Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  “Okay. Sorry,” said Selina, who wasn’t a bad stick really. “I’m preparing myself for a month of being unbelievably thoughtful and lovely to everyone. Just getting the last of it out.”

  “Okay,” said Polly. “Look, it’s just . . . I mean, I feel really bad about it. Even though it’s not officially my problem.”

  “Do you know the husband?”

  “Yes . . . uh, a little bit.”

  Selina looked at her shrewdly.

  “And is he a dickhead?”

  “Sometimes,” said Polly. “Does that matter?”

  “Does he have other women?”

  “No! I don’t think so.”

  “Hmm,” said Selina. “And are you good friends, you and your cousin?”

  “Yes,” said Polly. “I want to be. But this is . . . it’s so awful.”

  Selina leaned forward. “What do you think you have friends for?” she said softly. “This is why. Have you the faintest idea how many people abandoned me when Tarnie died? I lost so many friends over it. How is that fair? People . . . they didn’t know what to say, blah blah blah. What’s to say? You just say, it’s a fucker. Then you maybe apologize in case you say the wrong thing in the future. It’s not rocket bloody science. Then you start being friends again.”

  Her jaw looked fixed.

  “Some people stayed. Some people,” she looked at Polly when she said this, “some people came. But some just vanished completely, as if by being miserable I would infect their cozy, perfect little worlds. Does that make sense?”

  Polly nodded. It did. It made perfect sense.

  “That’s when friends need you more than ever. When something awful happens. And here’s the crucial thing: even if the awful thing that’s happened is your own fault. Especially when it’s your own fault. Do you see?”

  Chapter Seven

  Well, get in then.”

  Neil loved going in the van. Well, he preferred Huckle’s sidecar, where he would perch and enjoy the wind ruffling his feathers, but he loved the van too.

  The rain had cleared, leaving in its wake a bitter cold, but Nan the Van warmed up quite quickly, and Polly wanted to get moving before, as normally happened, people started queuing up in front of it for a pasty or a Marmite twist.

  When she’d lost her job at the bakery the previous year, she hadn’t stopped baking; she’d simply bought a van and moved her operation into that. It had worked far better than she’d expected, and she’d kept the van on, partly for transport and partly because she could use it in the summer for coffees and sandwiches and keep everything bustling over. People’s faces lit up when they saw her out and about in it, and more than one person had asked if she’d consider a delivery service. But it was also her only mode of transportation when the rain came in.

  She rocketed across the causeway—she’d done the crossing so often now, she no longer had the fear she used to have, that the van would swerve and she would simply drive off the side and down into the depths; you could still see, moving under the waves to their own current, the tops of the trees that had grown there when Mount Polbearne had been connected to the mainland all the time. Somebody had once sat under those trees, had thought and dreamed about their life. And now they were down deep beneath the sea, as one day Mount Polbearne itself would be, reclaimed by the ocean along with everything they now held dear.

  It was a short drive across the thin end of the county to Cornwall’s north coast. In the spring, summer and autumn, the beach Reuben and Kerensa owned was a perfect private surfing spot, coveted throughout the county. Reuben often let the local lads use it, in return for doing a bit of bouncing and keeping out the pushy weekend surfers, who drove down from the cities with their loud voices and stupid hipster vans and entitled manner.

  But now, in the heart of winter, there was a touch of frost on the sand that had not rinsed away, and the entire beautiful, desolate beach was completely deserted. Reuben’s beach hut—which had a full working kitchen and bar—was shuttered for the season; the turnoff to the private road was even harder to find than usual.

  Polly drove along the bumpy track at the top of the dunes and on up to the house itself. She’d thought it was crazy the first time she’d been here, and time and circumstances hadn’t changed it: this was a mad place.

  The house was very contemporary in style, with a lot of steel and glass, overlooking the unbeatable views of the wild coastline. There was a round turret almost entirely glassed in, which Reuben had requested because he’d seen it in an Iron Man film. This pretty much summed up the madness of the project. Film companies were always asking to use the house, and Reuben generally said no, although he’d started saying yes if it was an actor Kerensa liked.

  Polly was now starting to doubt the wisdom of being here. Then she got cross with herself for even thinking it. Oh God, what a mess. And it wasn’t as if she’d never made a mistake herself. She’d slept with Tarnie without even knowing he was married. They’d been careful, but maybe she’d just been lucky. Maybe she’d have been raising Tarnie’s baby right now . . . Maybe, she thought, everyone was only ever two feet from disaster, and it was luck, not fundamental goodness, that made all the difference.

  She’d stopped the van in the nearby town, which was full of chintzy gift shops selling driftwood with HOME written on it at highly inflated prices, and gone into the third one she saw. She’d chosen an incredibly overpriced, but very plain, cream cashmere blanket, then picked out all the wrapping bobbins, which seemed to cost just as much again, and handed over her credit card with her fingers crossed. Kerensa forgot sometimes that other people had to think about money, but this wasn’t about that. This was about buying something lovely—and it was an apology, not a gift.

  She rang the bell, not even sure if Kerensa would be in. It was often hard to tell, given how many cars they had parked on the gravel driveway around the peculiar fountain sculpture. She hadn’t heard from her at all—normally they texted and spoke every day more or less—and she didn’t blame her. She hadn’t wanted to let Kerensa know she was coming, in case she told her not to. It wouldn’t have surprised her; would have felt like what she deserved, really.

  The vast door already had a thick wreath of holly hanging from it. They actually paid people to do the Christmas decorations in this house. Polly hadn’t even known that was possible; that that was a job.

  The maid didn’t come to the door; instead, it was Kerensa herself.

  She looked even worse than before, all her natural buoyancy gone. She was washed out and pale, with great dark circles under her eyes.

  There was a silence between them. Kerensa looked sullen, like a dog waiting for a blow.

  “Is Reuben in?” said Polly.

  Kerensa shook her head. “Why?” she said, looking terrified suddenly. “Is that who you’ve come to see?”

  “No,” said Polly. She handed over the present. “Kerensa, can you forgive me? I’m so, so sorry.”

  There was a roaring fire in the hallway and they sat beside it, underneath a Christmas tree that looked to be about thirty feet tall and filled the three-story turret.

  “That tree is mad,” said Polly.

  “That’s what I said,” said Kerensa. “Then he ordered one that was about four times bigger on purpose.”

  They both smiled ruefully. Kerensa stared at the floor as Marta brought them hot chocolate.

  “I’m sorry,” said Polly. “I’m sorry. I was just so shocked, that’s all. The fact that you kept it from me all that time . . .”

  “YOU were shocked?” said Kerensa bitterly. She looked up at Polly, eyes full of pain. “I didn’t expect . . . I didn’t expect you to turn away.”

  “I was wrong,” said Polly. “I was so, so wrong. Kerensa, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t have done anything except tell you it’s going to be all right.”

  “How can it be all right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Polly. “Things work out. You love eac
h other, right?”

  “I think we’ll find out when I have a six-foot olive-skinned baby with thick dark hair,” wept Kerensa.

  “Don’t be stupid, you’ll drag up a relative from somewhere. Why don’t I start seeding the conversation?”

  “What, hey Kerensa, remember that Spanish grandfather you never mentioned before?”

  “Exactly,” said Polly. “That great-uncle who came back from sea very rarely.”

  Kerensa perked up slightly. “Well,” she said. “There is that side of the family . . . I mean, we hardly see them.” Her father had died four years ago, but her parents had been divorced for a long time before that.

  “Exactly!” said Polly. “Just don’t bring it up when your mum’s about.”

  “I could say it was something of a scandal at the time . . . marrying a foreigner.”

  “Will he buy that?”

  “Reuben thinks Spanish means Hispanic. He’ll buy it.”

  “That’s incredibly racist.”

  “Who’s incredibly racist?” Reuben marched in, whistling cheerfully. “Where’s the gorgeous mother of my baby, huh? Huh?”

  He chucked Kerensa under the chin, and she did her best to smile at him.

  “She’s been so sick,” said Reuben to Polly. “Honestly. I thought she’d be, like, too awesome to be sick, but, huh, apparently not. She’s sleeping in the spare room because she throws up every five minutes.”

  “It’s very common,” said Polly. “Kerensa was just saying you’re a big fat racist.”

  “Did you bring me some hot chocolate?”

  “No,” said Polly. “But I did bring you some Sachertorte.”

  Reuben’s face brightened. “That’ll do. Yes, I am racist. I hate everyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at my school for advanced and gifted children I took a pounding on a regular basis by blacks, Chinese, Asians, Caucasians, Hispanics, Arabs, Jews, Catholics and Zoroastrians. So I just totally hate everybody.”

  Polly looked at him.

  “Are you absolutely a hundred percent 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 gray 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 everythi
ng 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.

  “Well, why can’t we do all that stuff and then go over to Reuben’s?”

  “Because AFTER all of that,” said Huckle, rubbing her shoulders gently, “we open those big bags of chocolate coins you do here and put the television on and then we watch movies all day eating candy.”

  “What about Christmas dinner?”

  “Can’t I just have more smoked salmon? And some cheese? And then the rest of the chocolate coins?”

  “Oh GOD, that sounds good,” said Polly, thinking about it. What with cooking for the Christmas fair, crossly, with Selina making jewelry downstairs in companionable fashion, and stocking up the freezer in case the weather turned bad, and having to think about dealing with Kerensa, and Reuben’s family, and Christmas, everything had suddenly seemed to come at her like a freight train,

  “I think we might need two bottles of champagne. For when we wake up from our nap in the afternoon ready for more champagne and more movies and more chocolate coins. And if we’re feeling really, really energetic, a long, hot bath. And then another snooze.”

  Polly, who’d never been a morning person in her life, let out a sigh.

  “We couldn’t turn up after that,” pointed out Huckle. “I’d be too drunk to drive the bike and you’d be too drunk to get out of the bath. And we’d both be asleep. We have a really, really busy Christmas Day schedule. Tell him.”

  “You tell him.”

  “You started it.”

  Polly closed her eyes.

  “You know what he’s like. He won’t take no for an answer. He’s so insistent.”

  “You’re pretty insistent,” said Huckle, moving closer to her. Polly turned her head and surrendered happily to him. Maybe they could put off making the decision for another day. Maybe she could put off all the decisions.

  Chapter Nine

  Polly looked at the printout and let out a groan. It was a full and packed schedule that Reuben’s PA had sent her for Christmas Day at the Finkels’, including two hours of charades, some round singing, whatever the hell that was, a full ninety minutes of gift exchange, walking to church—which was ridiculous, as Reuben had never set foot in a church once in his entire life and had been married by a rabbi—plus various mysterious entries such as “Finkel family pageant” and “The bringing in of the beasts,” which Polly didn’t even want to speculate on.