I’m still wriggling. ‘You have to give me more than that.’
He blows out his cheeks. ‘It’s nothing complicated. Just you and me, for a couple of hours in the Boathouse Cottage kitchen.’
How is it that every time I reach rock bottom I manage to sink to a lower level.
‘In any case…’ I’m not going down without a fight. ‘Tonight and tomorrow I’ll be doing the Facebook page, then it’s the weekend, and Mondays are usually really busy too.’
Miles lifts an eyebrow. ‘And before we know it, it’ll be September?’
I sit up and borrow a phrase from him. ‘Are you saying we should park it?’
His face breaks into a grin. ‘Let’s not overthink this. How about we do it when we get a minute to spare?’
Which is the worst of all worlds, because I’ll never know when it’s coming.
‘Saturday? But absolutely none of your music.’
‘Understood.’ His grin widens. ‘Unless you get a better offer.’ He gives me a nudge. ‘No pressure to do dinner afterwards either.’
That should be doable, even for me. It’s slightly worrying that he knows me well enough to swing this.
35
The kitchen at Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
New tricks and old dogs
Saturday
‘So what’s this about then?’
If Miles knows my limitations– which he does because I’ve told him– I’m still not sure why we’re standing in the Boathouse Cottage kitchen next to an island spread with utensils and ingredients on a Saturday evening when there are a thousand more important things we could be doing.
He clears his throat. ‘I’m consolidating.’
That confirms it for me. ‘We’re working towards your world ambitions here?’
‘Indirectly.’ He hands me a bag with dusky blue fabric folded inside. ‘I got you a customised apron, from Edie and Aunty Jo. It’s made from organic hemp.’
‘That’s a little over-the-top, but I’m pleased you shopped locally.’ I shake it open, and read the words printed down the right hand front as I put it on. ‘Betsy & Milo Sun Sand Sea Surf.Thank you, that’s very smart.’ Since Friday, when we hung Edie’s signs in the shop, I’ve been banging on non-stop about how scary it all feels now it’s real. Faced with it again, I’m momentarily lost for another variation.
There’s another flap of fabric. ‘I grabbed one for myself too.’
I watch him tying himself into an identical one and let out a shriek. ‘Our names? On matching pinnies?’
One more time, and he’s biting back his smile. ‘No need to panic, Betty B. It’s not only us, there are eighteen more to sell in the shop.’ His eyebrows go up. ‘Aprons have a lot of longevity. They’re like an everlasting advert. I jumped on the free publicity bus while it was passing.’
I’m flapping mine in front of my face to fan away my flush of panic. That’s less alarming. And more alarming. And I can’t see why we’d be hung up on adverts for something that isn’t going to last more than a few weeks. I blow air up over my face. ‘Shall we just get on?’
He shakes flour across the work surface then takes the plastic film off two blocks of pastry, puts one down in front of me, hands me a rolling pin and pushes me a flour sifter. ‘Now I’ve nailed the buns myself, the next step is to see if other people can make them, too.’
I’m squaring up my pastry block like he’s doing with his. ‘So you’re aiming for countrywide hand-made mass-production!’ The significance is sinking in. ‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’
He’s smiling to himself. ‘Forget the long words, let’s see how you do with the dough.’ He’s already started rolling his own block. ‘This is some I’ve just defrosted, we’ve got to keep it cool and work quickly so it doesn’t get too sticky. Aim for firm, smooth, even strokes, we’re heading for a rectangle the size of that silicone mat, and it should be the same thickness all the way across.’
It takes me back to when we used to bake jam tarts with mum as kids. Scarlett and I had our own mini rolling pins, but obviously my sister refused to use her childish one and insisted on using Mum’s.
‘So when did you get into baking?’ I pause to catch my breath.
