The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Could you get a taxi, please?’

  ‘Yes, I will – but listen, your party invitation’s beautiful …’

  ‘Thanks. Sophie drew it for me.’

  ‘I thought she might have. How’s art college going?’

  ‘Loving it, as far as she tells me anything. So, d’you think you’ll be able to come to the party?’

  ‘Hope so,’ Roxanne replied, ‘but there’s stuff going on, I have this new boss—’

  ‘Oh, yes, you mentioned her. How’s that working out?’

  Roxanne pushed her damp hair from her face. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How’s the lovely Frank?’

  Della laughed at this reference to the man she’d been seeing for the past eighteen months. Secretly, Roxanne had never been terribly fond of her sister’s ex-husband, Mark – a podiatrist who had refused to even treat his wife’s feet, for crying out loud – even before it had come to light that he’d been having an affair with a patient, for whom he had left Della. In contrast, Frank really was lovely: an architect whose daughter, Becca, was at art college with Sophie in Leeds. It was their daughters’ friendship that had brought them together. ‘He’s great,’ Della replied. ‘He sends his love. Look – please get a taxi, would you?’

  ‘I told you, I’m nearly—’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of you tottering home drunk, all by yourself …’

  ‘I’m not drunk. I’m fine!’

  A pause hung between them. ‘Okay, then. Just take care. I worry about you, Roxanne.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Roxanne said unconvincingly. As they said goodbye, she wondered if there would ever come a point when a phone conversation with Della didn’t leave her feeling as if she was still fifteen years old.

  It was almost midnight by the time Roxanne reached home. She was tired and sodden and Sean still hadn’t called her back, not that she expected him to really. He’d be having too good a time to think of checking his phone, she decided. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed she’d gone. That didn’t seem quite so positive, but then, it was probably better than him being frantic with worry and searching for her. And he obviously wasn’t worried, was he? Perhaps he had played her message and thought, ‘Yes, I can totally understand why she wanted to leave’, and gone back to enjoying his night.

  At the main door into her block, Roxanne raked through her handbag for her keys. She really must become one of those sorted women who tidied their bag regularly and juiced kale.

  No keys. They had to be in there somewhere. Don’t panic, she murmured to herself. Just be systematic. Shivering, her wet dress clinging to her, she sat on the low brick wall that divided her block’s tiny gravelled front garden from next door’s. One by one, she started to remove items from her bag and set them on the wall beside her: her make-up pouch, a bunch of pens, loose tampons, a few opened packets of peppermint gum, a brush matted with hair, flyers for exhibitions, plus the party invitation from Della. Della never found herself drunk and keyless, at 11.35 on a rainy Friday night. Nothing so unseemly ever happened in Burley Bridge.

  I worry about you, Roxanne. Wasn’t that just a tiny bit patronising?

  Now Roxanne’s bag was empty apart from some loose coins and that irritating gritty stuff that works its way up your fingernails, plus something else that looked like Rice Krispies. How had they got there? Something was stuck to her hand, too – some kind of damp leaf. Roxanne shivered. It seemed the interior of her handbag was so disgusting that plants were growing in it.

  She sniffed the leaf. It was sort of earthy – and slightly citrussy too.

  ‘Coriander!’ she said out loud. She must have accidentally tipped some of that bhel puri in there. But still no keys, which suggested, alarmingly, that they were either in a pocket of the jacket which was lying somewhere in Sean’s studio, or she had left them in her flat this morning. Whenever she was in a hurry – which, being realistic, was most workday mornings – she just shut her flat door on the Yale behind her, without bothering to Chubb lock it. What did she have to steal anyway? That’s how her reasoning went. It was incredible how little of value she had accumulated by the age of forty-seven. Really, it amounted to little more than a pot of Creme de la Mer, a few pieces of vintage Gucci and her antique French wardrobe – and who would try to manhandle that out of her flat? As for the main front door downstairs, that was just shut on the Yale lock too.

  She looked at her block. It was entirely in darkness. Please, she willed her neighbours: someone either come home, or be going out, so she could at least be indoors, out of the rain – although she’d rather it wasn’t Henry or Emma from the first floor. She couldn’t face them right now, being all perfect, never burning their food or drinking too much or wearing ill-fitting shoes just because they had fallen in love with the style. Emma’s handbag would never have plant life in it, she decided bitterly.

  ‘Isabelle!’ Roxanne called out in relief, waving as her living room light came on and her face appeared at the window. She frowned in surprise, then disappeared from view. Moments later she was at the front door in a fluffy peach dressing gown and rather glamorous mule-style slippers, which exposed burgundy-painted toenails. ‘Roxanne!’ she gasped. ‘You’re soaking. Come in. Whatever’s happened to you?’

  ‘I’ve lost my keys,’ she said, realising how ridiculous this sounded – being the idiot neighbour for the second time in two days.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing. Let’s get you all warmed up …’

  Minutes later, Roxanne was dressed in Isabelle’s rose-patterned brushed cotton pyjamas, a pair of bobbly cashmere bedsocks and an embroidered cardigan, and drinking a mug of strong tea. Beneath the socks, a large plaster covered the raw, sticky patch on her heel. Isabelle sat beside her on the lumpen sofa, listening in sympathy as Roxanne explained what had happened at work, and at Sean’s party. However, it wasn’t the kind of sympathy that made her feel pathetic. It was the warm and comforting sort, and she wanted it all wrapped around her, like a blanket.

  ‘You need a break from that office of yours,’ Isabelle said, her dark eyes filled with concern.

  ‘Yes, I probably do. I should call a locksmith too, let you get some sleep. I’m so sorry for keeping you up …’

  ‘Don’t be silly – I’m used to late nights and I was still up. No point in calling someone now. You can stay here, sort things out in the morning … will you be all right on the sofa? The spare room’s a bit—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to put you out, Isabelle.’

  Her neighbour frowned. ‘You’re not. Just make yourself cosy. You look exhausted, dear …’

  Roxanne eyed the squashy couch which, admittedly, did look inviting right now. She had glimpsed Isabelle’s box room on previous visits, and seen the bed piled high with boxes of books, old jazz records and goodness knows what else. Isabelle was a hoarder, a collector of twinkly things and a lover of glamour, although everything bore an air of slight shabbiness.

  ‘Okay, and thank you,’ she said gratefully. ‘The sofa will be fine, thank you.’ As Isabelle padded off to fetch bedding, Roxanne sipped her tea, grateful for its sobering qualities, and glanced around the room. The centre light was an extravagant crystal chandelier with blue glass droplets – a fine cobweb dangled from it – and the two faded pink velvet armchairs were strewn with lushly embroidered silk cushions. An old-fashioned treadle-operated sewing machine sat on a small desk in a corner, and garments that appeared to be in various stages of construction were draped over a chair beside it. Roxanne got up to inspect one of the home-made dresses: a delicate thing in beaded black crepe with fluted sleeves and discreet ruffles at the hem. It was so lovely, she could just see it in one of her shoots.

  ‘You really are an amazing dressmaker,’ Roxanne murmured, replacing it on the chair when Isabelle reappeared.

  ‘Oh, it’s easy when you follow the pattern.’

  Roxanne smiled. Despite her love of fashion, she could no more ‘run up’ a garment than operate on a human spleen; any customising requ
ired for her shoots was undertaken by Serena. ‘Are they for anything special?’ she asked, eyeing the beaded creations.

  ‘Just a couple of gigs coming up.’

  ‘Right.’ She smiled. ‘Where are you singing these days?’

  ‘Oh, nowhere you’d know. Tawdry little places.’ Isabelle chuckled throatily. ‘Come on – let’s get you all nice and cosy …’

  As Roxanne lay down on the sofa, Isabelle covered her with a blanket and an old-fashioned eiderdown. The pillow she gave her smelt a little musty, but Roxanne sank her head onto it gratefully.

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ she reiterated drowsily.

  ‘You’re always trouble,’ Isabelle said with a smile.

  ‘No, really. I mean, the fire brigade, and now this—’

  ‘Shhh.’ Isabelle hushed her and then, in an act that seemed so kind it caused Roxanne’s eyes to mist, she brought her a glass of water and tucked her in, like a mother would. Only Roxanne couldn’t recall that her own mother had ever done that.

  Roxanne was woken by the trill of her mobile. Still bunched up in eiderdown, she scrabbled to retrieve it from the floor. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rox? What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘Sean? Uh, nothing! What d’you mean?’ She coughed to clear her throat. What time was it? She had no idea. It was daylight and there seemed to be some sort of clamp attached to her brain. More worryingly still, she didn’t appear to be in her own bed. Isabelle’s jumbled living room came slowly into focus: the chandelier, the cluttered shelves, the ancient record player. Roxanne spied her own black dress, having been spread out to dry on the radiator, and her shoes neatly paired beneath it.

  ‘I mean, that was nice of you,’ he remarked coldly.

  She frowned. ‘What, me leaving early? I’m sorry, darling. I did explain, in my message …’

  ‘The message I only played about ten minutes ago,’ he snapped.

  Roxanne tried to process this. ‘I’m sorry, okay? That’s why I called you last night, to explain why—’

  ‘You stormed off because Marsha and Tina Court turned up?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes. No! I didn’t storm. I just – well, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I’d had a bit too much to drink and I thought—’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he cut in scathingly.

  Roxanne swallowed and rubbed at her eyes, noting that a smudge of last night’s mascara had transferred itself onto her finger. Here it came: the great wave of hungover dread that must have been lurking just beneath the surface. ‘I wasn’t that bad,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh, weren’t you?’

  A hush settled between them, serving to crank up her morning-after paranoia several notches. ‘I just had three or four glasses,’ she added.

  ‘Right, so that’s why you were throwing yourself around on the dance floor like a lunatic and begging the DJ for Abba?’

  Her heart seemed to clunk. ‘I wasn’t begging. I just asked politely …’

  ‘D’you really think everyone wanted to hear Dancing Queen?’

  ‘No, but does it matter? It was a party, Sean. I was just having fun—’

  ‘Yes, and I spent most of it worried sick about you. Someone said you threw down a glass and marched out!’

  ‘I didn’t throw it – it just fell – and you weren’t worried enough to phone me, were you?’ She was trying to remain calm and not yell in her elderly friend’s living room.

  ‘No, because I’d lost my mobile. Only found it at the end of the party and by then it was out of charge—’

  ‘Sean, why did you invite Tina Court?’ she blurted out.

  There was a stunned silence. ‘Jesus, Rox. How old are you? Six?’

  She wrapped Isabelle’s eiderdown tighter around herself. ‘Could you just tell me, please? I mean, I suppose I can understand why you asked Marsha. It would have seemed rude not to, seeing as the whole fashion department was there, but …’

  ‘Britt sorted the guest list,’ he said hotly. ‘I trusted her girls to take care of pretty much everything …’

  ‘You did get involved with the food, though, didn’t you?’

  ‘Huh?’

  She eased herself off the sofa. ‘You vetoed the foie gras lollipops.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Sure, I checked the guest list but only to make sure no one had been left out. She is my agent, I trust her with—’

  ‘—Yes, with work stuff but not your social life, usually. You don’t even know Tina. So why was she there?’ Roxanne suspected she was being unreasonable now. After all, Marsha could just have brought her along as her plus-one. And, even if Britt had invited her personally, what was the big deal really?

  Sean cleared his throat. ‘Look, Rox … I, er, don’t really know how to tell you this.’

  Her stomach clenched. ‘What?’

  ‘I … well … Britt heard a week or so ago, just on the grapevine, about, um …’

  Roxanne blinked, waiting for Sean to continue. ‘What did she hear?’

  ‘That Tina might be joining your magazine in quite-a-high-up-senior-role-kinda-thing.’ It came out all in a rush.

  Roxanne took a moment to digest this. ‘You mean, Britt knew Tina was being brought in above me?’

  ‘Well, er, it sounded like that was a possibility …’

  ‘So you knew too, obviously?’

  He groaned. ‘Rox, look – I sort of knew, but it might just have been hearsay, and what was the point of upsetting you if it was?’

  ‘You still should have said something,’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even mention it! When did you hear, exactly?’

  ‘Uh, maybe a week ago?’

  ‘A week ago?’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I was going to bring it up on Thursday night, but we were having such a nice time in the restaurant, and then there was all the drama about those burnt biscuits and the firemen and—’

  ‘There were plenty of other times you could have told me,’ she cut in. ‘But no, instead you went and invited her to your party, just to get on her good side—’

  ‘I told you. That was Britt …’

  ‘—And neither of you cared that I’d be humiliated,’ she charged on, shouting now, ‘and you’re giving me a hard time for having a few glasses of champagne? I don’t know how you have the bloody nerve!’

  A terse silence hung between them. Roxanne’s heart was thumping, her eyes filling with furious tears.

  ‘I think it’s time you grew up,’ Sean muttered.

  ‘Don’t patronise me! How could you listen to me telling you about my meeting with Marsha and pretend you didn’t know a thing?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay?’ he thundered. ‘I’m really sorry. Jesus – I didn’t realise it’d be such an almighty deal …’

  ‘Of course it’s a big deal! How could you be so disloyal?’

  ‘Okay,’ he snapped. ‘That’s enough. Let’s just stop this right now …’

  ‘Yes,’ she shot back. ‘That’s a very good idea. This conversation isn’t getting us anywhere …’

  ‘I mean,’ Sean said carefully, ‘let’s stop this whole thing.’

  Roxanne’s heart seemed to jolt. She sat for a moment, her ear clammy now from being squished against her phone. Isabelle had appeared in the living room doorway, still wearing her peach dressing gown. Registering that Roxanne was on the phone, she quickly retreated.

  ‘You mean, stop arguing?’ Roxanne muttered.

  ‘No, I mean us,’ he said sternly. ‘Me and you. I think we’re done, Roxanne.’

  The plumbing in Isabelle’s antiquated bathroom clanked and growled. The interior of Roxanne’s stomach seemed to be doing likewise. ‘You really want us to finish?’ she asked hollowly.

  ‘Well, yes, I think that’s best.’

  ‘Fine, okay, if you really mean it,’ she said, her voice wobbling, ‘but you’re probably just hungover, feeling all tired and poisoned and—’

  ‘I’m no
t hungover,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m fine, actually. Some of us know when to stop.’

  Her hackles rose and her eyes filled with more hot tears. How dare he lord it over her when he’d shown no loyalty to her whatsoever? And now they were breaking up because of the party, because of Abba and the fact that she had had a little too much to drink. Well, bloody good luck to him, if that was what he wanted. She would be fine without him in her life. ‘What about your book?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘What book?’ he asked.

  Her tears stopped, miraculously. She blotted her eyes with a sleeve of Isabelle’s pyjamas.

  ‘Rox?’ he prompted her. ‘What book?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not important.’ Roxanne cleared her throat, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands and trying to convince herself she’d be better off without him, when he was always too crazy-busy to spend more than one night at a time in her company and had already forgotten about the photography book she had trawled all over Paris to find. She pushed a clump of hair back from her clammy forehead, just wanting to finish the call and hide away in her own flat. ‘But I have to tell you,’ she added, ‘it’s not just me, you know. Lots of people love Dancing Queen.’

  Chapter Eight

  Roxanne gazed at the towering plateful of industrial white toast, plus lime marmalade and a fluted glass dish of tinned fruit cocktail, all set out by Isabelle at the table at her living room window. Despite the fact that she hardly felt like eating, Roxanne gushed her thanks and eyed the fruit cocktail, the likes of which she hadn’t seen since she was a child. She forced it down, even the weirdly pinkish cherry and the syrup it was all lying in. Wishing not to offend Isabelle, and despite her hangover’s protests, she followed it up with two slices of toast spread thinly with margarine and wondered if she had actually woken up in 1977.

  ‘I really do think you need a break,’ Isabelle remarked, perched on the opposite chair and having polished off her own bowl of fruit.

  Roxanne nodded. She felt a little calmer now; stoical even. Tommy, the joiner, had been called, and was on his way round. ‘Well, considering Sean and I have just finished, you’re probably right.’