The Little Brooklyn Bakery Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Her heart bumped uncomfortably as the Fasten Seatbelts sign blinked on. Too late now to change her mind. To wonder whether her snap decision had been too hasty.

  All around her people were gathering the belongings they’d spread around their seats on the seven-hour journey, packing up laptops and iPads, turning down corners of books, folding up blankets. Across the aisle through the window she could see lights twinkling, coming into sharper focus as the plane descended. Her ears popped, feeling full and heavy.

  With a thud and bounce, the wheels touched down, the roar of the engines going into reverse thrust as the plane decelerated. She was really here, with a purseful of dollars, an address in Brooklyn and a suitcase packed with a desperately slim wardrobe to tide her through the next six months. Had she even packed a warm jumper? Gloves? Didn’t New York get really cold in the winter?

  Still pondering the ineptitude of her packing, she forced out a tight goodbye to the smiling cabin crew, refusing to give in to the overwhelming temptation to grab one of them and beg to fly back to London with them on their return leg.

  It was tiredness, she told herself, as she tramped up the echoey tunnel, the floor bouncing slightly beneath her feet as the rumble of cases rebounded from the metal walls. Ahead there was so much to navigate, customs, a taxi, meeting strangers and a new home. For the last few hours she’d existed in an almost pleasant no-man’s-land limbo, not needing to think about anything beyond choosing which film to watch, whether to have the beef or chicken and how to break into the plastic packaging of the bread roll.

  Grasping the handle of her cabin bag as if it might give her some kind of magical courage, she followed the trail of people ahead, most of whom were head down with intent, clearly sure of where they were going. She rounded a corner and came into the huge passport area, instantly looking up at the American flag hanging from the ceiling. Nerves shimmered in her stomach. She knew all her paperwork was in order, but she’d heard horror stories about American customs. It wasn’t looking too good. Only a few of the booths were manned and the queue was enormous. As it snaked its way forward she gripped her passport tighter and tried to look innocent, an automatic response to the gun-carrying officials wearing stern, shoot-you-in-a-second-and-not-bat-an-eyelid expressions on their faces.

  By the time it was finally her turn, she felt exhausted but also irritated. The plane had landed nearly an hour and a half ago, her body clock was working on UK time and she was used to European indifference and laconic inspection. This lengthy eye-scanning, finger-printing process at silly o’clock, when her legs ached and she felt positively light-headed, was testing even her considerable reserves of Pollyanna-like amiability. Long minutes passed as the middle-aged customs officer scrutinised her passport with a stone-like expression, his greying eyebrows drawn together but separated by a trough of wrinkles. He looked at her, down at the passport and then back at her. Her stomach tightened. The spaced-out feeling in her head made her sway slightly. He looked back at the passport again.

  ‘Is this for real?’ he asked, his eyes widening as he once again looked at the passport and back at her. ‘Lady Sophie Amelia Bennings-Beauchamp.’ It took her a minute to attune to the heavy nasal American accent and then she nodded with a well-what-can-you-do smile and a tiny shrug.

  ‘D’ya have a tiara in your baggage?’ The direct question held a confusing combination of aggression and curiosity.

  Some imp of mischief made her say, very seriously, ‘Not this time. I tend not to travel with the family jewels.’

  ‘That so, ma’am. Or should I call you your ladyship?’

  ‘Sophie’s fine.’

  He looked appalled.

  ‘Or Miss Bennings,’ she added with a smile, pleased that she’d broken his scary official person’s expression.

  ‘Not Miss Bennings-Beauchamp.’ He pronounced it Bow-champ, leaving her wondering if she should explain that it was really Beecham, but she decided against it. Not at this time of night.

  She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I try and travel incognito. So, I stick to Miss Bennings. It’s easier that way.’

  He nodded and put his fingers up to his lips, his eyes sweeping over her shoulder and around the room. ‘Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, Lady Bennings-Bowchamp.’ He winked at her and then frowned. ‘You’re working?’ His eyebrows sank deeper over his eyes. ‘L1 Visa.’

  ‘Daddy gambled away my inheritance,’ said Sophie out of the corner of her mouth, starting to enjoy herself.

  ‘That so.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘That’s bad, your ladyship.’

  ‘And I couldn’t sell the family heirlooms. So, I had to get a job.’

  ‘Well, that don’t seem right,’ he stopped, his whole face screwed up in sympathetic distaste, then with a respectful nod, he added, ‘but good for you, your ladyship.’ There was a brief pause before, as if jolted back in line, he remembered he had a script. ‘So where will you be staying for the duration of your trip?’

  She reeled off the address she’d memorised.

  ‘Brooklyn?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie, smiling at his palpable disappointment. ‘Isn’t that very nice?’

  He straightened and lifted his chin. ‘Born and bred, ma’am, I mean your ladyship. Brooklyn …’ he winced, ‘has changed a lot over the years. It’s very hip now. Not like in my day. I hope you like it.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you know the Queen?’ Expectant hope glittered in his eyes.

  Sophie straightened and carefully looked over her shoulder before turning back to him, widening her eyes as if warning him that what she was about to divulge was top secret. She lowered her voice, ‘Yes, the family spends Easter at Buckingham Palace every year. Prince Philip’s an absolute sweetie and William and Kate’s children are such cuties. But don’t tell anyone I told you. We’re not supposed to talk about it.’

  With a quick salute, a forefinger to his eyebrow, he nodded. ‘Mom’s the word. But you tell her hi from me. The name’s Don. Don McCready.’ He beamed. ‘Wait till I tell my wife, Betty-Ann, I met you. She just loves the royals. She’s gonna get such a kick out of this.’

  Neon lights blurred as the cab sped past, the road still busy even at this time of night. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant post-take-away smell hovering in the back of the shabby cab, the ugly metal grill separating the passenger seats from the front and the cab driver’s surly indifference to her. A stream of Spanish came from the mobile phone mounted on the dashboard, punctuated occasionally by the driver’s monosyllabic responses. She settled back into the battered seats, watching the street scenes through the scarred windows, as the car veered from lane to lane. It looked like the America she’d seen on television as a child in old episodes of NYPD Blue. People of all races loping along the pavements. Nail bars rubbed shoulders with tire-replacement centers, the alien spelling striking home, and unfamiliar fast-food franchises – Golden Krust, Wendy’s, Texas Chicken & Burgers – as well as the ubiquitous McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts and Seven Eleven, which looked the same, but also different somehow.

  For a minute, it was oh-so-tempting to tap the taxi driver on the shoulder and ask him to turn around, go back. She took in a deep shuddery breath. Man up, Sophie, you chose to do this. Your choice.

  She pulled out her phone and re-read the email about the arrangements. The company had fixed up an apartment for her. A one-bedroomed place in Brooklyn, within reach of the subway and an easy journey to work. For a moment, she let the image of Mel’s limp balloon dance in her head. Brandi Baumgarten’s desk would be ready and waiting for her on Monday, just thirty-one hours from now. Scrolling across the touch screen, she brought up the subway map she’d downloaded. It looked horribly complicated compared to the tube map she was so used to. Taking a deep breath, she closed the app. Tomorrow there’d be plenty o
f time to get her bearings and work out the journey to work.

  The taxi had slowed, turning off the main highway, and here the streets were suddenly interesting, lots of bars, vibrant with crowds of people, pavement seating full, a world of nationalities in the bars and restaurants they passed. With a sudden screech of brakes, the taxi stopped and almost before he’d halted, the driver turned around.

  ‘Forty dollars,’ he spat.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked, peering out of the window at several shop fronts.

  ‘Number 425 – right there, lady.’ He indicated with a contemptuous thumb. ‘Just like you asked for.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Sophie, uncertain as to how he could see any numbers. Maybe it was a locals’ thing and she was looking in the wrong place.

  The taxi driver had already got out and was heaving her cases onto the pavement.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophie politely, as she rummaged through her purse with the unfamiliar currency and located a fifty-dollar bill. She knew tipping was big in America and had a sudden moment of panic. ‘Keep the change.’ She had no idea if it was too much or too little but at nearly three in the morning, she just wanted to find the promised key safe, get into her room and collapse into bed.

  He snatched up the money and jumped back in the cab before she could say another word and the red back lights of the car disappeared down the street, two eyes glowing in the dark like a fading demon.

  With two suitcases and her cabin bag she stood on the pavement, sudden fear clamping her heart as she surveyed the shop fronts. Not one of them had a helpful number on the door. She looked down the street which stretched away into the distance. It was a very long street. A few people were about, and from the nearby corner loud voices shouted.

  She turned back and jumped as a man appeared from nowhere. At well over six foot five, he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, with long, lanky, slightly bowed legs that seemed to bounce as he walked towards her. Her momentary fear at being surprised and alone in the middle of the night in a strange neighbourhood receded when white teeth from ebony skin grinned at her.

  ‘Hey lady, you OK? You look a little lost.’

  ‘I’m … erm … looking for number 425.’

  He loomed over her, smelling rather bizarrely of rosemary. With a surreptitious sniff, she also identified basil.

  ‘That’d be right here above Bella’s Place.’ He pointed to a bakery and then she spotted the narrow doorway squeezed between two shops. ‘You must be the English girl.’

  ‘I must be, yes.’ The scent of basil was stronger now and she blurted out, with drunken jet-lagged stream of consciousness, ‘You smell of herbs.’

  ‘Erbs,’ he corrected. ‘Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice.’

  ‘That’s what little boys smell of,’ said Sophie, now feeling a bit like Alice.

  His grin widened as he pointed to a shop front a few doors down. Sophie nodded, feeling a little stupid when she realised Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice was the name of his shop.

  ‘You just arrived?’ He laughed. ‘Course you have, otherwise why would you be out on the sidewalk in the middle of the night with a bunch of baggage? I’m Wes, let me give you a hand with your things.’

  Too weary to argue, she nodded, relieved to find the key safe by the door which gave up its contents as soon as she punched in the code. Wes led the way up the narrow staircase, carrying her cabin bag and suitcase with ease while she struggled up behind him, following the scent of herbs which spilled from a couple of pots wedged into his canvas satchel slung across his body.

  On the top floor he stopped outside a bright-red door. ‘Here you go – 425A, Bella’s just upstairs. She rents this whole building.’ He took the keys from her and did the honours, dumping the case in the tiny hall and flipping the light switch. ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’ He fished out a rosemary plant and handed it to her, before saluting, ducking under the doorway and loping away down the stairs with a cheerful whistle.

  Tired as she was, the brief, friendly encounter with a man who’d given her a herb pot made her feel that maybe life in Brooklyn might just be bearable after all.

  The hallway opened into a lounge with several doors leading from it. She had an impression of polished wooden floors, two long tall windows through which the ambient light of the street spilled and a shadowy collection of furniture. She put the pot down on a table and opened the nearest door. Bingo first strike, the bedroom. A double bed, quilt, pillow, all bare of sheets. Bugger. It hadn’t occurred to her to pack those. Sod it, still fully clothed, she pitched forward onto the naked duvet, wrapping it around her. Her last thought, her teeth could have an extra minute’s brushing in the morning.

  Chapter 3

  Despite the god-awful time of 5 a.m., she was wide awake, her body clock, even after only five hours’ sleep, hell-bent on London time and, according to her biorhythms, enjoying a leisurely nine o’clock lie-in.

  With a groan Sophie rolled over, feeling grimy, travel stained and full-on icky, her body still crimped from the plane journey. She stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling as half-hearted daylight clawed its way through the flimsy curtains. As usual, the thoughts began to crowd in. Memories of the last two years, fighting like gremlins coming up through the crevices. Nope, not going there. Refuse to go there. Shower. Unpack. Find tea. They were the priorities.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted them firmly on the wide-planked wooden floor and looked around the room. Just about enough space to swing a very small kitten, but clean and obviously newly painted. The tasteful shade of sage green was complemented by the cream-painted woodwork of the headboard and a matching chest of drawers and an oval mirror hanging above it. Space was tight, so the bed was pushed up against the opposite wall and there was no sign of a wardrobe.

  She found the reason when she pushed open the second door leading from the bedroom. It opened into a tiny hallway with a built-in wardrobe and, at the end, another doorway which led into a long and very narrow bathroom. However, the shiny, glossy brick tiles and immaculate, gleaming chrome fittings more than made up for its corridor-like dimensions.

  At the sight of the state-of-the-art shower, chrome-filled with numerous taps, heads and levers and big enough to take a rugby team, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the blissful streams of hot water. It was only as the water streamed through her long blonde hair, from two different directions, that she realised that there was no shampoo, no soap and no towel. She blinked hard at her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought to pack towels and sheets?

  As she shook herself like a dog to try and dry off, using her jeans as a bathmat, she glared at the idiotic image in the mirror, her hair wrapped in her T-shirt to soak up the drips.

  For God’s sake, she was normally the person who could be relied on for having packed spares for everyone else.

  She went through her case pulling things out, appalled at the random contents and glaring omissions. Hair straighteners. No hairdryer. Fourteen pairs of knickers. One bra. Three tubes of toothpaste. No toothbrush. Tweezers. No nail scissors. Her second-favourite cookery book. And decaffeinated tea-bags? Just when she could have mainlined caffeine with bells on. Who drank decaffeinated anything? There should be a law against it.

  Sitting back on her heels, she looked back at the last week with sudden clarity. Lord, hindsight was a wonderful thing. Now, when it was far too bloody late, she could see that her packing had been done in a blur of denial and downright indecision. Convinced she wouldn’t ever really leave. Right up to the last minute when the taxi driver rang the bell, she’d not really been sure she’d go through with it.

  Biting her lip, kneeling among discarded shirts, jeans and Converse hi-tops, she picked through her final days in London. Once she’d said yes to Angela, it was as if she’d stepped on a treadmill and had neither the will, the energy nor the reasoning capacity to do anything but keep putting one foot in front of the other. Misery, it had turned out, was a useful shiel
d, blurring away reality until it was too late to get off the treadmill. The taxi was there, her passport was in her hand and she had two cases and a cabin bag at her side.

  And here she was. In America.

  ‘Right.’ She stood up, tugged the T-shirt from her wet hair and looked firmly at herself in the mirror. ‘You are here now.’ She glared into her own eyes. ‘You, yes you, Sophie Bennings … Beauchamp, Bow-champ to the nice customs man, need to knuckle down. Sort yourself out. Sheets. Towel. Toiletries.’

  Those stupid omissions at least gave her a mission for the day. She had to go out and buy those as an absolute minimum.

  ‘And shopping.’ For Pete’s sake, she was so wet, she hadn’t even explored her new home. And she was talking to herself. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Come on. This is an opportunity.’ Saying things out loud made her feel less stupid. Perhaps she ought to buy one of those self-help manuals, come up with a few more convincing mantras. ‘It is an opportunity. Some people would kill to be me.’ OK, kill was perhaps going a little too far, but all her friends had been frankly envious. Not one of them had said, ‘Oh, God just think how big and scary New York is and how lonely you’re going to be.’

  Her exploration didn’t take long. The apartment was small, but perfectly formed. Modern, urban and very sophisticated. Not what she was used to at all, but as she stood in the open-plan lounge-kitchen, she nodded to herself. OK, she could live here. The polished, wide-planked, wooden floors were lovely and the huge sash windows let in loads of light and provided a great view out over the street. There was a television and a black box thing, with several remote controls, which she glanced at briefly with a wince. That had been James’s department. The bright-red sofa, with grey cushions positioned opposite a fireplace, looked inviting and welcoming.

  On the other side of the room, along the back wall, was a long galley kitchen, with white brick tiles on the walls separating units of glossy, dark red. A wooden-topped island with a breakfast bar created a division between the living room and the kitchen. It contained the sink, drainer and more counter space, and she was pleased to see that the hob, oven, fridge and sink were arranged in the perfect cook’s triangle of practicality.