Will You Remember Me?

by Amanda Prowse

  Pru laughed to herself as she perched on the edge of her bed and applied the Crème de la Mer moisturiser to her face and throat. It was six a.m. but she had the speed of movement and alertness of someone who had been up for many hours, fancy. She touched her fingers to her temples where at the age of sixty-six, her once lustrous locks had now thinned, it was a habit she had acquired along with pushing up her eyebrows with her finger as if she could for a second or two, re-create the wide eyes of her youth, before gravity had done its job and they had taken on their hooded appearance.

  ‘I was lovely once wasn’t I? Not that I really thought so at the time, despite what Trudy said. I never had her confidence, blimey, who did? She was something else wasn’t she? So, so long ago. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that, Alfie, our little flat in Kenway Road, my life in Earls Court. We had some fun, tough times, but happy times. A lifetime ago. You’re the only one I tell everything, but I know you’re a secret keeper, aren’t you my love?’

  This she addressed to one of several silver framed photographs on her bedside table. This particular snap was of a man astride a moped, he was looking over his shoulder, with a roll up hanging from his bottom lip, it was black and white and even though had been taken decades later, could have come straight out of the sixties, he had an air of James Dean about him or maybe that was how just she preferred to think of him, an anti-hero rather than a hopeless, addicted drop-out.

  He smiled back at her with eyes that crinkled into laughter, peeping from behind black-framed Raybans that with his head tilted down towards the camera, had slipped down to the end of his nose. Pru loved this photo. There weren’t that many flying around of her family, owning a camera was never a priority, but his smile and the setting on what looked like a bright, sunny day, meant that she knew he had this one good day or more specifically, this one good moment on this one good day. She hoped that when things got bad for him, the memory of this might have sustained him. As usual, he didn’t reply.

  Pru meandered around the flat in her soft grey, jersey pyjamas and dressing gown, with a cup of hot, black coffee balanced on her palm; she hummed and walked room to room, finding it calming to walk around and see that everything was just as she had left it the night before, harvesting reassurance from the order in which she lived and gaining confidence from knowing she was the owner of so many lovely things. The pictures were straight, cushions plumped and object d’art positioned just so. Although she had to admit that barring a messy burglary or natural disaster the likelihood of it not being were extremely slim.

  She sat on the chair at the little walnut desk in the corner of her bedroom and let the bank statement flutter in her palm. She no longer paid heed to the black figures and their commas, lined up in neat rows, it was more of an inquisitive glance to see that payments had gone through and a reminder of where she was in the month. Gone were the days of shuffling balances and debts around to keep suppliers happy, juggling dates and orders to ensure enough money sat in the accounts for wages. The business had reached a point a couple of decades ago where the takings had significantly outweighed their costs and once the scales had tipped in their favour, they had never looked back. She unscrewed the lid of her Montblanc fountain pen and placed a tiny cross by the payment that was referenced cm – one thousand pounds had gone through on the fourteenth, just as it did every month and had done for the last ten years. If she did the maths, it caused a ball to knot in her stomach and a tide of panic to rise in her throat, so it was better that she didn’t. Pru folded the paper sheets and clipped them into the leather file that she stowed back in the drawer.

  After showering and blow-drying her auburn hair into its blunt bob, Pru sat down at her dressing table where she applied the merest hint of taupe lip stain and one wand-slick of mascara. She rubbed her fingers over her temples. She had never thought she would become this older lady. Any imaginings she had in her youth, placed her in her mid twenties, old enough to know best and still young enough enjoy herself. And yet there she was, hardly recognising the face in the mirror and it had happened in a heartbeat. She sighed and pulled her lower teeth over her top lip in the mirror, making her neck and chin taut, the way it used to look. A liberal spritz of Chanel number five and she was set for the day. She accessorized her navy trousers with a white silk blouse and two rows of pearls that hung in differing lengths against her small, high chest. She slipped her feet into navy penny loafers; her foot wear of choice on days like these.

  Pru held her breath and pulled the blind. She watched a white transit van pull up on to the curb with its hazard lights flashing, delivering to Guy all that they might need for a day of baking and trading. On the opposite side of the street, two young men in dinner jackets, with ties loose about their necks and a wobble to their saunter, walked arm in arm. No doubt homeward bound at this early hour. She smiled; there it was, Curzon Street, just as she had left it.

  She worried that one day she might pull the blind and see the traffic of the Kenway Road a few miles across town in Earls’ Court, as if she had dreamt her success, her home in Mayfair, her Italian marble flooring, espresso machine and walk-in closet and was still there, living that life. Back then, although her surroundings had been drab, she had herself been full of life: a young girl with a defiant stare and a gut full of determination.

  The day that she and Milly had arrived at the six-storey terrace in Kenway Road, they had thought they were invincible, immune to the regret and recrimination that came with old age. It was the last of a long line of places that she and Milly had painstakingly ringed in the small ads, and from the moment they arrived, they knew it was the place for them. A statuesque, elegant woman opened the door wearing a silk kimono and smoking a thin cigar in an ivory cigarette holder. She introduced herself as Trudy; she lived in a flat on the top floor. Pru walked to one of two deep-set sash windows on the landing that gave her the most incredible view across the London skyline, all the way out to Fulham and beyond. She let her eyes skim the horizon and red brick chimney pots. This would be the start of their journey, here among the west London rooftops, living with this elegant worldly woman. Pru followed Trudy down a narrow hallway, noting the way she swept along on her high heels, which made her look refined and sophisticated, sexy. She was going to practise that walk and when she had enough money, buy herself a pair of high heeled, red patent leather shoes, just like Trudy’s.

  ‘Who’s David Parkes?’ Milly asked. She had stopped at a framed certificate that hung on the wall and pointed to it.

  ‘David was my brother.’ Trudy sighed, ‘He died a couple of years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Pru offered as she rolled her eyes at Milly who was always jumping in feet first.

  Pru and Milly told Trudy how they wanted to open their own bakery with a shop and a café, where they would make the most delicious cakes and bread that London has ever tasted. Trudy didn’t laugh or mock the way others had when she shared this, instead she nodded and blew large O’s of cigar smoke, before pressing her full, carmine painted lips together.

  ‘I think people without dreams are only living half a life and that’s a life I wouldn’t want to live.’

  Pru had been impressed, Trudy sounded like a poet.

  ‘But it’s no good dreaming unless you are prepared to work really hard. You have to dream it and set yourself a path to make it happen. A dream won’t put food on the table or money in your purse.’ Pru subconsciously patted the purse in her pocket, which contained their first weeks rent, bus fair and a lucky coin with a hole drilled in it. It was the sum total of their combined wealth. Pru nodded, wondering what they would need to do to clear their path – the one that led straight to the shiny, glass window of Plum’s Patisserie.

  ‘What’s your dream then?’ Milly asked over Pru’s shoulder.

  Trudy gave the younger girl her full attention, and drew on her cigar, ‘To have a little love in my life,’ she offered as she turned her back and walked forward, ‘I think that’s everyone’s dream,
really.’ Dear, dear Trudy.

  Pru closed her bedroom door and popped her head into the kitchen where she spied Milly, clad in a tiger onesie.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ Pru shook her head.

  ‘It’s new and quite possibly the cosiest thing I have ever owned. I might never take it off.’

  ‘That’ll be nice in the front of house.’

  Milly dipped a large croissant into her coffee before lowering the soggy mess into her mouth.

  ‘Gross.’ Pru commented.

  ‘It’s what they do in France!’ Milly spoke with her mouthful.

  ‘Maybe, but you’re not French, Mills.’

  ‘What? You are kidding me! Mon Dieu! I had no idea. I thought I’d imagined growing up in Bow and I was actually from a fashionable little suburb of Paris!’ She winked at her cousin.

  Pru grinned as she left the flat and trotted down the stairs, taking a deep breath she opened the door of the café. She and Milly took it in turns to do the early check on the bakery and it was her turn this week. In truth, after two decades in these premises, and with the celebrated, Guy Baudin at the helm of a trusted team, it was more a cursory nod to all that she was around, a reminder of who was boss and the chance to monitor quality rather than get her hands stuck in.

  The cleaners in their blue nylon tabards and with their hair scraped up into untidy knots were hard at it, buffing the brass fixtures with yellow dusters and mopping the pale, waxed wooden floor. The sun had started its creep through the large window that displayed the Plum Patisserie logo, working its way up like the revelation of a dancers fan until the whole room was awash with light. Tiny white bud-roses had been placed in slender, finger-sized vases on every table. The glass display unit, which they had re-created to mimic those found in the Parisian coffee houses of the eighteen hundreds, gleamed. The tiered, glass cake stands and fancy china plates with hand-painted flowers and swirls, delicately kissing their fluted edges, sat shining, awaiting the scones packed with jam and cream, soft iced buns, frosted sponges and flaky pastry masterpieces, stuffed with marzipan and dotted with an almond, which those with a sweet tooth would devour with a cup of hand blended French roast coffee.

  She particularly loved this time of the morning, before the customers arrived, before the problems arose, before tiredness crept over her aging joints.

  ‘Good morning all!’ Pru offered with a singsong note, many of these girls spoke little English, but could glean enough from her tone to reciprocate with a nod and a smile.

  ‘This looks lovely, thank you.’

  The girls smiled and nodded in return.

  Making her way down the twist of staircase, she placed her foot on the last step, the wood creaked unexpectedly beneath her weight and she gasped, placing one hand at her breast and the other against the wall, trying to steady her heart rate. She exhaled and leant on the wall, using her index finger and thumb to wipe away the tiny dots of perspiration that had gathered on her top lip. She placed her flattened palm against her chest, trying to calm her flustered pulse.

  ‘Come on you silly moo.’

  It still had the power to do that to her, the flash of a memory, an image, a sound. It could transport her back to a time she would rather forget.

  She waited a second and dug deep to find a smile before taking one final step and pushing on the wide double fire door with its brass edged porthole glass window. Immediately, she was engulfed by the smell of fresh bread, baking in the oven. She never tired of the warm scent; it cocooned her in a blanket of well-being and was evocative of full tummies, log fires, cosy rooms and all that was homely.

  ‘Good morning, Guy.’

  ‘Is it? I’m not so sure!’ He slammed his clipboard with its checklist on the stainless steel counter top.

  This was entirely expected; Guy lived his life with his fingers, tense against his flustered, plucked brow and a sigh hovering in his throat. Whippet thin and groomed to within an inch of his perma-tan, Guy lived off caffeine and on his nerves.

  ‘What’s up?’ Pru refrained from adding, now. Guy was undoubtedly a worrier, a panicker and a drama queen, but all that was forgiven when she considered his insistence on the inflexible standards both in and out of the kitchen. His attention to detail and design ideas kept them at the forefront of global cake design. He was the jewel in her crown, an analogy that he particularly loved.

  ‘I specifically ordered extra lemons for our dessert du jour, lemon posset with almond crusted shortbread, and they have sent me my standard order. These people drive me crazy! Are they trying to ruin my day? How can I deliver what I promise with this?’ He poked at a large net of sorry-looking yellow fruit and turned down his mouth as though he had been presented with road kill rather than inadequate waxed citrus.

  ‘I expect they haven’t set out to ruin your day intentionally, they probably just forgot or got muddled, you know how it is when an order deviates from the norm, it often gets confused somewhere along the line. We could always send someone up to the supermarket to grab you some more lemons?’

  Guy placed his hands on his hips, ‘well, I suppose we will have to.’

  Pru as ever, noted the slight flicker of disappointment that crossed his face when a solution was easily and quickly found.

  ‘Also, Guy, can we get someone to fix the bottom stair that comes down from the café. It’s got a creak.’ She gave a small cough.

  ‘Oh, Pru! You and your creaks! I could have a man here every day, fixing one creak or another. This building is over two hundred years old, it’s going to creak!’ He raised his hands up to the sky with flattened palms.

  ‘And as I’ve said before, I don’t mind if a man or a woman for that matter, has to come every day or indeed, every hour of every day and I don’t care it what it costs. I can’t have the stairs making that noise. Any of them, at any time, I can’t. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ He shrugged, before muttering something inaudible in his native French.

  ‘How’s the window display coming along?’ Pru knew she could easily distract him and if she were being honest was keen to change the subject. In between the double-fronted café and the front door that lead to their apartments, sat a tall bow window, emblazoned with the Plum Patisserie logo, the window was all that was left of the Victorian pharmacy that had been knocked through and subsumed into their current corner premises. The space behind it was a little over five foot in depth and with no particular purpose other than decoration; it was the ideal space in which Guy could showcase the latest Plum creations. The little gallery had become one of the most photographed spots in Mayfair. This pleased Pru no end, whether for a magazine or as one of a tourists haul of snaps, the fact that her logo and cakes of such breath-taking magnitude were being ogled, meant great advertising.

  He clapped his hands under his chin, instantly diverted from his lemon crisis, and lack of empathy when it came to stair repair, ‘Oh, Pru, oh my! It is beyond exquisite, its divine. No, its beyond divine, it’s epic, it’s… words fail me.’ Guy placed his middle three fingers over his pursed lips and blinked away tears that threatened.

  ‘That good huh?’

  He slowly nodded, unable to fully articulate. ‘Mais oui and more!’ He was quite breathless.

  Pru smiled, she was used to this, each of his creations was always similarly lauded and the funny thing was, it was always entirely justified.

  ‘I can’t wait to see it. Any luck with the new trainee?’

  ‘Don’t. Even. Go. There!’ He held up a palm in front of her face. ‘Every single person they have sent has been completely useless. I have the same conversation with the agency after every sorry interview. I tell them repeatedly, I don’t need bakers! Bakers are ten a penny, no offence intended, Pru,’

  ‘None taken.’ She was a baker and proud.

  ‘But I don’t need a baker, I need an artiste! Someone who has the eye, the touch and the imagination, someone who can turn sugar paste into pure fantasy, someone who can make the dreams of others into reality!
Is it too much to ask?’ For the second time in as many minutes he looked close to tears.

  Pru stared at him in silence, fishing for a suitable response and wondering if this was the job description he had given the agency, before giving up and abandoning the topic altogether. ‘I’m nipping out this morning. Bobby has a dress fitting in Spitalfields, but Milly is around if you need anything.’

  ‘Oh, a dress fitting? How exciting! I saw the lovely couple yesterday afternoon, strolling hand in hand like love’s young dream. Oh my goodness, so beautiful together! Can you imagine what les enfants will look like? They are a couple that heaven blessed for sure.’

  ‘I know, Bobby’s a lucky girl. She certainly doesn’t take after me; she takes after her mum, Astrid. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.’

  It wasn’t a topic she normally discussed. Bobby’s mum had disappeared when she was three months old, leaving her in the care of her drug-addled boyfriend to pursue a life in India. Ironically, it probably saved her life. Astrid too was fond of the recreational drugs that formed the backdrop to Alfie’s life, but left before he progressed to heroin and the habit that would eventually kill him. She told Alfie she needed space and enlightenment, which he thought was a bloody shame, as what their little girl needed was a mummy who wasn’t over six thousand miles away needing space and enlightenment.

  ‘Oh Pru, she most certainly does take after you. You are beautiful inside and out. I can see you now,’ he raised he hand as if shielding his eyes, ‘you could model for denture cream or stair lifts!’

  Pru threw a napkin at him and turned on her heel, smiling as she did so.

  Available from 16th December 2013

  About this Book

  How do you say goodbye to your family for the last time?

  Poppy Day is looking forward to her best year yet. She’s thirty-two, married to her childhood sweetheart, and a full-time mum of two gorgeous children. She loves her clean little house in the countryside – a far cry from the London estate where she grew up. Her husband Mart, a soldier, has just returned safe and sound from his latest tour.