by Jenny Oliver
There was a cake stand just at the point the stalls started to curve round the iron railings of the park. Julia stopped to have a look. There were giant chocolate éclairs, fresh strawberry tarts, tiny mille-feuille, cream oozing Paris-Brest. Julia knew how to make them all. She had agonised late into the night on her Cordon Bleu cookery course to perfect the glossy tempered chocolate sheen of a Sachertorte just like the ones in front of her.
She wasn’t actually a massive fan of fancy desserts. She liked a Victoria sponge with cream and raspberry jam best, but the idea of doing something for something’s sake growing up was an alien concept. Julia had displayed an aptitude for baking so that skill had been honed by her parents to within an inch of its life. Till she had sweated over trays of delicate rose and pistachio financiers and delivered top-of-the-class choux buns. One of her dad’s all-time favourite phrases was: ‘Good enough isn’t.’ Closely followed by ‘Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser!’ which he had on occasion taunted Charlie with over a game of Scrabble at Christmas. Thinking of it now made Julia feel awful. Especially as she also remembered her parents’ wedding anniversary, when she had made a croquembouche profiterole tower and two hundred macarons – the croquembouche alone had taken seven and a half hours – leaving her so exhausted, she had missed most of the party, falling asleep on a leather sofa in the tennis club lounge while everyone danced, everyone except Charlie who came and sat next to her, drinking whisky and reading Twitter till she woke up.
Charlie’s favourite cake Julia made was a basic all-in-one chocolate cake. It reminded him of the ones out of a packet his mum used to make. Every time it was his birthday, Julia would whip it up for him and Charlie would stand in front of the oven salivating as it baked. She would ice it with chocolate butter icing and sandwich it together with strawberry jam. It occurred to her she hadn’t made it this year, they had been too busy moving house and the oven had blown up the first time she’d turned it on – another expense she’d forgotten. She had bought him a chocolate cake from Costcutter instead that tasted of air and cardboard and they had thrown it in the bin after eating a slice each.
‘The lady wants cake,’ she heard Lovejoy’s voice and turned to see him and Martin sidling up beside her.
Lovejoy was dressed all in various shades of grey with a black bandana round his neck, tanned, earthy and piratically good-looking, while Martin wore cut-off denim shorts, a vibrant Hawaiian shirt, white socks and white Reeboks. His blond hair was tied in a bun high on top of his head.
‘Oh no I don’t, I was just looking,’ Julia said, embarrassed that they had caught her eyeing up patisserie.
‘Rubbish, you’re salivating,’ Lovejoy laughed all deep and rumbling, as he casually reached to get his wallet out. ‘What do you want?’
‘Really I’m fine,’ she said, conscious that she was chatting with the enemy, taking a step away from the stall.
But the woman behind the counter was poised ready with her tongs, indicating to the creamy éclairs or strawberry tarts.
‘Have a cake,’ Lovejoy pressed, eyes sparkling as he encouraged her.
‘I’ll have one,’ said Martin, lifting his bright mirrored sunglasses up so he could get a better look as he pored over the display.
Lovejoy held his hands wide, euros poking out the top of his battered wallet. ‘That was not the point, Martin.’
Martin ignored him, then said, ‘What are you having, Lovejoy?’
‘I don’t really like cakes,’ he said, turning his nose up at the offering. ‘I’m more of a savoury person.’
Martin inspected one thing then another, umming and ahhing before deciding. ‘I’ll have one of those,’ he said, pointing to a coffee-éclair which he took from the shopkeeper’s outstretched tongs and polished off in two bites. ‘J’adore le France,’ he sighed.
Julia decided it was probably easier to just accept, rather than making more of a fuss, and chose a madeleine. Another of her favourites. Practised to perfection at the Cordon Bleu. Simple lemony sponge. No icing. No cream, no fuss. She could eat them by the bucket-load.
The lady behind the stall handed it to her. Lovejoy paid. Julia determined to keep the whole transaction from Amber. It was making her feel very uncomfortable.
But then she took a bite of the little golden cake. The sponge was zesty and soft. The crusty shell firm between her teeth. The taste immediately conjured a certain confidence. A happiness. The feeling she got when alone in the kitchen whisking eggs and sugar, watching the mixture puff in the oven, slipping the little golden shells from their moulds. Sampling the first one when it was still warm, savouring the flavour before it was marred by anyone else’s opinions.
She wondered if she had closed her eyes as she chewed. The flavour filling her senses and reminding her of her own baking skill. When it was finished, she realised that the eating of the madeleine seemed to make her look at things differently. To remind her that she had a couple of days out of her life and urge her to enjoy them. Make the most of them. What was the point otherwise? She had wanted freedom and escape, a pause from reality, and here it was. Yes, she almost nodded to herself. It made her see things on the stalls in a different light too as the three of them walked on. Enjoy the hunt rather than be blinded by panic. She worried less that she was accompanied by the enemy and looked instead at the towering trees and the lush green grass of the park. She smiled as the band on the bandstand started to warm up. It felt suddenly more like a holiday, the taste of the madeleine still on her tongue.
‘Amber ahead of us, is she?’ Lovejoy asked.
Julia nodded.
‘Damn it.’
At one stall they came to, Lovejoy picked up a small stuffed owl that had seen better days. It was the same stall where Amber had been inspecting the taxidermy fox. Julia noticed it was at the back with a sold sticker on it. The mangy thing would be in the van home.
‘I bet Amber bought the fox,’ Lovejoy said as he handed over the money for the owl. ‘It’s got her name all over it. Did she buy it? I’d have bought it.’
Julia shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
Lovejoy grinned. ‘Yes you do. You’ve gone all red. Brilliant.’ He clapped his hands. ‘You’ve got the worst poker face.’
Despite her redness, Julia still found herself trying not to laugh as Lovejoy bashed her on the shoulder. She felt like a traitor but she quite enjoyed the attention. ‘I should go,’ she said.
‘Nah,’ said Lovejoy, all blasé like she’d be a fool to hurry off. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just walk and look and you’ll catch her up.’
Martin sauntered over to the stalls on the other side of the street, kneeling down to rummage through a box of paintings. Lovejoy lagged behind to study a desk light.
Julia was on her own again. Her shoulders had relaxed. She found she was enjoying picking things up and putting them down. She even gave an old book a little sniff.
She saw a wooden ruler with the kings and queens of France on it. Charlie had a ruler just like it left over from his school days. He had a photographic knowledge of the English monarchy, and close enough with the French. He loved history. Julia struggled to know the difference between Mary Queen of Scots and Mary the First. Geography was her thing and politics – put through her paces in her father’s weekly pop quizzes. Together they made a formidable pub quiz duo because Charlie also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of sports trivia and a weakness for reality TV. They used to win the pub quiz every Thursday. Julia had stopped going when Lexi started up a book club.
She shook her head, trying to make herself live in the moment, to stop thinking about home.
The sun was blistering as it moved into mid-morning, there were tourists buying now not just antique dealers so she had to push to get to the front of some of the stalls. A wrinkled old woman in a shawl tried to hand Julia a posy of flowers but she waved her away. A little terrier yapped at her feet. In the distance the band started up and the air filled with lively music. A man behind one of the st
alls started to dance with his wife and another clapped his hands in time with the beat.
Julia perused stall after stall, she even rummaged in a couple of boxes, picking up an old doll that reminded her of one she used to have as a child and a Wedgewood plate that matched the set her parents had got for their wedding and kept for best. She imagined their displeasure at seeing it here for sale for, she turned it over to look at the sticker, three euros. They had visions of them passing down through the generations, it was in the will that her brother would have them, but he wouldn’t be caught dead with them. He was all swanky black square plates for his daily Deliveroo. She looked at the plate, remembering a heated discussion with her mum and dad before her own wedding about gifts. Her parents were aghast that they were asking for money for a honeymoon instead of requesting fine china and towels from John Lewis. They thought it was very bad form and something she would regret. To Charlie’s dismay, Julia had succumbed to the pressure and now they had a cupboard full of fine china they never used. And more debt from a honeymoon-esque holiday on the Amalfi coast. Julia winced at the memory. It reminded her of Lexi’s WhatsApps, of how much Julia tried to live up to a standard. Stop thinking about home!
She put the plate back down on the stand and strolled on, rolling her shoulders, telling herself to relax, arms behind her back, sun warm on her shoulders, casting a glance from one stall to another. And then she saw it.
Right at the back of the stand, almost completely obscured by an Impressionist imitation of the Mona Lisa, was a gold and glass drinks trolley.
It had Emerald House written all over it. It was definitely original, as far as Julia could tell, the metal was tarnished, the etching on the glass was delicate and hand cut. It looked Art Deco, like something out of the Poirot films her and Charlie used to watch on Sunday afternoons. It was beautiful. She immediately understood what Amber meant by a connection, a feeling. Julia had to have this trolley. If Amber didn’t want it, she’d keep it herself.
‘C’est combien?’ she asked the stallholder, a short round man with a panama hat and a shirt unbuttoned one too many.
He named an extortionate price, far more than Julia even had on her.
She didn’t know what to do, she thought about going to get Amber but she didn’t know how long it would take her to find her and someone else might buy it in the meantime. She knew the trolley was good, she could feel it in the tingling of her fingertips.
She bit her lip and looked back at the stallholder.
Then Lovejoy’s voice behind her said, ‘Halve it.’
She turned. He looked at her with lazy confidence, his voice quiet as he said, ‘Go back to him with half what he just said.’
‘No I can’t, he won’t accept it.’
‘Trust me.’
Julia looked from Lovejoy’s urging half-smile back to the stallholder. She offered half.
The stallholder laughed. He told his mate who also laughed. As she suspected would happen, she’d made a fool of herself. She turned to go.
‘Stick with it,’ Lovejoy urged. She could feel him right close to her, bodies almost touching. She could smell him, all aftershave and earth. His breath was warm on her neck.
She shook her head, uncertain.
‘Do it, just stand there and stare at him.’ Lovejoy was suppressing a grin. ‘I promise, it’ll work.’
She sighed, took a breath and turned back, held her ground, urged on by the physical presence of Lovejoy behind her, shoring her up, she didn’t want to fail.
The stallholder was still chuckling.
Julia forced her expression to look serious. She stayed, rooted to the ground like the tree in the yoga videos Lexi invited her to do with her in her lounge but then spent most of the time asking Julia to take photos of her for Instagram.
Julia realised she hadn’t thought about Instagram since she’d bought the battery pack and charger.
After a little while the stallholder stopped laughing, he took in Julia’s expression, he went over to look at the trolley, lifting the dreadful fake Mona Lisa out of the way to examine it properly, weighing up its worth. His mate came over and had a look, they oohed and aahed a bit, they held their hands wide, his mate turned away, lighting a giant cigar and shaking his head, the stallholder turned and quoted a price just shy of the original.
Behind her, Lovejoy whispered, ‘No.’
Julia glanced over her shoulder.
Lovejoy put his hand softly on the middle of her back to make her stay looking forward. ‘Stand your ground,’ he murmured. ‘Now, make an offer that splits the difference.’
Julia could feel where his hand had touched. Something about the complete otherness of the situation gave her the desire to succeed. The desire to be and do something different to the person who caved to the pressure of fine china wedding gifts and suffered public shaming on WhatsApp. She took another deep breath and quoted her new offer.
‘Good girl,’ said Lovejoy, low and husky.
The stallholder made a big show of exhaling. Julia winced, tried to turn to look at Lovejoy but he pressed her back again. ‘Hold on,’ he whispered. ‘Just hold on.’
The stallholder glanced at his mate who puffed out a plume of cigar smoke and shrugged. He turned back to Julia. ‘OK.’
Julia’s eyes widened. ‘OK?’
She heard Lovejoy hiss a ‘Yes!’ and give her shoulder a squeeze. The whole transaction smelt of him, merged with the touch of him in her euphoria. She felt momentarily like she could turn around and hug him tight.
‘OK,’ the stallholder said, hand outstretched to shake.
Julia shook it. Lovejoy gave her a wink and a lazy grin.
She felt the rush of success. She thought how impressed Amber would be. She thought how she might replay the entire haggle – with or without mentioning Lovejoy, she’d judge Amber’s mood. Even Charlie might be impressed if she told him – definitely without the mention of Lovejoy.
It was all so exciting. She rummaged through her bag for the money to pay the man.
Just then her phone started ringing. Newly charged, it trilled loudly in her bag. ‘Un moment,’ she said to the stallholder.
It was her mother.
‘Why do you have an international dial tone? Are you abroad, Julia?’
‘I’m in France. Just for the weekend,’ Julia said. ‘I can’t talk, Mum, I—’
Her mother carried on regardless. ‘I’m surprised you and Charlie have got the money. I saw his picture on Instagram of a leak in your ceiling. It looks dreadful. What happened? Do you need the number of our plumber?’
‘No, we have a plumber.’ Someone else was asking the stallholder a question. Julia gestured that she’d just be a sec. Scuffing the floor with her foot, she said to her mum who was asking more and more questions re the leak diagnosis, ‘I’m not actually sure what the plumber said. Charlie dealt with him. He’s still at home.’
‘Why is Charlie still at home?’ Her mum paused. ‘Have you had a row?’
‘No,’ Julia said too quick.
Her mum had a talent for letting a silence hang suspended till the other person caved. It was why she was such a good lawyer.
‘Sort of,’ Julia admitted.
‘What do you mean, sort of?’
Julia stared up at the sky. ‘We just needed a little break. You know what it’s like?’
There was a short silence on the other end of the phone, then her mum said, ‘Did I tell you that when Suzy Maynard’s son’s marriage was in trouble he whisked his wife off to the Canaries for a second honeymoon. Worked a treat apparently.’
Julia rolled her eyes. ‘No, you didn’t tell me that, Mum.’
‘Well I’m just saying. Nothing smacks more of divorce than heading off on separate holidays. You remember Suzy Maynard’s son, don’t you? Works for…’ she paused, ‘Terence, who does Suzy Maynard’s son work for?’
Her dad shouted the answer in the background.
‘Oh yes. Van Cleef and Arpels. You know the diamo
nd people. If you’d married him you’d have got a bloody good engagement ring.’
All her life, Julia’s mum had been desperate for Julia to get together with Suzy Maynard’s son. She’d had them practically betrothed as children.
‘Mum!’ Julia halted her, unable to quite believe she was already trying to move her on to a more suitable match. ‘I’m not getting a divorce.’
‘Sorry, sorry, I know you’re not getting a divorce. What’s the row about?’
‘Just stuff,’ Julia said, not wanting to go into any more detail, hoping the call would end soon.
‘Hang on, your father’s asking something. What, Terence?’ Another pause as her dad shouted something else in the background.
‘Mum, I have to go.’
‘Yes, quite right,’ her mum said, clearly having a separate conversation with her dad. Then to Julia she recounted, ‘He’s saying that if you’d bought the shares in that Fever-Tree tonic when your brother suggested, you’d have enough now to go to the Canaries and do up the rest of your house.’ Then she mused, ‘I don’t really know what all the fuss is about gin nowadays. What happened to good old Schweppes? Oh, I’ve just remembered why I was ringing. What’s happened with that promotion at your office? Have you updated your CV yet? You said you’d send it over for me to have a look.’
Julia squeezed her eyes shut. Sweat trickling down her back from the heat. So much for her break with reality. ‘I’m doing it,’ she said, when really she hadn’t done anything because she wasn’t completely sure she wanted the new job. It was more hours and a bigger team and not really in her preferred field of expertise and enjoyment. But they needed the money.
In the background her father shouted, ‘The secret of getting ahead Julia, is getting started!’ Then he added, ‘If you’re getting euros use your Santander 1,2,3 card, there’s no fee for foreign currency.’
‘I don’t have a 1,2,3 card,’ said Julia.
‘She doesn’t have a 1,2,3 card,’ her mum called to her dad. Then she came back on the phone, ‘Why not? He says he told you to get one.’
