‘What can I get for you?’
A smile that sent shivers through me. I had to speak but still there was nothing. If I wasn’t rooted to the spot I’d have turned and bolted. I prepared myself for laughter or a disdainful sneer, but instead your brow creased with gentle concern.
‘Are you OK?’
The gentleness in your voice relaxed me. ‘Bread,’ I managed to say. ‘A loaf of bread. Please.’
Another smile. ‘Lovely. White or brown? Or we’ve got a nice one with seeds in?’
You hovered your hand, sheathed in blue, near the rows of loaves neatly lined up in red plastic trays. You glanced back at me, over your shoulder, waiting for my reply.
‘It’s for a sandwich. Crab.’
What an idiotic thing to say. Again I expected ridicule. Again I was wrong.
‘Oh, delicious! You’ll definitely be wanting wholemeal then.’ You dropped a loaf into a paper bag and gifted me another smile. ‘Wholemeal makes the best crab sandwiches. Slice the bread thick, spread both slices with a little mayo and some butter – not marg – pile on the crab meat, white and brown, then give it a squeeze of lemon and a bit of salt and pepper. Oh, it’s making my mouth water just thinking about it! Are you going next door for the crab? You should. They sell the best in Cornwall. Fresh and sweet.’
The words fell out of your mouth like a waterfall. When you handed me the loaf our fingers brushed.
Did you do that on purpose?
‘God, I tell you what, I love a crab sandwich.’
Then you smiled again.
My fingers fumbled hopelessly when it was time to pay and, stupidly, I managed to drop a handful of coins which scattered on the floor like pieces of a broken vase. I swore under my breath. My ineptitude was embarrassing. As I hastily tried to pick up the money, I was aware of you coming out from behind the counter, bending to help, your delicate fingers closing around the copper coins. I stared at your hands. Tanned skin. Softened with moisturiser. Slender fingers, nails free of tarty polish, natural, healthy and clean, filed into even arcs, a half-moon of white at their base.
You held out the coins you’d gathered and for a split second our gazes locked.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Butter fingers.’
‘Don’t be silly! Honestly, I’m the clumsiest person you’ll ever meet.’
And that was you, Hannah. Sweet and kind, wholesome, teetering along the fine line between girl and woman.
When you know, you know.
I sat on the low wall opposite the bakery and watched you through the window as you worked. It was a beautiful afternoon, mid-September, still warm – an Indian summer – and you were mesmerising. When it finally came to closing, you untied your apron and hung it up, put on your jacket and waved at someone unseen out back. You pushed the door open. Without your apron I could see you wore white cut-off shorts and a shapeless checked shirt, one made for men, I think, and a denim jacket that was a size too big. I imagined taking you shopping for expensive, well-cut clothes in the boutiques in Chelsea. The thought of spoiling you excited me.
My heart hammered as I called out. You turned and squinted through the early evening sunshine as you took a second or two to place me. Then you raised your hand and waved enthusiastically. I waved back and couldn’t help laughing. All the years I’d been searching for someone and you were right here, a few miles from Trevose all along.
‘Enjoy your sandwich!’
‘Thank you!’
Every fibre of my being screamed at me to follow you. But I had to be patient. Women are easily put off. I had to take my time. As I watched you walk away it physically hurt.
I would stay in Cornwall for another week. It meant a call to work. I explained I’d developed a bad case of shingles and asked them to delay my flight to Paris. They weren’t happy, but what else could I do? Shingles is nasty.
Over the days that followed I indulged a newfound appetite for iced buns. Every day I made the drive to Newlyn and wandered into the bakery, nonchalant, playing it cool.
‘Iced bun?’ you asked with a knowing smile.
‘They’re the best I’ve ever tasted and I know my iced buns!’
‘I’ll tell my dad. It’s his own recipe. I’d give it to you, but then I’d have to kill you, so…’ You shrugged and it was such a charming gesture I laughed.
‘I’ll have to do without for a while.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m a lawyer. I have to go to Paris, to head office. I’ll be there for a while, I think. A few months at least. They need me to sort some things out for them. I should be flattered, I suppose.’
The stint in Paris was actually part of my training, but the small white lie was worth it to see your expression change to one of awe. ‘Wow, you must be clever.’
I lowered my gaze to affect humility.
‘I didn’t even do A levels. I love reading though, and quite enjoyed history and English, but school was wasted on me. I was too naughty.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’
You laughed. ‘Well, not naughty, as such. But I was definitely lazy when it came to doing my homework and stuff.’ You shrugged. ‘Guess that’s why I’m here in my dad’s bakery and not a hotshot lawyer off to France.’
The bell above the door rang and another customer walked in. I wished I could tell her to go away, to come back later and let us finish talking, but of course I couldn’t.
‘I’ll be back in England for Christmas though.’
‘I’ll have your iced bun ready and waiting.’ You winked at me and turned to the lady. ‘What can I get for you?’
As I reached for the door handle, something stopped me. My sister’s words.
When you know, you know.
‘Will you have dinner with me?’
You looked surprised, shocked even, and an immediate panic took hold of me.
‘It’s, well, I don’t have many friends down here, and I’ve been at home alone for a few weeks. Climbing the walls. And I’ve enjoyed our daily chats.’
You hesitated.
‘But if you can’t think of anything worse, I understand.’
The woman in the shop glanced at her watch and huffed quietly. ‘Look, can you serve me first then sort this out? I’m in a hurry to pick up my daughter from nursery. They get cross if we’re late.’
‘Yes,’ you said to her, before turning back to me. ‘Can you—’
‘Just dinner. That’s all.’
Then you smiled. ‘Yes. Sure. Dinner. It sounds lovely.’
I took you to the most expensive restaurant in Cornwall. The chef had trained at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons. You hadn’t heard of it, which was disappointing as I’d hoped you’d be impressed, but then again your lack of sophistication was beguiling. I’d be Professor Higgins to your Eliza. I’d show you the museums of London and Amsterdam, the canals of Venice and the Statue of Liberty. I imagined us wandering through the narrow backstreets of Rome, eating in romantic trattorias, and making wishes at the Trevi Fountain. My pulse quickened.
Chez Laurent wasn’t what I’d expected. It was, if I’m brutally honest, pretentious. You ordered the fish, do you remember? It came with three cubes of something we decided was probably swede. The fillet of John Dory was the size of a deck of cards and undercooked. My heart sank as you examined the translucent grey flesh with the tip of your knife. I tried not to notice you scrape away the orange balls of salmon roe over its surface whilst eyeing the puree of mushroom warily.