Authors: Daisy James
‘Callie, believe me, I’m no good at that sort of thing. I don’t have the time or the confidence to…’
‘Why don’t you draw up a detailed lesson plan for an after-school club? Include a choice of recipes, sweet and savoury, a list of the ingredients each one requires and a set of clear, concise, easy-to-follow instructions. Maybe you could add in some photographs of the finished article and a few words about the history behind every cake, a sort of story of its birth? You know, like where does parkin originate from, how do Florentines get their name, that sort of thing. Nessa can then show it to the head teacher. She’s always complaining that all the after-school activities are sports-based. It’s perfect!’
Tom’s face had alarm written across it. ‘A story – for a cake – what a ridiculous idea! No, that settles it, Callie. Thanks for the vote of confidence, but no way.’
‘I can help you, if you like?’ Marcia offered, her soft voice muffled as she stared down at her fingers twisting the strings of her woollen hat.
‘What do you mean?’ Callie pressed, keen to involve Marcia.
‘I can help Tom write the lesson plans and the stories. I am something of an expert, after all the official documents I’ve had to complete over the years to get a community care assessment for Mum and my carer’s assessment and allowance. We’ve had to appeal the council’s decision on her personal budget plan on several occasions and that really does sharpen your pen, so to speak.’
Marcia chanced a flick of her jam-jar-covered eyes across to Callie, studiously avoiding any direct contact with Tom. ‘And I can write the cake histories, too. I’ve had loads of romance short stories published, so…’ Her voice trailed off as she dropped her eyes back to the table and re-hunched her shoulders.
Callie was forced to address the top of her head.
‘Marcia, that’s wonderful…’
The bell tinkled again and Callie heaved a sigh. What was the point of closing the shop on a Wednesday afternoon when she had more visitors than she had customers in the intervening days?
‘Saw you were enjoying a gathering so I thought I’d grace you with my presence.’
‘Erm, right, and you are?’
Callie slid her eyes over the handsome young guy who had already grabbed a chair and turned it backwards to sit astride it. With his immaculately barbered, jet-black hair, skin lightly tanned and clean-shaven jaw, he could have been a catwalk model but for his height. He smelled delicious, too. His pristine, candy-pink shirt had been laundered to perfection and he wore a dove-grey cashmere sweater draped artfully around his shoulders, his black Armani trousers moulded perfectly to display a taut behind. But it was his heavy gold-link bracelet that caught Callie’s eye and caused the corners of her lips to twitch.
‘I’m Marc Bairstow, darling. I own the florist’s next door to the bakery – Buds & Bows? Oh, hi there, Tom, didn’t see you there. Oh, and is this your girlfriend?’ he asked with an unmistakable glint in his coal-coloured eyes, his lilting tone curved into a tease.
‘Hi, Marc. No, Marcia is not my girlfriend.’
All three swung their eyes to survey Marcia whose deep flush had suffused her blanched complexion as she dipped her eyes back behind a curtain of hair. Callie could have murdered Marc.
‘Well, anyway…’ Marc’s eyes danced in the knowledge he’d hit his mark. ‘I’ll take a skinny cinnamon latte, Callie-Louise, my dear, and one of these divine little amuse-bouches! Even though it will
not
enhance my waistline, I’m anxious to see what it’ll do to my discerning taste buds. I’ll just have to endure an extra half-hour of Pilates tonight; no punishment, really – the tutor has buttocks of steel!’
Callie plonked a fresh cafetière of coffee on the table in front of Marc with a challenge in her hazelnut stare. She was not making him a skinny cinnamon latte. What did he think she was running here, a Costa franchise?
‘So’ – he flung his flexed wrist around the shop – ‘what are your plans for this cathedral of commercial gloom? I do hope you
have
renovation plans, Callie dear? We are the three musketeers of Allthorpe High Street, charged with its salvation. Yes, you may laugh, but I ask you this. What if we also took the easy road instead of the right road? What would be left of the Great British High Street then?
‘Here I’m thinking Marie Antoinette French boudoir, marshmallow pinks and creams, a splash of that delightful peppermint green. Perhaps an espresso machine over there in the corner?’ He raised his neatly plucked eyebrows and rushed on when he saw the expression on Callie’s face, refusing to be diverted from his interior design project. ‘And Tom, darling, you could supply a baker’s dozen of these delectable French fancies for the discerning customers, couldn’t you? What say you, Callie? Drag this little antiquated emporium into the twenty-first century?’
‘You just said eighteenth-century boudoir!’ she reminded him.
‘Eighteenth century-
inspired
! And you know I’d love to assist in this transformation, but…’ – Marc shot a glance around the table to ensure he held everyone’s undivided attention – ‘I’ve just been commissioned to supply Hugo Marston and Avril Carter’s wedding flowers!’
Marc rolled his eyes at the blank expressions around the table. ‘Philistines. Hugo Marston is one of our county’s most talented operatic tenors. And I’ve wheedled two invitations to the evening reception for me and Jacob! It’ll be such a blast. Anyway, must dash. Bye, my sweeties!’
Marc drained his coffee with a grimace befitting a drama queen and flounced out. Callie met Marcia’s eye and they crumpled into giggles. Tom, however, remained stony-faced, swinging his glare from one girl to the other as he waited for them to get a grip on their laughter.
‘If I agree to let Marcia draft a lesson plan for the school, then you, Callie, have to organise those “stitch and bitch” sessions this week.’ That stopped their hilarity in its tracks. ‘I’ve got a pal over in Heppleton who owns the printer’s shop. I’m sure Jon will be able to run off a few flyers for you. Who were you thinking of targeting?’
‘Well,’ Callie said, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, ‘Nessa mentioned the girls at school and there are Hannah’s WI friends in the knitting circle.’
‘And there’s my reading group and writers’ circle friends,’ Marcia offered, sitting up straight in her chair, excitement written boldly across her features.
‘Okay…’
‘And Delia’s Friday night girls and my mum’s friends from the MS support group at the hospital?’
‘Great,’ said Callie, with diminishing enthusiasm.
‘And maybe Tom can supply the cupcakes, you know, just for the launch? “A Sweet Temptation”?’
Callie never would have believed Marcia could become so animated about a project and it sent a surge of delight through her chest. It was true – she did have the organisational skills to match those of an army general.
‘So next Tuesday, then?’ Marcia continued. ‘Shall we say seven o’clock? I’ll design the flyer and email it across to Tom’s friend. Will you call Jon tonight, Tom?’
‘Erm, sure, okay, Marcia.’
Was that a steamroller retreating from her crushed bones?
wondered Callie.
From their seats at the table Callie and Tom watched like frozen goldfish as Marcia tripped from the shop, neither of them quite realising what had happened and how Marc and Marcia had got away with it. She might look like a shy bookworm, but Marcia was no slouch in the bulldozing stakes.
‘Thanks for the coffee, Callie. I’ve got to visit Dad. Bye.’
Tom disappeared leaving Callie with her swirling thoughts. Ripples of ivory and indigo stretched across the retiring sky as she dropped the sneck on the door and pulled down the blind. She heaved a heavy sigh, wishing she could turn the clock back twelve months when her life had been dull and boring, with no celebrity wedding gown to design and no haberdashery shop to run – even if it had been nicknamed ‘the cosiest little wool shop in Yorkshire’!
As Callie reached to flick the light switch, dreaming of a hot bath and a glass of Merlot, her eye caught on the brown paper package Iris had given Delia the previous week, which she’d shoved under the counter and clearly forgotten about.
First of all, she removed the large white envelope containing Marcia’s two short stories to be proofed by Delia’s sharp eye. She flipped open the flap and drew out the neatly typed sheets of papers and glanced at the heading, her lips curling into a smile.
The Lustful Lancelot by Clementine Johnson –
fabulous; a good romance was exactly what she needed to accompany her bubble bath and wine. She hoped Marcia wouldn’t mind; as she’d had many short stories published, she didn’t think so.
She tucked the envelope under her arm and was about to leave when she remembered the brown-paper-encased bundle. She lifted it from its shadowy confines, a stab of guilt causing her to pause and wonder if she was trampling on Delia’s privacy. But as she peeled back the wrapping to take a peek, she saw it contained nothing more personal than a trio of paperback books.
Curious as to the sort of novels Iris and Marcia were sharing with Delia – and why they were encased in brown paper – Callie turned the books out onto the glass counter. Her eyes bulged from their sockets. An instant tickle of amusement breached her throat and burst forth into peals of laughter, culminating in tears of mirth.
Oh, what a relief it was to laugh out loud
, she thought as she picked up one of the books to study the jacket blurb, wiping her eyes on one of the pink serviettes left by Tom.
She mounted the stairs, the books tucked securely under her arm, to enjoy her first foray into the trilogy that was
Fifty Shades of Grey
.
Tuesday. Delia flicked the sign on the door to
Closed
at precisely five o’clock. The pearly sheen of condensation on the front window masked the hive of activity within like a bride’s veil. There were so many things to organise before everyone arrived at seven o’clock. They worked in tandem to clear the area around the huge mahogany table, dispersing chintz cushions for those with delicate bottoms.
Seb and Dominic had performed miracles. They had blown in on Saturday teatime as the shop closed, armed with litres of paint, which they assured Callie had been wallowing for years in their mother’s garage. As it was the exact same shade of pale rose Callie had agonised over for the walls, and the identical pale peppermint she’d selected from the Dulux paint chart for the shelving and wicker baskets, she doubted it. She suspected either Nessa or Delia’s hand in its production and was immensely grateful.
With the sustenance but not the precision offered by a dozen bottles of hand-crafted Hambleton ale, coupled with a late-night Indian takeaway and an eclectic selection of music, Callie, Delia, Nessa, Seb and Dominic had decorated and gossiped until the early hours of Sunday morning. The gang, minus Delia, then broke for a couple of hours’ kip on the floor of the flat upstairs, before returning to the task the next morning. It was trite, but true; many hands did make light work.
By six o’clock on Sunday evening, with aching limbs and weakened muscles (apart from Nessa), they stood back to admire Gingerberry Yarns’ transformation from serene old lady to energised princess. Callie had to brush away a tear when Marcia produced a string of hand-embroidered bunting, each pastel-green polka-dot flag stitched with a letter spelling out ‘Gingerberry’, as she performed the rebirthing ceremony by draping the garland over the front of the glass counter.
Now all Delia and Callie had to do was display the new stock that had arrived that morning in the hope they could make some sales at the crafting session that evening. They’d had seven confirmations – three ladies from the knitting circle of the local WI, two of Delia’s Friday night posse, and Nessa was bringing two teacher friends from St Hilda’s. So, with herself, Delia, Marcia and Iris, it would make a very respectable twelve. But, as the clock edged towards seven, Callie’s confidence began to wobble and she regretted the misdirected impulse to do this. No one would come, she was certain of it, and she struggled to quell her rising panic.
This time the tinkle of the door chime, far from being an irritant, was a welcome relief. Callie wiped her hands on a tea towel, shot a nervous glance across to Delia, and rushed down the stairs to welcome in the first student.
But it was Tom, weighed down with a large silver salver of assorted confectionary. His offerings would not have disgraced a chic Parisian soirée.
‘Wow, Tom, these look awesome. I expected a batch of cupcakes!’ In keeping with the theme, Tom had produced rose and pistachio macaroons nestled next to vanilla cream and peppermint jam
millefueille
and a selection of kiwi and raspberry glazed tartlets finished with curls of dark chocolate.
‘I’m grateful for the chance to practise, Callie. I can’t afford the time to bake these every day and the risk of them not selling makes them financially unviable. So I thought, well… I’m sure the ladies coming tonight all possess discerning taste and I really need your venture to be a success.’
Tom thrust the tray of culinary gems into Callie’s hands, his reddening face clashing unattractively with his ginger hair.
‘Stay and have a coffee, Tom,’ Callie offered, desperate to detain him in the empty shop. It was ten past seven and still no one had arrived. What if no one turned up? A helix of nerves began to wind through her abdomen, but she gave herself a shake – that path of thought was an idiot’s journey and one which she had no intention of travelling down that evening.
‘Oh, no, I’m not staying here!’ Horror replaced the embarrassment on Tom’s face, now a vivid puce. He rotated on his heels to make a swift exit, only to end up bumping chests with Marc who had arrived weighed down by a profusion of pink Stargazer lilies.
Marc smirked at Tom’s rapid retreat and mortified apology before turning to Callie.
‘Darling! I brought you these. They will be Gingerberry’s crowning glory and their fragrance is divine.’ He landed a kiss on each of Callie’s cheeks before turning to greet Tom, who had beat a hasty path to the door.