Chapter 42
42
The Walled Garden, Abbots Sands
Life on Mars
Friday
‘F our shops would mean industrial quantities of pastries, Miles. How would you handle all that baking?’
It’s six on Friday evening, the sun has begun to lose its heat, and we’re in a walled garden in a tiny hamlet a couple of miles inland from the village where we saw the last available shop, spreading out travelling rugs on the neatly cut grass square at the centre of an outdoor wildflower meadow restaurant, where Miles has said we’ll be the only diners.
My question isn’t the kind that’s waiting for an answer. It’s designed more as a sign off, a full stop to finish the day, to say it’s been lovely to dream, but as what he’s suggesting is actually not feasible, let’s leave it there.
The stress of tearing from town to town with Miles, visiting three potential shops and a market was pushed up a notch when it was all done with the big unanswered question hanging in the air between us– am I about to get on board for the ride of my life, or am I going to follow every natural instinct in my body and run as fast as I can in the opposite direction? The surer he became that he was winning his argument, the more I felt like I had a helicopter in my chest that was about to lift off. Add to that the growing warmth between us now he’s opening up and sharing, there’s no wonder I’m dazed.
Miles had every reason to feel proud of what he’d lined up. For the second shop he’d used his fashion industry contacts to pull out the most unbelievable newly vacant place on Falmouth High Street. As we left the final shop in Abbots Sands, which was as bijou and hidden away as the second was impressive and out there, my insides felt like a tightly stretched rubber band.
If we’d spent the afternoon at Boathouse Cottage and come straight to the walled garden from there, we would only be missing the rush of the waves. But after the throb of the traffic in Falmouth, this meadow with the swish of the long grass against a backdrop of birdsong feels like an idyll. When the owner comes out and brings us a large picnic tray, some flutes, and two bottles of fizz each in their own ice bucket, I lie on my back, watch the cotton-white twists of the clouds against the deep blue beyond, and decide I’ve landed in heaven.
I talk to the sky as much as to Miles. ‘Are champagne buckets like buses? I’ve barely met one in my life, and now two come together!’
Miles laughs. ‘One is Prosecco, the other is zero alcohol for drivers.’
I push myself up, take the full flute he passes me, and enjoy the prick of bubbles on my nose as I sip. Then, as the feel-good wave of the alcohol seeps all the way to my toes, I help myself to a sandwich.
I look more closely at the wicker platter beside me. ‘Avocado toasties, teensy tomatoes and mint salad, apricots with dill seed, hummus, coriander and carrot wraps, peach and mozzarella with croutons, sourdough bread, cheese pastry triangles, courgette and viola flowers! It’s literally like eating my magazine pieces.’
I take another swig of bubbly. ‘I’m sorry, Fudge, but if this is the treat, I may ask you to eat my shoes more often.’
Miles laughs. ‘This isn’t only about that. I wanted to bring you to a place where you’d have space to reflect.’
I’m biting into a gruyere twist that’s so delectable I take another straight away, then I mumble through the crumbs, ‘Before I think, you have to answer my question. You can’t duck the production issue when the pastries are why people come into the shops to start with.’
He’s stretched out on his side with his chin propped up by his elbow, smiling the kind of slow smile that makes my insides smoulder. ‘You’re the one with all the good suggestions, B B. Having had all day to ponder, I assumed you’d have worked out an answer to this by now.’
I take a slice of peach and a cube of roasted halloumi. ‘You agree you can’t make them all?’
‘Not unless I work day and night.’
I have no idea why he thinks I’m going to give him his answer when I know next to no one, and then I have a thought. The more I think of it, the more it makes me smile.
I start with the disclaimer. ‘You’re not going to like this, but…’
‘What?’
I smile more. ‘We’ve already had an offer of help today.’
Miles looks horror-struck. ‘Not my mum!’
‘There’s no one better than family.’ I keep my eyes on his face. ‘You said yourself she has spare capacity and excess energy. If we brought in some of her friends to make a team, they could cover for each other and help with large capacity for busy days. If we played our cards right, they might bake first thing, then tie in deliveries with their usual market and garden centre visits.’
He’s looking doubtful. ‘I’m not sure it’s fair to ask old people.’
I let out a cry. ‘They’re not old, Miles! They’re young and active, a pool of willing, untapped labour, and it would enrich their lives if we involved them.’
He blows out his cheeks. ‘This is still hypothetical, but talk me through it.’
I grin. ‘We’ll invite any who are interested to the cottage tomorrow night and you can show them the techniques at the same time as you teach me. You may well find they’re really good bakers already, a lot of their generation are.’
He frowns. ‘I thought you wanted to go dancing at the Surf Shack?’
I wave that away. ‘This is way more important than a disco– hypothetically obviously.’
Miles rolls his eyes. ‘Knowing what the over-sixties social calendar is like, they’ll probably be busy.’
I’m very confident. ‘Your mum would drop everything for this. I know she would.’
‘We’ll revisit this once you’ve decided.’ He stares at his sandwich for a long time, then he looks at me again. ‘My mum and Harry are the reason I’m at the cottage. So you know.’
I’m blinking at him. ‘But I thought…?’ Now I come to think of it, this is another of Miles’s explanations that has never been clear.
He pulls a face. ‘Things moved very fast for them when they met. The last thing I wanted to do was to get in the way, but as it was so new I also wanted to stay around in case there were pieces to pick up.’
I’m amused and incredulous. ‘You took refuge at the cottage so you didn’t have to play gooseberry with your mum and her new boyfriend?’
He closes his eyes. ‘Tate found it hilarious too, but thankfully he took pity on me. They never usually let people stay unless they’re there.’
I’m nodding. ‘I know, Miles. You don’t have to tell me that.’
He shakes his head. ‘I thought it might fizzle, and I’d be back at Mum’s within the week, but it seems to be going well. Then, once Tate and Scarlett started World War 3 Tate was anxious for me to stay on anyway.’
I’m puzzled. ‘So why are you telling me this now?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘In the interests of openness and honesty, in case you decide to take the business further.’ He shrugs. ‘With my last start-up I saw a gap in the market, and my business partner and I saw we could fill it. After that it all happened very quickly.’
I’m remembering what Scarlett told me. ‘Was that the one you sold?’
He hesitates. ‘I still have an interest in Dedication, but I work from here not Manchester. Betsy & Milo couldn’t be more different, but it has a similar buzz. That same potential to go exponential.’
I watch the bubbles rising in my glass. ‘As you’re the one who hangs out in boardrooms, I’ll take your word on that.’
He’s looking at me very intensely. ‘I know it’s all accidental, but we can’t ignore it. Anything this exceptional, we have to push it to see where it goes.’
I pull a face. ‘Like I said last time, you’re the expert.’
His face softens. ‘If we were walking on the beach and found a dinosaur’s egg hatching, we wouldn’t walk past and leave it. We’d take that baby dinosaur, and no matter how strange and unexpected it was, we’d care for it and help it grow.’
I’m right there with him. ‘And what would we do when it got bigger?’ I grin at him. ‘You’re so commercial, you’d sell it, wouldn’t you?’
He looks like he’s biting back his smile. ‘That might be one option, but we’d look at rehoming first.’
I’m feeling anxious. ‘Most rescues don’t take dangerous breeds. I’m not sure I’d want it to live in captivity– definitely not in a cage.’
He’s shaking his head. ‘It’s not real, Betsy! It was an analogy to explain why we should carry on.’
‘It also highlights how differently we approach everything in life.’ I give him time to take that in, then carry on. ‘Anyway, dinosaurs are huge. You really think Betsy & Milo will grow that gigantic?’
His smile breaks free. ‘I can’t make promises, but if we walk past that egg without stopping, we’ll never know.’ He laughs. ‘As for our differences, I don’t see that as a negative. This is yours as much as mine– I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.’
What a difference a day makes.
I lean forward and let him fill up my glass again. Then I sit back and look at him again too. The man I’m seeing here is generous and honest, funny and sensitive, open and vulnerable. So what the hell happened?
I’m only halfway down the bottle so it can’t all be down to the Prosecco goggles. It’s like the woman who’s walked through today all the way to the exclusive venue and the fancy sandwiches has lost the ability to think clearly. If that’s what swanning around in a flash car pretending to hang with the rich kids does, I can’t wait to get back to being the me I used to be.
One more thing. In my current state, if I were vertical rather than lounging, I might well be tempted to launch myself. Fully, unequivocally and without holding back. Which has to be the final proof that I have totally lost it, when that’s everything I’ve vowed I’d never do again.
I jump when Miles’s hand lands on my arm.
He looks concerned. ‘Are you okay? You’re not cold?’
I suppress my shiver and smile. ‘Sorry. What were you saying?’
He laughs. ‘So much for my big speech. I was about to say, as what we’ve found is so special, shall we go for it?’
‘Just to check– we’re talking about a handful of shops here? To the end of the summer.’ No idea why I need to verify.
The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. ‘That’s the one, Betsy Bets. Maybe a van or two too, for roving sales. Are we in?’
This is the first I’ve heard about vehicles. That’s the thing about Miles. However far you go, he’s always one step further.
I open my mouth to say yes, but all that comes out is a squeak.
I gulp down my fizz and slam my hand down on the blanket. ‘Rugs. We must have rugs. In all our shops. How did we overlook them ? Everyone needs a picnic blanket.’
As I look at Miles his eyes are fixed on me. ‘Nice one, Betty B. Love you to the beach and back? ’
As if I’d let him have the last word. I open my mouth and begin, ‘ Life is better in flipflop… ’
But before I can finish his face is there in front of me, so close I can see the individual lashes on his eyelids. For a second it’s as if the whole world stops and as I freeze in mid-air all I want to do is to slide my fingers around his head, pull him towards me and kiss the bejesus out of him.
Then, like a bolt out of nowhere, a flash of lucidity saves me. What the hell am I thinking? We’re working together, we’re house mates, I’m incapable of relationships, I had a dreadful experience with my last man, his mum is going to be baking with us in our kitchen. I come to my senses and the world starts turning again. I dive sideways into my rucksack, pull out a mirror and my barely-there lippy and start to put it on.
Fancying the arse off Miles Appleton has always been a mistake. I’ve always known it was the kind of hopeless mission that was doomed from inception for all the reasons. If I saw a glimmer of something in his eyes just now to suggest anything to the contrary, it was without a doubt gratitude that I’m doing what he wants with this business. If I’m moving into a whole new unfamiliar territory I need to keep my wits about me, especially when it comes to misreading signals– I need to quit while I’m ahead, starting with the unrequited lust.
It’s also ridiculous that my tummy is filled with a fluttering sensation. If this is what dill seeds do, I must remember to avoid them in future.
I swallow hard, and smile back at Miles. ‘The picnic has been amazing, thank you for bringing me.’
His eyes narrow. ‘We’re not finished yet. Are you ready to move to the sweets?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Before we do, there’s one more thing to clear up. Now you’ve got your own way with shops, can I take it that I get mine with the baking team?’
Miles looks at me like I’m bananas. ‘You know the landlord of the Yellow Canary has a top-flight Range Rover entirely funded by the over-sixties?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Miles winces. ‘My mum and her friends aren’t as sweet as you think. Those market trips are where they nurse their hangovers because they drink for England, and party for the world. But if you’re up for a wild night tomorrow, we’ll certainly have that try-out, and let you see for yourself why it can’t possibly work.’
‘Great.’
He pulls a face. ‘I just hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’
I laugh. ‘Bring it on.’
Obviously I’m bluffing.