A Little Love (26 page)

After he had gone, she was too numb to cry. She lay there and looked at the coins that he’d put in a pile on the chest of drawers, and she thought about the bricks it would buy. Maybe one brick, maybe two, but each one of those bricks would one day build her freedom.

Pru left the flat mid morning with a file tucked under one arm, giving the impression that her excursion might be business-related. In the other hand she clutched a brown paper bag containing two
croissants aux amandes
, which this time she had made herself. She walked quickly, keen to get to the park, forgetting that there was no plan. She had to remind her racing heart to calm down. Christopher hadn’t answered her calls and so she had texted her intention to be in the park. She knew he probably wouldn’t be there, but she’d smoothed her fringe and applied her scent nevertheless. She felt a bit stumped when the bridge came into view. What was she to do now she had arrived?

Conscious of being observed, of being so obviously abandoned and loitering aimlessly in this public space, she looked at her watch and sighed, as though the person she was meeting was late. She did this a few times and walked from one side of the bridge to the other, craning her neck as though trying to spot a certain someone in a crowd. This act was genuine enough. She was searching for a certain someone who might or might not have been visiting his favourite London landmark that day. He wasn’t, not today.

Pru took a seat on the bench and set down her file with the little paper bag on top. She watched as couples and families sauntered past, stopping to admire the ducks or to kiss in the shadow of a weeping willow. She studied their grins, their interlinked hands and their slow blinks. She knew how they felt; she had been one of them, just for a little while. Her mouth trembled and her shoulders sagged.
I miss you. I miss seeing you and I miss having you to think about. I am lonely again, just like that. I am lonely all over again.

A chubby dark cloud blocked the sun and threw the park into shadow; the chill crept into her bones and caused her to look skywards as fat droplets of rain began to fall. Pru closed her eyes and let the water run over her. The paper bag disintegrated and rendered her croissants to mush. Looking around, she saw that everyone had dispersed, leaving her quite alone and feeling more displaced than ever.

She sat on the bench for two hours and thought, ignoring the showers that started, stopped and started again. It wasn’t as if she could ever have had a future with him. She couldn’t exactly see him taking her to a do at the House of Commons – her, sitting between Lord and Lady Lahdeedah, chatting about growing up in London. While they were at debutant balls, she was taking paying customers up to the flat for a couple of bob a time. That’d be a conversation stopper, right there! Pru allowed herself a rueful smile. What would she do if they did get married, sit him next to Crying Micky on the top table and make out he was a friend from the country club?

Pru shook herself and smacked her forehead into her palms. Unbidden, the memory of her and Milly discussing their perfect wedding sprang into her mind. Milly had always wanted a proper church, with peach-coloured confetti, the lot. But Pru had scoffed at that, preferring something extraordinary. A woodland fairy canopy with stars twinkling, that’s what she had always longed for, a wedding fit for a forest princess. She twisted the diamond on her finger and gulped back a sob. She wasn’t a princess. She wasn’t even a businesswoman. She was nothing but an old brass. No wonder Christopher Heritage didn’t want to be associated with her; she couldn’t blame him, not really.

Pru stood up from the bench and dusted off the small twigs and leaves that dotted her clothes. She took one last lingering look at their bridge and with her head down returned the way she’d come. She didn’t look back, didn’t see the grey-suited man step from beneath the cloak of the weeping willow, didn’t see the expression that swept across his face. A look that some might interpret as regret, wishing that the world were a bit more like gingerbread.

As she walked back to Curzon Street, she decided to try and put him out of her mind for good. She wouldn’t go looking for him in the park any more, or attempt to call him. How pathetic was that? No, it was less distressing and far easier to accept that that was it; ties cut, fling over.

It was easy enough to say these words in her head, but so much harder to banish the images and memories that went with them. Pru lay in her bed, exhausted, but sleep would not come. Only days before, she had slept so soundly, within touching distance of Christopher and gently comforted by knowing he was close by. She imagined sleeping like that every night – she couldn’t help it. So many of the men at Kenway Road had uttered promises against the rented pillow in the aftermath of sex. Before they headed home to the wife and kids they adored, they would tell her she was beautiful or that they wanted to run away with her. They made a mockery of the shiny gold band that had briefly lain against her naked shoulder or stroked her hair. But she believed none of their promises. Who did they think they were kidding? She had never allowed herself to be taken in, never smudged the line between paying for sex and romance. With Christopher it had been different; she’d believed his sentiments, had wanted to hear his terms of endearment, his promises.

Eventually she fell asleep, but after an hour she woke and sat bolt upright, momentarily confused, not sure where she was. Barcelona? She jolted at the recollection of what had happened. A fresh wave of regret was right there waiting to sweep over her, as it always was.

A few days later, just as Pru was closing up the café and about to make her way upstairs, she noticed a fan of light poking from beneath the kitchen door. She walked in, expecting to find Guy and his sketchbook.

‘Oh, Meg! Hello, love. I didn’t expect to see you here at this time of the evening.’

Meg froze. She was still slightly wary of Pru after the shouting match the other night. ‘Guy said it was okay. I’m just playing a bit, baking stuff.’ She wiped her arm first across her face, smudging her nose with flour, and then over the Plum Patisserie apron, which was tight across her stomach. She looked worried that she might be in more trouble.

‘Yes, that’s fine, of course. You carry on. What are you making?’

‘Madeleines. My first batch isn’t quite right.’ She glanced at the pale sponge offerings that lay abandoned on the counter.

‘Let’s have a look.’ Pru sat on one of the bar stools by the stainless steel central island.

Meg groaned and reached for the wire rack on which sat eight little butter sponges.

‘They look pretty good to me.’

Meg shook her head. ‘No, the grooves aren’t right. They’re supposed to be firmer and fan out more – like a scallop shell, it said. And mine don’t; they look more like mussels.’

‘How do you know about madeleines?’ Pru was curious.

‘Guy told me about them and he gave me his book.’ She held up the laminated cover. He had fixed a typed label to the front:
La Cuisine pour les Débutants
. ‘I don’t know what it means, but the recipes are good. He’s written them all out in English and his handwriting is beautiful.’ She tipped the page to show Pru, who smiled at his neat italic script and ordered rows of measurements, weights and cooking times set towards the right of the page. ‘I’m working my way through all of them. Guy said it’s the best way to learn, to just get stuck in.’

Pru nodded. Guy was right and a good man for entrusting this girl with his own beginner’s recipe book. She broke off a corner of sponge and popped it into her mouth, squashing it against her palate before biting into it. ‘This is very good, delicious!’

‘Oh, you’re just saying that.’ Meg blushed as she kicked at the tiled floor.

‘Meg, there is one thing I will never lie about and that is the quality of anything baked that leaves this kitchen. That’s my name above the door and if something isn’t good enough, you’d know.’

Meg grinned. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘I like making things and I’m rubbish at everything else.’ She instinctively placed her hand on her enormous bump.

‘How are you feeling?’ Pru was worried. Meg looked tired and ready to burst.

Meg flopped on to the stool on the opposite side of the counter. ‘I’m a bit scared actually.’

‘What are you scared of?’

Meg considered this. ‘Having the baby – everything. And the closer it gets, the more scared I feel.’

‘That’s understandable. I know this isn’t what you planned—’

‘Nothing is what I planned, what we planned.’ Meg closed her eyes and dropped her head on to her arm, propping it on the table. As she told Pru about how she and William had planned for their baby, choosing paint for the baby’s room and picking out names, her eyes misted over. When she got to the part about moving in together to a new house, she stopped and gave a wry little laugh. ‘There was always a voice in the back of my mind telling me that it was too good to be true, that I was too lucky. Things like that don’t happen to girls like me. Turns out the voice was right.’

‘Where are your parents, Meg?’

She snorted. ‘They’re divorced. My dad’s remarried and lives on Canvey Island. I haven’t seen him since I was about twelve. And my mum, well, let’s just say she hasn’t really got room for me in her life.’ Meg told Pru how she went into care when they divorced, and about the times her mother had come to visit her. ‘She only came twice, but she told me she was saving up to take me on a little holiday. I used to think about it before I fell asleep, planning what we’d do, digging in the sand and eating ice cream. One of the older girls gave me a pair of flip-flops that she’d outgrown; they had little ladybirds on them. I thought they were wonderful. A size too big, but that didn’t matter. I never wore them; I was saving them. I’d line them up under my bed every night, so that I’d be able to put them on in the morning, ready to go to the seaside. I thought if I wore them in the garden or around the house, I’d jinx things and wouldn’t get to wear them on the sand. Of course she never came and I never got to put them on. But I don’t think it was her fault really. She always had a lot going on, things weren’t easy for her.’

It saddened Pru to hear Meg forgive her mum so easily, when she didn’t sound like she deserved it. But who was she to judge? Many a similar comment had been directed at Alfie. Perhaps this woman too had been waging battles too complex for those on the outside to comprehend.

‘Does she know about the baby?’

‘I told her, but I haven’t seen her. Don’t think she’s that fussed, to be honest. Mind you, I’d be more shocked if she was!’ She let out a long sigh. ‘I have to keep busy, Pru, so I don’t do too much thinking. I’m worried that if I stop and think, I might go a bit loopy.’

Pru nodded. This she understood only too well.

‘Pru, I hope you don’t mind me saying this…’ Meg chewed her lip. ‘But I’m really sorry things didn’t work out for you and Christopher. You seemed to really like him.’

Oh, I did that.

‘Don’t give up on the idea of finding someone. Don’t let him put you off. You just have to hang on for the right one. And maybe it is him, maybe he is your one; things might work out for you both, you never know. I’ve forgiven William. I still get mad at him, but really I’ve forgiven him, otherwise it’ll just make me feel rotten for my whole life and I don’t want that. I think you’re more likely to find love now you are back in practice, if you get me. Not that I think I’ll ever meet anyone, no one will want me.’

Both were silent for a moment, and Pru could see Meg’s emotion rising. She changed tack, tapping the mixing bowl with her finger to draw her focus. ‘You need a dot more flour. If the mixture was thicker, it would stick to the tin a bit better, and hold its shape. Another minute on your baking time and they will be Plum standard.’

Pru pressed her lips together, trying to blot her over-zealous application of gloss, and ran her tongue over her teeth; she wanted to look her best. She hadn’t been able to decide whether to take a little square raspberry and frangipani bun as her offering, or a mini gooseberry meringue. Although she had sworn to herself and to Milly that she would never go looking for him again, she had listened to Meg and knew she had to try one more time. Her stomach churned as she put her left hand inside the pocket of her white linen jacket, partly to hide its tremor but also to wipe her sweaty palm on the fabric. She was nervous. Trying to look casual, she walked with a measured pace until she came to the park. She checked the ribbon on the patisserie box in her right hand. In the end she had opted for a delicate
tarte au citron
, the base of which was the finest, crumbliest sweet shortcrust she could muster. The filling was sharp but fresh, with twirls of lemon zest running through it, and it was covered with a lattice of icing infused with
sirop de citron
.

She approached the curve in the path and looked ahead towards the bridge. As ever, lovers walked arm in arm, strolling along the paths and across the grass, only today she didn’t feel they were kindred spirits. Instead, they were to be envied, part of a secret club from which she was barred. It was as if the whole other world that she had only recently learned about was once again locked behind the secret door and even if she had known where to find it, she no longer had a key.

In her imaginings, she and Christopher had arranged to meet, but the truth was that she hovered near their bridge on this busy lunchtime in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of him in his favourite place. She had practised how she would look – surprised but delighted – and had pulled the face a couple of times in the mirror.

Approaching slowly, she scanned the crowds and every time her eyes fell upon a dark suit or a head of grey hair, her heart stuttered. Closer inspection would reveal the man to be an imposter. She took a seat at a spot a little way around the bend but with a perfect view of the bridge to her right. An hour passed before she had to accept that he was not coming, not today. Reluctantly she placed the
tarte au citron
on the bench and left, looking back over her shoulder until the bridge had almost disappeared from view.