The One We Fell in Love With (20 page)

‘Tell me what to do,’ I prompt as he goes to check the contents of the Hobart – the large dough mixer standing on the floor.

‘Pass me the caraway seeds,’ he says, turning the machine off.

I do as he asks and he tips them into the dough, setting the machine going again.

‘Can you grab me the
bannetons
, too?’ He returns to the mound of dough waiting on the wooden countertop. ‘You can help me shape the sourdough.’

‘What are
bannetons
?’ I ask.

He gives me a look of disbelief.

The
bannetons
turn out to be proving baskets, and some of ours are oval-shaped and made out of wood pulp while others are constructed out of round cane baskets. Sourdough, apparently,
is a wetter dough, so if it’s not contained in something, it will lose its shape and flop.

I flour the baskets while Toby uses a dough cutter to separate the dough into chunks, then I help him roll each one into shape and place them into the different-sized
bannetons.
He
moves at a speed that makes my head spin, but I keep getting the dough stuck to my fingers.

‘Use flour to get it off, not water,’ he says, reading my mind as I glance at the sink. I dust my hands with flour and rub off the dough easily. ‘You have to work quickly or
the dough will stick again,’ he warns.

He talks to me as he works, and I learn that being an artisan baker is all about the time it takes to do things. While working quickly at this stage is important, even more vital to the process
is slowing things right down, because the longer something takes, the better it tastes.

Artisan bread is made using a combination of flour, water, salt, plus some kind of ‘leaven’ – the thing that makes the dough ferment and rise. French bread is made with fresh
yeast, which comes in a packet like butter and smells pretty bad, but sourdough is naturally leavened using ‘starter’ or ‘mother’, as it’s also called.

Toby jokes that his dad’s ‘mother’ has been sitting in the fridge since time began, and every day it has to be fed with fresh flour and water to top it up. He tells me that
some bakeries in France and Italy claim to have had their ‘mother’ on the go for centuries, being passed down generation to generation. It’s pretty grim when you think about it,
but he reiterates to me that the longer something takes, the better it tastes.

‘You want to have a turn at baguettes?’ he asks with a smile.

‘Go on, then.’

‘No flour on the work surface, only on your hands,’ he directs me. ‘A floury surface makes shaping the baguettes impossible. As long as the worktop is clean, they won’t
stick.’

I watch him do the first one, a blur of folding from the outside in, pointing the ends and rolling until the length is right. The whole thing takes him about ten seconds and then he’s
laying it lengthwise on a flour-dusted cloth that has been folded into a series of pleats for the baguettes to lie between.

‘Chop chop,’ he prompts.

I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue where to start. I’ll watch you do another one.’

At the end of the next ten seconds, I’m still none the wiser.

He smiles at my blank look and walks away from the counter, returning with a small piece of paper. ‘Watch where I fold it,’ he says.

He folds it from the outsides in. Then he folds it again. ‘Imagine an invisible line in the middle. You’re creating a spine,’ he says, and I’m reminded of making paper
aeroplanes with my sisters and Dad. He folds in the end edges to create a rounded-off shape, then folds the lengthwise edges again, until he’s left with a long, thin piece of paper that looks
a bit like a longboat. ‘Now you roll the dough out until it’s the right length. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ I nod and get to work, finding it easier to remember the folds when I think of it as a piece of paper. He still manages to make about ten baguettes in the time it takes for
me to do one, and of course my hands are sticky with dough by the end of it.

‘It takes practice,’ he says as I rub flour on my fingers.

‘You’re very good at it. Have you really been baking since you were eight?’

‘In the bakery, yeah, but I’ve been baking with Mum and Dad at home for as long as I can remember. Come on, we’ve got time to have a break while everything’s proving. You
want a coffee?’ he asks.

‘Sure.’

We go out into the shop and he switches on the machine. It’s still dark outside, but dawn can’t be far away.

‘I think you enjoy baking more than you let on,’ I say.

‘It’s a bit of a rush,’ he confesses as he tips freshly ground coffee into the machine. ‘I like working fast and under pressure. And the finished product is pretty
beautiful.’

‘Do you ever mess up?’

‘Christ, yeah, on many occasions. Lesson number one: don’t forget the salt. You need salt for flavour and it helps develop the gluten. Sometimes I’ll be mixing the dough for
ages, wondering why the hell it isn’t doing what I want it to do. Dad will come in, pinch a piece of dough to taste it and tell me immediately where I’ve gone wrong. Lesson number two:
don’t pop out for a fag and forget to turn the mixer off.’

‘What happens?’ I ask.

‘If you overwork the dough, the gluten bonds will overstretch and be ruined. You know when you came in and I was folding it over?’

I nod.

‘It looked smooth and elastic, right? Well, you can’t get it to look like that. If you overwork it, it’s wrecked. It has to go in the bin.’

‘Why don’t you use a timer?’

‘I probably should because I get a bit distracted, but Dad never does. He knows the process by heart.’

From the reverence in his voice, he has way more respect for his dad than he lets on.

‘Have you done many all-nighters with your dad?’ I ask as the coffee machine spits and gurgles out coffee into the waiting cups.

‘Not any more. We used to, back when Mum...’ His voice trails off.

‘When your mum what?’ I prompt.

‘When she was well, before she got so...’ He shrugs, his back to me.

‘Do you think this heart attack will spur her on to try to get better, maybe?’ I ask tentatively.

‘Who knows?’ He passes me a cup.

‘Thanks.’

He looks over at the cupcakes dwindling on the countertop. ‘We’re going to run out today.’

‘Who supplies them?’ I ask. I’ve wondered before.

‘Mum makes them,’ he says to my surprise. ‘This bakery was hers once. I mean, not this one, the first
Jennifer’s
in East London. It’s where she and Dad
met.’

‘Did she bake?’

‘She did bake bread, but she was more into cakes and things.’ He blows on his drink. ‘She’s been baking from home for years, though.’

‘Does it still make her happy?’

‘I’d like to think so,’ he says, taking a sip of coffee. ‘I might get ahead with prep for Sunday night.’ Luckily the bakery is closed tomorrow, so no one has to
work a night shift tonight, but it will be full steam again on Monday.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask, following him back into the bakery.

‘Roast garlic, caramelise red onions, soak raisins or toast some seeds and nuts – take your pick.’

The baguettes go into the oven last, because they take the least time to cool, but when they’re done, I stand for a moment and stare at the multitude of loaves cooling on the racks.

Bread has never looked so good. From fig and fennel and rye and caraway to garlic and rosemary and cumin and Gruyère, I feel like I could devour one of everything. Even the simple rustic
white, or
pain au levain
as they call it in France, looks like a work of art.

I check the time on my watch. It’s almost seven o’clock.

‘Vanessa’s going to be late,’ he says with a raised eyebrow, reading a text on his phone. ‘She says she’ll be in at ten. You should go home and get some
rest.’ He lifts up the hem of his T-shirt and mops the sweat from his brow. His chest is pretty ripped, I note with surprise. ‘I’ll open up.’

‘I can stay for a bit,’ I reply, giving myself a little shake. ‘I imagine we’ll both be working at half-speed today. Unless you want me to leave because I stink?’
He looks amused as I sniff my armpits. They’re alright, thankfully. At least I had a shower when I came home last night.

‘Thanks, Rose,’ he says suddenly, coming over to give me a hug. I hug him back, and then jump in surprise as his hand lands on my backside. He pats it once, firmly.
‘You’re a star.’

‘Thank you.’ I blush as I pull away. ‘It was a fun learning curve.’

‘I’ll get the float, you go and open up.’ He smirks as he turns away.

It’s only later, when a couple of our regular customers laugh as I’m getting their order that I realise what he’s done. I glance over my shoulder to see a white, floury
handprint on my right bum cheek.

‘Toby!’ I yell at him as our customers continue to laugh. ‘You little git!’

He comes over and loops one arm around my neck, then whispers in my ear. ‘Lesson number three: never wear black in a bakery.’

Eliza

‘I’m on the second floor,’ Angus says when I call him to let him know that I’ve arrived at Hotel Gotham. ‘I’ll meet you by the
lift.’

The ‘Batman’ building looks just like something that you’d find in one of the comics, an imposing stone and steel neoclassical design with arched art deco windows and even
gargoyles on the roof.

Angus appears a moment after I step out of the lift. ‘Hey,’ he says warmly, his eyes widening. ‘You look amazing.’ He comes over to give me a peck on my cheek.

When Michelle and I checked out the hotel’s website earlier, we saw that a lot of people make an effort to dress up. She convinced me to wear a 30s-inspired black dress from her wardrobe
with my own high heels, but I stopped short of doing my hair in an up-do, instead blow-drying it to within an inch of its life so it falls glossily down my back.

‘So do you,’ I say with surprise. I was expecting him to be wearing his usual jeans and T-shirt, but he’s donned smart black trousers and a white shirt, rolled up to his elbows
with the top button open. His dark-blond hair is still a shaggy mess, though.

‘Thought I’d make a bit of an effort to look less like the layabout that I actually am,’ he whispers conspiratorially. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve got a tie and suit
jacket for later.’ He glances towards the corridor where his room is and then checks his watch. It’s almost five. ‘Do you want to go straight up to the bar?’ he asks.

‘Er, sure.’ I’m curious to see his room, but maybe I’ll get to have a look later.

That thought leads to another and a blush creeps up my throat as we step back into the lift.

The hotel used to be the Midland Bank building and there are nods to its financial history throughout, with bags of fake money holding back the doors and, Angus tells me, toiletries resting on
blocks of fake gold in the bathrooms. The restaurant has beautiful arched windows with views out over the city, but the rooftop bar is what really takes my breath away. Manchester’s skyline
is spectacular, and you can also sit right behind one of the gargoyles.

‘What time did you check in?’ I ask when we’ve ordered our drinks and sat down on a black bench seat, our backs resting against the outer walls of the grey-stone building. The
sun is still high in the sky.

‘About an hour ago. I’ve just been on the bed, reading.’

‘What’s your room like?’ I ask.

‘Very opulent. And there are Batman-shaped biscuits in a cookie jar.’

‘Cool!’

‘You can come and have one along with a cup of posh tea later if you like.’ He says it casually and doesn’t blush like I do at the thought of us being alone together in his
room.

‘So what have you been up to?’ he asks.

‘Joe called!’ I exclaim. ‘He wants me to do another gig the week after next – on a Friday night!’

‘Wow, that’s fantastic!’

I fill him in and we make our way through several cocktails as we sit and chat, the sun beginning to sink behind the rooftops. Suddenly we remember our dinner reservation and hightail it
downstairs to the restaurant. We sit by one of the arched windows, looking out onto another art deco building. It’s still light outside, but the table’s candle has been lit
regardless.

‘Where did you tell Rose you were coming tonight?’ I ask.

‘I told her I was coming here.’ He clears his throat. ‘She thinks I’m seeing someone.’

‘Oh. Did you put her straight?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. I mean, I’m not, am I?’ He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘But she seemed upset.’

‘She probably thinks it’s too soon,’ I say flatly.

‘It’s been over a year,’ he points out reasonably, before frowning. ‘Anyway...’

The waiter comes over then, pouring ruby red wine into both our glasses. ‘Are you ready to order?’ he asks.

I’m glad of the interruption as I pick up my menu.

‘Do you ever drive yourself mad thinking about the future?’ Angus asks when we’re well into our main courses.

‘I try not to,’ I reply.

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not talking about ten years’ time; I’m talking about two, three, ten thousand years away.’

‘You don’t think we will have blown each other up with nuclear bombs by then?’ I ask.

‘Who knows? But what if we haven’t? What if the human race is still going strong and we haven’t all been killed off by deadly viruses and world wars? I wonder who the
superpowers will be. I’m not talking about comic book characters.’

‘I know,’ I say with a smile, wondering where he’s going with this. It sounds like one of the bonkers conversations we used to have.

‘The United States, the Soviet Union, the British Empire before World War II – they were all superpowers,’ he says. ‘But look back at history to Ancient Egypt, the
Persian Empire, the Greeks and the Romans... Who will be the superpowers of the future?’

‘China?’ I suggest.

‘Maybe. But what will the world be like? What will technology be like? Will any of these buildings still be standing? And if not, why not? What will make them fall? Will they be torn down
and rebuilt bigger?’

‘You’d drive yourself nuts thinking about it,’ I say.

Yeah, imagine being so overpowered by curiosity that you could literally drive yourself mad.’