by Jenny Colgan
‘This is just upscaling.’
Chris shook his head. She could see from his face that he was startlingly, terribly jealous.
‘Um, you know, it’s not that great,’ she said. ‘I mean, it is freezing and I have to get up at stupid o’clock and the locals can be REALLY AWFUL and…’
She was babbling, she knew, but she didn’t know what else to do.
‘Yeah, well, things are going really well for me,’ said Chris quickly. ‘I’ve been working with some websites… I mean, mostly for exposure, but it really gets my name out there, you know?’
Polly did know. People getting free creative work, saying it was in return for publicity – who wouldn’t dream of not paying their plumber? Or for a loaf of bread, for that matter.
‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘And how’s your mum?’
Chris frowned. ‘Um… she’s all right. She thinks I should go and live on my own again. But everywhere to rent is a total shithole. I mean, you got lucky.’
Polly bristled a bit at this.
‘It’s really hard out there.’ His face was contorted, and he was whining like a disappointed child.
‘I know,’ said Polly, and as gently as she was able said, ‘Have you thought about maybe another line of work?’
‘What, like making cakes?’ Chris scoffed. ‘No, you see it’s kind of different for me. I’m a professional.’
Polly decided it was best they leave before she hit him with the teapot.
In the pub, with their fish and chips and a bottle of white wine in front of them – fortunately apart from Patrick the vet there was no one else in there she knew – she cleared her throat.
‘So,’ she said awkwardly, filling their glasses. ‘Um. The flat.’
‘Yes,’ said Chris. ‘Right.’ His face went a little pink and he cleared his throat, as if announcing something. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. Now that you’re earning, I thought you could take the mortgage on fresh. And I’ll move back in and look for a job. Then when I’m on my feet again, you can move back to Plymouth and get a proper job, and Bob’s your uncle, we’ll just go on like before and we’ll save the flat.’
Polly took a long swig of her wine. Here was Chris, finally saying the words she’d been dying for him to say for six months – no, longer than that. The last two years. She found herself blinking rapidly.
‘But I have a job here,’ she found herself saying.
She forgot how convinced she’d been – she’d told Kerensa enough times – that Mount Polbearne was a temporary measure until she got back on her feet; that they were having a trial separation until the good ship Polly and Chris righted itself again.
Plus her wages were hardly going to stretch to rent and a mortgage.
‘Yeah, but, you know…’ Chris gestured around. ‘This one-horse town. It isn’t you, Pol. It isn’t us, you know?’
Polly thought of their joint fantasy: two hip young professionals, living in a fashionable apartment, getting ahead in business, going to smart meetings, trendy bars. That girl… she barely remembered that girl now.
She took a deep breath, turned round and stared out to sea. The lighthouse swept its great beam around, illuminating the cobbled streets, the harbour wall, the seagulls fighting like teenage boys drunk on cider, the little white road signs. She could only just see the jutting, crumbling facade of the bakery on the harbour, gulls soaring overhead.
She steadied herself, looked at Chris, whose face was anxious. She realised that he was worried about her answer. And she realised that she hadn’t known – not properly known, deep down – till that precise second exactly what her decision was going to have to be. She had always said the move to Polbearne was going to be temporary. But regardless of the ups and downs, it had come to mean to her much, much more.
‘I think,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘I think maybe it is me.’
There was a long silence. They both stared at their glasses.
‘What do you mean?’ said Chris, finally.
Polly felt a painful lump in her throat and suddenly had to fight back tears.
‘I mean, I don’t think… I don’t think I want to go back to how it was.’
Chris frowned. ‘You don’t want to run a business any more. That’s okay, we can’t do that anyway, not for two years. But we can still keep the flat with you covering the —’
‘No.’
Polly realised how seldom she had said no to Chris. In fact, most of her time with him had been spent trying to make him happy. No wonder, she thought ruefully, she had ended up being seduced by the first bloke who’d come along. That thought made her feel sick and she squashed it back down.
‘You’re not serious?’
The lighthouse beam swept over them one more time. In the harbour the fishing boat lights came on, and Polly felt a tug deep down as they started chugging their way out to their long night’s work ahead. Muriel and her husband passed by on an evening stroll. Sitting on the harbour wall were a couple of early holidaymakers; a boy and a girl with their arms around each other, the boy stealing kisses into the girl’s long hair. Overhead, a few stars were starting to pop out in the clear night sky.
Polly shrugged. ‘I think… I think… I mean, at least for the time being, but —’
‘You work in management!’
‘But the Little Beach Street Bakery… I’m doing something I love,’ said Polly. ‘And I love this place. I can’t explain; it’s magical.’
Chris made a sour face. ‘You’re burying yourself to hide from the truth.’
‘Maybe I am,’ said Polly. ‘Maybe I am. That the business failed.’ She made her voice as gentle as she could for the next words. ‘And we failed, Chris. We tried our best, but we failed.’
He looked up at her, the bags under his eyes heavy and sad.
‘Yeah, well, you know, bloody recession, fricking Tories… We’ll get back on.’
‘No,’ said Polly. She put her hand on his. ‘I wasn’t good for you. I pestered you and fussed you and you didn’t like it. You need someone you can look up to, not someone who runs around after you.’
Chris looked tearful suddenly.
‘I just want things to be back how they were.’
Polly remembered suddenly the time when they had just met. He was so handsome, so young and clever, with his portfolio full of art and design, wonderful lettering, ideas. The two of them had looked good together; they were dynamic, out to conquer the world. They were so sure of themselves. They could never again be the people they were back then.
‘I know,’ she said, feeling heartbroken, and very, very tired. ‘I know.’
Chris took the sofa, Polly the bed, but neither of them had any chance of sleep. They both lay awake, staring at the sea in Chris’s case, the ceiling in Polly’s, as everything went round and round her head. Had she made a terrible mistake by not agreeing to move back to town? Was this her last chance to live a ‘normal’ life as everyone expected: get engaged to Chris, find a nice little job in an office somewhere, maybe one day have a baby? She wasn’t getting any younger; if she didn’t do it now, would she turn into Mrs Manse? She had to resist the occasional temptation to get up and go and hold Chris and tell him yes, it would be fine, they’d be okay, they could do it, let’s just start over. Because she knew, deep down, that it would not be fine.
At four in the morning, Chris gave up and, as quietly as he could, slipped out of the apartment to find something else to do. Polly heard him go, and was about to get up and go after him when she realised, finally, that she was falling asleep, trapped in that sinking paralysis of limbs, and could not go after all.
Polly slept till eleven on Sunday morning and woke up with a start. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much sleep; she felt completely fresh, warm, almost brand new. She went to see if Chris had come back in, but there wasn’t a trace of him to be found anywhere; it was as if he’d never been there. He was always so tidy. No note, nothing.
She thought
back over the previous night with a sense of rising panic before telling herself that no, she had done the right thing. She had made the right choice. She switched on her beloved coffee machine, and felt lighter. As if the worry of what to do about Chris had been an invisible burden she’d been carrying around and was now lifted. Yes, it hurt – and yes, her future was now an open book, anybody’s guess. But she had done the right thing, she knew that much. To go back now would be a second failure, and she wasn’t sure she would come through that again.
She peered out of the window and suddenly saw a crowd of villagers staring at her. She gasped and jumped back, checking that her dressing gown wasn’t gaping open. What was everyone doing there?
She scrubbed her face and dressed quickly and ran downstairs, suddenly worried. Had someone broken in? Or had one of the local teens done some graffiti? Why was everyone looking at the bakery?
When she got outside, in jeans and a striped T-shirt and bare feet – the day was promising to be scorching – she stopped short and put her hand over her mouth.
Although he was gone – and she felt instantly bad for thinking he had stormed off – Chris had left her something. Restless, unable to sleep, he had gone down to explore the shop in the early dawn light – Polly no longer locked the connecting door between the bakery and the apartment – and stumbled across some old tins of grey and white paint that were stored in the back. With his artistic eye and exquisite taste, he had painted the peeling, cracked exterior a new, soft pale grey – the same colour as her sofa – and in his lovely flowing script had written above the window:
The Little Beach Street Bakery
Proprietor, Ms P. Waterford
Established 2014
Chapter Eighteen
Summer had turned on its full beam, and every day saw families marching across the causeway with buckets and spades and shrimping nets, the children squealing if the waves made it over the cobbles, everyone hurrying as the tide came in again, the inevitable few who left it too late having to scurry, or hail one of the fishing boys.
Word had got out. The smart couple, Henry and Samantha, had bought a house at the top of the village; a large, rambling Victorian place with a huge garden, a massive greenhouse and hollyhocks climbing the walls. They were constantly bringing visitors over, on the pretext of introducing them to some of the ‘best bread in Cornwall’ but in reality to show off and swank about how they were the first second-homers to discover the place. They made a big show of how well they knew Polly, using her name constantly and suggesting new flavours for her to try, which she often would.
If the queues kept up, she was going to need an assistant – she was selling out earlier and earlier each day. Mrs Manse, as it turned out, much to Polly’s relief, turned out to be both absolutely eagle-eyed about the paperwork – which meant Polly didn’t have to do any cashing-up or accounts – and very hands-off as a boss. Polly secretly suspected that the Little Beach Street Bakery was making a lot more money than the other place. At the very least, she had noticed that Mrs Manse had bought a new fridge for cold drinks and a freezer for ice cream, and had cut her bread and sandwiches way, way back. The pasties, of course, remained.
Polly had managed to avoid Tarnie completely, which in a village of fewer than a thousand people was something of an achievement. Sometimes, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, she would hear his gruff tones early in the morning and would groan, because that meant it was time for her to get down to the ovens. She worked and she worked and she worked; her arms grew toned from kneading and lifting, and she fell into bed at night too exhausted to do much else than pass out, which was useful.
Although Tarnie didn’t come into the shop, the other fishermen did, and chatted to her and always bought, she noticed, a little bit more than they needed. She figured Tarnie was behaving pretty shabbily given that he owed her a massive apology, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it. She threw herself into her baking. She cultivated the sourdough Ted Kernesse had given her – a disgusting yeasty fungus that lived in the fridge and divided itself like a living thing (it was, she reminded herself, a living thing) – and started making a darker, stronger bread called a campagne. It was a hard sell to begin with – people wanted their trusty sliced white – but she persevered with the free samples, knowing herself what an incredibly addictive flavour it had, and sure enough it became one of her best sellers. To placate the traditionalists, she also experimented with a Jamaican brioche that was so sweet it was practically cake. Spread with jam at four in the afternoon, it might be the only thing to trump the local cream tea.
She was clearing up one Saturday afternoon when she heard a familiar noise rattling down the cobblestones.
She hadn’t seen much of Huckle at all – she’d guessed it was the busy season for bees or something – but they’d nearly sold out of the four boxes of honey he’d given her to sell on and she needed to pay him. She smiled and went downstairs.
When he saw her, Huckle’s face fell.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Oh hon, what’s the matter with you?’
Polly searched her head.
‘Um, stuff,’ she settled on, it being safest. She realised she’d neglected to put on any make-up, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair. Burying yourself in your work was okay, she realised, up to a point, and perhaps this was the point.
‘Where’s pretty Polly?’ he asked with a half-smile playing around his lips.
‘I think you should take me as you find me,’ said Polly crossly.
‘I know,’ said Huckle sadly. ‘I’m not meant for the modern age.’
‘Where you come from, does everyone look like Dolly Parton?’
‘I’m sure there’s a happy medium somewhere,’ said Huckle cheerily. ‘But you’d like Dolly.’
‘I would, but she wouldn’t approve of my wardrobe.’
‘She wouldn’t,’ said Huckle. ‘I shall just politely avert my eyes.’
‘HUCKLE!’ said Polly, half exasperated, but half flattered that he’d noticed what she looked like; not many people did these days. ‘Anyway, hang on, I have some money for you.’
‘That is a sweet, sweet sentence I haven’t heard for some time,’ said Huckle. ‘And I have something for you too. But we have to go back to mine, and you’ll have to sleep in the spare room; the tide’s up tonight.’
‘What is it?’ said Polly, mystified. ‘I don’t like it when I can’t get home when I want to.’
‘Come on, I’ve been waiting for this! Anyway, what else are you doing?’
‘That’s not the point.’
She looked around.
‘This better be good.’
‘It is good. You’ll see,’ promised Huckle. ‘Cancel all your glamorous plans and come with me. And bring the money!’
Huckle had to pick up one or two things in town, which gave Polly an opportunity to quickly wash her hair. She didn’t bother too much with the blow-drying, though, not if she was getting in that sidecar again. She opened up her built-in wardrobe, thinking as she did so that she should probably get the rest of her stuff out of storage, or else get rid of it. In a lot of ways, though, it was nice living with so little. She had got used to doing without her ghds or more than one handbag, and she hadn’t missed all that stuff a bit.
She rifled through her little-used space – she mostly wore jeans and a T-shirt for working – and was suddenly surprised by how much was actually in there and what she’d once deemed essential. She let her fingers run across smart evening tops, dark work suits and crisp white shirts – had she really ever done so much ironing? The clothes looked uncomfortable, lots of buttons and scratchy material. She could barely remember the Polly who had dressed like this, who had looked like this. She supposed Kerensa could. She and Kerensa used to go and get their nails done together, sometimes even a facial. She laughed to herself at the idea of having her nails done now. She glanced at them; they were squared off and stubby, easier to keep clean w
hen they were in dough all the time.
A waft of her favourite perfume – Chanel’s Eau Première – filtered through the air, and Polly had the sudden, weird memory of clearing out her grandmother’s cupboards after she’d died. It had been impossible to believe that Granny was dead with the smell of her favourite scent still so prevalent. It was silly, of course; Polly herself hadn’t died. But it was a little like looking at the wardrobe of someone from long ago.
She shook her head at her daft ideas as she combed out her hair – it had grown, way down past her shoulders. Normally she just pulled it back into a ponytail, but tonight as it dried naturally it curled, and she let it lie there. Once upon a time she would have ironed those curls out mercilessly, but now she didn’t seem to mind them half as much.
At the end of the row of untouched clothes was an old summer dress Polly had forgotten about in the long winter months, and had barely worn before then. It was a faded vintage flower print, on soft cotton, with a full skirt and a pretty boat neck. It wasn’t like her at all; she’d bought it on a whim, thinking that when she and Chris weren’t working so hard, they’d maybe go and catch a festival, hang out somewhere. Of course, they had never stopped working.
Polly threw the dress on over her head, surprised that it hung loose on her – clearly all that heaving flour about was coming in at least slightly handy – and went and looked at herself in the mirror the only way she could get a full-length view – standing precariously on the side of the bath. Her toenails needed painting, she reflected, but apart from that… She put on a quick swathe of BB cream, leaving her nose with its little sunshiny freckles (normally she would have submerged them completely), opened her eyes up with a little sooty mascara and added a coral lipstick. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair, lightened by the sun, behind her ears and gave herself an experimental smile.
