you, love?’
Exasperated, she walked back towards him, rummaging in her bag for her purse. And it was then that it dawned on her that he hadn’t really changed at all. He hadn’t moved on. She had.
Gabriel parked the Aston Martin in the square opposite Lucy’s bakery and got out. Darkness was falling quickly and the streetlamps were already on, casting a golden glow. Standing hesitantly by the car, he questioned himself for a moment. So she hadn’t rung him back since they’d argued—so what? But then when he’d eventually become impatient enough to call Ed, he’d mentioned in passing that she’d gone to Birmingham to visit someone. That had rung alarm bells with Gabriel, although he was initially unable to put his finger on the reason why. Then eventually it had come to him.
Lucy at the dinner table with his parents. ‘My father’s in Birmingham. A friend offered him a job…’
How well he knew her. Almost well enough to have a stab at reading her thoughts? Perhaps she was still just angry with him and wanted space. Or perhaps she’d been to see her father.
Locking the car, he strode decisively across the square. The shop, with its sign ‘Have Your Cake…’ depicted retro style in icing-sugar pink on a pistachio green backdrop, was closed, just as he would have expected at this time of day. But he knew her better than anyone.
A couple of passers-by glanced curiously at the tall man pressing his hands against the cold glass of the cake shop window. Gabriel was oblivious to them. Shading his eyes, he could see nothing but the faint outline of the empty display cabinets and the counter. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the dark, there at the back he saw a chink of light around the door that led to the back of the premises. To the kitchen, where the big ovens were, and the worktops where the cakes and pastries were made. He was right. She was here.
Feeling triumphant at how well he knew her, he left the shop front and felt his way down the narrow alley at the side to the back entrance, his fingertips trailing along the rough sand-papery bricks as he felt his way along in the semi-darkness. Light streamed from the window at the back of the shop and he saw her rusty old Mini car parked up tightly against the wall.
Trying the door, he was surprised when it opened easily, immediately assaulting his senses with the warm delicious smell of baking. He felt a burst of exasperation that she’d left the door unlocked. How many times had he harped on about personal safety to her?
‘Lucy!’ he shouted as he walked in, so as not to alarm her. There was no reply, so he continued along the short passageway to the kitchen, and then, rounding the corner, he took a deep breath as he saw her.
Her unruly hair was caught up roughly out of her face with a pencil stuck through it; a smudge of flour crossed her cheek. She was adding drops of a bright green liquid to a huge billowing white mound of something cake-looking on the counter in front of her. Her face was paler than ever, no sign of any colour on the high cheekbones. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes. But he didn’t miss the fact that her mouth had a determined set to it.
‘Lucy,’ he said again, loudly enough that she couldn’t fail to hear him. There were batches of cakes and pastries on every surface. God knew how long she’d been here.
‘I’m busy.’ She didn’t even bother to look up, simply whisking the green liquid into the white gloop, watching it streak.
He grimaced involuntarily. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘A bit like a meringue,’ she said, looking at it appraisingly. And then, glancing up at him, ‘I’m experimenting with some funky macaroons.’
‘Looks like you’ve liquidised a frog.’
A second glance up at him. And the faint glimmer of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. His heart twisted as he noticed how tired she looked. He ached to just grab her and sweep her into a hug and he clenched his fists in a supreme effort to stop himself doing just that. He needed to talk to her first. To apologise. To make it right.
‘Lucy, I’m sorry,’ he said. When she didn’t look up, he walked over to her. Putting an arm around her, he firmly removed the spatula from her hand and cast it onto the worktop next to the ghastly blob of green stuff. She still didn’t speak but she made no move to stop him as he propelled her over to a chair. Pushing her to sit down, he knelt down in front of her and took both of her cold hands in his. They were sticky from the cake mixture.
He looked deeply into her clear green eyes. ‘I had no right to talk to you like that about your parents.’ He searched her face for some response. ‘After everything they put you through, I don’t know what I was thinking.’ She simply looked at him as he squeezed her hands. ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry.’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’ she asked, after a moment.
He smiled gently at her. ‘Because I know you, Lu. Almost as well as you know yourself. Remember when there was that hitch when you were setting up the shop lease? And that time you crashed your car? You trashed my kitchen and cooked for England. When normal people need time to think they go for a drive, or maybe a walk. You cook. You had to be somewhere with an oven. I tried your flat. I just narrowed it down.’
A wry smile.
‘So am I forgiven?’ He looked at her hopefully.
She smiled at him properly this time and he felt a surge of relief that made his head swim. ‘You are forgiven,’ she said. ‘But only on condition that you quit stepping outside your remit. I asked you for a few pointers on how to propose. I didn’t expect you to try and counsel me about my past like some agony aunt. Agreed?’
He could hear the tiredness in her voice but she sounded absolutely resolute. He was prepared to accept anything at this moment in order to make it all right.
‘Agreed,’ he said, thankfully. Standing up, he hooked another chair from the corner of the room with one foot and pulled it over, sitting down next to her.
She loosened her unruly curls and caught them back up, forcing the pencil more securely through them. ‘Anyway, things didn’t turn out so badly after all,’ she told him, without meeting his eyes. ‘I took your advice and went to see my dad.’ And without waiting for any further response from him she stood up and went back to the worktop, picking up the spatula and scooping a blob of the green macaroon mixture onto some baking paper.
‘Oh?’ He didn’t dare venture any comment for fear of saying the wrong thing. She’d only just forgiven his behaviour and there was no way he intended to risk another argument.
She glanced briefly around at him. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it, either. I’m really proud of myself. I was so angry with you for suggesting I let them back into my life. You had no right. But the trouble was, once you’d said it I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It drove me mad, until I just had to go and see him to find out how I really feel.’
‘And how do you really feel?’ He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to that.
‘Well, I’m not scared of him any more.’ She put the spatula down and turned to face him, leaning back against the worktop. ‘You should see him, Gabe. He’s just a sad old man now. His drinking doesn’t look any better but he seems to be holding down a job, so it can’t be that terrible, can it? I feel like maybe I could have a relationship with him now on my own terms. I have my own life now and I can choose how much of a part he plays in that. I’m totally in control.’
