He frowned. ‘What, to your sister’s? C’mon, Rox – you don’t need me there.’
Frustration bubbled inside her now, but she tried to keep her tone light. It was his birthday, after all, and the last thing she wanted was a tetchy exchange. ‘I don’t need you there, but I’d like you to be. Why is that so weird to you?’
‘Oh, baby, it’s not weird.’ He touched her hand across the table.
She forced a smile, trying to ignore the slight prickling sensation behind her eyes. ‘So, why are you so reluctant to come to Yorkshire with me?’
‘Because there’s nothing there?’ His crooked grin indicated that he was teasing.
‘How can you say that?’
‘Honey, I’m joking …’
‘Don’t you want to see where I grew up?’ She paused to sip her wine. ‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘Rox, darling.’ He squeezed her hand tightly. ‘You told me you couldn’t wait to get away – that once you’d been offered your first London job you made a little chart to stick on the inside of your wardrobe, where you’d cross off the days …’
‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘but it still has charm – it’s beautiful, actually – and I’d love you to meet Della and see her shop. She’s put her heart and soul into it …’
‘I know, it sounds amazing …’
‘Shall we go, then?’
‘Uh, sure, babe. We can go sometime. Just leave it with me, okay?’
But it’s my sister’s party! she wanted to add, trying to shrug off her irritation. None of her previous boyfriends had deigned to meet her family, even though she had tried to lure them north – so why was she feeling miffed that Sean was clearly un-thrilled at the prospect of a party in a cookbook shop? The only trouble with seeing a lovely, properly grown-up man, she realised, was that you started to hope for more commitment, whereas, with your Ned Tallows, you expected nothing.
She finished her wine as Sean studied the menu. ‘Mmmm,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘Haven’t seen these kind of desserts for years. D’you reckon they come on a trolley? Tiramisu, trifle, brandy snaps with whipped cream …’
Roxanne let her own menu drop. ‘Brandy snaps?’
‘What’s wrong?’ He frowned at her.
‘Oh my God, Sean. I’m so sorry …’ She scrambled up from her seat and glanced around in panic for the waitress. ‘I was making some for your birthday. Oh hell, I can’t believe what I’ve done!’
‘You were making brandy snaps, for me?’ He couldn’t have looked more astounded if she’d announced she had bought him a camel. ‘You mean you’ve actually been … baking?’
‘Yes,’ she barked, loudly enough for the couple at the next table to spin around, alarmed, ‘and they’re still in the oven. I’m sorry, darling, but we have to leave right now.’
‘Excuse me?’ Roxanne waved to attract the waitress’s attention. ‘Can I have our bill please? We’re in a terrible hurry …’
The woman nodded, signalling that she’d be over in a minute. She was carrying two cream-laden desserts and chatting jovially as she placed them on the customers’ table.
Tension seemed to clamp itself around Roxanne’s ribcage. Sean was murmuring something – telling her not to panic – but she wasn’t really listening. The restaurant, which until a few moments ago had seemed so charming and intimate, now appeared to be criminally understaffed. For goodness’ sake, the place was packed – surely they could employ some more people? And why was the sole waitress now chatting away about the couple’s recent holiday (‘If you loved Corsica, trust me, you’ll adore Sardinia!’) when the confectionery currently smouldering in Roxanne’s oven could quite feasibly burst into flames?
‘Rox, just sit down,’ Sean hissed, trying to grab at her wrist. She shook him off.
‘Please,’ she called out, her voice rising in panic, ‘I really do need our bill right now …’ Despite having risen to lofty heights in the fashion world, Roxanne hated to cause a fuss. In a world where kindness wasn’t always apparent, she was renowned for being a delight to work with, no matter how difficult or spoilt a model happened to be. On a shoot, she was virtually unflappable, even if the make-up artist fell out with the hairdresser, or a hovering seagull happened to do its business on a £1000 chiffon gown. However right now, she felt her blood pressure soaring. ‘Excuse me!’ she shrieked.
All heads swivelled towards her. The waitress widened her eyes.
‘Sorry, but we really have to go,’ Roxanne implored, conscious of Sean gawping at her.
‘We can still have dessert,’ he insisted.
‘We can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘Rox, they’ll just be a bit burnt. Nothing terrible’s going to happen …’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘Well, I don’t want to seem rude,’ he said, sighing, ‘but I probably know ovens better than you do. How many times have you used yours?’
The waitress reappeared with their bill, and Roxanne snatched her purse from her bag. ‘That was the first time,’ she muttered.
‘You’d never turned on your oven before?’ Sean exclaimed.
‘I’ve never needed to,’ she mumbled, deciding not to add that she had in fact used it – continuously – as a storage facility for the vintage china tea sets she had taken from Rosemary Cottage when her mother died.
She handed the waitress her credit card and stabbed her pin number into the little machine. ‘Thank you,’ the woman said primly. ‘I hope you enjoyed—’
‘It was lovely, thanks,’ Roxanne cut in quickly.
‘Sorry you’re having to dash …’ But Roxanne didn’t hear any more as, rude though it was, she had blundered out into the humid London night without properly saying goodbye.
She wasn’t a natural runner. Just as she had failed to fully engage with the new mandatory workplace yoga, so Roxanne had managed to get by for almost half a century without ever having participated in aerobic exercise apart from the occasional dash through the rain into a heated shop. However, she was running now, in a rather ungainly style, sandals clattering on the pavement.
‘This is mad,’ Sean exclaimed at her side. ‘We don’t have to run; it’s not going to make any difference …’
‘It might. What if the place is on fire?’
‘Don’t be crazy!
