Dear Anybody

by Rosa Temple

  Andy slinks away when he manages to untangle Alexandra’s arm from his waist.

  ‘Hungry customers,’ he sings as he waddles hastily to the safety of his kitchen.

  Later, when we are on the main course, Alexandra looks up at me, with a drip of béarnaise sauce on her first chin and asks, ‘Be honest with me, Sydney? Are you going to be happy here?’

  ‘I think the staff and I are going to get on well. I have made a few changes. I wanted to run them by you, but you did give me carte blanche to change things as I saw fit. It’s just a feature page or two. Nothing dramatic. I’ll send you the copy before we go to print of course.’

  ‘No need my dear. I have complete faith. Now eat up before you perish and let me pour you some more wine. Drink up, there’s a good girl.’

  It doesn’t escape my notice that apart from the odd mouthful of food Alexandra ingests, there is a lot more alcohol going down her throat than there is food. Meanwhile, I’m becoming more and more tired and in need of a deep bath and some sleep. But Alexandra continues to nibble at the food, drink, spin around and wave to the half empty restaurant, calling out, ‘Hello, there, how the devil are you, darling?’ She’s said the same thing more than once to all of them.

  ‘So, you think you’ll like it in Bridley?’ Alexandra asks.

  ‘Yes, I will. It’s a lovely village. Warm people. And the magazine staff are the best. Very helpful and supportive. I’m even warming to the Dear Vicky challenge.’

  Alexandra makes a theatrical show of shushing me up. Hands waving, cheeks turning bright red, she pulls me closer to her.

  ‘Not a soul knows who Vicky is,’ Alexandra says in a hot, sherry laden whisper directly into my ear. It’s possible my earwax has alcohol poisoning. ‘I’ve told everyone I employ an expert therapist from the city to deal with the problem page. If people knew we read the letters and who answered them, they might not be so ready to open up.’

  ‘So, you guys on the magazine must be privy to a lot of deep, dark stuff,’ I say, also whispering into Alexandra’s ear. She’s so unsteady, I have to wobble in time to her head movements to reach her ear.

  ‘The staff are all sworn to secrecy, of course,’ she informs me. ‘They’re an exceptional bunch don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh absolutely,’ I reply. I really ought to get back to Carey’s. ‘Did they…? Have any of them said anything about me?’

  I’m thinking back to my arrival at the magazine, bags under my eyes, smelling of alcohol and not having a clue about the village, let alone the magazine.

  ‘I did bump into Mags. I know her mother, Mary. They’re the horse people at Caple Cope.’

  ‘And, so, what did Mags have to say?’

  ‘Nothing but nice things, as I’d expect. I have a good nose for picking out the right sorts. Once I’d sniffed you out, I knew you’d be right for this place.’

  That’s a relief. Mags has obviously been very generous in her praise for me. And as for Alexandra sniffing me out, all she smelled was the distinct aroma of a likeminded soul – a drinking partner. That said, I am taking it easy on the booze front. One aperitif and only one and a half glasses of wine during the meal. Alexandra topped up my glass, practically filling it to overflowing, before Ruthie grabbed the bottle from her.

  As Alexandra rambles on about how she started the magazine, yet again, I look at the full glass of wine on the table in front of me and think about how I owe it to people like L to pull myself together and begin my own healing process. L’s letters are so moving. So heartfelt. She seems to be carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I compare whatever it is that happened to L (she was very good at hiding the truth about the agony behind her letters) to what I’m going through. Her pain has gone on for at least a couple of years judging by the dates of her letters. Rob is a bastard for doing what he did, but everyone gets over breakups. I don’t want to be pining away in two years.

  ‘Just keep up the good work,’ Alexandra is saying in the background of my thoughts. ‘A little hint for a happy office is to bake the odd cake for the staff. That’s what Marcie, the last editor, did, God rest her soul.’

  ‘That’s all well and good,’ I say. ‘But the truth is I can’t cook for toffee, let alone bake a cake. Do you think I could get away with a packet of mixture for brownies or something?’

  ‘What you could do, my duck, is to pop into Damian’s place. It’s up over the hill to the east of the village centre, other side of the bandstand. Lovely place. Damian bakes fresh bread and pastries every day. If you inhale of a morning, you’re bound to smell them. Where are you staying now?’

  ‘Someone offered me a room in a house. Carey? Carey Miller? The photographer?’

  ‘Oh, I know of Carey. Mind you, I do know everyone. Make it my business, you see. Not nosey just an enquiring mind. Always had one. I suppose that’s why I got into journalism. I used to travel the world for a story. Met all kinds of people. How far did your work take you my dear?’

  ‘Certainly not around the world.’ One borough in London was as far as it went, but I dreamt big. ‘My journalistic career hasn’t been half as interesting as yours, Alexandra.’

  ‘Well, you’re not dead yet, my duck. You’ve got lots of time to travel, discover new things.’

  ‘I hope so. One day. Right now, I need to put some roots down for a bit and to throw myself into something new. Like this job. It couldn’t have come at a better time, I can tell you.’

  ‘Good. Then I was right to choose you. I only hope you feel you made a good choice.’ Alexandra reaches over and places her hand onto my wrist. ‘I think this place will do you wonders, my lovely. More than you’ll know.’

  The thought of wonders and wonderful things happening to me fills me with a mix of emotions. Hopefulness, fear and anxiety. I had hoped that I could build myself up, rebuild my life and return to London as somebody special. Someone who could walk back to her flat in London and demand that Rob leave or that we sell up and I take my share and live off that until a great opportunity came my way. Maybe an actual best-selling novel and not just a dream one. Agents knocking on my door and film companies demanding the rights to the story. A block buster film. Rob would see me on the news and regret what he’d done. I would drive past him in my Ferrari and splash a dirty great big puddle over him. Realistically, though, the best I could hope for was a good price when we sold the flat and a CV saying, last job Editor. I would be sure to find a job on a national paper when my time was up here. I can’t lie, though. The thought of facing Rob and making demands about selling up and splitting up, fill me with dread.

  ‘Is that the time?’ I say to Alexandra with a fake yawn. One that induces a yawn from her which turns my fake yawn into a real one. A loud one, one that makes my eyes water. Since the summer my slumber has usually been alcohol induced and I always woke up with a thick head, feeling good for nothing. The countryside promises good sleep and fresh air. But I’ll only feel the benefits if I start to look after myself properly.

  Alexandra said Bridley would do wonders for me. I like the idea of that. I look at Alexandra swaying and demanding her special liqueur from Ruthie.

  ‘I can’t have another thing more, Alexandra,’ I say. ‘I should be getting home. Work tomorrow and all that. Should I get the bill?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Alexandra waving a hand. ‘This is on me, I said. You get yourself home, grab some sleep and have a fabulous day on Bridley Green.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  I put my jacket on and pick up my bag. Alexandra stands to kiss my cheek and I make my way outside and into the night. Looking inside the restaurant as I walk away, I see Andy is back at the table with Alexandra. She’s laughing, animatedly, about some joke or other and Andy is laughing too but looking as if he has no idea what the joke actually is. Poor Andy.

  According to Google Maps, Carey’s is a good twenty-minute walk but the air is mild and refreshing, a perfect autumnal feeling. I can see a silhouette of clouds against an indigo sk
y, moving slowly like the scene in a glass globe. The water in the globe is about to settle but never quite does. There’s a white, crescent moon being temporarily obscured by clouds before shining through again. I check Google which takes me down one of the many hills in Bridley onto a dark road leading to a courtyard of apartments. The owners have large, bare windows and I look into neatly furnished kitchens in white, sloped ceilings and sumptuous furniture.

  I pass one of many of the closed shops and premises and see the sign: Damian’s Coffee House. It must be the bakery Alexandra suggested. I will definitely pop in and buy cakes for the staff one of these days.

  Google says I’m nine minutes from my destination, so I hurry the last few minutes and look forward to a new day in Bridley. The first day since the summer that I’ve felt I’m getting a handle on my life.

  Chapter 16

  I take a deep breath in, gathering my Chi. I stay in my crossed legged position on the floor in my bedroom and start taking deep breaths so I can gear up for Lion Breath. I inhale the deepest breath I’ve taken in ages. Eyes skyward, jaw wide open, face muscles stretched, throat open, tongue out I exhale with all my might like the big strong lioness I am. After a few sun salutations I sit cross legged again. I join my palms together in prayer and raise them up to my third eye. I inhale my intention to be more like Carey and exhale my tendencies to be like Alexandra. I feel my shoulders relax and I know it’s working. Carey was so welcoming when I got home last night. Telling me to help myself to anything. She’s stocked up the cupboards, fridge, larder and wine rack and told me not to worry about bills until after my first payslip. We’d done a dance around an actual rent figure and so far, I have contributed next to nothing to the household bills. All that has to change. Although I’m not exactly getting a handsome sum for my three-month stint on the magazine it will be enough to keep a roof over my head and keep me fed and watered.

  I decide to swing by Damian’s and buy a decent supply of Danish pastries for morning coffee on my way to the office. Publication day is close so the part timers will be in and, if Beth and Jenna were anything to go by, they’d be rearing to go on the first edition since my changes.

  Alexandra was right about the delightful aromas from the shop. I could smell Damian’s Coffee House as I neared the high street and had been salivating on the steep climb up the hill. Just across the green I see the coffee house. The windows are a little steamed up but inside I spot a handful of customers sitting individually at tables. A couple of them are engrossed in a tablet or magazine. One is texting madly away on her iPhone. A little bell jangles over the door and everyone turns to nod a greeting to me as I enter. I notice they each have a pot of tea or coffee in front of them and a side plate of toast with conserves or one of Damian’s famous pastries. There’s a service counter and a bakery cabinet but no Damian. Unless, like the wonderful Frankie’s there isn’t actually a Damian at all.

  ‘I think he’s round the back,’ a gruff voice with a local accent shouts over to me from one of the tables. ‘He doesn’t mind if you just help yourself and pay up later, you know?’

  I stare into the cabinet filled with baked wonders and smile back at the helpful man, who is sporting thick eyebrows and a tightly fitting suit.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I call back. ‘But I think I’ll wait for Damian. I’m so spoiled for choice, I need advice.’

  I’m waiting for Eyebrows to laugh at me and say, ‘There is no Damian,’ when a voice behind me says, ‘Did someone call my name?’

  I turn to see a tall man with dark brown hair, so dark it looks black, smiling over at me from the swing door behind the counter. His eyes are steely blue, his dark hair tousled on the top but cut quite short to the back and sides. He’s probably in his mid to late thirties, well built, muscular actually, with tan skin. He’s wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt which is a little disappointing as I was pretty sure he’d be the type to sit and nod with his eyes closed at a jazz gig. So, not a jazzer, then. He’s more of a rocker in faded jeans that sink low on the hips. He waves a hand in front of my face. I seem to have glazed over.

  ‘Anything take you fancy?’ he asks. I mean, you really need to ask? I bet half the reason the pastries are so popular here, is because the baker is sex on legs. And what a combination for a woman like me who loves sex and pastries, not necessarily in that order.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ I say. I can feel myself blush. ‘Everything looks so tasty.’ I blush deeper still as we stare into each other’s eyes. It’s a strange feeling because I haven’t looked deep into anyone’s eyes but Rob’s since we started going out. I only ever had eyes for him. Could this be a sign that I’m getting over him? Or am I just horny?

  ‘Is it a pastry for breakfast?’ His voice is measured and deep and I listen rather than take in the question.

  ‘Breakfast?’ I reply.

  ‘Yes. Sweet or savoury?’

  ‘I, er, I just wanted a treat for the staff. So, something delicious for us all to have with coffee.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Well, just the one coffee break I suppose.’

  ‘No, I mean how many pastries would you need?’

  ‘Oh sorry,’ I say blushing again like a complete idiot. ‘There are six of us in the office. I’ll take a dozen of the sweetest and stickiest pastries you have.’

  ‘She’ll want some of those apricot ones,’ a woman calls across. ‘You’ll love those.’ She winks at me and pops the last of her own pastry into her mouth.

  ‘What she said,’ I tell Damian. ‘A few of those and the rest you can surprise me with.’

  ‘You like surprises?’ He seems to be flirting with me and I seem to be liking it.

  ‘I love surprises,’ I say, trying to appear composed. ‘But only the good kind. I can do without the nasty surprises.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Damian says in mock sadness. ‘We can’t have anything nasty happen to you. You’re new around here aren’t you?’

  I knew this was coming, the old “What’s a nice girl like you …” line that all men drop when they think they’re close to pulling.

  ‘Yes, I’m the new editor at Bridley Green.’

  Damian’s eyes light up and he leans close to the counter. ‘Well, let’s see what we can do.’ He starts putting pastries of all descriptions into a couple of cake boxes which he carefully places into a big brown paper bag with the Damian’s Coffee House logo on it. ‘There you go.’

  Damian holds the bag above the cabinet for me to take and our fingers touch briefly. His hands are warm. My eyes follow him as he goes over to the till to ring up the total.

  ‘That’s ten pounds, please.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I’m shocked at how little it costs.

  ‘It’s a discounted price for new customers. I’ve got to do something to entice you back.’

  ‘You really don’t have to try that hard, not if the smell of your cakes is anything to go by.’

  ‘Well I hope all the staff really enjoy the pastries I chose.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile my best smile and revel in the attention. It’s not like the randy footballers Carey had to save me from at Frankie’s. There’s something warm and charming about Damian that I hope I can get more of. I’ve been faithful to Rob for five years and the broad shoulders of Damian the baker are making me feel as if I’ve found someone I could wax my bikini line for. This has to be a good sign. I’ve found my Chi.

  I touch my Contactless card to his reader and leave Damian smiling at me from the other side of the counter as I catwalk my way out of the coffee house and onto the high street. Two seconds later I realise I’m going the wrong way and walk back past the shop, not looking in, hoping that Damian has already gone out back to attend to his cake mixtures.

  Chapter 17

  I’ve done it. Or should I say we’ve done it. Beth keeps reminding us all that there’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’. We celebrate the first issue with me as editor in the staff kitchen. Coffee cups are clinking, a group clink for every change I’v
e made to the magazine.

  ‘To brighter, more modern layouts!’

  ‘To getting rid of the Pets Page!’

  ‘To getting rid of the Fashion Page!’

  ‘To the new What’s On feature!’

  ‘To a livelier, more hard-hitting Dear Vicky Page!’

  With each clink a “Yay!” follows. On the kitchen counter, boxes of pastries from Damian’s sit open. It’s Beth’s treat this time. Beth came into the office with twice as many pastries than I usually buy.

  ‘Why did you get so many, Beth?’ I ask, grabbing the biggest apricot one and licking the icing sugar. ‘You know I need to work on my thighs.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, flustered. ‘But when I told Damian we were celebrating our fist publication day with our fabulous new editor he doubled the order at no additional cost.’

  ‘That was generous of him,’ I say. Looks like Damian is continuing his flirting ritual with me. He’d been very attentive the next time I went in for cakes for the staff, but I was playing my cards close to my chest. Although I had a thing for Damian, I was still unsure about rushing into a relationship as such. Things could get serious with a man like Damian, he was that type. Fun, sexy but with an intensity that spoke of bigger things to come. Maybe all the things I thought I’d had with Rob once upon a time. I thought it best to take it slow, but Damian has obviously worked out that the way to my heart is through my stomach.

  Speaking of stomachs, if I was going to start dating again then it might be advisable to do something about mine. It rippled. Not with abdominal muscles but rolls of fat. I counted them as I sat on my bed to pull my tights on this morning and caught sight of the damage all the butter eating and binge drinking had done to my middle. Four rolls of skin that started under my bra culminating in a shelf over my pot belly. Help. I’ll have to start joining Carey on her early morning runs through the forest trail near the house. Mind you, she does get up at six-thirty in the morning for that. A bit ambitious for someone like me who thinks Zumba on Wednesday night and a few lengths of the pool on occasional Saturday mornings is all I need to join Team GB as a triathlete. But I’ve been keeping up my yoga, sort of. A few downward facing dogs before a brisk walk to work. And I had gone cold turkey on the alcohol.