A Little Love (8 page)

‘London’s in my blood,’ she continued. ‘I never take it for granted.’ She thought of the awe and excitement she felt each time she drove along the Embankment at night, along the curve of the river, with the buildings lit up on both sides and the different bridges. ‘For me it’s a city that gets more beautiful – the London Eye, the Shard. The skyline is constantly changing and that keeps my interest.’ She paused and waved her hand. ‘Sorry, ignore me, I’m waffling.’

‘No, don’t apologise. It’s lovely to hear you being so positive. I spend my life replying to complaints from people who want things to stay exactly as they are, especially if any potential build might overlook their back garden. People don’t like change.’

‘Not all people.’

‘No, quite.’ He smiled at her. ‘Not all people. But I think most find change frightening, especially at our age.’

‘At our age? Oh my word, we sound ancient! It’s funny, I don’t think of myself as getting on; sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m quite shocked to see this old face staring back at me, because inside I feel the same as I always did. Having said which – at least I’m still standing! Getting old is a privilege, really, don’t you think?’

Christopher nodded, slowly. ‘Oh, I definitely do.’

Pru put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, Chris, I wasn’t thinking about Ginny. I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.’

‘Not at all, it’s fine!’ He put his hand on her arm.

She felt the shockwave from where he had touched her; it shot through her entire body. She was sure that if she looked, his fingers would have left a glowing imprint on her skin. She gave an involuntary shudder.

‘Gosh, you’re getting chilly now it’s dark. Come on, a brisk walk back should warm you up!’

This time she linked her arm through his and they strolled through the dark streets, grinning at each other at the end of what had turned out to be the most wonderful day.

They paused outside her front door.

‘This is very strange for me, Pru. I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was away. I feel like a schoolboy with one eye on the windows in case your angry father is twitching the net curtains.’

‘He’d be bloody angry if he was and understandably so. He’s been dead for over fifty years and being brought back to twitch net curtains would try the patience of anyone!’

Christopher laughed and looked at his shoes. ‘I would very much to see you again, if that’s okay?’

‘I’m not sure about that, I’ll have to ask my dad.’

‘In the same way that you’d ask your brother?’

‘Ha! Actually, no, I don’t talk to my dad in that way. That’s strange, isn’t it? Maybe I was too young to know him like I knew Alfie.’

‘What a funny pair we are.’

She smiled up at him. She liked being considered part of a pair.

Pru slipped into sleep with a grin on her face, but only a few hours later she was drenched in sweat, claimed by a horrible nightmare. She woke up suddenly and reached with a shaking hand for the glass of water that sat on the bedside table. She clicked on the lamp and sat up, trying to shake the dream from her head. It was the same one she always had, of a man with a puckered eye weeping a solitary tear. As the man blotted his face with a starched white handkerchief, Pru always felt a sense of terrible fear, as if a band were tightening around her chest. Only this time the fear was even greater, for someone else had featured in the dream.

‘Oh God, Alfie,’ she whispered, ‘I heard his horrible laugh and there he was, with his hand outstretched, introducing himself to Christopher—’ She broke off and breathed deeply. ‘It felt so real. I was rooted to the spot and even though I was trying to speak, no words would come out.’

Pru sank back against the pillows, her heart thumping, too scared to go back to sleep in case the dream was still lurking.

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it and held it at arm’s length – her eyes were not that good in the early hours. It was a text from Christopher! She beamed at his words:
Thanks for a lovely evening! Can’t sleep!

Pru replied with,
Me too! x
Then she wriggled down under the summer duvet, her face scarlet with embarrassment, instantly regretting the addition of a kiss. She lay under the covers until the dark filled every space inside her and her joy turned to something closer to panic. Her breath came in shallow pants. Slowly she peeled back the covers and sat up against the pillows. Her stomach lurched as she closed her eyes and imagined the moment, the conversation that she would have to have. Her bowels turned to ice. It wasn’t fair. This should be a happy time and yet for her it was like walking on a beautiful cliff edge – a cliff edge from where she was unable to admire the view or feel at peace because she knew that at some point she would have to jump. And that knowledge clouded everything. Maybe it would be easier to run in the opposite direction, avoiding the jump – and the view. Was she going to have to make that sacrifice just to keep hold of what she had?

Pru looked around her beautiful bedroom. She and Milly had worked so hard for all they had achieved and her success was the one thing that gave her happiness and confidence. The idea of it all coming crashing down around her was more than she could bear. She forced herself to think back to the first time they had seen the premises on Curzon Street, knowing the memory would distract and cheer her.

It had been Mills that had spotted the advert, running into the shop with a snippet of newspaper, which talked of a ‘neglected gem in the heart of Mayfair, in need of a little redecoration’. The description alone had been enough to set their pulses racing. The shop and upstairs flat they were renting on Argyll Street, a short stroll from Oxford Street, were small and they were fast outgrowing them. Pru wanted a café, shop and showroom as well as the bakery, and she had always known that Argyll Street would be only a stepping-stone. A useful place in which to build up their custom and save hard, until they had enough to move into the sort of premises they had always dreamed of.

The funds had been in place for a year and customers continued to flock to their doors, eager to get their hands on
pain au froment
,
pain aux noix
,
beignets aux pommes
,
pain baguette
and their world-famous, flour-dusted, crusty
boules de pain
. The pleasure of hearing the ping of the till and the rustle of stiff brown paper bags filled with fresh goods baked on site hadn’t waned and Pru knew that the right address and space could take Plum Patisserie to a whole other level.

Trudy, always wary of fanciful ideas that weren’t grounded in good practical common sense, had insisted on coming with them to look over the Curzon Street premises. While she bantered with the cab driver, Pru and Milly sat with faces pressed against the windows. They gazed at the grand façades of W1, at the hotels and corporate offices, and the specialist businesses that sat between them – Silvers Milliner’s, Tregowan’s Glove Shop and Bijoux the Chocolatier among them – each with a gleaming brass front step and a brightly painted sign suspended over the door. These were just the sort of establishments they wanted to emulate. Pru turned to Milly and grinned. The taxi pulled up on the corner of Curzon Street and Shepherd Market. The brakes had hardly been applied when Pru and Milly leapt from the back of the cab. They stood in the road, taking in the entire building. Pru looked up with her hand shielding her eyes, noting the deep-set windowsills, the sash windows, the sturdy brick construction and the heavy wood-panelled front door.

The building had been empty for the last few years. The family that owned it had closed shop on their pharmacy after fifty years in business. Remnants of their history, however, still lingered. A tall Georgian bow window held a large blue glass apothecary bottle with a pointed top and a slender glass stopper. The word ‘Chemist’ was written across the bulge of its body in a fancy gold script, just visible through the thick layer of dust that clung to it.

Inside the shop there was the faintest whiff of chemicals and in certain corners you could smell violets, possibly one of the scents they’d sold or maybe the calling card of a loitering ghost. Mirrored panels edged in brass sat high on the walls, tilted slightly to reflect the scenes below. Pru looked up into them with her teeth biting her bottom lip: she could see reflected the shelves stacked with bread, dark wooden bistro tables with chatting customers clustered around them and ladies lifting pastry forks towards expectant mouths. The old apothecary counter would be remodelled to carry their plates of tortes, meringues, sponges and pastries. And behind the counter, on shelves also edged in brass, they would store the ornate boxes in which people would take home their wares.

As Pru looked at the crumbing plaster walls, which had taken on an orange hue, she saw vintage fruit baskets and fishermen’s woven willow panniers, in which they could display a selection of loaves. She raised her hand and, squinting, used her finger to outline the shape on the walls. Then she turned to Milly, who smiled and nodded.

‘Yes!’ Milly spoke as if answering a question. ‘With lavender sprigs interspersed in the weaving to give it a rustic feel.’

Pru laughed. The two of them had spent decades discussing and planning Plum Patisserie. No detail had been left to chance and so clear were they about their vision that they could both see it now clearly.

Milly patted the wall between the old dispensary and the shop. ‘With this wall gone—’

‘We’ll have the right floor space,’ Pru finished. ‘And we’ll keep the bow window—’

‘Use it like a display case for our most dramatic cakes!’

The cousins rushed towards each other and gripped hands, jumping in a circle like excited six-year-olds.

‘This is it, Mills,’ Pru managed to utter through lips that quivered with emotion.

‘Yes, Pru. This is it.’

Trudy watched the duo and wrinkled her nose at the intricate cobwebs that looped from the mirrors to the broken chandelier, whose vast arms whispered of former grandeur. She cast her eye over the dull green brass fixtures and tried to hide her distaste.

‘It’s nothing a good going over with some Brasso won’t fix, Trudy!’ Mills reassured her.

‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ Trudy rubbed her fingers together, trying to rid them of dust. ‘And let’s hope it also works on rotten woodwork, broken windows and mould.’ With that she flicked her head and reached for a cigar.

Pru and Milly laughed.

‘Don’t you see, Trudy? This is the place! It’s been waiting for us, waiting for us our whole lives.’ With these words, Pru finally gave in to the tears that had threatened.

Trudy took a deep drag. ‘Oh my God, you actually think that’s the case, don’t you?’

‘No.’ Pru shook her head. ‘I don’t
think
that’s the case. I
know
it. We’re home.’

Now, some two decades on, ensconced in her bedroom high above the bakery and its classy decor, Pru smoothed her crisp white bed linen and considered how far they had come. They had, against the odds, achieved all they had dreamed of. They had proved the naysayers wrong, ignored the pessimists who had told them to give up before they started. People had tried to convince them that poor East End match girls just didn’t end up as the toast of the town and living in Mayfair. Well, she was proof that they did.

Suddenly Pru smiled and felt a wave of happiness wash over her. Yes! She was proof that you could achieve your dreams. No need to be dragged down by nightmares. Picturing Christopher, she snuggled back under her duvet. There was a reason they had been led to Curzon Street on that day all those years ago and there was a reason he had come into her life. Maybe she could have it all, maybe he was the one who could forgive her past. Just maybe.

The front door banged shut. Milly jumped as she always did and spread her palm over her heart at the ferocity of the slam.

‘Jesus, Bobby!’

‘Hellooo! It’s only me!’

‘Yes, I gathered that, love.’ Milly smiled. Bobby always announced her arrival in a similar manner. Of course it was her, who else would it be? ‘You are going to have that door off its hinges one of these days if you’re not careful.’

‘Sorry!’ Bobby shouted from the hallway as she rummaged in a bureau drawer. ‘Can I borrow some matches? I can’t be bothered to go to the shop and I’m desperate for some. This could ruin my entire evening!’

Milly tutted at Bobby’s definition of a desperate emergency.

Unable to find what she was looking for, Bobby headed towards the sitting room. Although she lived upstairs in a separate apartment, Bobby treated the two flats more like a single house, wandering the corridors and delving into likely-looking cupboards at will. Anything from a nail file to ketchup would be purloined, no matter in which part of the building she found it. The only areas that were off limits were the shop and bakery, which were alarmed and locked.

Bobby appeared at the sitting room door looking gorgeous: freshly showered, with perfect hair and make-up.

Milly folded the
Telegraph
and rested it on her lap. ‘You know I don’t like you playing with matches. What do you want them for?’

‘I’m not playing with matches! God, I once accidentally set fire to a rug and you still go on about it. I’m twenty, not twelve any more!’

Milly removed her glasses, placing them on her folded paper; this required her full attention. ‘Remind me, love, how old were you when you set fire to the rug?’

Bobby looked at the floor and bit the inside of her cheek. ‘I was nineteen and a half, but that’s not the point!’

‘I thought that
was
the point – you set fire to a bloody rug! And not just any rug, but your Aunty Pru’s Persian pride and joy. It was me that had to listen to her crying into her Baileys over her lost five hundred and fifty knots per square inch!’

‘I said I was sorry, and anyway, I’m more sensible now. I’m going to be a married woman and not just any married woman, an army wife. I’ll probably join a choir and everything!’

‘Yes you are, my love, but God help any choir that has you in it. I remember the school asking you to mime at the Christmas Carol Concert.’