‘Thank you, enjoy, we’ll be in touch.’ I give a small pull on Pumpkin’s lead rein. ‘Come on, mister, time to meet some more customers.’ I grin over my shoulder. ‘They might not tickle you as well as Carol, but we’ll see her again soon.’
As we walk off, I’m tempted to do wide-armed spins of joy along the high tide mark, but one look at Miles’s office-on-a-Thursday-afternoon expression and I rein myself in.
Instead I look at the people scattered across the beach, with gaps of sand between them and think aloud to Miles. ‘You might want to make the most of the crowds over the weekend. If the sun shines, every inch of the beach will be covered, but it’ll thin out again on Monday.’
Miles nods at me. ‘Good thinking. We’ll look at flavour lists when we get back.’ He’s talking softly behind me as we walk. ‘If we carry on at this rate, we’ll be done before lunch.’
There’s no time to say more because Pumpkin has been met by the advance guard from the next family and his neck is already covered in small sticky hands.
And that is pretty much the pattern along the beach. Thanks to Pumpkin’s triple stack of cuteness, charm and love of attention, there’s more focus on ponies than baking. But the second we move on to the bun samples they’re snapped up faster than you can say chocolate croissant, and along the way they’re compared to everything from cannonballs to angel wings.
This is the wonderful thing about real, live people: give them the freedom to express themselves and the chances are they’ll be a hundred times more creative than any marketing team Miles has squirrelled away in some pretentious office, pouring over their laptops.
And in line with his very annoying tendency, Miles is right about the timing. The sun is still high in the sky when we sell the last of the buns and come back along the beach.
By the time I’ve turned Pumpkin out in the field, Miles is folding up his carrier bags and putting the left-over boxes and bags into the mud room cupboard.
He joins me in the kitchen and grins. ‘You were certainly on fire today. Limited editions, croissants made in heaven, and a mailing list!’
I shake my head and remember what he said. ‘“You can unsubscribe at any time!” How hilarious was that?’
His expression goes all serious again. ‘It wasn’t a joke. It’s an essential requirement that mailing list databases comply with all current regulations– one of which is offering the on-going opportunity to opt out.’
I need to get this straight. ‘So can I create a WhatsApp group of Pumpkin’s mates who get advance warning of pastry sales? Or do you have a data protection policy that forbids that?’
His frown lines deepen. ‘In the longer term I’ll need to run it past my legal team.’ He must sense I’m about to shriek, because he hurries on. ‘If you keep it to a small circle of close, personal friends, I’m sure that will be fine for now.’
It’s easy to tell he’s been blinding me with jargon, because I’ve completely missed that he’s heading towards the door.
He stops for a second and rests his shoulder on the frame. ‘Great work there, Betty Eliza, thanks for your help. The cash by the fruit bowl is yours.’
When I blink again, he’s gone, and a few moments later I hear the scrunch of his car tyres on the lane.
Why the hell would I be disappointed to have the rest of the day to myself? Me and Miles pouring over future plans for the bakes was literally said in the moment and meant slightly less than zero– which is exactly how I understood it at the time. My afternoon is going to be so rammed with work, I wouldn’t have fitted that in anyway.
21
The Barnyard, Saltings Lane, St Aidan
Double espresso and interruptions
Friday
The next day is Friday, and my first job for this blue-skied, blustery morning is to take pictures of all the furniture pieces that Edie painted yesterday at the barnyard. Even in their new muted undercoat shades, the shelves, bedside cabinets, chests of drawers and little dressers are already looking like newly invented versions of their former selves.
While I’m there I drop into the maker’s market. I nip into the felters’ and invest in enough felted pompom garlands to make Pumpkin stand out from the crowds on what promises to be a busy weekend on the beach. Then I load up with garden posies from the outdoor stalls to pretty up the cottage, and spend a long time taking photos because there are so many gorgeous displays. Honestly, I wasn’t hanging around just so I'd bump into Scarlett’s friends from last week, but when Clemmie bobs out of the doorway and waves me over, my heart skips a beat.
As I step into the stable she beams at me from behind her tray bake piles, pushes a chocolate flapjack into my hand and whispers in my ear, ‘the Net Loft is still there. If living with Miles and his film-star good looks gets too arduous, you know where we are.’
I take it she hasn’t heard about my very embarrassing anti-materialism freak-out the day I had my impromptu tour. ‘You obviously haven’t spoken to Beth’s dad, Malcolm?’
Clemmie’s face twists into a grin. ‘Actually I did. He said how much you loved it.’ She laughs. ‘You aren’t the first person in St Aidan to be bricking it at the thought of responsibility. We’ve all been there.’
‘You have?’
She nods. ‘It’s scary the first time, worse if you’re doing it by yourself, but it gets easier. That’s why everyone in St Aidan tries to help each other. I’ve only got my stall up here because I’m covering for Loella who does the patchwork, while she’s away.’
It’s a relief to know that I’m not completely on my own. ‘The studio is different because it has the living space too.’
