A Little Love

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Luckily for you, the answer is very little. You don’t have to keep surprising me, Chris. I’m interested anyway. I think I’ve had more than enough surprises over the last few weeks. In fact, promise me, no surprises!’

  He took her hand. ‘You’re right. These last few weeks have been a bloody rollercoaster. But I didn’t get you to schlep all the way to the park so we could be depressed! Although I’m afraid it might be a little too late for my “no surprises” promise.’

  ‘Too late? How?’

  ‘Before I realised that I actually didn’t need to try so hard to win you over…’ He winked and pulled an envelope from inside his suit jacket. ‘I got these.’ He waved the envelope in front of her. ‘Tickets to Barcelona. We leave on Saturday – it’s that long weekend we discussed. I called Liz, but sadly the Victoria Inn was fully booked, so Barcelona it is!’

  Pru put her hand to her throat. ‘I can’t just up sticks and go to Barcelona!’

  ‘Yes you can.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Do you remember what we said – life starts when you let it! And we are going to let it, aren’t we? Come on, come to Barcelona. It’s only a weekend. I’m sure Plum Patisserie won’t fall down and Meg and Milly will be squabbling just as you left them, they probably won’t even notice you’ve gone.’

  That was all probably true, but a weekend away, together… ‘I’ll have to have a think about it, check with Milly.’

  ‘Well you can think about it and check with Milly as much as you like, but I am not taking no for an answer. We are going to Barcelona.’

  ‘Are you always this bossy?’

  ‘Yes.’ He laughed and kissed her once again. ‘I love you, Pru. Just in case you were in any doubt.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh, shoot! I am very late!’ He started to jog away from her, backwards. ‘Barcelona! In four days! Pack sensible shoes!’ he shouted with his arms spread wide, narrowly missing a teenage boy carrying a skateboard. Pru heard him muttering ‘So sorry!’ as he broke into a run.

  Pru woke in the middle of the night with a buzz of excitement. He was taking her to Barcelona! But she was darned if she would wait four days before seeing him again. She sent her text and set her alarm. Two could play at being bossy.

  Christopher looked a little bleary-eyed as he stepped into the gleaming kitchen. ‘I’ll have you know, I haven’t had breakfast and I’m missing my morning run!’ He patted his stomach.

  ‘Not to worry, you can eat what we make and there’s another morning tomorrow, so you can just run twice the distance.’ She smirked as she fastened the apron around her waist before securing Christopher’s tightly with a bow. She spun him around until he was facing the counter and took up her place opposite him on the other side.

  ‘You look lovely!’ She chuckled; it was good to have him here in her workroom and funny to see him in one of the Plum Patisserie aprons. ‘So you’ve never baked anything before, ever?’

  ‘Nope.’ He shook his head, looking smug, as though this was some kind of achievement.

  ‘Not even biscuits when you were a kid or salt dough at school?’

  ‘No, nothing. My mother used to make cakes with Isabel while Dad and I went off and did other things. More boyish things.’

  ‘More boyish things?’ Pru put her hands on her hips. ‘You are unbelievably sexist and out of touch. Some of the greatest bakers in the world are men.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Christopher put his hands on his hips too, imitating her stance.

  ‘Yes! Richard Bertinet, Tom and Henry Herbert—’

  ‘Ooh, Mr Kipling!’ Christopher interrupted.

  Pru stared at him in silence, then said sternly, ‘Baking is an art and you have to concentrate and learn. Monsieur Gilbert used to say that a half-hearted baker would only ever have half-eaten cakes, and he was right.’

  ‘I don’t want to incur the wrath of Monsieur Gilbert.’

  ‘Well it would be the ghost of Monsieur Gilbert, which would be much worse! Now listen carefully.’

  Pru set a large ceramic bowl in front of him and placed a fine, pointed sieve over it. She handed him a scoop of flour and showed him how to gently tap the metal rim using the side of his palm. Christopher watched as the fine powder drifted through the tiny holes. ‘Why do we have to sift it? It looks pretty lump-free to me,’ he said.

  ‘It loosens up flour that might have been sitting around in storage for a long time; it also adds air, which means your baking will have a lighter texture.’

  ‘It feels like a lot of work.’ He grimaced.

  ‘And that’s part of the reward, Sir Christopher. You get out what you put in.’

  Pru watched closely as he added the bicarbonate of soda, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg, his clumsy fingers more used to gripping a fat fountain pen than the fiddly little measuring spoon. Then she poured the mixture into the food processor, added the butter and set it to a gentle whir. ‘Look.’ She pointed at the bowl and Christopher dutifully peered more closely. ‘You see it looks like fat breadcrumbs? This tells us it’s time for the sugar.’

  ‘I’m meeting the PM this afternoon, I shan’t tell him how I spent my morning.’

  ‘Why not? I’m sure he’d be impressed!’ She laughed.

  Christopher picked up the little scoop and dumped the sugar unceremoniously into the mixture. He did a better job of beating together the egg and the stretchy cords of golden syrup, which Pru then poured into the food processor.

  ‘Ooh, that smells lovely! Gingery!’ He inhaled.

  ‘Yes.’ Pru smiled. ‘We’re making gingerbread.’

  ‘Are we? Goodness gracious me!’

  ‘Do you know the best thing about making gingerbread?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh God, no, but I feel like I should have some textbook baking answer up my sleeve.’

  She laughed. ‘The best thing is that you get two coffee opportunities – one when the dough is chilling in the fridge and the other while it’s baking! So stick the kettle on and I’ll get the cafetière out.’

  She glanced at him while she set the dough to chill; it felt lovely to have him in such close proximity.

  They sipped at their coffee before rolling out the dough. He was pretty good with a rolling pin, Pru would give him that. She handed him a man-shaped cutter. ‘You need to cut out your shapes. Press it into the dough quite firmly and then we’ll use a spatula to transfer it to the baking tray.’

  Christopher fumbled with the thin metal shape, his tongue poking from the side of his mouth in concentration. He didn’t hear the door open.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Milly asked, standing in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest.

  Christopher straightened up and adjusted his apron. ‘I am making gingerbread men.’ He blushed.

  ‘Blimey,’ Milly said. ‘And to think I voted for your lot.’ She left, shaking her head and tutting.

  Half an hour later, Pru and Chris studied the cooled gingerbread figures and looked at the piping bags and pots of sparkles, chocolate buttons, jelly drops and other goodies lined up ready to decorate them.

  ‘I’m going to make you!’ Pru announced, picking up the icing cone. Her nimble fingers worked deftly as she drew a tie, a suit and even his cowlick of a fringe. The delicate white lines glistened on the smooth pale surface of her honey-coloured gingerbread figure.

  ‘Two can play at that game,’ said Christopher. And he proceeded to blob and squidge until he’d produced a Pru-figure with a thick line of smudge that combined nose, mouth and eyes.

  ‘Do I really look like that?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, exactly like that.’ He smirked.

  She showed him how to use icing to glue in place the sweetie gems and jewels, and he duly covered her figure with them. It looked hideous. But Christopher was clearly delighted. ‘Look at that, it’s uncanny!’ he said as he lifted up his creation.

  Pru made a pretend swipe at him and as he defended himself, his gingerbread woman dropped to the counter and broke, losing an arm
– and her head.

  ‘Oh no, I’m broken!’

  Christopher walked to her side of the counter and wrapped her in his arms. ‘I’d love you even if you were broken. I’d carry all the little pieces of you around in my pocket, forever.’

  Pru closed her eyes against his chest and enjoyed being held.

  12

  The taxi pulled up in front of three ancient buildings on the harbour front. All three listed slightly to the left and their wooden doors and shutters had been bleached bone dry. They looked like working buildings. Through an open door Pru caught sight of a boat and piles of nets and floats that looked abandoned, as if a fisherman in a hurry to get home had forgotten to tidy them away. A man with a weathered face sat on a small three-legged stool outside. He raised his hand in greeting as he worked on a battered basket. He was wearing a flat cap, which made her smile. Did all old men the world over, whether from Yorkshire or Catalonia, eventually graduate to wearing this particular sort of hat?

  The building in the middle appeared slightly less dilapidated. Its walls were a faded white, but its peeling woodwork still held remnants of bright blue; a large fishing net hung over the bottom-floor window and the top floor had a wrought-iron balcony. It belonged to Christopher’s friend Raul, a painter, who had taken on the fisherman’s cottage, renovated it and lent them the keys for the weekend. It looked lived-in and perfect.

  Pru and Christopher glanced nervously at each other as they retrieved their luggage from the boot of the taxi. The Mediterranean heat warmed their bones and gave them both a jolt of holiday joy; this was just what they both needed. Christopher pushed on the shabby wooden door and immediately tripped on the step, just managing to right himself before he went sprawling.

  ‘Blimey, don’t break your neck! We couldn’t even blame a fall on cheap vino at this time of day!’ Pru laughed as she clutched at her chest.

  ‘Don’t you worry, I’m fully insured.’

  ‘That’s the least of my worries – you’re holding our duty-free gin!’

  He opened the front door wide as he held out his hand to take hers, guiding her over the rather elaborate step configuration. Pru found herself in an artist’s studio. Canvases in various stages of completion were stacked against every surface. There were brightly coloured sploshes all over the whitewashed walls and the floor was a rainbow of droplets. The ceiling was low but the large window flooded the space with light. Christopher patted one of the weathered roof beams as he ducked his head beneath a blackened hook. ‘Ships’ timbers,’ he said. Pru loved how clever he was.

  From some of the hooks Raul had hung twists of rope with shells threaded through them: one held a small net filled with coral, another was strung with corks whose ends were stained with red wine. They were quite beautiful. A pale wooden easel stood in the corner, near a battered chaise longue with wiry-looking stuffing coming out of it. The long, scratched work table was scattered with tin pots holding brushes, chisels and pencils and glass jars full of every shade of powder. Pru wanted to run her fingers over the unfamiliar objects, smell the powders and strange items. It looked like the artist’s equivalent of a well-stocked larder.

  Christopher made his way over to the open-tread wooden staircase in the far corner. Pru followed him, trying not to step on the tacky blobs of paint. She watched as his clumpy deck shoes filled the depth of the first stair; it creaked and groaned under his weight and unconsciously Pru gasped loudly at the sound. She placed her hand on the wall to steady herself.

  Christopher reached backwards and grasped her hand. ‘Hey, no need to look so frightened. If they take my weight, they are certainly going to take yours. Come on, it’s okay, I won’t let you fall.’

  Pru put her hand against the small of his back. I won’t let you fall… She desperately wanted to believe him. She forced a smile and ploughed on up, trusting the worn planks as Christopher did.

  The upstairs apartment was a single open space that ran the length of the building. The wooden floor sloped towards the back and fans of light pierced the gaps between its broad, waxed, golden-hued boards. Pru took in the wide wrought-iron bed and starched white bed linen and tried not to pay it too much attention. Instead, she focused on the rickety bedside tables and their oversized lamps, the patchwork cushions and the small red velvet sofa that sat alongside a crowded bookcase. To the left of the window was the kitchen area, with two green-painted stools underneath a breakfast bar. On the bar sat a fancy-pants chrome coffee machine that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any high street coffee shop, and the obligatory microwave.

  Pru looked straight ahead and inhaled sharply at the scene that greeted her. ‘Oh my word, Chris! Look at this.’ She put her hands to her neck.

  Christopher beamed. This was obviously the reaction he had hoped for.

  The large sash window, a replica of the one on the ground floor, opened on to the wrought-iron balcony. It was high enough to give the most amazing view over the restaurants that lined the marina, and beyond the harbour wall you could see the sea, glinting with sun diamonds. Pots of trailing geraniums, heavy with scent and an abundance of scarlet blooms, hung in metal troughs along the sides of the balcony, and in the middle sat a rather battered blue metal table with two mismatched wicker chairs. The only way to access it was to manoeuvre through the open sash window, scissor-legging over the sill, which was maybe two feet high.

  ‘You like?’ He asked the question as though he already knew the answer; it was halfway between a question and a statement.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  He gave a small nod. It was. ‘I’ve been meaning to come here for years, but never got around to organising it. I think I knew it was the type of place that would only be half as good if I came alone.’

  Pru suddenly felt inexplicably shy, hit by the reality of being in such close proximity to Christopher and sharing a living space. This felt very different from meeting for short bursts in the park. She needed the loo and tried to picture getting into her pyjamas and cleaning her teeth in front of him. She was sure it would have been easier in her teens, when she had yet to assume the cloak of self-doubt and awkwardness that she had carried with her since her forties. She remembered being very young and wishing that she weren’t so tall, hating the fact that she was always a head taller than any boy she wanted to dance with. Hers was always the first face detected in a classroom or on the factory floor when the person in charge was looking for the troublemaker. Yet now, at sixty-six, her height was the one thing she did like; it was everything else that let her down: the stretch marks on her abdomen, her small boobs, which were now less than pert, the tributary of lines that ran from her mouth to her jaw and teeth that looked aged and worn.

  As if reading her thoughts, Christopher made his way to the corner, to what Pru had thought might be a cupboard. Instead, the wooden louvre door opened on to a cramped but clean and shiny white shower cubicle and loo.

  ‘Okay, we are going to have to implement a system. With no lock on the door and only this one room, I propose to whistle “Dixie” very loudly when I’m in situ. That’s your warning not to enter and to cover your ears. What, might I ask, will your song of choice be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t whistle and my singing is terrible,’ she whispered.

  ‘How about, “Hey Jude”? That’s in an easy key and everyone knows the words.’

  Pru shrugged. ‘Okay, “Hey Jude” it is. I need the loo now, actually.’ She chewed her bottom lip.

  ‘In that case, start singing, while I unpack at the other end!’ He glanced across at her. ‘You look anxious.’

  ‘I am anxious.’

  ‘Why?’ He stepped forward and folded her against his chest.

  ‘I think I’m a bit nervous. Not just the loo thing, the whole thing.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you, in any way.’

  He grazed the top of her scalp with a kiss. ‘Oh, Pru, you couldn’t disappoint me in any way. You are an incredible woman.’

  �
��I’m not twenty any more.’ She hoped that this would convey her fears and her self-consciousness about her aged body, her many foibles and the peculiar habits of a single woman that had been a lifetime in the making.

  ‘Neither of us are, my love, that is why this is rather special.’

  She smiled against the fabric of his shirt. ‘In that case, I’d better start singing.’ She disengaged herself and headed for the louvre door.

  After a stroll around the marina, as the day drew into dusk, Pru and Christopher made their way back to the fisherman’s studio.

  ‘I’m shattered!’ Christopher patted the space next to him, to the left of where he lay on the bed.

  So that was her side then. Easy. Pru kicked off her shoes and sidled over to where he rested. Placing her head on his chest, she felt his arm encircle her shoulders. She could hear his heart beat and smell his unique, intoxicating scent. They sank into the gloriously soft mattress as the sounds of the marina drifted up through the window. Pru felt a welcome calm spread over her. This wasn’t awkward at all, just lovely. Christopher’s chest rose and fell as he dozed. She couldn’t sleep, but listened to the clatter of tables being set, cutlery and crockery clunking together as it was placed on the linen tablecloths below. Waiters called instructions to one another in Catalan. Music was starting to play; guitars strummed amid the gentle hum of laughter and conversation as lovers and families strolled along the waterfront, looking for friends or seeking the perfect table from which to watch the harbour.

  Pru felt at peace as she hugged Christopher’s form into her chest.

  He stretched as he woke, smiling, happy to see that she was next to him. ‘Well, not a bad first day, in fact half a day, as we only arrived this afternoon.’ He stroked her hair.