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Would a fresh coat of paint be enough to drag the business into the twenty-first century? Was she a fool easily parted from her injection of cash on a few tins of paint, after which she’d sell up and scuttle back to her old life in London?
Pulling back her shoulders, she resumed her critical, professional assessment of the shop’s fittings as she decided which would be painted with the peppermint paint she’d ordered and which would not. She ran her fingertips along the varnished surfaces, stroking the smoothness of the ribbons, fingering the intricate lace, and allowing the painful memories to assault her senses.
She couldn’t wait for the delivery of the pure new wools, the tweeds, the fibres that the UK had been famous for in the past. If she could fill these nooks and crannies with natural, instead of man-made, yarns and display sample garments that the trendsetters would give their hard-earned cash for, then maybe, just maybe…
Her stomach hollered its objection to the forfeiture of breakfast, so she trudged back up the stairs to flick on the kettle, dragging forward her trusty sketch pad to start planning the renaissance of Gingerberry Yarns. She was determined to keepbusy, to focus on menial tasks not the big picture, but disloyal thoughts strained like elastic to return to the melancholy lodged resolutely in her mind. As she sipped on her third cup of Earl Grey tea and removed a fourth chocolate-coated digestive biscuit from the tube, she pondered on how easily she had succumbed to the oestrogen trio of solace: chocolate, tea, and gossip.
She had no idea how long she had been at the kitchen table, mulling over her scribble, when a banging on the door broke through her reverie. She unfurled her legs and slotted the pencil behind her ear, the points of her ebony hair curling beneath her chin. She had made a concerted effort to avoid the bathroom mirror lately, but she knew she needed to arrange her debut visit to Marietta’s in the next week or so.
‘Oh, hello?’ She had expected it to be Delia or Marcis, despite the half-day closing.
‘Erm, hi. I’m Tom. Tom Wallington? From the bakery on the corner? Just thought I’d drop by to offer my condolences. I know I’m a little tardy, but well, what with the shop and visiting Dad…’ He attempted a conciliatory expression, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze focused on a point to the left of Sophie’s eyes, his diamond stud earring glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
‘Hi, Tom, I’m Sophie. Come in, come in. I’ll make us some coffee.’
Sophie eyed the pale peppermint cardboard box Tom clasped in his reddened hands and could almost feel the drool beginning to form.
‘I’ve brought you these. They’re just a few leftovers from this morning.’
Tom opened the lid of the cake box to reveal the most exquisite, hand-made selection of French patisserie Sophie hadlaid eyes on – and that from someone whose best friend had worshipped the world of pastries as they grew up. He pointed to a pale pink sugary gem.
‘This is a raspberryMiroir– raspberry mousse with pink-and-white biscuit, topped with a raspberry-infused glaze, finished with a pink-and-white-striped chocolate square. This one, here, is aParadiso– alternated mango, passion fruit and coconut-infused mousse topped with a rolled white-and-dark-chocolate cigarillo. And these, here, are pistachio and vanilla macarons.’
In the concentration of the description and the passion it had produced, Tom had emerged from his timid shell to present his culinary creations with the pride of any accomplished maestro, and Sophie had kept her mouth clamped shut to prevent the risk of subconscious drooling.
‘Wow, they look amazing. Why don’t you grab a seat at the table, Tom, and I’ll fetch the cafetière?’
She rushed up the stairs to make their coffee, then set the glass coffee pot on the huge mahogany table in the empty shop, and sank her teeth into one of the tiny sculptures, allowing the symphony of flavours to melt on her tongue and set her taste buds alight.
‘Delicious, Tom, you really are a genius. Delia says you trained in Paris and then at Betty’s in Harrogate?’ She watched Tom nervously lace his elegant fingers around his coffee mug so that he had something to do with his hands.
‘Yes, I adore French patisserie. I’ve been introducing a new product to the bakery every week since I took over from Dad at Christmas. I’m not sure Somersby is ready for blueberry and lemonmillefeuillewith Madagascan vanilla custard and blueberry jam, though! Dad, of course, tells me I’m crazy andthat I should stick with the standard fare of lardy cakes and loaves of bread that customers buy every week, but…’ Tom shrugged.
Sophie totally got it. If he had to endure banishment to rural Gloucestershire, then he wanted to make an impact on the community’s taste buds, just like she did with her natural textiles and crafting sessions. Maybe there was a great deal to be learnt from this ginger-haired giant crouched over the table in front of her.
‘I was thinking of doing something new here, too. Like repainting the walls and the shelving, upgrading the stock, suggesting a more modern twist to the customers with the sample garments we display in the window.’ She grimaced as her gaze fell on the burnt-orange sweater draped limply over the adjacent chair like a wet flannel. Who could wear orange successfully? ‘Maybe even start with a few crafting sessions to bring in a new, younger clientele.’
‘But what’s the point, Sophie? The village is floundering under the onslaught of the hypermarkets. Our high street is in intensive care now. At least you have the option of selling up and moving back to your life in London.’ He flashed his moss-green eyes at Sophie in apology, clearly not wanting to seem disrespectful. ‘With the greatest of respect, once your aunt’s probate has been finalised youcansell up. Whereas I’m subjected to daily lectures from my increasingly frail father about what I’m doing wrong in the business and how I have three generations of bakers behind me to measure up to.
‘Sorry, Sophie, but why bother? Why strive to put all your energy into a dying business when you don’t have to. We’ll all be slaving for the supermarket masters by the end of the year, working for minimum wage, watching the corporate fat cats drain all the creativity from our veins whilst we comply withtheir demands for homogenous loaves of bread and cream cakes the texture of polystyrene. The church congregation is flagging, youngsters are escaping to the city, small businesses teeter on the cliff of financial oblivion, like Wainwright’s the butcher’s did, like Greenwood’s the grocer’s has. Only the wealthy are beating a return path, buying up renovated weekend homes, bringing their supplies with them. We don’t have a hope of competing with that, so why are we flogging ourselves to death trying?’
Tom ran his chapped fingers over his hair and scratched at his auburn stubble. ‘Every morning except Sunday, I get up before five o’clock to prepare the dough for that day’s bread, to produce the repetitive fare the villagers of Somersby have come to expect from Wallington’s. If I had any spare time, which I don’t, I’d love to indulge my passion for hand-made chocolates, but that’s not what our customers want. One of my biggest fears is that I may be losing my culinary edge without the daily stretch of creativity to finely hone my skills.
‘And all this is before I limber up for the battle with the paperwork bureaucrats. I ask you, who needs the morning workout of kneading dough when I can flex my brain muscles in the eternal fight with suppliers, delivery guys, bankers, councillors who profess to have the small businessman in their thoughts, not to mention the spectre of the taxman. The government tells us we need daily exercise to avoid an early grave, but it’s the red tape that they throw at us that’s enough to give anyone a heart attack.’
At last, Tom met Sophie’s eyes. ‘I’m exhausted, Sophie. But I’m doing this for Dad. It would kill him if there was even a whiff of a hint that I intended to close the bakery. Oh, I know he thinks my intricate creations are the product of namby-pamby pandering to rich, nouveau-cuisine connoisseurs for whom he has no time. He used to cringe when I was a teenager and he sawme carry out my confectionary autopsies to ascertain the precise mix of ingredients and then attempt to reconstruct them with more panache than the original inventor.’
Sophie dropped her gaze from his eyes to his pianist fingers, picturing Tom mixing together a symphony of flavours all his own, a true genius with a wooden spoon but minus the smooth social skills and engaging personality of the celebrity TV chefs. His lack of self-confidence ensured he would not be taking part in the Great British Pageant of Patisserie any time soon.
Tom leaned towards her. ‘Sophie, listen to me. You don’t need to plough all your money and energy into refurbishing or wasting your design talents on a parochial shop catering to the needs of the old dears who use it as a community centre. No one would think badly of you. They all loved your aunt, but this is aboutyourlife,yourambitions. It’s not worth it. Don’t throw your dreams away, Sophie, like I have!’
‘But, Tom, running your Dad’s bakery clearly isn’t preventing you from experimenting with new recipes. We adore your cupcakes – they are divine creations of sugary art,’ she enthused as she wiped away a crumb from her lips.
‘But do the discerning customers of Somersby want a steady diet of pistachio macarons and tiramisu pyramids?’ he asked.
‘Never underestimate the hungry customer, Tom. They may be elderly, but they, like everyone else, can be lured to partake of a deliciouspetite madeleineor glazed fruit tart. Many still bake from scratch at home, you know, unlike the teenagers, although I am reliably informed by Nessa, my friend who teaches up at St Hilda’s, that the girls arelovingthe cookery classes they have reintroduced into the curriculum and they’re struggling to meet demand. Hey, andGBBOfever is sweeping the nation, too. Why not tailor your forensic culinary experiments each week to produce your own twist on one of the recipes featured on TV?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Who would be interested in that?’
