Clemmie nods. ‘Maybe you need a partner to share the downstairs. Did I hear you and Miles had been out selling pastries?’
I’m looking at Clemmie’s stacks of tray bakes and my stomach clenches. ‘I hope we weren’t treading on your toes– or anyone else’s?’
Clemmie shakes her head. ‘There’s always room for pastries in St Aidan, especially something a little bit different like yours.’
There’s a deep throaty laugh, and Nell appears from behind a shelf unit filled with scarves clutching a baby and a nappy bag. ‘Us mermaids are fully tied up with babies and toddlers. Even our friend Sophie is having one.’
Clemmie nods. ‘They’re babies for such a short time, we’d hate to miss a moment, so we’ve scaled the Little Cornish Kitchen back for this year.’ Her smile widens. ‘It’s great there’s something delicious to fill that gap.’
As for Miles, he’s the one I’m trying to get away from. He’s the last person I’d team up with, so I’ll be honest about that too. ‘The buns are Miles’s project, and if he ever does get as far as a start-up, they’ll be in the buzziest, on-trend urban locations. Didsbury. Clifton. Notting Hill. Hampstead. Between us, he’s got his sights set on high-flying hedge fund managers, not Cornish day trippers.’
Clemmie watches me step back outside. ‘People have a habit of surprising themselves, especially in St Aidan. I haven’t given up on either of you yet.’
* * *
I arrive back from the barnyard fifteen minutes later to find the cottage kitchen smelling deliciously of baking, stacks of pastries on their cooling trays, but no sign of Miles.
I’m leaning in to examine them, talking quietly to myself. ‘Vanilla custard swirls– apple and sultanas crisscrossed with zigzags of white glacé icing– and cinnamon– which I will happily leave for everyone else.’
There’s an orange Post-it note under the foot of the end tray, next to a pile of the new boxes.
Betsee B, buns 4 U 2 sell, TY, Miles.
Okay, it’s a bit cryptic, but as it’s giving me the green light to get out there on the beach with the latest set of goods, I’m on my way.
I look through my messages, find the people from yesterday who would like a text alert, and send them off. Carol messages straight back, and I agree to meet her and a lot of her friends in half an hour on the sands just down from the harbour. Since Pumpkin hasn’t been out yet he’ll be up for an outing too, so we’ll walk straight to the harbour then hopefully sell what’s left on our way back.
I take a couple of minutes to eat one, a moment to be amazed at how wonderfully the silky sweet vanilla of the custard goes with the crisp of the flakes, then I get straight to work making up the boxes.
It’s a little bit like what Clemmie was saying earlier. Going out with the pastries last weekend for the first time was a huge adventure, but almost a week later the fear is less.
Today it’s the same as both the previous times; we run out of buns a long time before we run out of customers. But at least that gives me time to write a few messages in the sand. This afternoon I take my inspiration from Clemmie, and writeSurprise yourself!Then I do aDidsbury, Clifton, Notting Hill, Hampstead, St Aidan. Just to keep them guessing. Then I write,I’m done adulting, let’s be mermaids,Girls just want to have sun,andBlustery and blueto describe today.
And after that, I head back, pull the sun lounger out of the wind, and get to work sorting out my photos and writing some words.
It’s one of those days without any interruptions when I lose myself in the job. No one comes home to turf me off the lounger, and no one turns on the inspirational classical tunes so they boom out from the kitchen. For one glorious late afternoon and early evening, I have the place to myself, and it’s heaven. Sure, from time to time I stop and strain my ears to see if I can pick up the bump of tyres on the stones down the lane. The sound of the handbrake as a car pulls to a stop in the parking area. But however many times I listen, it’s never there.
The first sound to slice through my concentration is my ringtone, and as the twangy notes of ‘I’m a believer’ bounce around the terrace, I’m surprised to see the sun is already slipping towards the horizon. The second surprise is that it’s Scarlett. By rights she should be gearing up for a Friday night on the town in New York.
‘Hey, Scarlie, do you want me to test the outside shower again before it goes out of warranty?’
There’s a moment of hesitation. ‘It’s a lot more serious than plumbing today, Bets.’
‘Keep going…’
‘I chose you because you’re the one person I know who won’t judge.’ She sighs. ‘Tate was supposed to be meeting me for cocktails an hour ago, and he hasn’t come.’
I’m trying to get a handle on how serious this is. ‘Is he running late? Can’t find a yellow cab? Caught at the office?’
She lets out a hollow laugh. ‘Now there’s a thing. We come halfway round the world, and last night I go to drinks at Tate’s work, and finally come face to face with the reason we’re here.’
There’s something chilling in her tone. ‘What’s the matter? Who did you meet?’
‘Virginia Kemp.Five foot ten, slender, greener than Greta, with a PhD to match. So much for the office expansion– she pulled Tate out here to land him and he’s eighty per cent reeled in. One more sharp tug on the line, he’ll be hers.’
‘Shit.’
Scarlie blows down the phone. ‘We can’t talk about this without alcohol. I’m downing Manhattans. You need to match me drink for drink or I won’t make any sense.’
