Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘So now I am basically, not to put too fine a point on it, screwed. Hey ho!’

  She took another slug of pink wine.

  ‘I am quite tempted to stay here for the rest of my life drinking this. Would that be all right?’

  There was a long silence, long enough that Polly lifted her head and looked around.

  ‘What? I was only kidding, you know. Mostly kidding.’

  Kerensa shook her head. She was looking at Reuben.

  ‘You want to tell them?’

  ‘No,’ said Reuben.

  ‘You want me to tell them?’

  ‘No,’ said Reuben, pouting out his bottom lip.

  ‘Someone has to tell them.’

  ‘It’s been in the papers,’ growled Reuben, getting up to go and poke at his lobsters.

  ‘What’s been in the papers?’ said Polly. The papers came late to Mount Polbearne – on windy days not at all – and between that and how hard she worked, and the slowness of their Internet connection, Polly had got out of the habit of reading anything other than the Western Mail or, if she was being entirely honest with herself, sometimes looking at pictures of celebrities on tabloid sites.

  ‘I’m going to tell them,’ hollered Kerensa.

  Reuben shrugged. ‘I don’t care, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t care if you want to leave me now.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘What?’ said Polly, jerked out of her reverie into wakefulness. ‘What’s going on?’

  Kerensa looked at Reuben.

  ‘I’m not leaving you, so tough shit.’

  ‘Why are you not leaving him?’

  ‘Well, because I’m just not.’

  Huckle leaned forward.

  ‘Guys, could you tell us now what’s up? Or otherwise leave us a trail of sinister clues that end at the Louvre or something? Either way.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Reuben.

  Polly was suddenly terrified that there was something wrong with one of them. Surely not. There couldn’t be. Not when they’d just got married and were starting their life together. Her heart was in her throat.

  ‘What is it?’

  Kerensa rolled her eyes.

  ‘Well, enjoy the champagne,’ she said. ‘Because we really need to get through this cellar.’

  ‘You’re moving?’ said Huckle.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Kerensa.

  Reuben was expertly popping a lobster into the pot.

  ‘How? Why?’ said Polly.

  Kerensa glanced over.

  ‘Well, as it turns out, we also have news,’ she said. ‘Because SOMEBODY – and you may decide for yourselves which one of us you think it was – has decided to invest all of their money. All of it, please note. Not some of it in spread investments and some of it in government bonds and some of it under the bed and some of it in beautiful property. Nooo. All of it.’

  Polly watched Kerensa and Reuben carefully.

  ‘Every last penny… in a series of Star Wars sequels.’

  ‘Oh, they’re coming out!’ said Huckle. ‘I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘No,’ said Kerensa, in measured tones. ‘Those are the licensed ones you’ve heard about, the ones that George Lucas is doing. You haven’t heard about our ones. The Jar Jar Binks spin-off trilogy.’

  Everyone fell silent.

  ‘You’re not serious,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, very serious,’ said Kerensa. ‘And the Jar Jar Binks musical – opening directly on Broadway, by the way, none of this touring and building up a show from scratch, oh no…’

  She downed her glass, and refilled it again.

  ‘Oh, and the line of Jar Jar themed restaurants in capital cities across the world.’

  Huckle turned to look at Reuben.

  ‘THIS is what you’ve been away doing?’

  ‘Hey,’ said Reuben, crossly. ‘They say you’ll only ever make money doing something you love.’

  ‘Yes, something you love that other people love too,’ said Huckle. ‘Like Polly making a loaf of bread. Or Kerensa making a… conference organisational strategy.’

  ‘That was nice of you to pretend to include me,’ said Kerensa.

  ‘Thank GOD,’ said Polly.

  Everyone else looked at her.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Kerensa. ‘This is a horrendous disaster.’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘I thought… I thought somebody was sick, or somebody was going to die, for God’s sake, after last year… I mean, seriously, it’s only money.’

  ‘So speaks someone who’s never had any,’ said Huckle, wryly.

  ‘Reuben can just go invent something brilliant like he did the last time. You’ll get it back.’

  ‘It’s not just money,’ said Kerensa. ‘It’s actually negative money. It’s actually more money than we really have.’

  ‘But I thought you had all the money.’

  ‘That was before somebody tried to mount a two-hundred-and-forty-strong-cast Broadway production,’ said Kerensa. ‘Was it me? I can’t remember.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ gasped Polly.

  ‘Well, I’m already back at work, which, frankly, I’m extremely relieved about, as there’s only so much swanning about the world on room service one can take.’

  Reuben looked a little gloomy. Kerensa’s expression became a little cheerier.

  ‘And I shall take Reuben as my fuck toy.’

  Reuben perked up.

  ‘Kerensa!’ said Polly.

  ‘What? What? Would you rather I threw myself off a bridge shouting “No, no, I shall kill myself just because I married a total idiot”?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly.

  ‘I’ve still got my flat. He can sit in the corner of it doing computer things. And sex things. And apologising to me every ten minutes.’

  ‘Seriously, man, it’s all gone?’ said Huckle gently.

  ‘I’ve sold this place to a Russian oligarch with a nine-strong security detail, Kalashnikovs and an army-issue helicopter,’ said Reuben, waving his arms. ‘Actually, I liked him.’

  Polly looked around. She was suddenly sad. They’d had so much fun here, in this crazy place. It was where she and Huckle had shared their first kiss. Where they’d celebrated Tarnie’s life; where she had come after she’d taken Neil to the puffin shelter. She would miss it. Huckle, sensing what she was thinking, came over and rubbed her neck.

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘It’s… it’s really hard luck.’

  ‘Still,’ said Kerensa, ‘I’m slightly less frightened about my sister killing me for her inheritance.’

  ‘Yeah, but Dahlia is psychotic, though,’ pointed out Polly, who had Dahlia previous. ‘She was trying to kill you way before you met Reuben.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Kerensa. ‘I thought she said it was an accident, those stairs.’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘Nothing is ever an accident with Dahlia.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So,’ said Reuben, indicating to the sous chef, who brought over four perfect plates of fresh lobster ceviche, ‘let us eat, drink, be merry and forget our troubles.’

  Huckle looked slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Okay, or let’s drink to Huckle, who doesn’t have any troubles.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Kerensa, ‘I have to go out to work and stop buying handbags while having a sex toy trapped in the sitting room who doesn’t know how to use a bus pass.’

  ‘I will totally invent a better bus pass,’ said Reuben darkly.

  Polly raised her glass.

  ‘Oh lord. To all of us.’

  Polly had never eaten ceviche before. It was kind of raw lobster with lime and chillis and some sort of salad cream stuff, and it was the most incredibly delicious thing she thought she’d ever tasted. The sous chef rushed to top up their glasses with an ice-cold Chablis, and Polly felt herself getting slightly fuzzy in the hot sun. It really didn’t feel like anything could ever go
wrong, even though things were patently going horribly wrong. They toasted one another again, and when Kerensa asked what she was going to do about the bakery, Polly just shrugged and took another slug of wine. As the afternoon grew hotter, they all tore into the sea, its delicious freshness an absolute balm. Polly lay in the bouncy, salty water and stared at the sky. As usual there were some pesky seagulls circling overhead; even being rich couldn’t keep them out. Although of course Reuben wasn’t rich any more. Nobody was.

  Reuben and Kerensa already appeared to be getting slightly amorous in the water, which Polly absolutely had no interest in witnessing. Instead she let the waves take her where they would, drifting down to the edge of the bay, just underneath the house, which was a big futuristic cube with a round balcony at the front, designed to make you think of the Starship Enterprise. Or, as Reuben had said, Tony Stark’s house, seeing as he and Tony Stark had so much in common.

  She was a long way away from the others now. Huckle liked to go for it when he was swimming. It seemed like a natural element for him; he could move his powerful shoulders and cut through the water with ease. Generally Polly didn’t really like putting her head under the water, and she was always a bit worried that something would bite her toes. But today, hazily bobbing up and down, she felt like it didn’t matter quite so much any more; that she was perfectly content as she was, at one with the water, happy and free. Getting lots of sleep had helped. A couple of glasses of fizz, too. She reflected on her friends’ terrible news. It would, she knew, be a shock for them. But on the other hand, Kerensa had always done well at her job, and was used to working for whatever she had. And Reuben had started out doing computer things in his garage; there was no reason why he couldn’t go back to that. He liked showing off his money, but he wasn’t obsessed with it. And they genuinely did love each other, she knew. Thank God Reuben hadn’t married one of the beautiful popsies that used to hang around trying to catch his eye and his credit card. Chances were she’d have disappeared faster than the ice in the champagne bucket. Or, Polly thought, maybe just hung around for the oligarch. Perhaps popsies came with the territory, like built-in washing machines and centralised vacuum cleaner systems and surround-sound stereos.

  She looked up at the house, squinting in the sun. There were vans and lorries parked up there, and men were carrying stuff out of the house. Even from down here she could make out a full-sized sculpture of a naked Reuben and Kerensa who were… Oh God. Giggling, Polly realised she was slightly more drunk than she’d thought, and quickly checked she could touch the seabed with her foot. She could. Good.

  It felt nosy watching the removal men, and sad, too, to see them bundling up all the fun that Reuben and Kerensa had had. And confusing: how on earth where they going to sell all those hideous naked portraits of Kerensa?

  Suddenly Huckle was right behind her; he’d swum up quickly, under the water, his powerful arms grabbing her so she squealed. He didn’t pull her under, though; he drew her close to him and gave her a cuddle.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Whatcha doin’?’

  ‘Being nosy,’ said Polly, indicating up the hill. ‘Look at all that stuff they have.’

  ‘Ah, it’s only stuff,’ said Huckle. ‘They’re practically having sex with each other over there.’

  ‘They really are disgusting,’ grumbled Polly. ‘Well, I’ll have to keep watching the removals men. Only place I can put my eyes.’

  ‘You know what I see?’ said Huckle, floating gently behind her.

  ‘What?’ said Polly, looking at him. ‘Wow. You look like an aftershave advert. And a classy one too, not one of those tacky Mark Wright ones.’

  Huckle pointed.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘You’re looking at a nine-foot standard lamp with a picture of a dog on it,’ said Polly. ‘It’s gross. All of their stuff is gross. I just didn’t notice before because the view was so nice.’

  Huckle shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re looking at a ninety-six-inch cinema-size curved 3D television screen, the one in the upstairs lounge that Reuben can never find the remote for and Kerensa only watches Homes Under the Hammer on.’

  ‘Not that either.’

  Polly squinted.

  ‘Okay. I give up.’

  ‘What are they putting all that hideous tat into?’

  ‘Hideous expensive tat, I think you meant to say.’

  Huckle smiled. ‘I know. Amazing, all that money and they… What’s the British term?’

  ‘I believe it’s spunked,’ said Polly gravely.

  ‘They spunked it all on that.’

  ‘Well, and lots of charity. And extraordinary hospitality for their friends,’ pointed out Polly.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Huckle.

  They watched as two men brought out what appeared to be a solid gold grandfather clock in the shape of a dragon, with two flashing rubies for eyes.

  ‘Anyway, never mind about that now. One last time.’

  He took her head between his great hands, and pointed it in the direction of the clifftop.

  ‘What are you looking at? Lots and lots of?’

  Polly blinked.

  ‘I don’t know. Removal vans?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Huckle, who was also slightly drunk. ‘Don’t you see?’

  ‘We set up a removals business? Because I have to tell you, these guys seem pretty good.’

  ‘NO!’ roared Huckle, laughing. ‘Polly, I love you so much, stop being thick.’

  ‘I’m not being thick, you’re being NEEDLESSLY MYSTERIOUS.’

  Both of them were laughing now, as Huckle shook his head.

  ‘Van!’

  ‘I don’t get it. Like the shoes?’

  ‘Like a BREAD VAN!’

  Polly laughed. Then she stopped. Then she laughed again.

  ‘What do you mean, a bread van?’

  ‘Well, you know, like a pizza van. A van with an oven in it and they make pizza.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly.

  ‘Well, you could get one for bread. And drive it round Polbearne.’

  Polly turned to face him. The water splashed in her face.

  ‘Not just like that.’

  ‘No, not just like that,’ said Huckle. ‘You’d need permits and stuff. But the council know you.’

  ‘The council hate me,’ said Polly. ‘We helped stop them getting that expensive bridge they wanted.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Huckle. ‘Okay, so we put a false moustache on you.’

  ‘But they won’t let me take a bread van into Polbearne.’

  ‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘But they might let you take one into the car park on the other side, where the fish man goes. So Polbearne people… They might have to cross the causeway to get to you.’ He blinked. ‘But you know, I have an idea they would. And the day trippers – they’d hit you first.’

  ‘I don’t want to work in a van,’ said Polly. ‘I want my lovely ovens and my lovely shop.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before Barfgate. And I tell you what, if you don’t have a plan soon, you might be sleeping in a van too.’

  Polly sighed. ‘Where would we even get one? How would we pay for it?’

  Huckle’s eyes strayed to where the charm bracelet had been, before she had taken it off and zipped it into her bag for safe keeping so she could go swimming.

  ‘No way,’ said Polly. ‘No way, that thing is mine.’

  ‘Not my one, doof,’ he said. ‘Reuben must have bought you the platinum one before all this shit went down.’

  ‘They won’t take it back, though,’ said Polly ‘It’s personalised and everything.’

  ‘They might melt it down for you.’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Mine’s the sentimental value one, you know?’

  ‘I do know.’

  ‘I mean, mine’s totally the best one.’

  ‘Now you’re sounding like Reuben.’