I laugh as I wander along the landing. ‘Maps of ocean currents, stuff like that. Turtles and dolphins guide themselves by the earth’s magnetic fields. Mermaids are similar.’
He pushes through the door from the landing and I follow his back. Then he looks at me over his shoulder and his face breaks into another grin that splits my chest in two. ‘Ooops. Navigational slip.’
‘What?’ Even top flight mermaids get confused sometimes, and I’ve got no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Spot the deliberate mistake. We’re in the wrong flat. Mine not yours.’
Jeez, what a day. ‘In that case I’ll turn my sonar on and see if I can get us to next door.’
If I thought about the full Freudian implications, I’d be appalled that I’d just accidentally followed him back to his place. As it is, there’s no point making a big deal out of nothing. Although to be honest I’m not that surprised I can’t find my way back home.
I’ve got my own flat, a job, a resident cat, a half-brother in pursuit, I’m fancying the pants off the most disgusting and unsuitable guy out when I’m the last person who would ever contemplate a relationship, worrying about development in a place I don’t even want to live. These are all alien concepts to me. And to top it all, I now actually own a food mixer. As free spirits go, is there anything more depressingly domestic? No wonder I’m confused. It’s like I’m inhabiting someone else’s life, not mine. Seriously, I need to get myself back to Paris, and get reunited with my old and proper self before anything worse happens.
17
In the courtyard at Hawthorne Farm
Car boots and baby-led weaning
Monday
Sophie’s shout comes floating from the kitchen. ‘Rhubarb!’
I have to be honest, after an entire afternoon at Raining Stars Sensory Babies even a random word like rhubarb seems sensible. As I rest my bum on the sixteen-person dining table in Sophie’s outdoor courtyard, and watch Marco and Tilly haring round me in their Cosy Coupé cars, my stomach muscles are literally killing. Sadly, I can’t claim it’s from a Dakota-style Body Pump gym workout because I haven’t done one. My pain is all from trying to hold in my hysterical laughter earlier because no one else in the village hall was cracking a smile. The class coordinator rolling round under a silk parachute popping puppets through holes while we all sang along. The Little Green Frog Song lyrics projected onto the ceiling. A bubble machine. Chaser fairy lights. And ten babies, all howling.
It’s a huge relief to be home again, standing by with a bath sheet while Maisie flings her food. I flinch as a broccoli floret whizzes past my ear, and pick a sticky lump of banana out of my hair. ‘Please, no more missiles for Maisie’s high chair tray, this is already worse than paint balling. Why is she throwing the food not eating it?’ At eight months, old Maisie’s a crack shot, but I’d be happier if she was firing her snacks into her mouth, rather than at me.
Sophie’s finally reconnected with her sense of humour because she’s laughing. ‘Baby-led weaning is about fun not calories. Anyway, I was suggesting rhubarb for you, not Maisie.’
I let out groan as a handful of mashed potato splats down my dress. ‘Red Bull and BLT’s are good for me, thanks. I’ll leave the healthy options for your poor kids.’
Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘Keep up, Clemmie. How about rhubarb as the theme for the next Little Cornish Kitchen event? You brought Laura’s basket along so we can decide on new menus remember?’ Since I’ve been searching through the cards, this time around my list of ideas is so long I’m hoping she’ll help me choose.
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Summer sorbet and meringues are stuff-your-face irresistible, but rhubarb feels like a minority interest.’
She’s shaking her head. ‘That’s the trouble, living abroad you getsoout of touch. Rhubarb’s totally on trend. Truly, it’s the new quinoa.’
I shudder as I think of the tasteless little balls I came across nestling next to my roasted squash when I accidentally got the wrong order at the Yellow Canary one night. ‘Kale and seaweed haven’t peaked in Paris yet. Not in the patisseries I visit anyway.’
She’s still just as enthusiastic. ‘We’ve got shedloads of rhubarb in the veggie garden, so it’s free. That’s extra important now you’ve smashed the three thousand pound profit barrier. You’ve got a great following now. People love coming to your flat because it’s like a themed pub, only real. I suspect you could serve Pot Noodles, and they’d still flock up your stairs.’
I perk up at that. ‘Pot Noodles are a good suggestion. Last time I checked, they did seventeen flavours. We could watch ironic films while we ate them.’
‘Wo-ah, minor interestandgrunge is not where the money is. Believe me, I’ve paid for the marketing surveys.’
If she’s onto boring strategy talk, I need a diversion. ‘Actually, there was a bit of a disaster at last night’s event …’
She takes a breath. ‘There’s no such word in business. View every set back as a new opportunity.’
Business hardly describes my scramble to get some cash together, even if I do get a curious thrill when I check my totals. Who’d ever have believed I’d be doing my own accounts and getting almost as obsessed with columns of figures as Nell.
But getting back to reality. ‘I accidentally delivered a Pavlova into a guest’s lap. And he’d asked for extra cream too.’ Mortifying didn’t begin to cover it.
‘Oooo, shizzle.’ The smile playing around her lips suggests she’s regretting missing out on the action. ‘Remember Gravy-gate?’
‘As if I’d forget.’ Me tripping and colliding with the replacement gravy urn en route to the condiments table was the trough of my teenage glass collecting career. Back then the Crab and Pilchard did three meats and all you can eat vegetables for the bargain price of £1.99. Back when bargainswerebargains, as Harry would say. Two parties of ten, their chairsandthe carpet, all doused in catering Bisto. And a cleaning bill that mounted up to more than I’d earned in two years. ‘Whipped cream on one pair of Levis and a tapestry cushion wasn’t a hundredth as bad as that.’ I was lucky the manager let me off for being a good worker, or I’d still be paying it back now.
Her eyes narrow. ‘It’s not like you to make a slip up?’
