by Jenny Colgan
She felt the touch of his huge, rough hand underneath her chin, lifting it up so she was looking directly at him. The music and the sounds of the revelling swimmers seemed to fade away. She was conscious of nothing but his piercing blue eyes, his handsome face. He seemed to be searching for something; looking at her like nobody else had looked at her before: hungry, curious, but also something else. Like he had finally found what he was searching for.
Just for a second – a delicious second – the entire world froze, and Polly realised suddenly that he was going to kiss her. For that long moment, she knew that this kiss would be everything she had ever dreamed of, everything she had ever wanted, and that after this, whatever happened, she might not want to kiss anyone else ever again.
The force of him took her by surprise; she had, she realised, expected his kiss to be gentle, tentative, as laid-back as the rest of him, but instead he kissed her fiercely, hungrily, like he was the drowning man, and she his only hope of rescue.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Polly didn’t know how long the kiss lasted. She didn’t know where she was or what she was doing, only that her whole body jumped as if she’d been given an electric shock as soon as their lips met; that instantly, without even thinking about it, she was responding to him, her whole being concentrated on their mouths and their hands and her desperate, sudden urge to press herself to him, to be close to him, to be under his shirt and against his skin, burying her face in his chest and breathing in the heady sweet scent of him. She felt greedy, abandoned, completely oblivious to the other people there.
Then she heard someone call her name.
‘Wow, Polly, go.’
It was one of the fishermen, the one who played the guitar; she wasn’t sure of his name. He was drunk and shouting and suddenly she realised what she was doing, and when, and in what circumstances. It was wrong. She pulled back, horrified.
‘What?’ said Huckle, half drunk on lust. His hair was tumbling across his forehead, his eyes were glazed.
She stared at him. He looked gorgeous. But still…
‘I… I can’t,’ she said. ‘Not… No.’
Huckle’s eyes flashed.
‘I see,’ he said. He should have guessed: she still had a thing for Tarnie.
Polly wanted to explain to him that the circumstances were wrong – and not just wrong, but publicly wrong, in front of everyone. But his face had already shut up like a stone.
‘I mean… I just mean, not here.’
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘Of course not, ma’am.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘It’s getting pretty late. Or pretty early. One or the other. I think I’d better be heading back…’
Polly nodded miserably. She didn’t want him to go, but it didn’t seem appropriate… not at all.
‘Me too,’ she said.
Across the beach, people were sprawled round the bonfire; chatting, sleeping, making out.
‘Um… can I… see you later?’
‘It’s a small part of the world,’ said Huckle, his eyes fixed on the glittering sea.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Polly.
Huckle shrugged. She looked at him, desperate for his gentle smile once more, or his open laugh, but of course it did not come. He had turned into a statue. She looked at him once more, then turned round and headed off back down the beach.
‘Shit,’ said Huckle to himself as she walked away. ‘Shit shit shit.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Polly stumbled back across the beach, a huge lump in her throat. She couldn’t make out anyone’s face; everything was a blur. Somebody else shouted her name, but she couldn’t or didn’t want to see who it was. She headed back to the dance floor to find her shoes and maybe her bag, but she couldn’t seem to see Kerensa anywhere. She wasn’t in the water, or in any of the beautiful white wooden cabanas Reuben had set up everywhere for groups of people to talk quietly in.
She found her eventually, behind the café area – basically where the bins were. She spotted the fuchsia dress before she took in what else was going on.
‘Kerensa!’ she shouted. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
When she peered a bit closer, she realised that Kerensa was trapped in a massive teenage clinch. With one of the surf instructor types, Polly thought; must be. Then she blinked again and realised that —
‘Oh for crying out loud,’ she said, feeling that her own dramas never quite took precedence over Kerensa’s.
Kerensa came up for air. Her face was puce and her dress was completely open at the front. She looked overheated and roundly overexcited.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Reuben.
‘What are you two doing? You hate each other!’
‘I’m really good at kissing,’ said Reuben. ‘And all that stuff.’
Polly looked at Kerensa in consternation.
‘Er, he is,’ confirmed Kerensa apologetically. Her lipstick was all kissed off. She looked completely wanton.
Polly rolled her eyes.
‘Seriously?’
They both looked at her.
‘Er…’ she rubbed her neck. ‘I was just going to go.’
‘Okay,’ said Kerensa. She didn’t move.
‘I was going to go home… with you.’
Kerensa frowned. Reuben put a proprietorial hand on her thigh.
‘I’m not going home yet,’ explained Kerensa. ‘I’m going to have sex with Reuben.’
‘Oh God, you two are both as bad as each other.’ Polly was trying really hard not to cry.
‘Can Huckle not take you home?’
She immediately choked up.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she managed eventually. ‘I can catch the coach.’
‘Good,’ said Reuben, turning to Kerensa. ‘Come with me to my giant bedroom. I have, like, the most enormous…’
‘OKAY, see you later,’ said Polly.
‘… bed,’ said Reuben.
Polly tramped back over to where she’d left Neil eating sandwich leftovers. He was sitting in a rock pool looking guilty.
‘Neil,’ she said in dismay, looking at the mess next to him. ‘Were you sick?’
Neil eeped and hopped into her arms.
‘Oh Christ, I can’t even look after my own bloody puffin. Don’t eat until you’re sick, my love.’
‘Eep,’ said Neil.
Cradling him, she followed the groups of people making their weary way towards the waiting buses. She found a double seat near the back, made sure Neil was comfortable in his rucksack, emptied the sand out of her shoes and almost immediately, before she had time to think, fell fast asleep.
The next day, Sunday, was miserable. Polly slept till eleven, then woke and remembered Huckle. What had she been thinking? Why couldn’t she have waited, gone somewhere Tarnie’s mum and dad weren’t, for example? And couldn’t he understand why? She pictured the stony look on his face, and remembered again how closed he had been when she had met him, how it had taken a while to get to the sweet boy underneath. She sighed. She would ring him. No, she would ring Kerensa and ask her what to do.
Not surprisingly, she couldn’t get through to Kerensa. She tried not to be jealous of her glamorous friend, and of course she hadn’t the slightest interest in Reuben, but the idea that Kerensa was spending all day in a luxurious bed doing exactly what she’d very much wanted to do herself was a little hard to stomach.
She went to call Huckle, then frowned and hesitated. She didn’t want to look as if she were throwing herself at him. Instead she threw herself into work, drinking lots of orange juice and making up her yeast and sourdough mixes for the coming week. The little village was thronged. Some holidaymakers came up and knocked on the window, but she shook her head sharply. She really did need some help in the shop, she thought; she would turn into Mrs Manse if she didn’t keep an eye on it. She cursed herself for being so self-pitying and concentrated on making up decorative bread plaits to hang over the door; she’d meant to do it for ages, and now she had t
he time and the energy, she thought crossly, but no one who cared what she was up to. She baked with all her heart until she had tired herself out, and slept again early, cross at the merry sounds of the holidaymakers just outside her window.
She was woken at ten that night by her phone buzzing. It was a text from Huckle. She immediately jumped up, wide awake and delighted. Had he realised he’d made a big mistake? With a faintly wobbling hand, she picked up the phone.
She checked the text carefully, drawing in breath.
Sorry to bother you, but can you show the beekeeper the way?
Oh well, she thought. A bit formal, but they were back on friendly terms. Surely they could take it from there? She thought again of the softeness of his lips, the roughness of his skin, his sweet taste.
Why, where are you off to? she texted back.
The answer, when it came, made her want to throw the phone across the room.
Just dropping in to Savannah for a time.
She stared at the screen, half laughing, half crying in disbelief. This wasn’t a planned trip, was it? Surely he’d have mentioned it. And arranged things with the sodding beekeeper.
No, this must be a last-minute thing. It was, she recognised with utter fury, exactly what he had done the last time he’d been in a relationship that hadn’t worked out. He’d fled the country. No way. She couldn’t believe it. She stared at the phone, shaking, then threw up her hands. Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Huckle had been more affected by the rescue than he had let on. He had come all the way round the world looking for something safe, and the precariousness of life on that little rock had shaken him to the core.
Added to this was what had happened between him and Polly. It had taken him so long to open up after his relationship with Candice, so long to get over it and heal. And the second he did so, and met someone that he thought was safe, and kind, and gentle, she too had been thinking about somebody else.
He was, he thought, safer at home. His experiment had failed. He didn’t want to wait about, to see all the same old faces every day. He needed to get away. With barely a thought, he packed an overnight bag and caught the first train to London.
Tell him to come to bakery, Polly texted back, eventually.
Huckle stared at his phone. Well, there it was. Proof that whatever he’d thought there was between them was nothing at all, nothing real. She barely seemed to remember… Or maybe she just didn’t care. He stared in disbelief around the airport lounge, full of sleepy-looking businessmen. Was this his life, then? Just women who liked other guys more? Maybe men like that fat guy over there with the ten-thousand-dollar watch on, drinking vodka in the middle of the afternoon. Or that businessman shouting into his phone.
Thanks. You’re a pal, he texted back, slightly bitterly.
Polly stared at Huckle’s text for a long time. It looked to her very carefully worded to imply nothing more; she was nothing more than a pal, someone useful in a spot of organisational difficulties. He was letting her down gently. She sat on her bed and wept some bitter tears. Neil drank them, to let her know he cared.
The next morning, she opened up as usual. People were busy and ready for something to eat; the season was in full flow now and the combination of the town’s fame and the beautiful weather meant it was looking like a vintage year for tourism. Polly figured she should probably think about putting some little wrought-iron tables and chairs across the road by the harbour, so people could sit out and drink their coffee and eat something. That would make a lot of sense; she wondered if it would be allowed. And how she could manage it.
As if in answer to this, two figures appeared at the doorway. It was Mrs Manse and a limping, but patently healing, Jayden.
‘This boy needs a job,’ Gillian stated shortly.
‘I don’t want to go fishing any more,’ he said, smiling. ‘Did you know girls LOVE to ask about my leg?’ His face was a cheerful pink.
‘Do they?’ said Polly. It was hard not to smile seeing him up and about again. ‘How’s it healing?’
‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Is it gross?’
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘I’m not getting a boy in to work with an open wound.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Polly.
Jayden showed her his leg. There was a huge chunk out of his calf and a white-lined skin graft under the bandage.
‘That is disgusting,’ said Polly.
‘You should have seen it before,’ boasted Jayden. ‘I looked like a butcher’s shop. You could see the bone and everything. I made a health assistant faint.’
‘Er, well done. Sorry, you want me to do what?’ said Polly, confused.
Mrs Manse sniffed. ‘It seems like you might need some help round here.’
Polly blinked and caught on.
‘Oh.’ She looked at Jayden severely. ‘Can you work, young man?’
‘They kept me on the boats for long enough,’ said Jayden, which Polly reckoned was fair enough. ‘I can gut two hundred fish an hour. I reckon I can probably help out with a bit of bread.’
He looked defiant and a little nervous. Polly felt her heart go out to him.
‘Do you really want this job, Jayden?’
Suddenly his face showed the child he must have been. There was a suggestion of tears in his eyes.
‘There’s nothing else here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to move. Please, please, please don’t make me go out to sea again. I can’t.’
He spoke the last sentence in a monotone, staring at the floor, and Polly could only guess what it had cost him to say it.
She looked at Mrs Manse, who nodded once, abruptly.
‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘Yes. I do need help. I need more stock. And you can sweep. Can you sweep?’
‘I’ve been sweeping up fish guts for years.’
‘Can you get up early in the morning?’
‘I never got to bed in my last job.’
Polly smiled. ‘As long as I can keep you from wolfing all the stock, I think this might work out all right.’
She stuck out her hand. ‘No cheek though, okay? Well, you can be a bit cheeky to the customers, but Mrs Manse is your boss and I’m your second boss, okay?’
Jayden looked at her hand in wonder, then pumped it up and down, beaming.
‘Yes! Totally! Yes! You won’t regret this!’ His face was completely transformed. ‘Can I start now? Let me sweep something.’
‘I will let you do that,’ said Polly, smiling back. ‘And I’ll teach you how to knead. And of course, Mrs Manse, anything he can do for you, any fetching and carrying, when he’s fully healed…’
‘I’m fine,’ said Mrs Manse shortly. In fact, the other bakery was open for far fewer hours these days, and Polly had seen confused-looking shoppers gazing at its bare cabinets more than once. The Little Beach Street Bakery was bringing in enough to allow Gillian to work less, and Polly could only think this was a good thing. It didn’t exactly help her decide when she could ask for a raise, but she was just too relieved that it was working out to complain at this point. Plus, Mount Polbearne’s other shops only stretched to fish and chips and buckets and spades. She wouldn’t have much to spend her money on anyway.
‘Well, in you come then.’
She led Jayden through the shop. She had asked Chris to print up some aprons in the same font as he’d done above the window, and she was also stocking some cards that advertised him as a sign writer, with a picture of the Little Beach Street Bakery on the front. Quite a few had been picked up by holidaymakers and daytrippers. Painting physical things rather than doing design online… that might just be the way forward for Chris, she thought. Well, she hoped.
She gave Jayden a tour of the baking area.
‘Wow,’ he said, watching her stoke the big wooden oven, check a rising batch that smelled heavenly, sniff the sourdough, splash in a little milk to a fresh batch. ‘There’s quite a lot involved in this.’
Polly gave him a look.
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‘What did you think, that I just went to the back of the shop with a fishing rod and caught some bread?’
Jayden looked awkward.
‘Is that like a joke? Like one of your funny jokes and things? You may have to tell me if it’s one of those, so I can laugh.’
‘You don’t have to laugh,’ said Polly. ‘How does your leg feel? When will you be up to lifting things?’
‘I can lift things now,’ said Jayden. ‘Mostly I’m keeping the bandage on to impress girls.’
‘Oh good,’ said Polly. ‘Okay, in the morning…’ It suddenly struck her how lovely it was to be able to hand this work over. ‘In the morning I need you to bring in the new bags of flour from outside. Then dust and sweep every surface. And clean out the ovens – just the crumbs, though; leave the patina. That’s the slightly greasy stuff. It’s good for bread.’
‘Really?’
Polly looked at him.
‘Do you love my bread?’
‘I do,’ said Jayden.
‘Then I’ll get you on kneading… Oh my God, that means I can take a break. Then you can take a break! Jayden, this is going to be brilliant.’
Jayden grinned. ‘And I get to stay inside all day?’
‘All day,’ promised Polly.
‘And I don’t need to start till five thirty?’
‘Nope.’
Jayden smiled with pure happiness.
Things weren’t helped that first morning by a) Jayden not knowing where anything was or what the different types of bread were called or where the bags were or how to work the till, or b) every single local person who came in, which was most of them these days, having to stop for twenty minutes to have a full and detailed chat with Jayden about the accident, his new job, his poor mother’s nerves and his future prospects. Eventually Polly set him up in a corner to do chatting and handled all the serving herself. He could make himself useful in other ways.
