I think we have plans,’ Polly had stuttered, even as Kerensa coughed loudly.
‘What plans? Sitting in a freezing tower on your own watching a bird fly round and round,’ said Reuben with some degree of accuracy. ‘That will totally blow. I’ll have a chef in and the biggest turkey, goose, whatever you people eat here… you won’t have to lift a finger. Except to talk to my pop, so I don’t have to. That’s it. That’s the sole thing you’ll have to do all Christmas.’
‘Well,’ said Polly.
‘Great. It’s settled. And also I’ll need you to…’
‘What?’ said Polly.
‘Neh, I’ll tell you later.’
‘I’m so glad you’re coming,’ Kerensa had said, and she’d looked so happy and relieved that Polly hadn’t had the heart to protest.
And now Huckle looked sad, which he rarely did, and Polly hated to see it. His crinkly blue eyes turned down at the corners.
‘Only,’ he said, ‘I saw us…’
Polly came and sat next to him, putting out a hand to reach him.
‘Sleeping late, you know. For once. Not getting up till it’s light.’
‘Light!’ said Polly.
‘Yeah. And maybe not even then. No ovens, no dough, no baking.’
‘No fresh bread on Christmas morning?’
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘Because we would have some of that coarse brown bread left over, you know? The squishy stuff? With fresh salty butter and loads of smoked salmon on the top… and a bottle of champagne in bed. You and me.’
‘And then what?’ said Polly.
‘What do you mean?’ said Huckle. ‘That’s it. What on earth else do you need to do on Christmas Day? I’ll give you a small present…’
‘Is it honey?’
Huckle grinned. ‘It… it maybe might be honey, yes. Of some type or another.’
‘That’s great,’ said Polly. ‘I love honey.’
‘And maybe you could give me…’
‘A croissant?’
‘Perfect. That’s exactly what I wanted for a present.’
‘Seriously, what do you want?’
‘Seriously, I have everything I want,’ said Huckle. ‘Except…’
He made a mischievous grab for her, and Polly giggled and pretended to shove him off, which didn’t exactly work.