Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 50

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 keep 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.