The Bakery at Seashell Cove: A feel-good, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Life’s about a lot more than babies, as gorgeous as they are.’ Kath waggled her hands and Mum handed Milo back with the reluctance of a child relinquishing a favourite toy.

  Milo’s face contorted suddenly, as though suppressing a sneeze.

  ‘Don’t you think he looks like Kim Jong whatsisname?’ said Kath.

  ‘Don’t!’ Mum’s eyes widened. ‘He’ll take in everything you say.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Kath flopped Milo onto her shoulder and rubbed gentle circles on his back until he let out a burp and a trickle of milk. ‘And anyway, he knows I love him.’

  ‘Maybe Meg would like to hold him, for practise?’ Mum turned to where I was pacing in front of the television, which was tuned to University Challenge. Mum loved intellectual quiz shows, but was clearly too distracted by Milo to concentrate.

  ‘Never mind the little one, we want to hear more about this television appearance,’ said Kath, who lived next door but spent most of her spare time at Mum’s.

  I threw her a grateful smile as I dropped into the armchair, wondering how we’d have managed without her all these years.

  ‘Thank god for another single parent,’ she’d said, striding in with a steaming casserole, trailed by a grumpy looking Freya the day we moved to Salcombe, twenty-three years ago. ‘You wouldn’t believe the filthy looks I used to get when old Mr Fishburn lived here.’

  It hadn’t been hard to see why. Kath had favoured low-cut tops and short skirts with high heels, despite her ample figure, and still wore her dyed-black hair in a beehive, as if it was the sixties. She’d never minded the gossip at the school gates, flashing her gap-toothed smile at everyone, and was adored by customers at the library where she’d worked back then.

  Mum – five years younger – had stood out at the school gates too, with her bell of golden hair and clear blue eyes, but even though she was nice to everyone, the mums had whispered about her behind her back. Kath had said it was because they were jealous, and worried their husbands would fall in love with Mum. Not that she’d have been interested. She’d had her heart broken when Mike, my father, was killed in a car accident before I was born, and wasn’t interested in having a relationship.

  ‘So, why do you need to go on television?’ Mum was making an effort to be attentive now, sitting forward, smooth hands clasped together, as if to stop them making a grab for Milo.

  ‘I don’t have to, Mum. I was asked to give a baking demonstration, and I’m going to talk about the bakery.’

  ‘I love Alice Denby, she makes her guests feel so relaxed,’ said Kath, deftly lowering Milo into his Moses basket. ‘They featured a young chap a while back, who does these amazing ice sculptures in a shed in Scotland. On the update the following week, they said he’d had more interest than he could cope with.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember.’ Mum’s face knotted with anxiety. ‘I read that he’s gone into hiding until the fuss dies down.’

  I stifled a sigh. ‘I’m not going to have a breakdown, Mum. You can come and watch me being filmed, if you like.’

  Alarm flitted over her face. Despite a few fine lines around her eyes and silver threads in her hair – now worn in an easy-care bob – she was still an attractive woman, especially when she smiled. Apparently we looked alike, apart from the shape of my nose and a tiny mole by my right ear, which I’d inherited from my dad. I didn’t know this for certain, as I’d never seen so much as a photo of him and had to rely on Mum’s memories, which were more than a little rose-tinted, despite him having been engaged to another woman when I’d been conceived.

  ‘Where is it happening?’ Mum asked.

  ‘In the kitchen, at the Old Bakery, so you wouldn’t have to go far.’ I was careful not to let my impatience show, used to the slow dance of getting her out of the house. After losing her job at the library just after I started college, she’d developed agoraphobia, and although she was much better now – mostly thanks to Kath – Mum still preferred being at home. ‘I’m going to appeal for a buyer.’

  ‘Oh, Meg.’ From the slump of her shoulders it was as if I’d said I was planning to do some performance poetry. Mum had a dread of people showing themselves up in public, and wouldn’t have watched me do karaoke with Cassie and Tilly at the Smugglers Inn, even if she hadn’t been afraid of going out. ‘I thought you’d accepted it was unlikely to still be a bakery once it’s sold.’

  ‘You sound like Sam.’

  Mum’s eyes brightened. ‘Well, he knows what he’s talking about.’

  I wondered why it was always Sam who knew what he was talking about and not me. It wasn’t that Mum wasn’t proud of me; more that our ideas of achievement were radically different. For Mum, being successful meant marriage and children, and not having managed the first, or more than one of the second, she seemed determined to realise her ambitions through me. ‘Neither of you are mind readers,’ I said. ‘Who knows what might happen?’

  ‘Quite right.’ Kath gave a wink that almost dislodged her false eyelashes. ‘Who’d have thought I’d be a grandmother before the age of sixty?’ she said, playing up her Devon accent, which was much stronger than Mum’s.

  ‘Or at all?’ Mum’s voice was envious. ‘I still remember Freya saying she’d never have children because she didn’t want a baggy tummy like yours.’

  Kath snorted. ‘While Meg was designing wedding dresses with her little fashion playset.’ She smiled fondly as she reached for her glass of non-alcoholic wine, adding, ‘No wonder they never got on.’

  ‘Talking of babies.’ Mum reached for her bag and dug out an opaque green bottle with a flowery label. She’d been ordering from Good Life again; the health food store whose accounts she did from home. ‘Red Raspberry,’ she said, rattling the bottle as though it was a magic elixir. ‘Good for your uterus.’

  I swallowed a groan. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ Unable to face another discussion about my internal workings, I shoved the bottle in my bag and got up to leave. ‘I’d better go. Sam will be back shortly.’

  ‘Don’t forget to take them, will you?’ said Mum, as I bent to kiss her cheek. She smelt of the rose-scented perfume I’d bought for her birthday. ‘A woman on the website said she got pregnant within two months of starting the course, and she’d been trying for years.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to be thinking about that until after her wedding day,’ Kath said, as I edged away, narrowly avoiding a side table holding a marble cherub plucking a mandolin. Mum’s favourite pastime was bidding for ‘collectibles’ online. The small house was a treasure trove of curiosities she was convinced would be worth a fortune one day. ‘Your dad was interested in antiques,’ she’d said once – a rare snippet of information.

  ‘She’s more likely to be stressed if you keep going on about it, Rose.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I murmured. Kath always took my side, which I knew hadn’t gone down well with Freya at times – because she’d told me once I was a massive, suck-up bitch, and that her mum just felt sorry for me because my dad was dead.

  ‘You haven’t got a dad either,’ I’d retaliated, trying to hold back tears.

  ‘No, but at least he’s not dead,’ she’d said proudly. ‘I get to see my dad every weekend and he loves me.’

  He’d spoilt her rotten, according to Mum, but Kath had stopped trying to do anything about it because she felt so guilty that she hadn’t been able to hold on to her marriage, even though her husband was the one who’d left her for another woman when Freya was two.

  And when he’d died of a heart attack just after Freya’s fifteenth birthday and I’d tried to tell her how sorry I was, she’d said, ‘Oh piss off, Meg, this isn’t the dead dads’ club.’

  ‘But you know Meg always wanted a baby by the time she was thirty,’ Mum was saying, and I left them discussing my younger self’s wishes – I even had them written in a journal somewhere – knowing the time had passed to mention to Mum that the last thing on my mind these days was getting pregnant.

  Chapter Six

  �
�You’re sure Lester’s given permission for me to be filmed here?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ said Nathan, his eyes sweeping around the kitchen, taking in the ingredients I’d decanted into bowls and jars, as if I was Nigella. Perhaps I should have strung some fairy lights around, and worn my silky robe, instead of the green and white spotted tea dress I’d panic bought online that supposedly ‘flattered a curvy figure’. Didn’t TV add about twenty pounds? ‘Basically, if it leads to the bakery being sold, Lester would be happy for you to do a bit of snake charming. Once you’ve finished baking, of course.’

  I giggled nervously. I hadn’t expected to be this nervous. Baking was when I felt most confident. I’d already trialled the whole cake, which was in the fridge, as Alice had warned the schedule wouldn’t allow me to complete it to a high enough standard, as well as pre-baking the chocolate sponges. Barring the oven breaking down, things were unlikely to go wrong, but ever since she’d emailed a questionnaire, and explained we’d be talking as I baked, I’d been fighting an urge to run.

  ‘It seems Lester’s planning to open a beach bar with the money he’s hoping to get for this place.’ Nathan’s voice stilled my teeming thoughts.

  ‘Isn’t he eighty?’

  ‘Age is clearly no barrier to realising your dreams.’ Nathan was leaning against the sink, watching me with open interest, and it struck me it was the first time he’d seen me without my hairnet and apron – both deemed ‘too professional’ by Alice (even though that was the point) and perhaps explained the exaggerated double take he’d given when I’d let him in.

  ‘I can’t imagine it,’ I said, remembering Mr Moseley’s description of his older brother as ‘the most miserable bugger on the planet’. ‘Apparently he hated the public, which is why he had no interest in the bakery.’

  ‘Maybe living abroad all these years has softened him up.’ Nathan loosened the knot of his paisley tie, which I had a feeling he’d worn especially, even though it was too hot for formal clothing. Though he’d quickly discarded his well-cut jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, as if they were too confining. ‘Or maybe it’s the woman he married. He was telling me she’s thirty years younger than him, and a keen businesswoman.’

  ‘Sounds like she might be a gold-digger.’

  ‘Or, his true love.’

  To break the little silence that followed, I checked again that I had everything I needed to make my chocolate brownie meringue cake with strawberry cream, unable to meet Nathan’s eyes.

  I’d called him on Tuesday morning to tell him about the show, and he’d dropped by the bakery an hour later for ‘all the details’.

  ‘Sounds like an amazing opportunity,’ he’d said, accepting the coffee I’d made to dispel any potential awkwardness, and we’d sat on the back doorstep as the sun crept round the side of the building and warmed our faces. ‘I bet the bakery will have sold by the end of the programme.’

  I couldn’t help being gratified by his response, especially as Sam hadn’t mentioned it again; and then told myself that Nathan was just being nice because of the commission he’d make.

  ‘And I’m not just saying that because I want my commission,’ he’d said, nudging my shoulder, and whatever it was I’d sensed (imagined?) between us had shifted and settled into what felt like the beginnings of friendship.

  Lester had been hard to get hold of initially – it turned out he’d been having a hip replaced – so Nathan had taken to calling, or dropping by, to update me, our theories as to Lester’s whereabouts becoming ever more outlandish.

  ‘He’s probably on a space shuttle on his way to Mars,’ had been Nathan’s favourite, while I’d mooted the possibility of him being a spy, on a top-secret mission in Moscow. It had been so nice to talk with someone new, who hadn’t known me as part of a couple, and to chat about more than babies or weddings – or cycling – that I’d found myself relaxing more and more in his company, happy to chat about films we liked, books we’d read, and what we thought of Donald Trump.

  I didn’t feel relaxed now. I felt like I might be sick.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I said, rearranging the bowls of ingredients. ‘Alice said ten thirty and it’s nearly eleven.’

  Nathan ducked out and round the front of the bakery, where the small television crew had been filming exterior shots, and talking to the crowd that had gathered to see what was going on.

  He returned seconds later. ‘About ten minutes. Alice is still chatting to some locals about the area,’ he said, raking a hand sideways through his hair. It looked constantly windswept, as if he’d been at the helm of a boat at sea.

  ‘Meg?’ He scanned my face. ‘It’s really hot in here.’ He grabbed a tea towel, the muscles in his forearms clenching as he fanned me with it.

  ‘The door’s open.’ I closed my eyes, enjoying the faint breeze on my face. The lingering smell of vanilla from the cake I’d made earlier mingled with something woody and spicy that must be coming from Nathan.

  ‘There’s only warm air coming in,’ he said. ‘It must be nearly twenty-eight degrees out there.’

  I peered through my eyelashes and watched him cross to the sink and shove the window wide.

  ‘There might be a bit of a sea breeze from this side, and I could open the front door to the shop to create a through breeze. Although people might be tempted to come inside if we open the front door.’

  ‘Leave it, we don’t want a crowd in here.’ I picked up my apron to wipe my forehead with. How did TV chefs cope? Nigella never looked harassed. ‘I’m not sure I want to expose myself on national television.’

  ‘I thought you were going to make a cake,’ Nathan said, prompting more giggles. I’d never been so giggly while at the same time so close to crying.

  ‘I’m serious, Nathan. I don’t think I can do it.’

  ‘Or course you can.’ He planted himself opposite the counter where I was fiddling with a whisk. ‘Once you start, your nerves will go. Just imagine you’re in your kitchen at home on your own.’

  ‘But I have to talk.’

  ‘Then imagine you’re talking to your fiancé or a friend, or a family member.’

  Did I imagine the faint emphasis on fiancé? ‘I don’t think that will work,’ I said. Despite his ‘Good luck, babe, you’ll be great’ this morning, I knew Sam had been hoping I wouldn’t go through with it, and if I imagined talking to Cassie or Tilly I’d feel silly and clam up. Mum would be far too nervous on my behalf, and the thought of Sam’s family listening – even at home – was too overwhelming. His eldest sister Maura could be a bit judgemental at the best of times. ‘I’m supposed to talk about myself, but everyone I know knows everything about me already.’

  ‘Then imagine you’re talking to someone you’ve only just met.’

  About to check that the carton of cream I’d poured into a jug hadn’t gone past its sell-by date, I paused. Did he mean himself?

  ‘Someone you’re sitting on a train with,’ he added, as if realising how it had sounded. ‘Just you and one other person, a long journey ahead, and the chance to say whatever you like without judgement.’

  ‘I probably wouldn’t strike up a conversation with a stranger.’ I tweaked a trailing strand into the twist of hair at the nape of my neck. ‘What if they turned out to be unstable and ended up stalking me? Or fell asleep because I’m so boring?’

  ‘Both outcomes highly unlikely.’ He passed a hand over his mouth, as if wiping away a smile. ‘You don’t know Alice, so focus on her and forget about viewers at home.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’ The frantic fluttering in my stomach felt like batwings. ‘What if I swear, or drop something, or get my words mixed up?’

  ‘Hey, you won’t, and if you do they’ll edit it out. They’re not here to make a fool of you, that’s not what the programme’s about.’

  ‘It’s just so important I get it right.’

  ‘Well, even if nothing comes of it, remember there’s a possible buyer in the wings.’ Nathan
’s eyes grew big.

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me,’ I said. When Nathan had told me the day before that a Don Williams had called the agency to say his wife was interested in turning the bakery into an ice-cream parlour, I’d known he was talking about Freya.

  ‘No way!’ I’d cried, to Nathan’s evident surprise.

  ‘It’s not the American country singer,’ he’d said. ‘He’s sadly passed away.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I’d quickly explained that the older man Freya had married had (according to Kath) promised her anything she wanted, and she’d decided she wanted to run a business now she’d got bored of being a mum. ‘Why here?’

  ‘It seems they’ve been looking for the prefect premises, and after hearing that Britain’s Hidden Gems was filming in Seashell Cove decided it’s the perfect location for an ice-cream parlour.’

  ‘But the local shop sells ice cream, and old Giovanni pitches his van by the cove all summer,’ I’d said, though in truth, if they’d been considering anywhere but the Old Bakery, I’d have welcomed an ice-cream parlour – though it was impossible to imagine work-shy Freya fronting it.

  ‘That’s why I need to get this right,’ I said now, even as my bladder threatened to collapse. ‘I have to give someone a reason to reopen the bakery.’

  Nathan appeared to think for a second. ‘Let’s do some role-play,’ he said.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  He swiftly pulled my apron over his head and scooted behind the counter. Picking up my mixing bowl, he said, ‘I’ll pretend to be you, and you go over there and pretend to be Alice.’

  ‘Nathan, this is silly.’ I swallowed another giggle as he hugged the bowl to his chest, and started whisking imaginary ingredients. ‘Be careful with that bowl, it was my grandmother’s.’

  ‘Don’t worry I’ve got a good grip,’ he said. ‘I used to play baseball with my brother.’