Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

‘This funny, sweet story is Jenny Colgan at her absolute best’

Heat
 

‘She is very, very funny’

Express
 

‘A delicious comedy’

Red
 

‘Fast-paced, funny, poignant and well observed’

Daily Mail
 

‘Sweeter than a bag of jelly beans…

had us eating up every page’

Cosmopolitan
 

‘Will make you feel warm inside – it makes a fab Mother’s Day gift’

Closer
 

‘Chick-lit with an ethical kick’

Mirror
 

‘A quirky tale of love, work and the meaning of life’

Company
 

‘A smart, witty love story’

Observer
 

‘Full of laugh-out-loud observations… utterly unputdownable’

Woman
 

‘Cheery and heart-warming’

Sunday Mirror
 

‘A chick-lit writer with a difference… never scared to try something different, Colgan always pulls it off’

Image
 

‘A Colgan novel is like listening to your best pal, souped up on vino, spilling the latest gossip – entertaining, dramatic and frequently hilarious’

Daily Record
 

‘An entertaining read’

Sunday Express
 

‘Part-chick lit, part-food porn… this is full-on fun for foodies’

Bella
 

Amanda’s Wedding

Talking to Addison

Looking for Andrew McCarthy

Working Wonders

Do You Remember the First Time?

Where Have All the Boys Gone?

West End Girls

Operation Sunshine

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

The Good, the Bad and the Dumped

Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

Christmas at the Cupcake Café

Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams

Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop

The Christmas Surprise

The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris

Little Beach Street Bakery

Table of Contents

• Praise for Jenny Colgan
  
• Also by Jenny Colgan
  
• COPYRIGHT
  
• Dedication
  
• A Word from Jenny
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Epilogue
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• TURN THE PAGE FOR A DELECTABLE FESTIVE EXTRACT FROM
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  
• Advertisement
  

To my darling Auntie Maura and Uncle Mike.

Please cancel the snake delivery now.

Thanks.

Hello! And welcome to the Little Beach Street Bakery… if you’ve been here before, lovely to see you again! If it’s your first time, well, you are so welcome, and I hope you are hungry. Let me give you a quick catch-up before we get started. (Neil fans: don’t worry. He’s back.)

Okay, so Polly lost her business in Plymouth, and had to start all over again. She moved to a coastal town in Cornwall, where the tide comes in twice a day and covers the causeway. When she couldn’t find a job, she started baking bread, because that’s what she loves to do, and soon incurred the wrath of Mrs Manse, who ran the town bakery (very badly).

Anyway, eventually Polly won her round and started working there. Meanwhile she had a brief affair with one of the fishermen, Tarnie, then found out to her utter horror he was married. He later died in a terrible storm, and it took – and is still taking – everyone a very long time to get over it.

Polly fell in love, finally, with Huckle, a big American chap who makes his own honey. She also inadvertently adopted a puffin and has, probably against her better judgement, just decided to buy a lighthouse.

Right, I think we’re up to date! I do hope you enjoy
Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
; I so loved writing it.

Cornwall to me is a place of the imagination as much as a real home to lots of people, because I spent so much time there as a child. To me, it is like a version of Narnia or any of the other imaginary lands I liked to visit – I was absolutely obsessed with
Over Sea, Under Stone
, and of course the Famous Five and Malory Towers.

We used to stay in old tin miners’ cottages near Polperro. My mother was a great Daphne du Maurier fan and she used to put me and my two brothers to sleep in the little narrow beds and tell us bloodcurdling stories of shipwrecks and pirates and gold and wreckers and we would be utterly thrilled and chilled and one of us, probably my littlest brother – although he would probably say, me – would be up half the night with nightmares.

Compared to chilly Scotland, sunny Cornwall was like paradise to me. Every year, we were bought those big foam body surfboards as a special treat and we would get into the water first thing in the morning and body surf, body surf, body surf until physically hauled out, sunburnt along the crossed strap lines of my swimming costume, to eat a gritty sandwich wrapped in cling film.

Later my dad would barbecue fish over the little home-built barbie he constructed every year from bricks and a grill, and I would sit in the high sweet grass, read books and get bitten by insects.

And after that (because you get to stay up very late on your holidays), we’d drive down to Mousehole or St Ives and eat ice cream while strolling along the harbour looking at the art galleries. Or we’d eat hot salty fried potatoes, or fudge, the flavours of which I was constantly obsessed with, even though fudge invariably makes me feel sick.

They were blissful times, and it was such a joy to revisit them when I started writing my Mount Polbearne series. We went on a day trip – as required by law, I think, of anyone visiting Cornwall – to St Michael’s Mount and I remember being gripped and fascinated by the old stone road disappearing under the waves. It was the most romantic and magical thing I could possibly imagine, and it has been such a joy setting my books there. If I can convey through my books even a fraction of the happiness Cornwall has brought me in my life… well, I’ll be absolutely delighted.

 

‘When I sleep, which I can’t, I can’t ever sleep, I dream about him. I dream about him being totally stupid. Like, he’s in a washing machine or something and I’m saying, get out of the washing machine, you prat. But he won’t get out of the washing machine, he’s all tiny and in the washing machine, and he gets smaller and smaller until he disappears.’
 

‘That’s totally normal,’ said the calm, educated West Country voice.
 

‘You say everything’s totally normal,’ said Selina, pushing back her short hair crossly. ‘I could come in here and say, “I ran over two hedgehogs on the way here because they reminded me of his hair. One by accident, one on purpose,” and you’d say, “That’s totally normal.”’
 

‘Did you do that?’
 

‘No, but I might have. You’d probably still say it was normal.’
 

‘There is nothing normal about grief, Selina. It is common. But it is never normal.’
 

Selina let out a long sigh.
 

‘Why can’t I
…
why can’t I get over it? Start getting over it? Everyone else wants me to have got over it bloody ages ago. I can see it in their faces. It’s embarrassing for them. I want to get over it. I want to get to sleep without drinking too much wine, and wake up without seeing the face of my bloody dead husband in the washing machine and stop bumming everyone out all the time.’
 

‘Where are you living now?’ said the voice smoothly, as if Selina’s outburst hadn’t happened.
 

Selina shrugged.
 

‘Don’t know. I think I’m going to give up the Manchester lease. It’s getting more expensive, and I don’t feel any more settled there than I did anywhere else.’
 

‘Maybe it’s time to think of going
…
home? Your home, or Tarnie’s home?’
 

‘I’m never going back to that place,’ said Selina, shivering. ‘I never want to go back there.’