Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 55

‘I know, what a lot of old shit,’ said the builder, marching past him, carrying a length of copper piping. ‘Honestly, almost everything is reclaimable these days; you can sell any old tat for a fortune and those idiots think they’re getting something bloody special. But that…’
‘Um,’ said Huckle. ‘Actually…’
It had been bigger than the sidecar, so he had had to drive back incredibly carefully, with the enormous bath balanced upright like a giant, bound down with ropes. It was not safe. It was not even vaguely safe. Every driver passing him honked their horn and called him an utter fricking idiot. It fell off when he turned left round a corner. It took him twenty-four hours to plumb the bloody thing in without water going everywhere. Neil had adored the entire enterprise, never hiding his delighted surprise when yet another rivulet would drip and then gush from an unsoldered piece of pipe, and would waddle over and splash happily in it while Huckle cursed and swore and grabbed another piece of piping.
Finally, though, it was done. The brass, burnished up, shone beautifully in the pink early evening light: it was autumn, and the sun set early, but that day it was unusually clear. Polly was yawning after a long day at the bakery. People seemed to crave carbs at this time of year; she got a lot of requests to heat things up, too, which she happily obliged with, but it all took time. Jayden had pointed out that she could probably make a fortune simply by selling toasted cheese and large mugs of tea, and at one point she was seriously considering it.
Huckle had greeted her at the door, taken her hand and led her to the bathroom (from which she’d been banned for the last three days, having to use the downstairs shower instead – although she was still getting used to the astonishing luxury of living in a house with two bathrooms, so hadn’t minded).
‘Are you saying I smell?’ said Polly who did, as always, smell absolutely gorgeous, of warm bread and cherry jam and icing sugar.
Huckle pushed open the door. He’d finally lit the hundred obligatory IKEA tea lights they’d picked up last year when doing some rudimentary furnishing. Around them he had arranged, for want of a flower shop in Mount Polbearne, fronds of fragrant heather from the sand dunes. He’d used half a bottle of the expensive bath oil Polly’s sister had sent her at Christmas, that Polly thought was too good to use, and had bought a bottle of the second cheapest Prosecco at Muriel’s shop. He couldn’t quite stretch to an ice bucket, but he’d popped out all the ice cubes they had into the sink and filled it up with cold water, which would have to do.
The copper bath tub, whilst very slightly resembling something out of Dr Frankenstein’s laboratory, nonetheless gleamed prettily in the candlelight, with the fragrant steam evaporating against the windows – curtainless, facing out on to the darkening sky. In the bath, despite the fact that the water was obviously far too hot for him, Neil was paddling cheerfully, making occasional bites at Polly’s rubber duck, whom he had fallen in love with, but who seemed oblivious to his advances.
Polly turned to Huckle and flung her arms around his neck.
‘That is the absolute best, best not-exactly-a-claw-foot-bath-more-of-a-tin birthday present I’ve ever had!’
‘Truly?’ said Huckle, looking down into her smiling face. ‘You wouldn’t rather we’d just saved up for a new one?’
Polly shook her head.
‘Is it watertight?’
‘Um, more or less,’ said Huckle, glancing at the pipes with some trepidation.
‘And you found it and put it together for me?’
He nodded. ‘Yup. Plumbing is hard.’
Polly was already pulling off her top.
‘I love it! I love it! I love it!’
Huckle picked up the Prosecco, then looked around.
‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘I forgot the glasses.’
‘The glasses two storeys down the freezing staircase?’ said Polly.
Huckle nodded.
‘We’ll use the tooth mug,’ she ordered. ‘Wash the toothpaste out first.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Huckle. ‘It might add a slight frisson to the flavour. Or improve it. It’s not very expensive Prosecco.’
Polly grinned.
‘Suits me.’
Naked, she was lovely in the candlelight, completely oblivious, Huckle thought, to the effect her naturalness achieved. She didn’t look perfect, not like the women in magazines – or his ex-girlfriend, Candice, who did nothing but work on how she looked. But Candice hated being naked, would never look at herself in a mirror without criticising all the imaginary flaws in her taut, relentlessly worked-out body. To Polly, being naked was just something you were when you didn’t have any clothes on. The wide curve of her hips was a beautiful thing to see.
‘Neil, out,’ she ordered.
Neil hopped on to the side of the bath, then eeped at her.
‘What? Oh,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ said Huckle.
‘He wants me to get rid of the duck too. Jealousy issues.’
Polly hurled the rubber duck out of the bath, whereupon Neil went for it and started dragging it by the beak out of the bathroom. Huckle watched him go.
‘Your bird is weird,’ he said.
Polly didn’t answer.
‘Have you washed the tooth mug?’
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Shall I open…’
Polly slid into the water.
‘Oh my God, this is amazing,’ she said. ‘Ow.’
‘What was that?’
‘Rivet. Don’t worry about it, I love it. I’ll just avoid the rivets.’
She closed her eyes in happiness, and sank right under the water.
‘Oh GOD, a proper bath.’
There hadn’t been a proper one before, and her last flat had had a half bath in avocado, which was unpleasing in half a dozen different ways.
Huckle smiled at her as she gradually surfaced. She looked at him holding the bottle.
‘Don’t open it quite yet.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘No?’
‘No. I think we should christen our bath.’
Huckle didn’t need asking twice. He pulled off his T-shirt. Polly smiled appreciatively, as she always did. She genuinely didn’t believe she’d met a more beautiful man in her entire life. He had a loose covering of golden hair on his chest, running down in a fine line across his flat stomach, and on down below his navel.