The Little Brooklyn Bakery. Julie Caplin
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a moment, she let the image of Mel’s limp balloon dance in her head. Brandi Baumgarten’s desk would be ready and waiting for her on Monday, just thirty-one hours from now. Scrolling across the touch screen, she brought up the subway map she’d downloaded. It looked horribly complicated compared to the tube map she was so used to. Taking a deep breath, she closed the app. Tomorrow there’d be plenty of time to get her bearings and work out the journey to work.
The taxi had slowed, turning off the main highway, and here the streets were suddenly interesting, lots of bars, vibrant with crowds of people, pavement seating full, a world of nationalities in the bars and restaurants they passed. With a sudden screech of brakes, the taxi stopped and almost before he’d halted, the driver turned around.
‘Forty dollars,’ he spat.
‘Is this it?’ she asked, peering out of the window at several shop fronts.
‘Number 425 – right there, lady.’ He indicated with a contemptuous thumb. ‘Just like you asked for.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Sophie, uncertain as to how he could see any numbers. Maybe it was a locals’ thing and she was looking in the wrong place.
The taxi driver had already got out and was heaving her cases onto the pavement.
‘Thank you,’ said Sophie politely, as she rummaged through her purse with the unfamiliar currency and located a fifty-dollar bill. She knew tipping was big in America and had a sudden moment of panic. ‘Keep the change.’ She had no idea if it was too much or too little but at nearly three in the morning, she just wanted to find the promised key safe, get into her room and collapse into bed.
He snatched up the money and jumped back in the cab before she could say another word and the red back lights of the car disappeared down the street, two eyes glowing in the dark like a fading demon.
With two suitcases and her cabin bag she stood on the pavement, sudden fear clamping her heart as she surveyed the shop fronts. Not one of them had a helpful number on the door. She looked down the street which stretched away into the distance. It was a very long street. A few people were about, and from the nearby corner loud voices shouted.
She turned back and jumped as a man appeared from nowhere. At well over six foot five, he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, with long, lanky, slightly bowed legs that seemed to bounce as he walked towards her. Her momentary fear at being surprised and alone in the middle of the night in a strange neighbourhood receded when white teeth from ebony skin grinned at her.
‘Hey lady, you OK? You look a little lost.’
‘I’m … erm … looking for number 425.’
He loomed over her, smelling rather bizarrely of rosemary. With a surreptitious sniff, she also identified basil.
‘That’d be right here above Bella’s Place.’ He pointed to a bakery and then she spotted the narrow doorway squeezed between two shops. ‘You must be the English girl.’
‘I must be, yes.’ The scent of basil was stronger now and she blurted out, with drunken jet-lagged stream of consciousness, ‘You smell of herbs.’
‘Erbs,’ he corrected. ‘Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice.’
‘That’s what little boys smell of,’ said Sophie, now feeling a bit like Alice.
His grin widened as he pointed to a shop front a few doors down. Sophie nodded, feeling a little stupid when she realised Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice was the name of his shop.
‘You just arrived?’ He laughed. ‘Course you have, otherwise why would you be out on the sidewalk in the middle of the night with a bunch of baggage? I’m Wes, let me give you a hand with your things.’
Too weary to argue, she nodded, relieved to find the key safe by the door which gave up its contents as soon as she punched in the code. Wes led the way up the narrow staircase, carrying her cabin bag and suitcase with ease while she struggled up behind him, following the scent of herbs which spilled from a couple of pots wedged into his canvas satchel slung across his body.
On the top floor he stopped outside a bright-red door. ‘Here you go – 425A, Bella’s just upstairs. She rents this whole building.’ He took the keys from her and did the honours, dumping the case in the tiny hall and flipping the light switch. ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’ He fished out a rosemary plant and handed it to her, before saluting, ducking under the doorway and loping away down the stairs with a cheerful whistle.
Tired as she was, the brief, friendly encounter with a man who’d given her a herb pot made her feel that maybe life in Brooklyn might just be bearable after all.
The hallway opened into a lounge with several doors leading from it. She had an impression of polished wooden floors, two long tall windows through which the ambient light of the street spilled and a shadowy collection of furniture. She put the pot down on a table and opened the nearest door. Bingo first strike, the bedroom. A double bed, quilt, pillow, all bare of sheets. Bugger. It hadn’t occurred to her to pack those. Sod it, still fully clothed, she pitched forward onto the naked duvet, wrapping it around her. Her last thought, her teeth could have an extra minute’s brushing in the morning.
Despite the god-awful time of 5 a.m., she was wide awake, her body clock, even after only five hours’ sleep, hell-bent on London time and, according to her biorhythms, enjoying a leisurely nine o’clock lie-in.
With a groan Sophie rolled over, feeling grimy, travel stained and full-on icky, her body still crimped from the plane journey. She stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling as half-hearted daylight clawed its way through the flimsy curtains. As usual, the thoughts began to crowd in. Memories of the last two years, fighting like gremlins coming up through the crevices. Nope, not going there. Refuse to go there. Shower. Unpack. Find tea. They were the priorities.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted them firmly on the wide-planked wooden floor and looked around the room. Just about enough space to swing a very small kitten, but clean and obviously newly painted. The tasteful shade of sage green was complemented by the cream-painted woodwork of the headboard and a matching chest of drawers and an oval mirror hanging above it. Space was tight, so the bed was pushed up against the opposite wall and there was no sign of a wardrobe.
She found the reason when she pushed open the second door leading from the bedroom. It opened into a tiny hallway with a built-in wardrobe and, at the end, another doorway which led into a long and very narrow bathroom. However, the shiny, glossy brick tiles and immaculate, gleaming chrome fittings more than made up for its corridor-like dimensions.
At the sight of the state-of-the-art shower, chrome-filled with numerous taps, heads and levers and big enough to take a rugby team, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the blissful streams of hot water. It was only as the water streamed through her long blonde hair, from two different directions, that she realised that there was no shampoo, no soap and no towel. She blinked hard at her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought to pack towels and sheets?
As she shook herself like a dog to try and dry off, using her jeans as a bathmat, she glared at the idiotic image in the mirror, her hair wrapped in her T-shirt to soak up the drips.
For God’s sake, she was normally the person who could be relied on for having packed spares for everyone else.
She went through her case pulling things out, appalled at the random contents and glaring omissions. Hair straighteners. No hairdryer. Fourteen pairs of knickers. One bra. Three tubes of toothpaste. No toothbrush. Tweezers. No nail scissors. Her second-favourite cookery book. And decaffeinated tea-bags? Just when she could have mainlined caffeine with bells on. Who drank decaffeinated anything? There should be a law against it.
Sitting back on her heels, she looked back at the last week with sudden clarity. Lord, hindsight was a wonderful thing. Now, when it was far too