Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 42
‘Seriously?’ said the driver. ‘I mean, this is a pricey bit of kit.’
Polly looked at it, smiling. Even though obviously the shop wasn’t hers, it felt like the oven was.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘This is just the start. You stick it in, I’ll make some tea. Oh crap, I forgot to get milk again.’
Chapter Thirteen
Polly had hoped that as time went on, she and Gillian would learn to shake off their rough edges, get along a little better. Nobody had to like the people they worked with, not necessarily.
But if anything, she found things getting harder. Gillian seemed determined to fight her on every single suggestion, so she made none. She brushed past Polly rudely in the shop, and would let her bake only the most basic white bread – although now her bread was getting so good, so light and tasty, just through sheer practice. The shop was busier, cleaner than it had been in a long time. But this just seemed to make Gillian more resentful than ever. Polly became quieter and quieter, but even this was annoying, it seemed.
Coupled with the early mornings, and using every spare minute to begin quietly cleaning up the downstairs bakery so she could start playing with her new oven (she’d sent a very grateful thank you card to Reuben. She didn’t know his full address, but was reasonably confident it would find him), Polly felt tired and demoralised. And the money was… well. She hoped she wouldn’t suddenly develop holes in her shoes, otherwise she was going to have to fix them with gaffer tape.
She was trudging her way home one grey Saturday when her phone went off.
‘RIGHT,’ said Kerensa. ‘I’m on my way. I think you must have finished with the wound-licking by now.’
‘What?’ said Polly, unwilling to admit that she felt she might have exchanged one set of work problems for another.
‘I’m on my way. For a night out. The bright lights of Mount Polbearne!’
‘Ah,’ said Polly. ‘There aren’t really any of those.’
‘There must be somewhere everybody goes.’
There was the large pub on the harbour with the dark wooden door. It was incredibly old and still had its original courtyard where tavern visitors would have stabled their horses. Now the courtyard was full of tables and chairs, and as the evenings became warmer, they had started to fill up on Friday and Saturday nights. Polly had wanted to venture in for a pint, but felt nervous. The fishermen must go sometimes, but she didn’t really want to ask; they had their own lives. She hadn’t seen Huckle in weeks. She really really, she realised, wanted some company that wasn’t going to tut at her for spilling flour on the work surfaces.
‘Well, it’s probably not what you’re used to…’
‘I don’t give a fuck, darling, I just need to get out of this hellhole.’
‘Internet dating gone wrong again?’
‘They’re all scuzz, Pol. All of them. All the half-decent men have been snapped up.’
‘Ha,’ said Polly, only just realising. ‘I’ll tell you what there are a lot of in Polbearne.’
‘Mixologists?’ said Kerensa hopefully.
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘But it is absolutely stuffed to the gills with blokes.’
‘I’m getting in the car.’
Kerensa turned up that evening wearing a ludicrously inappropriate pink minidress with her hair dyed bright red. She looked a little alarming. Polly was so pleased to see her she nearly cried.
‘SO!’ said Kerensa. ‘The famous new life!’
She looked around.
‘Like what you’ve done with the place,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ said Polly. She hadn’t managed to do much, but the scrubbed floors and the pale stripped-back table, together with one or two of the nice art prints she once used to wander round galleries choosing at her leisure and paying for on her credit card – ha! – hanging on the plain walls, plus of course her wonderful window and extraordinary view, had made the place far more cosy than it had been before.
‘I can’t believe we haven’t seen you,’ said Kerensa. ‘Is it just too much fun here?’
‘Oh Kerensa,’ said Polly, opening up the lovely bottle of fizzy stuff her friend had kindly brought, and keeping her own very cheap bottle of rosé at the back of the fridge. ‘I have been horribly…’
It was very hard to say the words.
‘I’ve been lonely,’ she said simply, staring out of the window.
Kerensa looked at her, and filled two mismatched glasses.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘And before you say it, yes, I have a fabulous job, blah blah blah, and loads of friends… but I miss my bestie. And I really want someone to come home to, but they’re all superdicks. And not in a good way.’
The sun was going down over the bay. It was exquisite; great tendrils of bright pink stretching out and lighting up the clouds. Kerensa strode over to look at it.
‘This is quite cool, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Polly.
‘And you’re working?’
‘Yes. That sucks. But…’
‘I thought it sounded perfect for you.’
‘You haven’t met my boss.’
‘Ooh,’ said Kerensa. ‘Boss from hell?’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘Boss from wherever it is hell sends people who are too annoying to work for.’
They chinked glasses.
‘To not being lonely,’ said Kerensa quietly. ‘Oh CRAP, that is the most depressing toast we’ve ever made. How about, to constantly being fabulous?’
‘Much better,’ said Polly, incredibly cheered to see her best friend.
They went to the pub in the end, Kerensa forcing Polly into a brightly coloured top – ‘Otherwise I’ll look like the town good-time girl.’
‘Well, one, you are that, and two, what did you think this place would be like?’
‘St Ives,’ said Kerensa gloomily. ‘I thought I was going to pick up Prince Harry.’
Polly laughed. ‘Oh Kerensa, it is so very good to see you. Come on.’
The evening was mild, and the old courtyard of the pub was cheerfully lit up with lanterns on the tables and little candles in glass jars everywhere. A waitress went round taking orders, and before long Kerensa and Polly were stuck back into dissecting their lives, gossiping and sharing their news as if they’d never been apart.
Polly looked at it, smiling. Even though obviously the shop wasn’t hers, it felt like the oven was.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘This is just the start. You stick it in, I’ll make some tea. Oh crap, I forgot to get milk again.’
Chapter Thirteen
Polly had hoped that as time went on, she and Gillian would learn to shake off their rough edges, get along a little better. Nobody had to like the people they worked with, not necessarily.
But if anything, she found things getting harder. Gillian seemed determined to fight her on every single suggestion, so she made none. She brushed past Polly rudely in the shop, and would let her bake only the most basic white bread – although now her bread was getting so good, so light and tasty, just through sheer practice. The shop was busier, cleaner than it had been in a long time. But this just seemed to make Gillian more resentful than ever. Polly became quieter and quieter, but even this was annoying, it seemed.
Coupled with the early mornings, and using every spare minute to begin quietly cleaning up the downstairs bakery so she could start playing with her new oven (she’d sent a very grateful thank you card to Reuben. She didn’t know his full address, but was reasonably confident it would find him), Polly felt tired and demoralised. And the money was… well. She hoped she wouldn’t suddenly develop holes in her shoes, otherwise she was going to have to fix them with gaffer tape.
She was trudging her way home one grey Saturday when her phone went off.
‘RIGHT,’ said Kerensa. ‘I’m on my way. I think you must have finished with the wound-licking by now.’
‘What?’ said Polly, unwilling to admit that she felt she might have exchanged one set of work problems for another.
‘I’m on my way. For a night out. The bright lights of Mount Polbearne!’
‘Ah,’ said Polly. ‘There aren’t really any of those.’
‘There must be somewhere everybody goes.’
There was the large pub on the harbour with the dark wooden door. It was incredibly old and still had its original courtyard where tavern visitors would have stabled their horses. Now the courtyard was full of tables and chairs, and as the evenings became warmer, they had started to fill up on Friday and Saturday nights. Polly had wanted to venture in for a pint, but felt nervous. The fishermen must go sometimes, but she didn’t really want to ask; they had their own lives. She hadn’t seen Huckle in weeks. She really really, she realised, wanted some company that wasn’t going to tut at her for spilling flour on the work surfaces.
‘Well, it’s probably not what you’re used to…’
‘I don’t give a fuck, darling, I just need to get out of this hellhole.’
‘Internet dating gone wrong again?’
‘They’re all scuzz, Pol. All of them. All the half-decent men have been snapped up.’
‘Ha,’ said Polly, only just realising. ‘I’ll tell you what there are a lot of in Polbearne.’
‘Mixologists?’ said Kerensa hopefully.
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘But it is absolutely stuffed to the gills with blokes.’
‘I’m getting in the car.’
Kerensa turned up that evening wearing a ludicrously inappropriate pink minidress with her hair dyed bright red. She looked a little alarming. Polly was so pleased to see her she nearly cried.
‘SO!’ said Kerensa. ‘The famous new life!’
She looked around.
‘Like what you’ve done with the place,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ said Polly. She hadn’t managed to do much, but the scrubbed floors and the pale stripped-back table, together with one or two of the nice art prints she once used to wander round galleries choosing at her leisure and paying for on her credit card – ha! – hanging on the plain walls, plus of course her wonderful window and extraordinary view, had made the place far more cosy than it had been before.
‘I can’t believe we haven’t seen you,’ said Kerensa. ‘Is it just too much fun here?’
‘Oh Kerensa,’ said Polly, opening up the lovely bottle of fizzy stuff her friend had kindly brought, and keeping her own very cheap bottle of rosé at the back of the fridge. ‘I have been horribly…’
It was very hard to say the words.
‘I’ve been lonely,’ she said simply, staring out of the window.
Kerensa looked at her, and filled two mismatched glasses.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘And before you say it, yes, I have a fabulous job, blah blah blah, and loads of friends… but I miss my bestie. And I really want someone to come home to, but they’re all superdicks. And not in a good way.’
The sun was going down over the bay. It was exquisite; great tendrils of bright pink stretching out and lighting up the clouds. Kerensa strode over to look at it.
‘This is quite cool, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Polly.
‘And you’re working?’
‘Yes. That sucks. But…’
‘I thought it sounded perfect for you.’
‘You haven’t met my boss.’
‘Ooh,’ said Kerensa. ‘Boss from hell?’
‘No,’ said Polly. ‘Boss from wherever it is hell sends people who are too annoying to work for.’
They chinked glasses.
‘To not being lonely,’ said Kerensa quietly. ‘Oh CRAP, that is the most depressing toast we’ve ever made. How about, to constantly being fabulous?’
‘Much better,’ said Polly, incredibly cheered to see her best friend.
They went to the pub in the end, Kerensa forcing Polly into a brightly coloured top – ‘Otherwise I’ll look like the town good-time girl.’
‘Well, one, you are that, and two, what did you think this place would be like?’
‘St Ives,’ said Kerensa gloomily. ‘I thought I was going to pick up Prince Harry.’
Polly laughed. ‘Oh Kerensa, it is so very good to see you. Come on.’
The evening was mild, and the old courtyard of the pub was cheerfully lit up with lanterns on the tables and little candles in glass jars everywhere. A waitress went round taking orders, and before long Kerensa and Polly were stuck back into dissecting their lives, gossiping and sharing their news as if they’d never been apart.
