Page 65 of The Midnight Bakery
Which is how, several hours later, Tam came to be preparing for sleep. Only for the first time in a long while, in a bed, within an actual bedroom, with a proper duvet (even if it did have pink flowers all over it) and crisp white sheets. His car lay outside on Beth and Jack’s driveway, now just a vehicle.
He folded up his freshly laundered clothes and was about to put them back in his rucksack when he stopped and, instead, laid them over a chair which stood in one corner of the room. And now that the idea was in his head, he set about removing all his other clothes from his bag and, feeling somewhat sheepishat the liberty he was taking, placed them in the chest of drawers opposite the bed. It wouldn’t hurt for just one night.
He took out his small travel clock, placing it on the bedside table before fishing out his library book from the bottom of the bag. His head was whirling with thoughts – nice ones for a change – but he knew that he’d never sleep unless he could persuade some of them to calm down. He and Jack had spent the evening considering how they might go about rebuilding the hen house and had already drawn up a to-do list of the steps they needed to take. It was a lengthy list, much of which wouldn’t, or rather couldn’t, be tackled for a while yet, but it didn’t matter. Tam would wake up in the morning warm, without stiff and aching limbs, and actually be looking forward to his day.
He climbed under the duvet, sliding his legs back and forth across the sheets, revelling in their smooth expanse. A soft fleecy throw lay across the bottom of the bed in case he grew cold in the night, and he pushed his toes beneath it, sighing with pleasure at the warm weight of it. He reached behind to plump his pillows and, library book in hand, he lay back, marvelling at the soft give of the mattress beneath him.
It was as he opened the book that the letter fell out. He stared at it, curiously at first, wondering where it had come from, and then he remembered it had been given to him by Chris. He was about to cast it aside, not wishing to sour his mood by thinking of their last encounter, when he realised the letter had a stamp on it. An actual stamp, and an embossed logo he didn’t recognise. It certainly wasn’t the junk mail he had first assumed it to be. He laid down his book and picked up the letter, peering at it more closely before sliding a finger under the seal to open it.
After that, despite the luxury of his surroundings, and the deep, enfolding comfort of his bed, Tam hardly slept at all.
32
Frankie
The coffee shop was busy, which was one of the reasons why Frankie had chosen to meet Robert there. The hubbub of background noise would make talking easier, less self-conscious, but it would also mean Robert would have to be a little more guarded about the things he said. They weren’t the only reasons, though. The coffee shop was where she had first come with Beth, where a friendship had blossomed and her new life had properly begun. It seemed the perfect place to end the old one.
Careful timing of her arrival meant that Robert would get there first and have to sit and wait for her, instead of her always being the one to dance to his tune. It was a small distinction, but important. She was still terrified, however, her stomach a squirming mass of butterflies as she walked among the tables to join him. She passed Beth, seated at a table in front of theirs, ostensibly reading, but instead metaphorically holding her hand, and Frankie lifted her head a little higher.
Robert got to his feet the moment he saw her, his eyes flying to her hair, clocking her jeans and boots. Hair she nolonger dyed blonde, clothes so very different from the skirts and blouses she used to wear.
‘Frances…’
She was about to correct him, when she stopped. Frankie was not a name she wanted Robert to use.Frankiedidn’t belong to him.
He leaned forward, about to kiss her, when she sat down, leaving him pecking at air. He frowned but quickly recovered himself.
‘You look…goodness, so different. But beautiful as ever. I wouldn’t have thought grey hair suited you, but you know…’ He studied her. ‘I think it does.’
Frankie didn’t care. Frankie didn’t dye her hair because Frankie didn’t want to. Frankie liked her hair grey, with its soft silvery waves which framed her face, and that was all that mattered.
‘Hello, Robert,’ she said.
Shehadwondered howhewould look. Whether he would still favour the preppy, boyish style which he thought portrayed a suave elegance, and which, in the early days, she had too. So she was almost amused to find that everything about Robert remained unchanged, right down to the carefully cultivated stubble, and his wedding ring which looked as if it had been polished for the occasion. Or perhaps it was simply that she noticed it in contrast to her own, which was no longer on her finger but, instead, lying in a drawer in her flat, collecting dust.
‘Are you well?’ he asked, attempting to take her hand which was lying on the table. She removed it and slid it onto her lap. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’ He stared into her eyes, his own soft, almost beseeching. ‘I can’t help it, but all I want to do is take you home and look after you.’ At one time he could look at her that way and she would do almost anything he asked.
She ignored his comment. ‘I’m really well, thank you.’ Clearing her throat, she continued. ‘Have you ordered a drink?’ The table between them was bare.
‘No, I…I thought we could go somewhere a little more…Somewhere nicer. Perhaps for lunch. A nice country pub, or?—’
She pushed her chair back from the table. ‘Well, I’m having a coffee. Would you like one?’ Frances would never have bought Robert a drink; it was always the other way around. Frankie, on the other hand, rather enjoyed the novelty, although she inwardly cautioned herself not to get too carried away.
‘A cappuccino then,’ he replied, also getting to his feet. Frankie waved him away. ‘No, I’ll get these.’
She received another frown but, by the time she returned to the table, Robert had regained his composure.
‘So, you’re working in a bakery then,’ he said. ‘I should imagine that’s quite a change. Are you enjoying it?’
Frankie nodded, sipping at the foam on her coffee. ‘I love it. If you remember, that’s what I was doing when we first met. I’m not sure why I ever gave it up.’
‘But darling, it was such a twee little shop, wasn’t it? Someone with your skills was deserving of so much better.’
‘Perhaps.’ Frankie wrinkled her nose. ‘But I never did go on to anything better, did I? Or, in fact, to anything.’
‘But you liked being a housewife,’ replied Robert. ‘You always said you did. And you were so good at it.’
It was true, Frankie had enjoyed it. She’d enjoyed the novelty of it when all her other friends had been working, particularly when those friends had been juggling full-time jobs with bringing up children. She had enjoyed furnishing their home and looking after it. Just as she had enjoyed having the freedom to do other things. Until, of course, she realised that she had never had any say in the way the house was decorated, or theway she looked after it, because Robert liked things just so. Until she’d realised that her freedom was limited to the house, and one or two other places which Robert deemed ‘safe’. Until she’d realised she would never be going back to work, or volunteering, or doing any of the other things she’d thought she would enjoy. She was about to reply when Robert continued.
