Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
VANESSA
Vanessa’s head hurt. So did her eyes. And her throat. And now there was some kind of infernal banging that was assaulting her ears.
She opened one eye. It was still dark. Why was there banging in the middle of the night? She closed her eye again, hoping it would go away.
“Vanessa!” came an insistent yet muffled voice.
Who was shouting at her door? She’d only just gone to sleep, surely! She swung her feet onto the floor and sat up, but when she opened her eyes the room immediately began to swim. Hazy memories of the party came back to her.
“Come on,” said the voice. “If you don’t confirm you’re alive, I’ll break down the door!”
There was a dawning of realisation. That grumpy tone was familiar. It was Joey. Vanessa glanced at her watch. It was 5.15am. She was late. And she was hungover.
Very hungover.
“I’m coming,” she said, her voice scratchy and uncomfortable. “Give me a minute.”
She pulled on a hoodie, not wanting to answer the door in her bra and knickers, which apparently was what she’d slept in. She didn’t remember going to bed at all.
She wobbled across the apartment to the front door and opened it just enough to see Joey standing with a sardonic grin, freshly showered and fully dressed.
“I’m alive,” said Vanessa, groggily. “Come in. Give me five minutes and I’ll have a quick shower and put some proper clothes on.” She opened the door fully and let the baker in.
Joey’s grin slipped slightly before she crossed the threshold. Vanessa groaned inwardly. She had a feeling she’d embarrassed herself the night before. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She grabbed some clothes and went into the tiny bathroom, locking the door.
“I’ll make some coffee,” called Joey. “I think you need it. I certainly do.”
“You didn’t even drink!” called Vanessa, regretting it immediately since it made her head hurt even more.
She shed her layers and stepped into the shower. She hoped the warm water would somehow cleanse her of the alcohol that felt like it was still surging around her system. She soaped her arms and body, trying to remember what had happened last night.
She remembered meeting new people and then she stopped, part way through shampooing her hair.
Had she dreamt it? Or had she really told Joey she was beautiful and handsome?
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and rinsed her hair.
She had a terrible feeling that was exactly what she had done.
The worst thing was, she’d meant every word.
She switched off the shower and began to dry herself with a towel.
She remembered squeezing Joey’s arm and asking her about her muscles.
Mortifying. And then she’d stood in front of her and told her she was beautiful.
She remembered thinking she could just lean forward and kiss Joey’s pink lips. But then Joey had hurried her home.
It was about as embarrassing as possible. She had all but thrown herself at the woman, who was clearly only tolerating her. She vigorously dried herself, hoping to rub away the embarrassment. She failed.
She dressed quickly in linen trousers and a vest top, pulled a brush through her hair and emerged barefoot into the living space. On the table were two steaming espressos. She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with Joey.
“First of all,” she said, mostly to her feet, “I am so sorry for getting so ridiculously drunk last night.”
“Forget it,” Joey replied, “have some coffee.”
Vanessa risked a look at the woman and immediately felt herself go bright red.
“I found some paracetamol in the drawer. I’m guessing you could do with some of that, too,” said Joey. Had Vanessa imagined it, or was there a slight twinkle in her eye.
“Thanks,” said Vanessa. She took a swig of coffee and then washed the tablets down with some more. “My head is absolutely banging. But seriously, though. I think I overstepped last night. I’m utterly mortified. And you were so kind and you brought me home.”
A thought suddenly struck her, hard, like a physical blow.
She didn’t remember getting back to her apartment.
Had Joey brought her back? Had Joey undressed her and put her to bed?
Usually she wore pyjamas, but last night she hadn’t.
This felt like a terrible nightmare and she was desperate to wake up, without the regret and the banging headache.
Before she could fall any further into the rabbit hole she’d found herself in, Joey spoke again. “Come on, bring your coffee downstairs. It’s time to bake.”
Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief. She’d re-examine that particular can of worms once she’d stopped feeling like her brain had swollen to twice its size.
The glass of ice-cold water Joey had placed in front of Vanessa eased the first thirty painful minutes of getting the kitchen set up and making the initial doughs.
Joey talked in a low voice all the way through, explaining how she was getting the ovens to the right heat, using the correct yeast and preparing the right amount of each kind of dough.
Vanessa was kneading a massive warm elastic bundle. “What’s this for?” she asked, her words reverberating around her head.
“Coca. It’s the base of a number of different cocas,” said Joey. She was working on the surface at right angles to Vanessa, so they faced away from one another. “Have you come across coca?”
“Sort of,” Vanessa replied, thinking back to the page that had been torn from her grandmother’s book. “But not properly. You’re probably wise to assume I know nothing.”
“Noted,” said Joey, thumping a lump of dough onto the surface at the same time. She sighed. “So, it’s a kind of enriched bread dough. It’s not unlike brioche, actually, but it has more spices in.”
Vanessa plunged her fingers into her dough. There was something meditative about such a tactile, repetitive task. “And there are different kinds, right?” She thought of the missing Coca de Sant Joan recipe.
“Yeah. There’s one for Christmas, called Coca de Reis.
Actually, that’s for the sixth of January, Epiphany, celebrating the three kings that brought gifts to baby Jesus.
It has marzipan in it, and hidden surprises to find inside – like a bean and a model of a king.
” Joey began to cut off bits of her dough and shape it.
“A bean?” Vanessa exclaimed.
“Yeah, I’m sure Carmen can explain better than me. But the one you’re making is called a coca de vidre. It’s a long, thin coca, sprinkled with sugar and anise liqueur. A crystal coca, if you like. The coating sets clear and shiny,” said Joey. “A really extravagant bread.”
“Nice,” said Vanessa. “And what about Coca de Sant Joan?” She paused her kneading and turned to look at Joey.
Joey looked around. “So you do know a little, then?” She paused her own work and leaned on the work surface for a moment.
“We’ll be making those soon. We make them to mark mid-summer.
It translates as Saint John’s cake. It’s a Catalan sweet bread, traditionally eaten during the celebration of Saint John’s Eve on the twenty-third of June, and you eat it with Cava or sweet wine. ”
“What does it look like?” asked Vanessa.
Joey used her hands as she spoke. “So, years ago it would have been round to represent the sun, but these days we use a long oval shape. Like all other cocas, it’s soft and slightly chewy, and it’s flavoured with lemon zest and more of that aniseed liqueur.
But this one’s topped with crème patissière, candied fruits, pine nuts and a dusting of sugar. ”
“Sounds delicious,” said Vanessa.
“It is,” said Joey with a tiny smile. “How’s that dough coming along?” She reached over and gave it a prod. “Pretty good. About five more minutes and that’ll be ready for proving.”
Vanessa smiled. “Thanks.” They returned to their work, a companionable silence falling between them.
By 8am it felt like lunchtime, and Vanessa was ravenous. As if reading her thoughts, Joey said: “Time for a break. Napolitana?”
“Yes please!” said Vanessa, wiping her forehead which had grown damp with the exertion and the heat of the ovens.
Just as they took their seats outside the cafe, the table between them set with iced coffees and pastries, Carmen arrived ready to open the shop to customers. “Buenos dias, ladies. It all smells as glorious as it should.” She hurried into the cafe and started setting out the chairs.