Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 3
‘Actually, I’m not so sure I do want to come over,’ said Polly, but she didn’t really mean it. This was Kerensa’s way; she always confronted life head-on. Something Polly should have done a little more of in the last year or so, she knew, as the business went down the tubes and Chris became ever more unreachable. She had asked Kerensa for professional advice only once, when they’d had a bit to drink at a Christmas party years ago, and Kerensa had told her that what they were doing was risky and then had begged her not to ask again. Polly had convinced herself that all businesses were risky and the subject had never been mentioned since.
‘Well, you’re here now, and I’m not eating all these Pringles by myself,’ said Kerensa cheerfully, taking out her key on its Tiffany fob.
‘You never eat Pringles,’ grumbled Polly. ‘You put them all out, then you go, “Oh, I had a gigantic lunch that I’m pretending about, please eat these Pringles, I can’t keep them, they’ll go off.” Which they don’t, by the way.’
‘Well, if you stay, you can eke them out in the manner of your choosing, rather than guzzle them down like a starving vole.’
Before Polly could say anything, Kerensa put up her hands.
‘Just stay for tonight.’
‘OK,’ said Polly.
Polly closed her eyes when she said it, but there it was, set out by Mr Gardner and Mr Bassi: the bank was going to take the flat. When she had told her mother, her mother had basically responded like she’d had a child then sold it. That was why she tried not to confide in her mother more often than was strictly necessary.
‘So. I am trying to look on the bright side of this.’
‘Of being homeless?’
‘Shut up. I am just going to need a place of my own.’
Kerensa tried to wrinkle her brow, then looked at the light dusting of Pringle crumbs Polly had left on the BoConcept sofa.
‘Just you?’
Polly bit her lip. ‘We’re not breaking up. It’s just… I’m not sure the two of us, kicking about in a tiny horrible rental…’
She took a deep breath and a large slug of wine.
‘He said he wants to go back to his mum’s for a bit. Just until… until we get ourselves a bit straight, do you know what I mean? Then we can see how the land lies.’
Polly was doing her best to pretend this was the result of a calm, logical decision-making process rather than tempestuous fights and sulking.
‘I mean, it’ll be good… a bit of a change.’
Kerensa nodded sympathetically.
‘Until the flat sells… I mean, I have nothing. If it fetches more than we’re expecting, that might clear the debts, but…’
‘But you’re not counting on it?’
‘The way my luck is at the moment,’ said Polly, ‘I probably will get a tiny bit of money back, and as I leave the bank after picking it up, a bolt of lightning will come out of the sky and set it on fire. Then a piano will fall on my head and knock me down a manhole.’
Kerensa patted her hand.
‘How’s Chris doing?’
Polly shrugged. ‘About the same. They were very nice, the receiver guys. You know, considering.’
‘What a horrible job.’
‘It’s a job,’ said Polly. ‘I’m quite impressed by that at the moment.’
‘Are you looking?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘I am overqualified and far too old for every single job on earth. Plus nobody seems to pay for entry-level jobs any more. Plus I really need an address.’
Kerensa said instantly, ‘You know you can live here.’
Polly looked round at the immaculate, pristine single woman’s lair. Kerensa had her pick of men – a result of an extremely fit body, expensive clothes and an incredibly snotty attitude – but had never been remotely interested in settling down with anyone. She was like a pedigree cat, thought Polly gloomily, whereas she, Polly, was more like a big, friendly, messy dog. Maybe a springer spaniel; she had long strawberry-blonde hair and small features.
‘I would rather sleep in a bin than risk our friendship sharing a place again.’
‘We had a great time living together!’ said Kerensa.
‘We did not!’ retorted Polly. ‘You went out every weekend with those braying bellends with boats and you never did the washing-up!’
‘Well, one, I asked you to come with us every weekend.’
‘And I didn’t go because they were bellends.’
Kerensa shrugged.
‘And two, I never washed up because I never ate anything. You were the one trailing flour and yeast everywhere.’
Polly’s baking hobby had never quite left her. Kerensa actually believed that carbs were poison and genuinely thought she was allergic to gluten. It was amazing they were as good friends as they were.
‘Still, not a chance,’ said Polly, looking sad. ‘But God, I don’t think I could move in with a bunch of twenty-somethings and pretend to get down with the kids.’
She had turned thirty-two earlier in the year. She wondered, briefly, if one of the tiny upsides of being a bankrupt would be having a good excuse to stop buying wedding and christening presents for absolutely everybody she knew.
Kerensa smiled. ‘You totally could. You could go clubbing.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Stay up all night talking about the meaning of life and smoking dope.’
‘Oh Christ.’
‘Go camping at musical festivals.’
‘Seriously,’ said Polly. ‘I’m in despair already and you’re rubbing salt. Rub rub rub. Mmm. Salt.’
Kerensa handed over the Pringles tube with a practised air of weariness.
‘Well, carry on staying with me, I’ve told you.’
‘On your zillion-dollar sofa in your one-bedroom apartment for an unspecified amount of time?’ said Polly. ‘Thank you, it’s kind of you to ask, but I’m going to look online. For me, by myself. It’ll be… cool.’
Kerensa and Polly pored over the laptop in silence. Polly was scrolling through the list of flats within the budget set by the bank. It was not an edifying sight. In fact, rents seemed to have gone crazy. It was awful.
‘That’s a cupboard,’ said Kerensa periodically. ‘That one doesn’t have any windows. Why would they take a picture of the stained wall? What’s the other wall like? I know that street from when I dated that ambulanceman. It’s the local bottling blackspot. People get bottled.’
‘Well, you’re here now, and I’m not eating all these Pringles by myself,’ said Kerensa cheerfully, taking out her key on its Tiffany fob.
‘You never eat Pringles,’ grumbled Polly. ‘You put them all out, then you go, “Oh, I had a gigantic lunch that I’m pretending about, please eat these Pringles, I can’t keep them, they’ll go off.” Which they don’t, by the way.’
‘Well, if you stay, you can eke them out in the manner of your choosing, rather than guzzle them down like a starving vole.’
Before Polly could say anything, Kerensa put up her hands.
‘Just stay for tonight.’
‘OK,’ said Polly.
Polly closed her eyes when she said it, but there it was, set out by Mr Gardner and Mr Bassi: the bank was going to take the flat. When she had told her mother, her mother had basically responded like she’d had a child then sold it. That was why she tried not to confide in her mother more often than was strictly necessary.
‘So. I am trying to look on the bright side of this.’
‘Of being homeless?’
‘Shut up. I am just going to need a place of my own.’
Kerensa tried to wrinkle her brow, then looked at the light dusting of Pringle crumbs Polly had left on the BoConcept sofa.
‘Just you?’
Polly bit her lip. ‘We’re not breaking up. It’s just… I’m not sure the two of us, kicking about in a tiny horrible rental…’
She took a deep breath and a large slug of wine.
‘He said he wants to go back to his mum’s for a bit. Just until… until we get ourselves a bit straight, do you know what I mean? Then we can see how the land lies.’
Polly was doing her best to pretend this was the result of a calm, logical decision-making process rather than tempestuous fights and sulking.
‘I mean, it’ll be good… a bit of a change.’
Kerensa nodded sympathetically.
‘Until the flat sells… I mean, I have nothing. If it fetches more than we’re expecting, that might clear the debts, but…’
‘But you’re not counting on it?’
‘The way my luck is at the moment,’ said Polly, ‘I probably will get a tiny bit of money back, and as I leave the bank after picking it up, a bolt of lightning will come out of the sky and set it on fire. Then a piano will fall on my head and knock me down a manhole.’
Kerensa patted her hand.
‘How’s Chris doing?’
Polly shrugged. ‘About the same. They were very nice, the receiver guys. You know, considering.’
‘What a horrible job.’
‘It’s a job,’ said Polly. ‘I’m quite impressed by that at the moment.’
‘Are you looking?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘I am overqualified and far too old for every single job on earth. Plus nobody seems to pay for entry-level jobs any more. Plus I really need an address.’
Kerensa said instantly, ‘You know you can live here.’
Polly looked round at the immaculate, pristine single woman’s lair. Kerensa had her pick of men – a result of an extremely fit body, expensive clothes and an incredibly snotty attitude – but had never been remotely interested in settling down with anyone. She was like a pedigree cat, thought Polly gloomily, whereas she, Polly, was more like a big, friendly, messy dog. Maybe a springer spaniel; she had long strawberry-blonde hair and small features.
‘I would rather sleep in a bin than risk our friendship sharing a place again.’
‘We had a great time living together!’ said Kerensa.
‘We did not!’ retorted Polly. ‘You went out every weekend with those braying bellends with boats and you never did the washing-up!’
‘Well, one, I asked you to come with us every weekend.’
‘And I didn’t go because they were bellends.’
Kerensa shrugged.
‘And two, I never washed up because I never ate anything. You were the one trailing flour and yeast everywhere.’
Polly’s baking hobby had never quite left her. Kerensa actually believed that carbs were poison and genuinely thought she was allergic to gluten. It was amazing they were as good friends as they were.
‘Still, not a chance,’ said Polly, looking sad. ‘But God, I don’t think I could move in with a bunch of twenty-somethings and pretend to get down with the kids.’
She had turned thirty-two earlier in the year. She wondered, briefly, if one of the tiny upsides of being a bankrupt would be having a good excuse to stop buying wedding and christening presents for absolutely everybody she knew.
Kerensa smiled. ‘You totally could. You could go clubbing.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Stay up all night talking about the meaning of life and smoking dope.’
‘Oh Christ.’
‘Go camping at musical festivals.’
‘Seriously,’ said Polly. ‘I’m in despair already and you’re rubbing salt. Rub rub rub. Mmm. Salt.’
Kerensa handed over the Pringles tube with a practised air of weariness.
‘Well, carry on staying with me, I’ve told you.’
‘On your zillion-dollar sofa in your one-bedroom apartment for an unspecified amount of time?’ said Polly. ‘Thank you, it’s kind of you to ask, but I’m going to look online. For me, by myself. It’ll be… cool.’
Kerensa and Polly pored over the laptop in silence. Polly was scrolling through the list of flats within the budget set by the bank. It was not an edifying sight. In fact, rents seemed to have gone crazy. It was awful.
‘That’s a cupboard,’ said Kerensa periodically. ‘That one doesn’t have any windows. Why would they take a picture of the stained wall? What’s the other wall like? I know that street from when I dated that ambulanceman. It’s the local bottling blackspot. People get bottled.’
