Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 38
He winked widely at Huckle and made a small movement with his hips. Polly could see what Huckle meant about Reuben being a yutz, even if she didn’t know the meaning of the word.
‘Polly here is going through a bit of a tough time,’ said Huckle in his slow, deliberate way. ‘So I thought I’d bring her down to the best food in Cornwall, cheer her up.’
‘That’s the way, that’s the way. Do you want a martini?’ Reuben looked at her and snapped his fingers. ‘No. No, I know what you need. You need a margarita. Am I right or am I right? Margaritas make all the bad stuff go away. Until you wake up in the garbage. HA.’ He let out a slightly surprising barking laugh.
‘Um…’
Polly was having a very confusing day. Huckle gave a slight nod in her direction.
‘Er, that would be lovely,’ she said.
‘Light beer, my man? Light beer for the light-haired farm boy in the corner?’
‘Sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Hit me.’
Reuben came back with their drinks and sat down. He was actually quite relaxing to be with, because he talked non-stop about how much surfing he’d done, how many ladies he’d had down partying with him (Polly had thought partying meant having a nice party, but it seemed to mean drinking until you were technically unconscious), what an amazing summer they were all going to have and how much money he’d turned down for his estate from a Russian oligarch who’d threatened to have him sent to Siberia, but it was all right because Reuben was kung fu trained and had apparently frightened him out of it, and did she like Star Wars?
Polly replied that she did like Star Wars, or at least she liked Harrison Ford in Star Wars, whereupon Reuben got a slightly cross look and said that the new films were vastly underrated and people had to re-evaluate them, which he then proceeded to do at some length.
Not having to talk meant Polly could basically tune out and just enjoy the sound of the surf and the blueness of the sky and, she found, the comforting casual presence of Huckle, his large frame draped over the battered wooden chair, his long feet with neat short nails buried in the sand. His eyes were the same colour as the sea. She knew it was the (excellent) margarita, but she suddenly felt an urge to put her own feet in his lap. She banished the thought immediately. She was getting a very strong vibe from Huckle, and that vibe was: I will be absolutely very nice as long as you don’t ask me a single thing about my personal life or get too close.
And that was fine. It wasn’t like her own life was free of complications. She thought back to the girl at the puffin park. It seemed highly unlikely that Huck was a man short of offers. And that being the case, he was almost certainly choosing to be alone for a reason.
At one point, without interrupting his flow of consciousness, and whilst asking Huckle what colour he should paint his new helicopter, Reuben jumped up and started cooking. The smell and sizzle of wild garlic and onions in a pan made Polly realise how hungry she was, and the margarita had gone straight to her head. She could see Reuben eyeing up a wine fridge. He thought for a moment, then selected a very cold Chablis.
To clear her head and to stop herself watching Huckle, whose heavy-lidded blue eyes appeared to be fluttering a little – it was hard with someone so laid-back to work out whether he was actually asleep or not – she got up and followed Reuben into the kitchen.
‘You cook?’ she said.
‘I love to cook,’ he said. ‘I’m brilliant at it. If I hadn’t been a computer genius I’d have had like nine Michelin stars. That’s two more than the most anyone has ever had.’
She smiled. ‘What are you cooking today?’
‘I cook whatever we catch,’ he said. ‘We have a couple of fresh langoustines I got this morning. It’s coming to the end of the season but they’re still pretty good, water’s still cold.’
‘She cooks,’ said Huckle sleepily from out the front.
Reuben eyed her beadily. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said. ‘Probably not better than me.’
‘No, I’m sure I don’t,’ said Polly. ‘And I’m not really a cook. I’m more of a baker.’
She flushed as she realised this was the first time she’d said the words out loud. It must be a combination of the alcohol and Reuben’s exceptional self-confidence.
‘But I love your kitchen.’
He smiled at her with satisfaction.
‘Yeah. It’s top of the line. Cost a quarter of a million sterling. Flew it in from Germany.’
Polly nodded politely.
‘Want to make us something to go with lunch?’
‘Um,’ said Polly. ‘I’m not sure now. I’d probably break something in your very expensive kitchen.’
‘Don’t be dumb,’ said Reuben. ‘I’d just like totally buy a new one.’
Suddenly Polly spied something out the back.
‘Oh my God, is that a brick oven?’
‘Sure is,’ said Reuben. ‘It’s been on an hour, too; it’s good to go. You can’t have an outdoor kitchen without a brick oven. What would you do for pizza? I’d rather die than eat bad pizza. I make great pizza.’
‘I see,’ said Polly, smiling. She was warming to Reuben. ‘Well, if you like, I could dish us up some socca.’
He opened the iron front of the oven. The heat pulsed out, scorching. Then he straightened up.
‘Some what?’ His brow was furrowed. Polly guessed that there was little Reuben disliked more than hearing things he did not already know.
She smiled. ‘Well, have you got any chickpea flour?’
‘Of course,’ said Reuben sullenly. He picked up a walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt.
‘Chickpea flour. Stat.’
‘It’s kind of a pancake,’ explained Polly. ‘But it’s good, you’ll like it.’
Reuben eyed her up.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Fish with pancakes on the side. That’ll do us.’
The flour was brought by a housemaid, who smiled politely but didn’t say anything as Polly thanked her. Polly wondered if she didn’t speak English.
‘So,’ said Reuben, watching her as she laid out the ingredients. ‘You boning Huckle, then?’
Polly nearly dropped the eggs.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Would you like to?’
Reuben burst into his barking laugh again.
‘Polly here is going through a bit of a tough time,’ said Huckle in his slow, deliberate way. ‘So I thought I’d bring her down to the best food in Cornwall, cheer her up.’
‘That’s the way, that’s the way. Do you want a martini?’ Reuben looked at her and snapped his fingers. ‘No. No, I know what you need. You need a margarita. Am I right or am I right? Margaritas make all the bad stuff go away. Until you wake up in the garbage. HA.’ He let out a slightly surprising barking laugh.
‘Um…’
Polly was having a very confusing day. Huckle gave a slight nod in her direction.
‘Er, that would be lovely,’ she said.
‘Light beer, my man? Light beer for the light-haired farm boy in the corner?’
‘Sure,’ said Huckle. ‘Hit me.’
Reuben came back with their drinks and sat down. He was actually quite relaxing to be with, because he talked non-stop about how much surfing he’d done, how many ladies he’d had down partying with him (Polly had thought partying meant having a nice party, but it seemed to mean drinking until you were technically unconscious), what an amazing summer they were all going to have and how much money he’d turned down for his estate from a Russian oligarch who’d threatened to have him sent to Siberia, but it was all right because Reuben was kung fu trained and had apparently frightened him out of it, and did she like Star Wars?
Polly replied that she did like Star Wars, or at least she liked Harrison Ford in Star Wars, whereupon Reuben got a slightly cross look and said that the new films were vastly underrated and people had to re-evaluate them, which he then proceeded to do at some length.
Not having to talk meant Polly could basically tune out and just enjoy the sound of the surf and the blueness of the sky and, she found, the comforting casual presence of Huckle, his large frame draped over the battered wooden chair, his long feet with neat short nails buried in the sand. His eyes were the same colour as the sea. She knew it was the (excellent) margarita, but she suddenly felt an urge to put her own feet in his lap. She banished the thought immediately. She was getting a very strong vibe from Huckle, and that vibe was: I will be absolutely very nice as long as you don’t ask me a single thing about my personal life or get too close.
And that was fine. It wasn’t like her own life was free of complications. She thought back to the girl at the puffin park. It seemed highly unlikely that Huck was a man short of offers. And that being the case, he was almost certainly choosing to be alone for a reason.
At one point, without interrupting his flow of consciousness, and whilst asking Huckle what colour he should paint his new helicopter, Reuben jumped up and started cooking. The smell and sizzle of wild garlic and onions in a pan made Polly realise how hungry she was, and the margarita had gone straight to her head. She could see Reuben eyeing up a wine fridge. He thought for a moment, then selected a very cold Chablis.
To clear her head and to stop herself watching Huckle, whose heavy-lidded blue eyes appeared to be fluttering a little – it was hard with someone so laid-back to work out whether he was actually asleep or not – she got up and followed Reuben into the kitchen.
‘You cook?’ she said.
‘I love to cook,’ he said. ‘I’m brilliant at it. If I hadn’t been a computer genius I’d have had like nine Michelin stars. That’s two more than the most anyone has ever had.’
She smiled. ‘What are you cooking today?’
‘I cook whatever we catch,’ he said. ‘We have a couple of fresh langoustines I got this morning. It’s coming to the end of the season but they’re still pretty good, water’s still cold.’
‘She cooks,’ said Huckle sleepily from out the front.
Reuben eyed her beadily. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said. ‘Probably not better than me.’
‘No, I’m sure I don’t,’ said Polly. ‘And I’m not really a cook. I’m more of a baker.’
She flushed as she realised this was the first time she’d said the words out loud. It must be a combination of the alcohol and Reuben’s exceptional self-confidence.
‘But I love your kitchen.’
He smiled at her with satisfaction.
‘Yeah. It’s top of the line. Cost a quarter of a million sterling. Flew it in from Germany.’
Polly nodded politely.
‘Want to make us something to go with lunch?’
‘Um,’ said Polly. ‘I’m not sure now. I’d probably break something in your very expensive kitchen.’
‘Don’t be dumb,’ said Reuben. ‘I’d just like totally buy a new one.’
Suddenly Polly spied something out the back.
‘Oh my God, is that a brick oven?’
‘Sure is,’ said Reuben. ‘It’s been on an hour, too; it’s good to go. You can’t have an outdoor kitchen without a brick oven. What would you do for pizza? I’d rather die than eat bad pizza. I make great pizza.’
‘I see,’ said Polly, smiling. She was warming to Reuben. ‘Well, if you like, I could dish us up some socca.’
He opened the iron front of the oven. The heat pulsed out, scorching. Then he straightened up.
‘Some what?’ His brow was furrowed. Polly guessed that there was little Reuben disliked more than hearing things he did not already know.
She smiled. ‘Well, have you got any chickpea flour?’
‘Of course,’ said Reuben sullenly. He picked up a walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt.
‘Chickpea flour. Stat.’
‘It’s kind of a pancake,’ explained Polly. ‘But it’s good, you’ll like it.’
Reuben eyed her up.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Fish with pancakes on the side. That’ll do us.’
The flour was brought by a housemaid, who smiled politely but didn’t say anything as Polly thanked her. Polly wondered if she didn’t speak English.
‘So,’ said Reuben, watching her as she laid out the ingredients. ‘You boning Huckle, then?’
Polly nearly dropped the eggs.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Would you like to?’
Reuben burst into his barking laugh again.
