A Little Love (27 page)

Even though he had not been there, she still pictured them finding each other, him laughing, saying, ‘There she is,’ and the two of them standing close together, sipping coffee and planning their weekend away. Even this false memory, almost a dream, was enough to lift her spirits.

‘Hello.’ His voice came from behind. She stopped and turned and there he was, two feet away from her, his complexion a little flushed, whether through embarrassment or exertion she couldn’t tell. Two dark circles of fatigue sat beneath his eyes. His hair was a little more unkempt than she had seen it.

‘I… I brought you a lemon tart.’ She pointed to the bench, wondering if it was too late to go and retrieve it.

He nodded; he had seen.

‘Shall we sit for a while?’ he asked.

She nodded.
Yes! Yes, my love! We will sit for a while and we can make everything good!
She hadn’t counted on the rush of desire and warmth she felt at seeing him; it took all of her strength not to jump into his arms.

Pru noted how he walked with his hands in his pockets, awkward. The two of them sat either side of the cake box; it became a barrier and not the gift she had intended.

‘I’ve thought about seeing you, tried to bump into you and now we are here I don’t know what to say. I feel quite tongue-tied!’ She giggled.

Christopher knitted his hands in his lap and sat, straight-backed, looking ahead. ‘How have you been?’ His voice was hoarse. She noticed he had lost weight. His cheeks were a little jowlier and his chest smaller; it didn’t suit him. Nothing a few good meals wouldn’t sort out.

‘I’ve been terrible, actually. Very, very upset and lonely.’ She decided not to sugar-coat the truth, no more lying via omission.

He nodded. This was his story too.

‘But here we are!’ Her voice lifted and her face broke into a smile. ‘Open the box! I made it myself. I couldn’t decide between—’

‘Pru,’ he interrupted, still unable to catch her eye, ‘this isn’t a reconciliation.’

‘It’s not?’ she whispered, unable to keep the edge of sadness and disappointment from her voice.

‘No.’ On this he was firm, jutting his chin and pulling back his shoulders. ‘I’ve done something terrible and I am sorry. I wanted to see you to say that in person. I am truly sorry.’

Tears slid down the back of her throat. She couldn’t find any words. She had thought she was being given a chance and the joy she’d felt at the prospect had filled her completely. Meg’s words floated into her head.
‘It was too good to be true, I was too lucky. Things like that don’t happen to girls like me.’
Pru simply nodded. She understood.
He had chosen his career over her and there was very little she could do about it, no matter how much it saddened her.

‘I have a team of advisors and… sometimes things are taken out of my hands. Do you understand that?’ He looked at her now, his expression doleful.

She shrugged, caring little how his precious career worked, wanting to be alone but at the same time wanting this meeting, possibly their final one, to last as long as possible.

‘Why don’t you go away for a while, Pru? Take a holiday, get out of town.’

She stared at him, perplexed. Did she repulse him that much that he wanted her gone? Removing the chance for any accidental encounter. He needn’t worry; she wouldn’t be hanging around his park, not any more.

‘I would happily buy you a ticket,’ he mumbled.

Pru stood, stole one final glance at the bridge and took a deep breath. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone has paid for me, Christopher.’ With that she turned and walked away without looking back. Her tears finally fell and she let them, whimpering as she made her way back to Curzon Street.

By the time she reached home, Pru had decided that she’d done enough moping. As she hung her linen jacket on its hook, she resolved to turn her humiliation and hurt into fuel that would drive her forward.

‘Right, Alfie, enough is enough.’ She glanced at the photo on the wall in the basement office. ‘I’ve had a good old think and it’s about time I got my arse in gear. So I have decided, no more pining, brooding or thinking about what-ifs. I’m a grown woman with a business to run. And I can’t keep apologising, can I? So as of now, I will spend more time with my clients, more time with Guy and I am going to push myself.’ Pru stretched and looked at the diamond on her right hand. She didn’t need to rely on a man for her success or her happiness.

‘And it all begins… with syllabub.’ She clapped.

She went into the workroom, fastened her apron around her waist and pulled the cold metal bowl from the giant fridge. She held it under her nose and inhaled the mixture that had been infusing since early that morning.

‘Oh, you smell wonderful!’ Pru closed her eyes and breathed in the heady sweetness, a combination of brandy, sweet white wine, the juice of a whole lemon and dissolved caster sugar. She fished out a hand-wrapped muslin bundle of spices and a long curl of orange peel and tossed them into the bin. The mixture was ready for stage two. Pru pulled the lid on a fresh carton of double cream and poured the required amount into the bowl, before reaching for her balloon whisk.

She started to whip, moving the mixture slowly yet steadily against the sides of the metal bowl. Then she changed the angle of her wrist and started again, making sure she incorporated the mixture at the bottom of the bowl. Over and over she did this, watching as the cream started to thicken and the mixture bloused under the slow, rhythmical movement. After a while she set the bowl on the counter and, using a fine grater, added the zest of a fresh lemon. Once the pale yellow cream was peppered with its golden flecks, she picked up the whisk and continued.

She observed the pale mixture intently, continually folding and whisking until it began to rise in the bowl. Finally it thickened and gained weight, like a plump pillow beneath her whisk. This was the point at which to stop; just one or two more turns of the hand and the mixture might curdle. She recalled this very thing happening to Monsieur Gilbert and the tirade of blasphemous French that had bounced off the walls as a result. Her mouth twitched at the memory.

Pru spooned the syllabub into fancy cocktail glasses and dotted each one with a generous dollop of
compote de framboises
and a sprinkle of crushed and toasted hazelnuts. She placed the desserts on a tray and climbed the stairs, dropping one off for Milly, who was lying under a mountain of bubbles in the bath.

‘Ooh, how lovely, syllabub in the tub! Is there anything nicer!’ she garbled, a large spoonful having found its way into her mouth with lightning speed. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’

Pru tutted. ‘What am I, the waitress? Blimey, I’m going!’

She knocked on Meg’s door. ‘I brought you pudding!’

‘That looks lovely, what it is it?’ Meg lay in the middle of the bed; she looked tired.

‘It’s syllabub.’

‘Never heard of it.’ She spooned the mixture into her mouth. ‘Oh, that’s delicious. Kind of winey, with cream, and very citrusy.’ She licked her lips. ‘Can I taste orange as well as lemon?’

Pru nodded. The girl had a palate on her.

Milly was on the early. Pru, in no hurry to go to bed, where she would be at the mercy of her dreams, wandered around the flat with her syllabub balanced on her palm, resigned to another disrupted night without Bobby – or Christopher. She wondered when this ache for him might disappear. It was one thing to recite the words of detachment in her head, but her heart hadn’t quite caught up. The disappointment left a nasty aftertaste to everything she swallowed, even her delicious syllabub.
‘A sadness that will sit behind your eyes and fill your mouth with sourness.’

Pru was up early, sitting in her office, going through invoices when Meg rushed down from the café, clearly flustered, red in the face and flapping her hand, trying to indicate without words what was going on.

‘You all right there, Meg?’ Pru placed her pen on the desk in front of her and studied Meg, who nodded and rolled her eyes over her left shoulder.

Following in her wake with a determined stride and a thin-lipped expression of disgust was Lady Miriam.

Pru did a double-take; she hadn’t scheduled any meetings. ‘Ah, Miriam! What a lovely surprise. I wasn’t expecting you! Let me get you some coffee.’

She stood up to call for Guy, who was overseeing the creative team in the workroom next door. They were rolling tiny pink sugar-paste roses and hand-shaping the petals which Guy would finish painting later. He had perfected the art of applying shadows and hues to make the flowers look as if the sun was falling against one side of the cake; it was a stunning effect.

Lady Miriam flicked her hair back over her shoulder. ‘I don’t want coffee, thank you.’ Her tone was clipped.

‘Oh, right. Well, do take a seat.’ Pru indicated Lady Miriam’s usual chair and sat down opposite, her hands on the desk. She tried to guess: Bunny was having second thoughts on the colour scheme, or maybe Lady Miriam required an extra tier in response to a sudden rise in her daughter’s popularity.

‘This is rather delicate, Pru, but I need to discuss this.’ Lady Miriam unfolded the red-top newspaper from the top of her leather tote and laid it on the desk. Her eyes shone.

Pru stared, confused. Her eyes scanned the front page, which described a drunken brawl between two footballers’ wives and carried several photos of someone she didn’t recognise having a glittery frock malfunction on a red carpet.

‘I’m sorry, Miriam, I don’t quite follow.’ She smiled.

With an alacrity bordering on excitement, Miriam flipped to a well-thumbed page and slid the double-page spread across the desk towards her. Pru popped her glasses on her nose and squinted at the black and white picture of a rather leggy woman climbing into the back of a taxi. It took a while for her to recognise the woman as herself.

‘Oh!’ she giggled, ‘that’s an old one!’ She wondered why they had printed this particular picture of her, which must have been at least twenty years old, taken as she left a function in the West End and revealing a little more thigh than she was usually comfortable with. Pru raised her eyebrow at the headline –
SHE NEEDED THE DOUGH!
– and then started to read. As she raced through the opening paragraphs, her smile faded –
Under a veil of respectability… Catering for Hollywood A-listers… Cakes costing thousands of pounds…
The colour drained from her cheeks. There it was in black and white: the story of her life – a hooker who used her ill-gotten gains to fund the start of the prestigious Plum Patisserie. In each sentence lay a kernel of truth, enough to make challenging or denying it impossible. She felt sick and her legs shook underneath the desk.

Pru gasped for breath.
‘I’ve done something terrible,’
he’d said in the park. She had thought he was referring to breaking her heart. But now it was clear. He had sold her out, told her story before someone else did. She wouldn’t have believed it possible.

‘This leaves me in a very precarious position.’

Pru looked up at Lady Miriam; she had forgotten she was there.

‘I understand.’ Pru nodded. Lady Miriam was the least of her worries. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that everyone she had ever known would now have access to this information, stripping her bare, exposing her shame.

‘You are without doubt the finest baker in London, if not Europe,’ Miriam continued, ‘and it’s not that
I
will judge you, far from it… But it’s what others think and that’s what matters.’

Pru stared at her. ‘Is it, Miriam? Is that what matters? What others think? What about what you think?’

Lady Miriam put her hand to her chest. ‘Well… I…’ She was speechless.

‘Please excuse me.’ Pru walked from the room. She passed Guy and Meg, who had a copy open on the table in the workroom, delivered to them from the café. Everyone at Plum’s had now seen it.

Guy caught her arm, stopping her in her tracks. ‘I am, as ever, devoted to you, Miss Plum.’

Pru patted his hand where it rested on her arm. Dear, sweet Guy. His words, no matter how genuine, couldn’t dilute the sickness that sat in the pit of her stomach.

Milly met her on the stairs, coming in the opposite direction. She spoke with urgency. ‘Go up to the flat and stay there. There are a bunch of photographers outside; go upstairs and stay away from the windows.’

Pru took a step up and threw her arms around her cousin. ‘Oh shit! I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ Milly peeled her arms away. ‘Don’t make me punch you! This is no time for going bloody soft. You never have to say sorry to me. We just need to stick together and make sure that the bad stuff stays on the other side of the door, right?’

Guy stepped into Pru’s office, to find Lady Miriam jabbing her finger at a text on the screen of her phone.

‘I am sorry, Miss Plum has been called away.’

‘I bet she has. I truthfully don’t know what to do. I don’t want Bunny’s fourteenth blighted by association with this!’ She rubbed her brow.

‘Quite.’ Guy’s jaw tightened. ‘Oh, Megan,’ he called through the open door, ‘could you please pack the cupcakes for Kensington Palace. I am a little detained with Lady Miriam.’

Meg piped up, ‘Yes of course.’ Her eyebrows twitched; she hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about.

Lady Miriam apparently noticed the rather pale, rough girl for the first time. ‘Kensington Palace? What’s going on there then?’ She dropped her phone to her lap and sat forward in her chair.

Guy placed his splayed fingers against his cheek. ‘Nothing! Nothing is going on there. Oh,
mon Dieu
, I should really be more discreet. Please do not say anything to Madame Plum, our clients’ confidentiality is of the upmost importance!’

Lady Miriam licked her lips. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.’

Guy bent low, speaking loud enough for Meg to hear. ‘We deliver at
least
a batch a week to Kate, although I should probably not share that. Please excuse my indiscretion.’ He lowered his eyes.

Lady Miriam sat up in the chair, gripping the arms. ‘Really? You do? What colours does she have?’ Her mouth hung open in fascination.