Page 35 of Take My Breath Away
My eyes fall to the last place I looked at online. The kitchen is no more than a cupboard but still the cost is astronomical. Not like this kitchen, this huge and beautiful room that’s at the heart of the house. But there’s no point in dreaming when what I really need is to get the wheels rolling on Operation Perry. Or it would be if I could find something, anything, in Brighton that looked like it didn’t cost an arm, leg and kidney and wasn’t next to a tyre fitters or a broken down charity shop.
The front door slams, signalling James is home from work. It also coincides with the timer on the oven bleeping, which I get up and turn off. Taking the casserole out, I lift the lid and take a peek. It’s bubbling away, too hot to eat, and besides it’ll taste all the better for resting and cooling down.
“Is that chicken and mushroom casserole?” James asks as he wanders into the kitchen.
“It is. I’m going to do garlic and butter mash, if that’s okay?” It’s more than okay, because I know this particular combo is one of his favourites. His face lights up with a big grin, and my heart does a little happy dance.
“Perfect. I’ve only had a very substandard sandwich today, and coffee that tasted like the boiled up scraping from the bottom of a budgie’s cage.” He grimaces.
Tugging his tie loose, he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt before he shrugs off his jacket. He’s wearing a waistcoat, because it’s always a three-piece suit for James. As he runs the fingers of both hands through his steely grey hair, I have to look away.
James absolutely rocks the slightly dishevelled silver fox businessman look, and I have a vivid and startling picture of him locking the door to his office and inviting his executive assistant who kind of looks a bit — a lot — like me to come and take down more than a letter. I rummage around on the veg rack, almost knocking the whole thing over, ostensibly looking for potatoes to mash, anything other than the delicious agony of watching him, seeing the slow lift of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes as his gaze meets mine, eyes that always seem to see right through me.
“What’s this?”
I walk over and stand beside him. He’s looking at the list of commercial properties on my laptop. His focus shifts from the screen to me. There’s a stiffness to his jawline, and his eyes are unreadable. I feel sort of caught out, which is silly, because he knows I want to make a change to my life and move on.
“Brighton.” The word falls dull and heavy from his lips. “You’re considering setting up inBrighton?That’s bloody miles away.”
“Well, yes. If I can find the right place—”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
His words are hard his face closed off. The ground beneath my feet feels like shifting sand.
“I’m trying to get a good idea of the kind of premises available, and their price range.” I gabble, as I rush to explain myself. “Although to be honest there doesn’t seem to be very much. But I need to start getting the wheels turning. I’ve made a list of commercial estate agents and I’m going to get in touch with them in order to go through properly what my requirements are. Then I’ll get a better idea of what’s doable, and that means I can talk to my parents. Also I think it’s about time I started to think about getting out from under your feet.”So I stop cramping your style, so you can get back to Aiden, so you can—
“You’re not under my feet. I told you, you can stay here for as long as you want.”
“I know you did, and you can’t even imagine how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But this,” I say nodding towards the laptop, “I’ve always thought of striking out on my own, doing what I really want to. What better time than now, when I don’t have any ties to anyone, or any place?”
The muscles in his jaw twitch, hardly noticeable, but standing so close to him, feeling the heat of his body and the in, out of his breathing, I notice. Panic presses down on me. I need to explain myself, and the words rush out of me.
“What happened with Grant and him kicking me out, it’s given me a kind of freedom, a blank slate if you like, to start writing out my life.” I’m trying to explain but I feel like I’m making a hash of it.
“Brighton,” he says. “I’ve got very fond memories of Brighton.” He smiles suddenly but it’s a hard smile. “But it hasn’t got anything to do with cakes. I’ve been there for a few Prides. It’s also called London-on-Sea, which explains the prices. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did, but the property prices are even higher than I was expecting if I’m honest. But it seems like the right sort of place to think about setting up. A busy town, but by the sea.”
I look at the photograph on the screen. It’s a place just off of The Lanes, that little network of tiny streets full of artisanal shops. It’d be a perfect location but the figure quoted for the rent alone makes me want to weep. An overwhelming, all engulfing wave of gloom comes over me. Maybe it’s all a pipe dream, and as unattainable as a day trip to Mars, but if you don’t have dreams what do you have?
Not a fucking shop in The Lanes, that’s for sure.
James must feel my spirit sag, because when he speaks his voice is softer.
“Do you know anybody who’s doing this work full-time, and making a living from it?”
“Yes, a couple I met on one of the courses. They’ve got a patisserie and a very high-end bespoke cake making business, but not in London. It can be done. I know it’ll take time to get established, I’m not that green, but part of that is being in the right location.”
“And you think Brighton’s it?”
I feel myself bristle. “Yes, I think it could be.” Or I would if I could find somewhere for the right price, in the right place.
“How many commissions have you actually—?”
“Plenty. You’ve seen what I can do — I showed you the photos, remember? It’s not like I’ve just made a few cup cakes and a Victoria sponge for Sunday tea,” I snap. It’s an attack because I’m cornered and I don’t like it. But I’m not going to let him think this is some pie — or cake — in the sky, idea. “Weddings, christenings, birthdays, plus some special orders for a couple of boutique hotels. Corporate work, too.” My shoulders want to slump at the lost opportunity that was. But I won’t let them. “I did that with somebody I got to know on a residential course. We even got referral work, and we began discussing going into business together — getting premises with a small high-end patisserie attached to it.”
“Then why didn’t you?” James’ voice is softer, losing the hard abrasiveness from earlier.
