The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018. Ellen Berry
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fires I’ve seen that have started this way. It’s the fat, you see. Grease spits over the edge of the tray and then ignites …’ He frowned. ‘What were you making anyway?’
‘Brandy snaps,’ she replied, at which he looked baffled; well, of course he did, they belonged to a bygone era. This child before her had probably cooked nothing more taxing than a microwaveable pouch of Uncle Ben’s rice – but then, neither had she.
He stepped aside to let Roxanne and Sean pass. ‘Well, just make sure, any time you’re baking in future …’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said quickly, ‘there won’t be any baking in future, I can promise you that.’
She and Sean stood for a moment as the fireman clumped downstairs to join his colleagues.
‘Okay up there, Roxanne? Need any help?’ Isabelle called up from the hallway.
‘We’re fine here, thanks,’ she shouted back brightly.
Sean shook his head and frowned. ‘Bit of an over-reaction from Henry, wasn’t it, calling the fire brigade? Look at the damage to your door …’
‘Oh, it can be fixed. It’s not the end of the world.’ In fact, she surmised as they strode through to her kitchen, perhaps she had got off lightly. Apart from a terrible stench and the urgent need for a joiner, there was really nothing to worry about. The oven was open; the blackened tray of brandy snap mixture having being dumped in the sink and water poured onto it. The kitchen window had been opened, and a cool breeze was wafting in. She met Sean’s gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. This isn’t quite how I imagined your fiftieth would turn out.’
‘Hey, darling, it’s okay.’ He kissed her forehead softly, then wound his arms around her waist and held her close to his chest. ‘I’m just relieved your place didn’t burn down.’
She nodded and stepped away. ‘I’d better see if I can find a joiner …’
‘Yes, of course …’ However, before she could even do a Google search, Sean had said, ‘Hey, I’ll do it,’ and taken her phone from her, and was jabbing at it – because, of course, he was a man and this involved a tradesman with tools. Blokes’ stuff, Roxanne thought wryly as Sean made the call on her behalf, as if she were incapable of communicating that her front door was broken. At least he was being helpful, she decided. What use would any of her other boyfriends have been, in a situation like this? They’d have laughed and called her an idiot, then raided her fridge for beer while she sorted everything out.
‘Yeah,’ Sean chortled into her phone, having lapsed into conversing-with-tradesman mode. ‘Girlfriend left something in the oven, fire brigade called … yeah, you could say that, hur-hur-hur …’
She jammed her back teeth together. You know what women are like, was the unspoken theme.
Sean finished the call and beamed at her. ‘Well, that was a bit of luck. He’s local: says he’ll be here within the hour.’
‘Great.’ Roxanne mustered a wide smile. ‘Oh – let me get you your present.’
‘Darling, I’m sorry.’ He frowned in mock regret. ‘I really think they’re too burnt to eat.’
‘That was just a little treat—’
‘Come here. I want this kind of treat …’ He grabbed her playfully and went in for a kiss, but she spun away.
‘Hang on a minute …’ She rushed off to her second bedroom – a box room really, that served as overspill storage for clothes and accessories – to retrieve the gift she had wrapped so beautifully in matt duck-egg blue paper with a perfect silver bow.
Sean was lounging on the sofa in her living room when she handed it to him.
‘Here you go. Happy fiftieth, darling.’ As she curled up beside him, she experienced a rush of pleasure at having tracked down a wonderful gift for a man who really did have everything.
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He peeled away the wrapping paper with care. ‘Oh, wow! This is amazing, Rox. You know I love his work …’ He gazed at the hefty coffee-table book of photographs by Laurence Grier, one of his photographic heroes.
She snuggled close as he turned the pages reverentially. Grier, who had been active since the 50s, specialised in black-and-white photographs of achingly beautiful women in rather shabby surroundings. They always looked as if they had been caught off guard, applying lipstick in a dingy cafe, or drawing a picture with a finger on the steamed-up window of a bus.
‘Glad you like it,’ she said with a smile.
‘Of course I do. You’re so thoughtful. I love you, babe.’ He kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I love you too, darling,’ she murmured, beaming with pleasure. ‘Look, there’s something else too.’ She leaned over and turned to the book’s inside front cover, on which the photographer himself had written: Happy 50th birthday Sean, with all good wishes, Laurence Grier.
Sean stared at the inscription. ‘It’s signed! Is this for me?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, laughing, ‘unless it’s a remarkable coincidence.’
His eyes widened. ‘How on earth did you get this?’
‘I bribed him with enormous amounts of money,’ she said with a grin.
He closed the book and placed it on top of a muddle of magazines and newspaper supplements on her coffee table. ‘Seriously? You actually met him?’
She nodded. ‘Yes – when I was in Paris for the shows.’
‘Really? Wow. You planned ahead …’
‘It was just luck really,’ she said quickly, a little embarrassed now: Paris fashion week was back in October. Did it seem overly keen to have planned Sean’s birthday present seven months ago – and only two months after they’d started seeing each other? ‘He was staying at my hotel,’ she added.
Sean kissed her again. ‘You’re amazing, Rox. Gorgeous, sexy and amazing …’
She smiled and pushed back her tangled hair. ‘And I noticed that he liked to sit with a gin and tonic in the hotel bar every evening, so I went out and bought a copy and hoped he’d be there, just one more time …’ She omitted to mention that it taken visits to four different bookshops before she had managed to track down a copy, and even then, it had a torn cover so they had to order another for her to pick up the next day.
The intercom buzzer sounded. Sean leapt up to answer it. ‘That’ll be Tommy!’ he exclaimed.
She stared before scrambling up after him. For a moment, it seemed as if the excitement over the joiner’s arrival had surpassed that of the photography book.
Sean hared towards the front door ahead of her in order to greet him. ‘Hi, mate, that was quick …’
‘Only three streets away,’ Tommy replied with a grin. He had cropped ginger hair, a soft Liverpool accent and scratched at his stubbly chin as he examined the door. ‘Whoa, that’s some mess you’ve got here.’
‘Yep, think the whole door needs replacing?’
‘Yeah, for sure – but I can do a temporary patch-up right now, make it secure …’
‘… And fit a new door at some point?’ Sean enquired, as if this was his flat, and he was in charge here.
‘Uh-huh, I can get you some prices …’
‘That would be great,’ Roxanne said firmly, forcing the man to register her presence. ‘A temporary patch-up, I mean. It’s actually my flat.’
‘Oh, is it? Right …’ Tommy darted a quick look at Sean as if to say, Is that okay with you, her expressing an opinion? before starting to unpack his tools. Roxanne gave them a