Roxanne tried to explain about Marsha’s new regime and the shock appointment of Tina. However, while she was clearly trying to be sympathetic, Della didn’t seem to grasp why this was so catastrophic.
‘Are the yoga classes free?’ she asked as they sat at her kitchen table with slices of perfectly moist apple cake and mugs of tea.
‘Yes, but that’s not the point.’ Roxanne caught herself before she could continue. Here she was, bemoaning a practice that was being offered to benefit her mental and physical wellbeing. How spoilt that sounded, Roxanne realised as she bent to stroke Stanley, Della’s mottled grey terrier who was curled up at her feet. ‘It’s more about what’s happening to the magazine,’ she added, explaining that her remit was no longer to produce beautiful shoots with top photographers. ‘She wants to fill the mag with stuff like “the fifty best knickers to hold your wobbly stomach in”.’
‘But wouldn’t that be quite … useful?’ Della ventured, sipping her tea.
Oh, God, how to explain without sounding like a ridiculous fashion ponce? ‘It’s not really about usefulness. Magazines are more about luxury, a treat, and beautiful pictures …’
‘Are there really fifty types of stomach-flattening knickers?’ Della cut in.
Roxanne looked at her sister and laughed. ‘There are probably more, actually.’
‘I could do with a pair …’
‘Don’t be crazy, Dell. You look great. It’s good to see you looking so happy. Honestly – you’re actually glowing.’
Della smiled. ‘I do love being back here, you know. When I was still in Heathfield, I never imagined I’d ever want to live somewhere like this – I mean any village, let alone the one we grew up in. But now it feels like just the right place to be.’
Roxanne nodded, sensing a twinge of something. Regret, perhaps, that she had never quite managed to find a place where she truly belonged. Yes, she loved London, her local neighbourhood especially, but she had never felt truly at home anywhere. Her flat was just a place to sleep, really. Apart from the French wardrobe, and Isabelle downstairs, there was little to love about it. For most of her adult life she had waited patiently for the nesting instinct to kick in – to suddenly become excited about choosing cushions – but so far it hadn’t happened. On the other hand, Della clearly adored her little flat above the shop. The kitchen was cosy and homely, its shelves filled with mismatched crockery and brightly coloured storage jars. Vintage curtains, printed with a jaunty coffee pot design, hung at the window that overlooked the fields to the rear of the high street.
‘You will still have a job when you go back, won’t you?’ Della asked, frowning.
‘Oh, yes,’ Roxanne replied. ‘I realise I’ll have to either accept that Tina’s my boss, and that my job is changing beyond all recognition – or try and find work somewhere else.’ She drained the last of her tea. ‘Oh – and they’re asking me to write a blog about my “summer in the country” for the digital edition of the mag.’
Della smiled. ‘That sounds fun – as long as I’m not in it …’
‘Don’t worry. They just want pictures of me out in the rain, wading through dung or herding sheep, that kind of thing …’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Della said, laughing now as she got up and glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘I’d better get down to the shop. I told Faye she could leave at four today.’
‘So you have some help these days?’ Roxanne was struck by how little she knew about the workings of her sister’s business.
Della nodded. ‘Yes, Faye does a few hours a week, fitting around her college work and her other job in the pub. She’s a great girl – a friend of Sophie’s from school …’
‘And where’s Sophie now?’
‘In Vienna, just about to leave for Budapest – as far as I know. Dashing from city to city with no itinerary.’
‘God.’
‘I know. It’s terrifying.’ Della smirked. ‘And wonderful too. Oh, I’m just jealous really. It’s so tempting to jump on a train and tail them all through Europe, wreck their whole experience …’
Roxanne laughed. ‘But, luckily for them, you have a shop to run. Anything I can do to help while you’re working?’
‘Oh, no – why don’t you just settle in and chill out? Watch some TV, run a bath if you like …’
As if Roxanne wanted to spend the rest of her afternoon in the flat alone. She had quite enough of that at home. ‘How about I take Stanley for a walk?’ she suggested.
‘Are you sure? You’ve only just got here, Rox.’
‘I’d love to, honestly,’ Roxanne said firmly. ‘I need a leg stretch after the journey and if you won’t let me help to categorise your books, then I’d better find some other way to make myself useful.’
As Roxanne got up to pull on her jacket, Della wrapped her arms around her. ‘Oh, Rox. You’re worrying too much. Please, just relax and enjoy being here.’
‘I will, I promise.’ Roxanne pulled back and studied her sister’s face, taken aback by the surge of emotion that had welled up in her. However, she knew what had triggered it. Roxanne couldn’t remember any other time when Della had hugged her like that.
If the shop looked impressive from the street, Roxanne found it even more delightful inside, and cookbooks weren’t even remotely her kind of thing. She had seen it before, of course, but on each visit there was always something new to admire: the framed artwork, created from old Parisian cafe menus, and Della’s younger customers’ crayoned pictures made into a montage hanging behind the till. Della had insisted on Roxanne popping in before she took Stanley out on his walk, and Roxanne could see why. The squashy velvet sofas and glowing lamps made it the kind of place you could easily while away an afternoon. It smelt wonderful, too: of coffee, but also of old books, of pages turned and pored over. A chalkboard announced the upcoming party, featuring a retro cocktail demonstration and tasting. Soft music was playing – one of those crackly jazz ladies, the kind Isabelle loved – and half a dozen customers were browsing the shelves.
‘It’ll be amazing when the extension’s ready,’ Faye was saying, after she and Roxanne were introduced, indicating the opening where a plastic curtain hung to conceal the work going on next door. ‘We’ll be able to do more events, readings, demos, that kind of thing. We manage now but it can be a bit of a squeeze if it’s a popular event.’
‘It’s looking wonderful, though,’ Roxanne enthused, scanning the different sections of books – parties, picnics, preserving – while Stanley pottered about at her side. Another customer had just come in and was quizzing Della about a particular book he was looking for.
‘I think it’s the first book ever published about rustic fermented breads,’ he explained.
‘Yes, I do know of it. I can picture the cover, black and red, drawing of a lady with a mixing bowl …’
‘That’s the one!’
Roxanne smiled, impressed by her sister’s passion for her specialist subject. The customer was a tall, slim man, with small wire-rimmed spectacles and neatly trimmed dark hair flecked with silvery grey. He had a soft southern accent, was wearing black jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, and looked in his late forties, at a guess. Roxanne wondered if the book was for him, or a present for someone, and indeed, what a fermented bread might be – did it have beer in it? It still amazed her how keen people could be about cooking when there were shops, delis and restaurants, all staffed by fully-trained people who could sell you delicious things to eat, without you having to stress yourself.
Della was checking the relevant shelf. ‘Ah, sorry – I was pretty sure we had a copy in stock. I guess you’ve looked online?’
‘Yep, no luck …’
‘I’m due to pick up some new collections soon. I’ll keep a careful lookout, if you like?’
‘That would be fantastic,’ the man said enthusiastically, looking around the shop now. ‘I loved that Almanac of Grains you found me last week.’
‘Oh yes, that’s unputdownable …’
Roxanne’s mouth twitched as she imagined Serena and Kate – or, in fact, Sean – listening in on this, and she had to turn away to hide her amusement.
‘I might just have a little browse now,’ the man added. ‘I’ve left Jude in charge of the shop and he should be able to cope without me.’
‘Browse away,’ Della said warmly. ‘D’you fancy a coffee while you’re looking, Michael? Faye’s just made a pot …’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
Della turned to pour a cup from the percolator that sat behind the counter. ‘Rox, would you like one too?’
‘No thanks, I’m heading off in a second—’
‘This is my sister, Roxanne,’ Della told the Grain Almanac man. ‘She’s just arrived from London – she’s staying with me for a few weeks.’ She turned to Roxanne. ‘Michael owns the new bakery down the road. He runs it single-handedly—’
‘My son and daughter help,’ he said quickly. ‘I can’t take all the credit …’
‘Oh, I saw it when I arrived,’ Roxanne enthused. ‘It’s beautiful. It’s about time we had decent bread around here …’
‘Well, do pop in sometime,’ he said with a smile.
Roxanne noticed his striking light blue eyes as he accepted the mug of coffee from Della. ‘I will,’ she replied.
‘Roxanne might be interested in your sourdough workshop,’ Della added with a sly grin.
‘Really? Oh, that’s great!’
‘Erm, I have to say I’m not really a baker …’ The emergency services tend to be involved …
‘Don’t worry,’ Michael said warmly, selecting a book from the shelf. ‘No prior experience required.’
Roxanne’s expression set as Stanley whined and strained for the door. ‘Um, hopefully I’ll make it along, then. But we’d better get going …’
‘Enjoy your walk,’ Michael said, adding, ‘I think it might rain, though. Don’t you have a coat?’
Roxanne couldn’t help smiling as she glanced down at her fine-knit cardi and knee-length cotton skirt. Although she had brought a couple of perfectly serviceable jackets, the sun was shining and she really didn’t require guidance on how to dress herself. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘It’s such a beautiful afternoon.’
Della glanced out of the window and frowned. ‘The sky’s looking darker now, Rox. I’d definitely put on something waterproof if I were you.’
‘Honestly, Dell, I’ll be—’
‘I’d take an umbrella at least,’ Michael cut in, apparently fascinated now by her silver leather ballet flats.
‘You’re not wearing those, are you?’ Della exclaimed, also staring at Roxanne’s feet, as if she was wearing ridiculous clown shoes. Her unremarkable footwear had become quite the spectacle – but then, nothing much happened in Burley Bridge.
‘Yes, it looks like I am,’ Roxanne laughed, ‘but don’t worry – I have my phone, and if I’m not back by midnight you have my permission to send out a search party.’ She caught Michael’s eye, and he grinned.
‘Don’t you have some wellies she could wear, Della?’ Faye called out. Now even the teenager present was concerned about her attire!
‘Yes, I do. Rox – go back upstairs and change,’ Della commanded. ‘They’re sitting in the hallway. Take the red ones, not the green – they’re Frank’s …’
Roxanne looked around at all these people who were gazing at her, seemingly of the opinion that her delicate London skin might dissolve at the first contact with moisture (and anyway, it definitely wasn’t going to rain). ‘I’ll wear them next time,’ Roxanne said, to appease her sister.
‘And I have waterproof trousers,’ Della added. ‘They’ll fit you fine. They’re in that trunk in the hallway.’
‘That’s really kind of you, but no. I’m only going for a little walk, not traversing the Siberian tundra on a dog-sled.’
Michael spluttered into his coffee. ‘All the same, don’t forget your whistle and torch,’ he added with a smile.
Roxanne laughed and patted her small leather shoulder bag, which was probably equally unsuitable for country walking – should she have an enormous backpack, like a Sherpa? – and contained nothing but her mobile, purse and Stanley’s poo bags. ‘All present and correct,’ she said.
‘I thought we’d have dinner in the pub tonight,’ Della added, her voice softening.
‘I’ll look forward to that – if I make it back alive.’ Roxanne turned to Faye with a chuckle. ‘So this is what it’s going to be like, Faye. Della’s reverted to big sisterly mode. I’ve offered to help with categorising new stock but she’s obviously worried that I might put a fondue book into the entertaining section instead of on the party food shelf.’
Faye laughed as, with Stanley whining and rapidly losing patience now, Roxanne allowed him to pull her towards the door.
‘I’d put fondues in the retro section,’ Michael remarked as she left the shop.
It was a relief to escape, which didn’t bode well for Roxanne’s entire summer here; she had been back in Burley for less than two hours. However, she was determined to remain positive. She strolled through the village, deciding now that she would force Della to let her help out in the shop, now she had been reminded how alluring it was. The idea of whiling away pleasant afternoons with mellow jazz playing was becoming more attractive by the minute. For one thing, Della kept the shop cosy and now Roxanne was rather chilly, being jacketless on what had turned into a blustery afternoon.
She stopped outside the bakery. So this belonged to Michael, who appeared to be a fan of umbrellas (Roxanne couldn’t abide them. Poky, dripping and frequently flipping inside out – wasn’t it time a more dignified alternative was invented?). She looked up at the sign which, like the bookshop’s, was hand-painted, as seemed to be the style around here these days. The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane. Hmm. A slight copy of Della’s, perhaps, but then, this was Rosemary Lane, and it had a welcoming ring to it.
Roxanne glanced in and saw that the shop was being manned by a tall and skinny young man – presumably Michael’s son – who was sweeping the floor in front of the counter. Now shivering a little, she did fancy a coffee, but at 5 p.m. the place was clearly about to close. Looping Stanley’s lead around the metal hook embedded into the stone wall, Della decided to try her luck, and stepped in. ‘Hi, could you possibly do me a takeaway coffee?’
The young man peered at her through shaggy dark hair that was dangling into his blue eyes. ‘A coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ She eyed the perfectly serviceable-looking coffee machine behind him, along from the wicker baskets containing a small selection of remaining loaves.
‘Uh, sure. What would you like?’
‘Could you do me an Americano?’
Now he, too, was staring down at her silver leather ballet flats, before muttering something unintelligible and setting the machine into action. ‘That’s a pound, please,’ he said, handing the carton to her.
‘Is that all?’ she exclaimed, then caught herself. Was this what Della had meant by ‘acting all Londony’? Yet her morning coffee from the kiosk near work cost nearly three times as much and, as she discovered as she left the shop and took her first taste, this was even better.
Roxanne sipped it as she and an excitable Stanley made their way along the lane. Clearly knowing the way, he tugged her towards the unmade track that led out of the village and up into the hills, where there was only the occasional farmhouse or cottage.
Roxanne finished her coffee, dropping the carton into the last litter bin before they left the village behind. She didn’t hold with the ‘no coffee after noon’ rule that so many of her colleagues abided by. Caffeine was her fuel, and discovering that the new bakery did takeaways suggested that she would be able to survive here after all.
However, she would have to come up with a strategy to stop Della from bombarding her with suggestions for activities to fill her time (what was the etiquette about not attending a sourdough workshop you’d been invited to? Roxanne wondered). At least there was Stanley to take out. He was certainly delighted to be out in the wilds now, his little body quivering with excitement at the sights and smells around him. Roxanne had always been fond of dogs and begged for one of her own as a child, but her mother wouldn’t allow it. Too demanding and needy, Kitty had always insisted, making them sound like the sort of boyfriend one would do well to avoid. In London, of course, with Roxanne living in a tiny flat and being out at work all day, it was out of the question.
She climbed the path that would take her steeply up into the hills, stopping now and again to look back and take in the dramatic scoop of the valley and the village nestling in its folds. It was beautiful here – all soft, mellow contours as far as the eye could see. The pockets of woodland looked from here like the tiny lichen-like trees Jeff used to stick on the terrain for his model railway when they were children.
Roxanne breathed in deeply. Already, the stresses of recent events had all but faded away. Locking herself out of her flat, the post-party row with Sean and being reprimanded by a child in a fireman’s uniform now seemed like distant memories. Even her angst over Marsha and Tina had given way to a ‘let’s just see what happens’ approach. No point in fretting constantly – and anyway, wasn’t the whole point of coming up here to have a proper break from all of that?
At least here, the only thing she was likely to be hassled for was her refusal to dress like a North Sea fisherman. Perhaps next time, just to appease the entire population of Burley Bridge, she would deign to wear wellies, as it was becoming pretty muddy underfoot – although she might have to buy her own. She had glimpsed Della’s glittery red ones in the hallway and wasn’t sure she could go there quite yet. A nice smart pair of Hunters could act as her gateway wellies, easing her gently into the realm of wet weather attire; she could even write about them for her ‘fashion director stranded in the country’ blog. If she was to return to work on good terms with Marsha, she would have to find something to write about.
Without her properly noticing, an hour had passed, and she and Stanley were now at the top of the hill. Her mobile rang. Expecting Della to be checking up on her welfare, Roxanne pulled it from her bag.
‘Sean! Hi, darling.’
‘Hey, babe, how’s it going?’
Her heart seemed to soar at the sound of his voice. She perched on a rather wobbly drystone wall, overcome by a surge of missing him. ‘Well, so far I’ve had Della, her assistant and customer all convinced I’m improperly dressed for the weather conditions – but apart from that, it’s all good.’
Sean chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re wearing those black heels from brandy snap night?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘So, where are you now?’
‘Out on a walk,’ she said with a trace of pride. ‘I’m with Stanley – remember I showed you pictures of Dell’s little rescue dog?’
‘Oh, yeah. So, what are you wearing?’
‘I’m wearing entirely appropriate clothing for the geographical conditions,’ she replied with a smile.
He chuckled, and she could picture his beautiful green eyes crinkling. ‘Liar.’
‘I am! Of course I am. I did grow up here, you know. I do know what the countryside’s like – unlike some people …’
‘Hey, I do visit the countryside now and again, I’ll have you know.’
‘Like, when?’ she teased him.
‘I shot that wedding dress story for Modern Brides on Hampstead Heath the other week.’
‘Hampstead Heath’s not the country,’ she retorted. ‘It’s NW3 …’
‘It might as well be. It’s grassy and muddy and at certain points you can hardly see London at all. Louie was worried I might have a panic attack.’
‘Yes, but it’s still in London, darling …’
‘And remember we did that winter tartans shoot together on Clapham Common?’
‘You can’t say Clapham Common’s the country either. You’re insane!’
They were laughing now, and she gazed across the vast expanse of unspoilt beauty, wishing he was here to see it too.
‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘I’m wearing my pale pink cashmere cardi with a camisole underneath, and my navy cotton skirt, and I’m fine.’
‘Hmm. Well, be careful out there. Don’t try to climb any electrified fences, and remember livestock can get territorial and charge you.’
She chuckled. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. You’ve obviously been watching Countryfile.’
‘Happy to help.’
Roxanne smiled. ‘So, how was your shoot today?’
‘Great. All warm and toasty in the studio, thanks. In fact, my client’s still here – I’d better finish up …’
‘I’ll let you go, then.’ Something twisted in her. Why wasn’t he desperate to set up a date to come up and see her?
‘Have a fun evening,’ he added. ‘Hitting the bright lights tonight, are you?’
‘Thanks. Actually, we’re going for dinner in the Red Lion. It’s such a cosy, old-fashioned pub. You’d love it.’ She paused and chewed at a fingernail. ‘You know you’re welcome here any time, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course—’
‘Della has room. Or we could take a little trip somewhere, find a snug hotel to stay in for a night or two …’
She sensed his hesitation. ‘I’ll see how things go, okay?’
What did that mean? Stanley pulled on the lead, and she glanced down. ‘Yes, all right – but if you’re nervous about the rural aspect, I’m sure there’s a crash course in survival skills you could take.’ A splash of rain landed on her face. The sky had darkened dramatically, as if suddenly flooded with murky grey ink.
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Sorry, darling, really gotta dash—’
‘Okay. Bye, honey,’ she said, before slipping her phone back into her bag just as the heavens opened and good old Yorkshire rain began to fall.