Of course Michael would pitch in.
‘I’m going to be there anyway, aren’t I?’ he said, handing Roxanne a coffee over the bakery counter. He had just opened up on Friday morning and a delicious aroma filled the bakery; warm and comforting, it was like being enveloped in a hug. After their curt conversation after the baking demonstration, Roxanne was pleased that things seemed to be back to normal between them.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, ‘but this is a bit different. You won’t just be milling about, drinking and eating and chatting to people. You’ll be sort of … on duty.’
He feigned alarm. ‘Not juggling or fire eating or anything like that?’
‘No, that won’t be needed,’ she said with a chuckle.
‘Then I’m very happy to report for duty. What should I wear?’
She blinked at him. ‘Er, just your normal clothes are fine …’
‘Not a waiter’s outfit or anything?’ His blue eyes were glinting playfully now.
‘No,’ she said, laughing, ‘that won’t be necessary either.’ She paused. ‘I just mean handing out drinks, maybe giving me a hand with the raffle, that kind of thing …’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound too arduous.’
She smiled. ‘Thanks so much, Michael.’
‘Ah, that’s okay.’ He looked away and started to straighten the baskets on the shelves.
It was a bright, sunny morning, and the shop was already filled with freshly baked breads, cakes and pastries. On the counter sat a shallow wicker basket filled with Elsa’s cellophane-wrapped packets of dog treats, iced and labelled ‘Doggie Bites – home-baked, all natural and delicious’. It didn’t look as if any had gone.
‘How are these doing?’ Roxanne asked tentatively.
‘Like hot cakes, actually.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep – I had to refill the basket twice yesterday. Elsa’s been toiling away, cutting them out and icing them, doing all the wrapping – she’s even had to rope Jude in to help. We had a guy in asking if we can do an order of fifty packets for him to sell at Heathfield farmer’s market yesterday.’
‘That’s amazing!’ she gasped. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Will Elsa do it, is more the question.’ Michael smiled. ‘Could be a nice little earner for her. So, when’s Della off, then?’
‘She’s already gone. Managed to catch a flight from Manchester at seven this morning …’
He raised a brow. ‘And you’re really okay with it? Manning the fort, I mean?’
Of course, Michael knew how protective Della was about her shop.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied firmly. ‘My only worry is that Stanley will start pining for Dell. They’re literally never apart for more than a few hours.’
Michael grimaced and handed her a packet of doggie bites. ‘Take these. Take as many as you think he’ll need to keep him happy while she’s away. So, when’s she coming home?’
‘She was planning to just stay tonight and come back first thing on Saturday, but I told her I could easily look after things at the shop, and we’re closed on Sundays anyway …’
‘We’re closed,’ he repeated with a smile.
Roxanne laughed. ‘You see what’s happened? She let me onto the till, then reluctantly agreed that I could put out new books on the shelves – and now I’m starting to think of it as my shop too. I’d better not talk like that in front of Della.’
Michael grinned. ‘You Londoners, coming up here, taking over the place …’
‘By the time she comes home on Sunday night I’ll have had the whole shop redecorated to my own personal taste.’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to open up.’
‘Good luck, then,’ he said, ‘and remember, anything you need – just shout.’
She thanked him warmly as she left the bakery, reassuring herself that she could manage without Della for a few days. After all, her sister had pretty much pulled everything together, and Roxanne’s proper job was significantly more complex than organising the last few details of a gathering in a village bookshop. Party organiser: that had been her ex Ned Tallow’s job, allegedly. However, she didn’t recall him ever writing any to-do lists, or involving himself with any actual planning for that matter. The Ned Tallow brand of party organising had merely involved booking some clapped-out venue which reeked of damp, then phoning his mates to do the real hard work – the sound, lighting, security and bar. The ‘parties’ he organised involved cramming lots of people into a sweaty, dilapidated building in some dingy corner of South East London, and ensuring that the necessary drug dealers were present. There were invariably police raids, arrests, spaced-out girls crying in toilets and the odd minor injury. Roxanne had gone to some of these parties and hung around in the shadows, declining the offer of drugs and sipping dreadful wine out of plastic cups, feeling like everyone’s rather concerned aunt. She was confident that a gathering in a bookshop would be somewhat less stressful.
Roxanne opened the shop, put on a Nina Simone album and considered what she still had to do. Della had ordered in glasses and crockery, so all Roxanne had to do was blow up balloons – she had remembered to buy a pump this time, from Irene’s general store – and set everything out once the shop closed for business at the end of the afternoon. However, the cocktail demo aspect was troubling her. Even if she had the necessary knowledge, there were still too many ingredients to amass, recipes to get her head around and plenty of potential for disaster. Faye was popping in at lunchtime to give her a break, but it still seemed too much to pull together. She just wanted to focus on ensuring everyone was having a good time, but she knew some kind of demonstration would be fun – perhaps something for the children would be easier? Della was always keen to emphasise that hers was a child-friendly bookshop – hence the supply of paper and crayons, and the selection of toys kept in a box under the counter. Kids loved to bake fairy cakes, and Michael was the obvious person to help her – but she was concerned that asking him would seem rather insensitive after his own, ill-attended workshop. She couldn’t possibly do it herself – not after her brandy snaps episode. Did it have to be cakes, though, she wondered now? She knew from hours spent in Amanda’s kitchen that children basically loved the mixing part, the stamping out shapes with a cutter, and decorating with icing.
That was it. She would ask Elsa to share her Doggie Bites recipe, and perhaps even run the show – or, if she wasn’t prepared to do that, at least hover around in an assistant’s role.
Roxanne grinned, a flurry of excitement growing inside her now. A Doggie Bites workshop! It was a little mad, perhaps, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was what Della would want. Plus, Elsa would be at school right now – at least, she should be on a Friday morning – but there was no harm in texting to ask if she would help. She found her mobile number on the email she’d sent and fired off her request. Minutes later, Elsa replied with a ton of smiley emoticons which Roxanne interpreted as a resounding yes.
At lunchtime, while Faye looked after the shop, Roxanne took Stanley for a short walk over the hills. She had grown to love their hikes together. They helped to clear her head, worked her thighs and there was something wonderfully freeing about setting out in a disgusting murky green fleece – a future style blog subject – and her old jeans, with not a scrap of make-up on her face and her long fair hair pulled back into a ponytail.
Already it seemed unhinged to spend more than £100 on a moisturiser, or to go to a man in a tiny Covent Garden clinic to have Botox injected into her forehead. In her office, pretty much everyone – even Tristan – had had injectables, plus dermabrasion, chemical peels and, in certain cases, a touch of lip plumping. It was unremarkable to see someone come back from lunch with their face all red and angry-looking, as if it had been scoured vigorously with a Brillo pad. Here, out in the wilds with a small, scruffy terrier, Roxanne’s age wasn’t even an issue – whereas at work, with pretty much everyone else at least a decade younger (two decades, in many cases) she was conscious of it pretty much all of the time.
Roxanne didn’t know the programmes they watched, or listen to the music they liked – but pretended she did. Secretly – as there was no way she’d admit this at work – she was a bit of a jazz fan. Although she was certainly no expert, through time spent with Isabelle she had grown to love Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan and Billie Holiday, those ladies whose voices could break your heart. Sometimes, she and Isabelle just sat quietly together and listened to an entire side of an album (all of Isabelle’s music was on vinyl; Roxanne had never glimpsed a CD in her flat, and the idea of downloading music was, to Isabelle’s mind, ridiculous).
Back at the bookshop now, Roxanne unclipped Stanley’s lead and took over from Faye at the till. Della texted to let Roxanne know she had arrived safely, and that Sophie was fine; well, fine-ish – in one piece at least. They had a ‘fun’ afternoon planned of going to a police station – which Sophie hadn’t managed to find yet – followed by a visit to the British embassy.
Glad to hear all okay, give my love to S and don’t worry for one second about anything here, Roxanne replied.
Perhaps triggered by the word ‘worry’, Della fired back: Anything you’re worried about tonight, I mean ANYTHING AT ALL – please phone me anytime. And good luck!!
Roxanne smiled at her sister’s concern and replied with a smiley face and a thumbs up; not her usual style, but preferable to batting back more reassurances when she had customers to look after. By now, she was switching easily into the role she had found herself in. She had never imagined she would enjoy working in a shop quite so much. It wasn’t that she thought it was beneath her; more that, since she had landed her first magazine job at eighteen years old, she had never considered doing anything else.
The early afternoon was busy, with a mixture of customers: locals who popped in regularly, people who were driving through the village, spotted the shop and just had to stop out of curiosity, and others who had made a trip here specially. When a customer was looking for a specific cookbook that wasn’t in stock, Roxanne searched for it online and ordered it for them. Della had explained that there was no real profit in this – she only added on a tiny mark-up – but felt that it was a service she should offer.
By around 4 p.m., things had quietened down, allowing Roxanne time to check that everything was looking just so for the party. Wine and beers were put to chill in the fridge, vases of flowers refreshed, the music selected and all the bookshelves given a speedy once-over to ensure that nothing was looking untidy after the customers’ browsings during the day. She unpacked glasses and plates and set them all out on the island unit, and arranged the raffle prizes of beautiful vintage crockery, which Della had gleaned on her travels while picking up new collections of cookbooks, and bottles of champagne.
Although Della had bought the various components, she hadn’t got around to assembling the star prize of a lavish hamper, and so Roxanne set to work, arranging the bottles and jars on a bed of scrunched tissue paper and wrapping the entire basket in clear cellophane, tied with a lavish red bow. She blew up the balloons and hung them up around the shop.
When everything was done, she decided, she would call Sean – just to fill him in on recent events. The silence between them had stretched for long enough. While she understood that Tommy’s surprise arrival had been inconvenient and awkward, his response seemed rather extreme. Roxanne wondered now if it was for the best that he wasn’t coming to the party. Given his recent huffy behaviour, and the fact that she was hosting the do, she wasn’t sure she had time for any more dramas or sulks.
Something had happened to her, in this short time she had been back in Burley Bridge. With all those walks in the hills, and the headspace they had given her, she had started to worry less, about … stuff. She served a cluster of customers, and when they had left she called Sean.
‘Hello?’ His voice was abrupt.
‘Hi, darling. Sorry, you’re probably in the middle of—’
‘No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay at the moment. Everything all right?’
Roxanne frowned. Now two elderly ladies had come in, and were enthusing over the display of 1950s dinner party books that Della had set out, along with a selection of dinnerware from the period, on the table.
‘Yes, I’m good. So, um, how are things?’ By which I mean, have you recovered from photographing a sweet little dog yet?
‘I’m fine, Rox. How about you?’
‘I’m fine too.’
Silence. Great. So, they were to slip into an I’m-fine loop now, were they? Already, she prickled with irritation at having called him. From the hubbub in the background it sounded as if he was out somewhere, rather than in his studio. ‘Okay, sorry if I’ve called at a bad time …’
‘No, look, er – I wanted to say sorry.’ His voice softened. ‘Sorry about the other day. With the dog thing, I mean. It wasn’t your fault. Well, it was, sort of …’ He chuckled softly, and something snagged at her heart. ‘But I forgive you.’
She considered this for a moment, keen to wrap up the call now. At least they were on speaking terms. However, she was taking her bookshop duties seriously and didn’t feel comfortable being on the phone. ‘That’s good to hear. So, where are you now?’
‘Just in a cafe.’
‘Oh, where?’
‘Uh, nowhere you know.’
She made eye contact with one of the women, and said, ‘Okay, I’m looking after the shop right now, maybe speak later?’
‘Yep, that’d be good.’
And for now, that was that. She would tell him about Della hotfooting it to Berlin some other time. The women bought seven cookbooks between them – ‘We’re kind of addicted!’ they’d said, giggling – and as they were leaving, Michael and Jude arrived brandishing enormous, foil-covered trays of party food.
‘Where shall we put them?’ Jude asked.
‘Oh, here please, on the counter.’ She smiled at Michael. ‘Can I look?’
‘Yes, of course!’ he said, laughing. ‘I hope they’re what you – well, what Della had in mind …’
Roxanne lifted a corner of foil and gasped at the array of exquisite canapés. A world apart from the unwieldy vol-au-vents her mother served at drinks parties, these were miniature beauties, a mere mouthful of perfectly golden puff pastry with some kind of creamy filling, garnished with fresh herbs.
‘These are perfect,’ she enthused.
‘Thanks.’ Michael grinned at her. ‘I should run a bakery really …’
‘You’d be excellent.’ Unable to resist, she popped one into her mouth. ‘Oh, these are so good …’
Jude disappeared, returning a few minutes later with more trays, this time bearing tiny quiches and bite-size poppy-seed-speckled sausage rolls.
‘There’s more to come,’ Michael explained. ‘Elsa’s on her way.’
She looked at him, hoping she hadn’t overstepped the mark by asking his daughter to pitch in with the demonstration. ‘So, she’s bringing all the doggie bites ingredients too?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ he said cheerfully. ‘She was thrilled you asked her, actually. You do realise she regards you as her glamorous new friend?’
Roxanne laughed and flushed. ‘That’s very flattering.’
‘Hey, she’s not wrong either.’
She laughed awkwardly, sensing herself reddening even further. Why was he having this effect on her? ‘Thanks, Michael – but I feel far from glamorous right now.’ She hesitated. ‘Erm, I hate to ask, but …’
His eyes met hers. How kind they were, and reassuring. She was so glad he was here.
‘D’you need me to do anything? Come on – ask away …’
‘If I shut the shop now, would you mind hanging around here, just in case anyone turns up early? I’d love a few minutes to get ready.’
‘Of course,’ he said firmly. ‘Off you go and prepare to greet your public.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and with that she flipped the shop sign to closed and ran upstairs.
Up in the flat, she showered and wondered what on earth to wear for hosting a party in a bookshop. The truth was, she had never hosted a party of her own before. Her flat wasn’t really conducive to it; on the few occasions when she had cranked up her music, either Henry or Emma had given their ceiling a brisk bang, presumably with a broom handle. She had never felt confident enough in her catering skills either. A flashy do like Sean’s with three miles of crustaceans on ice wasn’t to her taste or budget, yet the people she knew – apart from Amanda and Isabelle – weren’t the types to arrive at a party and expect to be presented with nothing but a dish of Kettle Chips.
So really, she thought as she stood in Della’s spare room, this was the best sort of party – because, strictly speaking, it wasn’t hers.
Wrapped up in Della’s spare dressing gown, she opened the wardrobe and assessed the possibilities hanging before her. She had no worries about appearing too flash for a Burley Bridge gathering because even back in London most of her clothes had been gleaned from second-hand shops, market stalls on holidays, and the mid-to-cheaper end of the high street. The designer pieces she owned were mainly vintage; of course, she had bought the odd new piece, when caught up in the pressurised atmosphere of the shows in London, Paris and Milan. After all, occupying the front row required a certain dress code. ‘I love your skirt,’ fellow fashion editors would gush, as they took their seats. ‘Who’s it by?’ It was never, ‘Where’s it from?’ However, wearing such pieces tended to create no small degree of stress. Nothing was more likely to guarantee a coffee spillage than a brand new Stella McCartney chambray shirt.
She chose a simple pale grey dress, black tights and flat black sandals, adding the topaz necklace from her Ibiza trip with Amanda – just for luck. There was no full-length mirror in Della’s flat, so she made do with the one on the hall wall. She looked relaxed and comfortable, rather than glamorous. That would have to do.
Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself the party wasn’t really about her anyway. She was merely there to do Della proud, and she was determined to do her best tonight, for her sister, and for the wonderful shop that had grown and blossomed from the seed of a crazy idea.
It’ll be okay, she reassured herself. She wouldn’t be handling this alone. Michael, Elsa and Frank would be there to help her; Jude and Eddie too. It seemed she had made herself some new friends in the village she’d once been so keen to escape from.
She slicked on a little pinky-brown lipstick and dabbed some powder, which would have to do for make-up.
‘Stanley!’ she called out, and he scuttled towards her. ‘Come on, little man. We’re going to a party tonight, and you can be my plus-one.’