by Jo Thomas
Make gingerbread, I think, and smell the remainder of the heart, snap a shot of it, then pop it into my mouth. I post the picture and a message to the baking group: Most amazing gingerbread I have ever tasted, made right here in the Old Town. How on earth do they get that flavour? It takes me right back to being a child, happy Christmases and carefree teenage years all wrapped up in one. What’s the secret? With the gingerbread and the glühwein finally making me feel sleepy, I press send, shut my phone case and settle down to sleep. I was meant to come to Germany. It’s all going to be okay. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.
SIXTEEN
Ping!
William stopped and hesitated. His hand hovered over his laptop lid, which he was just closing for the night. Should he read the message or leave it for the morning? It might be Noah. He’d check quickly, and if it wasn’t his son, he’d leave it for the morning. If he went to bed now he’d get a few hours’ sleep before getting up to work again. But sleep never came very easily, these days. He slid his gold-rimmed glasses onto his nose in front of his tired, sore eyes, narrowed them and read: What’s the secret? He was confused, if not a little intrigued. He reread the message on his Facebook page, then checked the sender’s profile.
Even more intrigued, he reread the message, shaking his head and smiling. Most amazing gingerbread ever. Lebkuchen, not gingerbread. He tutted. ‘Well, she’s not wrong,’ he said to Fritz, lying on his bed in the corner of the shop, asleep a long time ago. He laughed to himself, pulling off his glasses. As if he was going to tell her the secret to his lebkuchen. His father and grandfather had made it every winter. He wasn’t going to give out the recipe to a stranger who happened across his Facebook page.
He looked at the profile picture again. Put his glasses back on. The picture wasn’t a close-up but he vaguely recognized the woman. But where from? That would have to wait until tomorrow. He took off his glasses and closed down the computer, walked around the counter to the front window and pulled down the blinds. Then he looked out of the front door, over the shadows of the street outside, and locked it. He loved this time of night on the cobbled street, as the market was shutting. But it was also his loneliest time of day, when he missed going upstairs to the apartment, kissing his sleeping boy and joining his wife in their bed. She would have been asleep for a while, fed up of waiting for him to finish work and join her. And he’d be up again before the house woke in the morning. They’d become ships that passed in the night. Fritz had been there, always at his side, no matter what hours he worked. A baker’s hours were never the same as other people’s. It was a duty to have the shop stocked by the time people wanted their breakfast, and the gingerbread was freshly baked for the start of market. Now, of course, there was the baking competition. They had to win it this year. They just had to. Because if they didn’t, there wouldn’t be a next.
He looked into the shadows once more. Of course! That was where he knew her from. He chuckled, thinking about the Facebook message. She was the woman waiting for Heinrich this morning. His date. The woman who’d been drinking hot chocolate with the group who’d helped with the living Nativity, and glühwein later when he’d bought them drinks to thank them. Heinrich hadn’t hung around to introduce her after their meeting that morning, but he recognized her now.
He rubbed his forehead, thinking about the meeting with Heinrich. Heinrich’s father had been keen to buy the shop – he’d always wanted it, ever since his own father, Joseph, and Heinrich’s had fallen out. Heinrich’s father had wanted to mass produce the product they sold. William’s had wanted to stick to traditional methods. But if William didn’t win the competition on Sunday, he’d be practically bankrupt, having put all his money, topped up with a bank loan, into the ice rink. He’d have to sell up. He’d be left with no choice.
He didn’t know what Heinrich’s date was up to. What was she doing messaging him about his bakes? Was she buttering him up, trying to find out about this year’s competition piece? Because there was no way he would tell her. No one, apart from himself and his father, Joseph, knew. And that was the way it was going to stay.
He turned off the lights and walked towards the stairs, passing his computer. He stopped. Opened it and reread the message.
He smiled mischievously and typed a reply, sent it and closed the computer once more, praying that sleep would come to him for the next few hours.
SEVENTEEN
With love! I reread, trying to get my eyes to focus. What’s going on? I was checking my phone for messages, having woken before Pearl. I’d had a reply to my baking post, thanking me for my comments and replying that all Becker und Sohn cakes were made ‘with love’.
Oh, no. I groan, feeling a little fuzzy from the long day, the late night and the glühwein.
‘What’s up?’ Pearl sits up stiffly, wincing.
‘Oh … nothing.’ I grimace. ‘I just …’ My mouth is dry. As if I haven’t made a big enough fool of myself in front of this man already. I bristle. ‘I just … mis-sent a Facebook message.’ And to him! Of all people! Mortification floods over me as I fall back into my pillows and wish they’d swallow me.
‘Easily done,’ says Pearl, adjusting hers behind her.
I can just imagine the lopsided smile spreading across his face, confirming in his mind that I am some kind of idiot.
I bite my lip, determined not to rise to the bait, or respond. But my fingers have other ideas, and before I know it, I’m doing exactly what the voice in my head is telling me not to do.
Thank you, my fingers type back. Not a surefire recipe for a consistent bake, I imagine! I press send, then go to close my phone. Determined that would be an end to it. Whatever happens, I won’t respond again.
Ping!
I look at Pearl, who is brushing her hair, as she does every morning, then starting to pin it up. It can’t be, I think. I open my phone case. And there it is, a new message – from him.
Sometimes it isn’t enough to have the right ingredients to get the perfect bake. He ends with a smiley face.
Is he teasing me? I frown.
The right ingredients in the right measures mean consistency, surely. A bake you can rely on and trust.
Despite my best-laid plans, I press send.
Little dots appear on the screen, bobbing up and down. He’s typing again! I hold my breath and wait.
The little dots stop bobbing. I let out a long breath. Then they start again.
What am I doing? Sitting here arguing about baking methods with a baker who happens to be Heinrich’s competition! I go to close the case.
Ping!
‘Someone’s popular,’ says Pearl, putting the last pin into place in her hair. She never goes out without full make-up and her hair done.
I blush and look down at the message. ‘It’s just Sam … and Heinrich,’ I lie.
It’s all about alchemy, William writes. You can have and use all of the right ingredients, but if the alchemy isn’t right, it’ll be a disaster.
Another message appears in my Messenger. It’s Heinrich! My heart leaps into my mouth. I slam my phone cover shut.
What am I doing? Heinrich! I need to tell him what I’d like to do today. I take a deep breath, open my phone and type my reply. I’d like him to show me his bakery and how he makes gingerbread. It’ll be a tick on the Christmas memories list and it’ll show William. Because if you have the right ingredients, I have everything crossed, this will be the perfect bake!
EIGHTEEN
‘So … we get the ready-made mix from here,’ he points to the large store over the noise of the machinery that’s already at work, ‘and it gets emptied into the vat over there.’ He points to a woman who’s wearing exactly the same as I am. ‘This is …’ He struggles for a moment.
‘Klara,’ she introduces herself.
‘Klara,’ he says, having been prompted.
She’s about my age, I think, but we all look the same right now. I’m wearing a white coat, white boots and a hat with a hair
net, just like the workers in the factory. ‘Each batch is measured out exactly. So we have the exact same bake every time.’ He smiles, but he doesn’t move. He looks down and I follow his eyes and see he’s holding out his hand to me. I look at the soft, long fingers in clear plastic gloves and realize he’s waiting for me to take his hand.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, as I smile and do so. It feels nice. It feels good. As good as it can through wrinkled plastic gloves. But I do feel connected. I feel like we’re nearly there. Nearly in a relationship. My stomach gives a hopeful leap. We’re sharing something. He guides me around the factory, talking over the noise of the gleaming machines. He points to the offices, up a metal staircase, a wall of glass so that he can monitor the factory floor from every angle. There is a workshop too, he tells me, where this year’s creation for Sunday’s bake-off is being created as we speak. The woman I saw at the start of the tour is coming out of the workshop.
‘Can I see it?’ I ask, excited to hear about his design, plans and execution for the big show-stopping cake. He smiles widely. I’m coming to like that smile very much, and I’d like to kiss it, to remind myself of how his lips felt on mine.
He shakes his head, still smiling. ‘On Sunday,’ he says, and I’m a little disappointed. I would love to see something like this in creation, love to be a part of it. ‘So, what do you think of our operation here?’ he asks, holding out his arm to his empire. The bright modern shop at the front, with big glass windows and uniform cakes in rows behind more glass, the bakery and the workshop behind.
‘Impressive.’ And it is. I’d love to talk to him more, find out why he’s dating online when he’s so attractive and clearly successful. And with his ‘own teeth and hair’. This was one of Sam’s suggestions for the tick list, but the reality has not always been a joke.
So, why is someone like Heinrich looking for love online and overseas? Although he must be wondering the same about me. Is he really as good as he appears? Is he actually single? I catch my breath. That’s a box I haven’t ticked yet: single. Is he looking for a conveniently placed mistress in the UK? My heart starts pounding as my brain goes into overdrive.
He guides me out to the reception area and pulls off his white hat, revealing his short, smart, freshly washed blond hair. ‘So, I have to go to work now.’ He points to the office. ‘But we could meet later, for dinner?’ Everything in its place. That’s Heinrich.
‘Dinner? That would be nice.’ I’ll have dinner with him and ask him all the questions I need answers to.
‘I hope you enjoyed your tour. Oh, wait.’ He speaks to the young man behind the counter, dressed in white overall and hat, and points to something behind the glass. The young man picks one up with tongs, puts it into a box and hands it to Heinrich. ‘For you! The gingerbread!’ He smiles, handing me the box.
I look down at it, hoping to breathe in the smell of warm gingerbread, but it doesn’t come. I hold it closer to me and try again. Nothing. ‘Lovely,’ I say, but the scent doesn’t reach my nostrils. Neither does the gingerbread-making here stir my memories. I look at Heinrich – attractive, business-owner Heinrich. What’s missing? Why doesn’t this gingerbread smell as it should? And what about Heinrich? What am I missing there? I think about Pearl and the Christmas memory list, the mug we planned to fill with candy canes for every memory revisited. I can’t help but think I’ve let them down.
‘My family want to meet you.’ Heinrich interrupts my thoughts.
‘Your family?’ Suddenly I’m on the back foot. I hadn’t expected that!
‘Of course! They are keen to meet someone who is important to me. Yes, my parents and I are very close. They’d like to meet you.’ He seems slightly surprised by my sudden panic.
‘Your parents …’ I swallow ‘… want to meet me?’ I feel like I’m twenty years old again, meeting Tom’s parents for the first time, once it looked like we were getting serious and we realized I was pregnant. Is this all going too fast? Have some fun, Pearl had said. You don’t have to marry him! Well, he must be single if he’s inviting me to meet his parents. Tick. Is this going too fast, or is it exactly what I’ve been looking for?
‘Um … that would be great!’ I’m gripped with nerves and a part of me feels I’m being judged, just like that time I met Tom’s parents. This is a first: I’ve never been invited before to meet the parents in my online dating history. Is it a good thing? What if they don’t like me, don’t want a single mother from the UK for their son? My dating radar is going berserk. First you meet someone you like online, then you meet them in person, and then you’ve got to get approval from friends and family.
‘How about you meet my friends before we visit your parents? They’d love to meet you,’ I say, wanting him to meet Pearl and wondering what exactly I know about him. Is he really too good to be true? Pearl will get to the bottom of it, I’m sure. And it’s true, she is dying to meet him. They all are! ‘They’ve heard so much about you already.’
‘Have they?’ He smiles, pulling off his white coat and boots and holding out his hand to take mine.
‘Yes,’ I say. And it’s true.
But it’s time I found out more about the real Heinrich and if he could be what I’ve been looking for.
NINETEEN
I take my usual route, which I’m beginning to know well, past the theatre and the cinema, away from the market square, past the big shops with bright lights and elaborate window displays, past the blocks of offices and flats, towards the river and back over the bridge towards the Old Town. I’m thinking of everything I know about Heinrich and the time I’ve spent with him, and there is nothing that hasn’t been lovely. Nothing that has made my dating radar stand to attention. He seems to be everything he says he is. And, from where I’m standing, that seems very good. I’m excited, and terrified that something’s going to pop up to ruin it. I pass the castle, pull out my phone and take a photo or two to load into our online album that Pearl is creating on Facebook of our Christmas memories. So far all I have to show for it is a smiling gingerbread Santa that I’m holding in a box. I need something to add to the collection of memories. I send a picture of the castle to Sam with love from Germany.
I look back up at the castle, lit in the darkening sky. Little flakes start to fall. At first I can’t make out if it’s snow or not. It’s like tiny pieces of glitter. It is – it’s snow! I’m beaming with joy and sticking out my tongue to catch it like I did on snowy days as a child. It couldn’t be more picture perfect.
Suddenly my phone vibrates, making me jump. It’s Sam. My heart leaps and turns somersaults.
‘Sam!’ I say, as I accept the call and his face appears on the screen. My Sam, smiling and happy, with goggles on top of his head, and a huge snowy mountain behind him.
‘Hi, Mum?’ he asks, checking I can hear him.
‘I can hear you. How lovely to see you!’ I’m looking down at his face as I lean against the stone bridge wall, and little flakes of snow speckle the screen. Then a thought flashes through my mind. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, Mum! Having a great time. And so are you by the look of the photo you just sent me. Amazing!’
I look up at the castle again and light snow falls on my nose and cheeks. ‘I am,’ I say, with a smile and slowly growing confidence. ‘I really am.’
‘Great! How’s Heinrich?’
‘Got all his own hair and teeth!’ I joke.
‘Amy’s with me.’ He pulls her into the shot and she waves. I’m so happy he’s found someone lovely to be with.
‘So, Heinrich, what’s he really like?’ he asks, a little more seriously. Behind him the sun is shining and people are skiing and snowboarding downhill. Sam and Amy seem to be standing on the wooden terrace of a bar.
‘He’s …’ I gather my thoughts and Sam waits. ‘He’s … lovely.’
‘Really?’ Sam’s serious face spreads into a smile.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He’s tall and attractive. He’s punctual and attentive. He took me out
for doughnuts for breakfast.’
‘You love doughnuts!’ Sam beams.
‘I know! And he remembered!’
‘And you’re keeping your notebook with you, ticking off the list?’ he asks.
‘Yes!’ I show him, as if the roles of parent and son have been reversed.
‘And he’s who he says he is?’
I nod. ‘It seems that way. He’s got his own business – well, the family have. I’ve just been there and I’m meeting them tomorrow.’
‘Meeting the family?’ Sam says.
‘Yes. But he’s meeting Pearl first.’
‘Good. Pearl will give him the once-over. Look, I’d better go, Mum.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have fun! Stay safe. It sounds like you could have met your man. Keep to the list. And don’t do anything daft like getting married before I’ve met him.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘And enjoy the ride!’
‘The what?’
‘That would be too much information for a son and his mother to share. I mean enjoy the journey. Enjoy getting to know him better.’
‘Oh, right, yes.’
‘Bye, Mum.’ He waves, and a lump catches in my throat.
‘Take care. I love you,’ I say.
‘Love you too, Mum.’ With that, Amy waves into the screen and they’re gone. But the smile stays on my face and the phone in my hand. Finally, slowly, like I’m getting a whole new perspective on this, I lift it up and take some more photos of the castle and the river and more of the Old Town at the foot of the hill, like a sparkling diamond necklace, as I head towards it. I want to show Sam everything about my time here. He’s right: if I stick to the list I’ll know. And, right now, that list is looking pretty healthy. I need to enjoy the ride. I’m still smiling from the phone call and repeating Sam’s words, ‘Looks like you could have met your man.’ Looks like I could have done. Somehow telling Sam about him makes it all feel just a little bit more real.
