Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 54
‘Tea?’ she said, fetching out her mismatched crockery and the leftover buns from lunchtime.
Chris nodded, and she laid the table by the big window, where the sunset was now making an enormous pink and purple display, as if showing off just for them.
‘So,’ she said gently as she put her cup down.
Chris stared into his own cup, then out of the window.
‘You’re running that bakery downstairs?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, and I’m running it for someone else, but you know…’
‘How can you even bake for that many?’
Polly shrugged. ‘It’s just practice. You know… all those weekends…’
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. All the weekends he hadn’t come home from work, or insisted that they couldn’t go out as he was too stressed, or was recovering from a dreadful hangover after attempting to drown his sorrows, a technique that rarely worked well, or for long.
‘This is just upscaling.’
Chris shook his head. She could see from his face that he was startlingly, terribly jealous.
‘Um, you know, it’s not that great,’ she said. ‘I mean, it is freezing and I have to get up at stupid o’clock and the locals can be REALLY AWFUL and…’
She was babbling, she knew, but she didn’t know what else to do.
‘Yeah, well, things are going really well for me,’ said Chris quickly. ‘I’ve been working with some websites… I mean, mostly for exposure, but it really gets my name out there, you know?’
Polly did know. People getting free creative work, saying it was in return for publicity – who wouldn’t dream of not paying their plumber? Or for a loaf of bread, for that matter.
‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘And how’s your mum?’
Chris frowned. ‘Um… she’s all right. She thinks I should go and live on my own again. But everywhere to rent is a total shithole. I mean, you got lucky.’
Polly bristled a bit at this.
‘It’s really hard out there.’ His face was contorted, and he was whining like a disappointed child.
‘I know,’ said Polly, and as gently as she was able said, ‘Have you thought about maybe another line of work?’
‘What, like making cakes?’ Chris scoffed. ‘No, you see it’s kind of different for me. I’m a professional.’
Polly decided it was best they leave before she hit him with the teapot.
In the pub, with their fish and chips and a bottle of white wine in front of them – fortunately apart from Patrick the vet there was no one else in there she knew – she cleared her throat.
‘So,’ she said awkwardly, filling their glasses. ‘Um. The flat.’
‘Yes,’ said Chris. ‘Right.’ His face went a little pink and he cleared his throat, as if announcing something. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. Now that you’re earning, I thought you could take the mortgage on fresh. And I’ll move back in and look for a job. Then when I’m on my feet again, you can move back to Plymouth and get a proper job, and Bob’s your uncle, we’ll just go on like before and we’ll save the flat.’
Polly took a long swig of her wine. Here was Chris, finally saying the words she’d been dying for him to say for six months – no, longer than that. The last two years. She found herself blinking rapidly.
‘But I have a job here,’ she found herself saying.
She forgot how convinced she’d been – she’d told Kerensa enough times – that Mount Polbearne was a temporary measure until she got back on her feet; that they were having a trial separation until the good ship Polly and Chris righted itself again.
Plus her wages were hardly going to stretch to rent and a mortgage.
‘Yeah, but, you know…’ Chris gestured around. ‘This one-horse town. It isn’t you, Pol. It isn’t us, you know?’
Polly thought of their joint fantasy: two hip young professionals, living in a fashionable apartment, getting ahead in business, going to smart meetings, trendy bars. That girl… she barely remembered that girl now.
She took a deep breath, turned round and stared out to sea. The lighthouse swept its great beam around, illuminating the cobbled streets, the harbour wall, the seagulls fighting like teenage boys drunk on cider, the little white road signs. She could only just see the jutting, crumbling facade of the bakery on the harbour, gulls soaring overhead.
She steadied herself, looked at Chris, whose face was anxious. She realised that he was worried about her answer. And she realised that she hadn’t known – not properly known, deep down – till that precise second exactly what her decision was going to have to be. She had always said the move to Polbearne was going to be temporary. But regardless of the ups and downs, it had come to mean to her much, much more.
‘I think,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘I think maybe it is me.’
There was a long silence. They both stared at their glasses.
‘What do you mean?’ said Chris, finally.
Polly felt a painful lump in her throat and suddenly had to fight back tears.
‘I mean, I don’t think… I don’t think I want to go back to how it was.’
Chris frowned. ‘You don’t want to run a business any more. That’s okay, we can’t do that anyway, not for two years. But we can still keep the flat with you covering the —’
‘No.’
Polly realised how seldom she had said no to Chris. In fact, most of her time with him had been spent trying to make him happy. No wonder, she thought ruefully, she had ended up being seduced by the first bloke who’d come along. That thought made her feel sick and she squashed it back down.
‘You’re not serious?’
The lighthouse beam swept over them one more time. In the harbour the fishing boat lights came on, and Polly felt a tug deep down as they started chugging their way out to their long night’s work ahead. Muriel and her husband passed by on an evening stroll. Sitting on the harbour wall were a couple of early holidaymakers; a boy and a girl with their arms around each other, the boy stealing kisses into the girl’s long hair. Overhead, a few stars were starting to pop out in the clear night sky.
Polly shrugged. ‘I think… I think… I mean, at least for the time being, but —’
Chris nodded, and she laid the table by the big window, where the sunset was now making an enormous pink and purple display, as if showing off just for them.
‘So,’ she said gently as she put her cup down.
Chris stared into his own cup, then out of the window.
‘You’re running that bakery downstairs?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, and I’m running it for someone else, but you know…’
‘How can you even bake for that many?’
Polly shrugged. ‘It’s just practice. You know… all those weekends…’
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. All the weekends he hadn’t come home from work, or insisted that they couldn’t go out as he was too stressed, or was recovering from a dreadful hangover after attempting to drown his sorrows, a technique that rarely worked well, or for long.
‘This is just upscaling.’
Chris shook his head. She could see from his face that he was startlingly, terribly jealous.
‘Um, you know, it’s not that great,’ she said. ‘I mean, it is freezing and I have to get up at stupid o’clock and the locals can be REALLY AWFUL and…’
She was babbling, she knew, but she didn’t know what else to do.
‘Yeah, well, things are going really well for me,’ said Chris quickly. ‘I’ve been working with some websites… I mean, mostly for exposure, but it really gets my name out there, you know?’
Polly did know. People getting free creative work, saying it was in return for publicity – who wouldn’t dream of not paying their plumber? Or for a loaf of bread, for that matter.
‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘And how’s your mum?’
Chris frowned. ‘Um… she’s all right. She thinks I should go and live on my own again. But everywhere to rent is a total shithole. I mean, you got lucky.’
Polly bristled a bit at this.
‘It’s really hard out there.’ His face was contorted, and he was whining like a disappointed child.
‘I know,’ said Polly, and as gently as she was able said, ‘Have you thought about maybe another line of work?’
‘What, like making cakes?’ Chris scoffed. ‘No, you see it’s kind of different for me. I’m a professional.’
Polly decided it was best they leave before she hit him with the teapot.
In the pub, with their fish and chips and a bottle of white wine in front of them – fortunately apart from Patrick the vet there was no one else in there she knew – she cleared her throat.
‘So,’ she said awkwardly, filling their glasses. ‘Um. The flat.’
‘Yes,’ said Chris. ‘Right.’ His face went a little pink and he cleared his throat, as if announcing something. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. Now that you’re earning, I thought you could take the mortgage on fresh. And I’ll move back in and look for a job. Then when I’m on my feet again, you can move back to Plymouth and get a proper job, and Bob’s your uncle, we’ll just go on like before and we’ll save the flat.’
Polly took a long swig of her wine. Here was Chris, finally saying the words she’d been dying for him to say for six months – no, longer than that. The last two years. She found herself blinking rapidly.
‘But I have a job here,’ she found herself saying.
She forgot how convinced she’d been – she’d told Kerensa enough times – that Mount Polbearne was a temporary measure until she got back on her feet; that they were having a trial separation until the good ship Polly and Chris righted itself again.
Plus her wages were hardly going to stretch to rent and a mortgage.
‘Yeah, but, you know…’ Chris gestured around. ‘This one-horse town. It isn’t you, Pol. It isn’t us, you know?’
Polly thought of their joint fantasy: two hip young professionals, living in a fashionable apartment, getting ahead in business, going to smart meetings, trendy bars. That girl… she barely remembered that girl now.
She took a deep breath, turned round and stared out to sea. The lighthouse swept its great beam around, illuminating the cobbled streets, the harbour wall, the seagulls fighting like teenage boys drunk on cider, the little white road signs. She could only just see the jutting, crumbling facade of the bakery on the harbour, gulls soaring overhead.
She steadied herself, looked at Chris, whose face was anxious. She realised that he was worried about her answer. And she realised that she hadn’t known – not properly known, deep down – till that precise second exactly what her decision was going to have to be. She had always said the move to Polbearne was going to be temporary. But regardless of the ups and downs, it had come to mean to her much, much more.
‘I think,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘I think maybe it is me.’
There was a long silence. They both stared at their glasses.
‘What do you mean?’ said Chris, finally.
Polly felt a painful lump in her throat and suddenly had to fight back tears.
‘I mean, I don’t think… I don’t think I want to go back to how it was.’
Chris frowned. ‘You don’t want to run a business any more. That’s okay, we can’t do that anyway, not for two years. But we can still keep the flat with you covering the —’
‘No.’
Polly realised how seldom she had said no to Chris. In fact, most of her time with him had been spent trying to make him happy. No wonder, she thought ruefully, she had ended up being seduced by the first bloke who’d come along. That thought made her feel sick and she squashed it back down.
‘You’re not serious?’
The lighthouse beam swept over them one more time. In the harbour the fishing boat lights came on, and Polly felt a tug deep down as they started chugging their way out to their long night’s work ahead. Muriel and her husband passed by on an evening stroll. Sitting on the harbour wall were a couple of early holidaymakers; a boy and a girl with their arms around each other, the boy stealing kisses into the girl’s long hair. Overhead, a few stars were starting to pop out in the clear night sky.
Polly shrugged. ‘I think… I think… I mean, at least for the time being, but —’
