Chapter 2
Two
The car crawled past the sign that still read Welcome to Westerleigh. It could have done with a lick of paint, or failing that, a pack of matches and some lighter fluid.
Callie pressed her forehead to the window and exhaled. The air outside was the colour of cement; drizzle clung to everything.
‘We’ll need a bit of B-roll of you getting out of the car,’ said Neil, in his relentlessly upbeat voice. ‘Then we’ll do your reaction shot to seeing your hometown again. Nostalgic, yeah?’
‘Nostalgic,’ Callie echoed, watching the drizzle turn to real rain. ‘Sure.’
‘It needs to give genuine emotion,’ Neil pushed.
Callie smiled tightly. Genuine emotion was precisely what had got her into trouble the last time she’d been here. Now she was back with a sound technician, two cameras, and a contract that forbade her from swearing on screen.
The car stopped outside her mum’s old terrace. The paint was still flaking on the doorframe, though someone had added a few cheerful hanging baskets. Hard to imagine Callie’s mother had done that. It had to have been the husband. Brian, she thought his name was.
Neil leant forward between the seats. ‘Right, Callie, this’ll be your walk-up. We’ll do a few takes of you arriving, looking around, soaking it all in.’
‘Soaking being the operative word.’
Neil smiled, but Callie could tell he didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. It wasn’t in the shooting schedule. ‘Maybe you could say something to the camera, something that lets us know it’s great to be home.’
‘You mean, “It’s so great to be home”,’ Callie said dryly.
‘Exactly! But, you know… heartfelt.’
She stepped out into the rain, pulling her coat tight.
The smell hit her first: damp stone, chip fat, and something sweet she couldn’t place.
It took her a moment to realise. Bread. Freshly baked, wafting from somewhere a couple of streets away.
Her stomach dropped. Of course the bakery would still be there.
And if it was still there, then she would be too.
Neil called, ‘Big smile, Callie! Remember, this is the bit where the audience falls in love with you all over again!’
Callie managed something resembling a smile. The cameraman followed as she trudged up the pavement, trying not to step in a puddle. The smell of bread grew stronger.
She knocked on the door and waited a few seconds for someone to answer.
‘And cut.’
Callie turned surprised. ‘What?’
‘No one’s in, Callie. We’re just doing externals this morning.’
Callie turned back to the door in surprise. ‘They’re not in?’ She felt embarrassed that she hadn’t known that.
‘We’re headed to the high street now.’
‘High street?’ Callie said, alarmed.
‘Everything okay?’ Neil asked.
‘Fine,’ Callie lied. ‘Great.’
They rounded the corner and walked up the street, past the mini-mart, the hairdressers, the butchers. Nothing had really changed in twelve years.
And there it was at the end of the street: the same blue-painted shopfront, though the paint was somewhat fresher. A small chalkboard read: Try our salted caramel shortbread. To Callie’s immense horror, she recognised the handwriting immediately.
The display window gleamed with neat rows of croissants, scones, and cinnamon buns dusted like snowfall. And behind the counter, through the rain-flecked glass, there she was.
Mae Morgan.
Stood with her sleeves rolled up, flour on her forearm, smiling thinly at something a customer said, weight shifted casually to one hip.
She looked older now, sharper around the edges.
Her eyes were a clear, steady hazel, framed by a scattering of freckles.
High cheekbones and a strong jaw gave her face a striking structure, softened by the careless way her hair was tied up, loose strands falling freely.
She looked so completely, painfully herself that Callie felt faint.
‘Hey, why don’t we pop in here?’ Neil asked.
Callie felt like someone had asked her if she wanted to pop her head in a guillotine. ‘What?!’
‘You can greet the locals, grab a cake, that type of thing. Small-town girl made good shot. The audience loves that.’
‘Do we have to?’ Callie said too quickly.
Neil grinned. ‘Won’t take long.’
‘Yeah, OK. But, maybe later?’ Callie asked. What she really meant was, ‘Maybe never?’
‘Thought you’d like the chance to get out of the wet?’ Neil asked.
Callie’s mind scrabbled for escape and found something. ‘You know what? There’s a pub up the road that I think would be better—The Swan. I worked there as my first job. Glass collecting.’
Neil paused and then lit up. ‘God, that sounds perfect!’
Callie tried not to look too relieved.
‘I’ll run up ahead and get permissions sorted, you lot keep filming the high street. Callie, why don’t you try some wistfulness next to that war memorial?’
Callie nodded and began to walk quickly away from the bakery, the crew hot on her heels.
With any luck, she hadn’t been spotted. But the real miracle would be getting through this without Mae realising she was here. Callie knew it was probably ridiculous. She prayed anyway, despite not believing in a thing.
And then her atheism was vindicated. An old lady inside the bakery called out, ‘Ooh! What are they filming?’
And Callie, almost past the building, couldn’t help but look.
Mae was staring at her. Slightly agape, her brow creased.
Callie turned away and moved as quickly as she could, ignoring the sweat breaking out on her back. ‘Come on!’ she commanded the crew. ‘We’re on the clock, and I’ve got to be wistful!’
They had to jog to keep up with her.