The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018. Ellen Berry
the lingering burnt smell. Stuff all that, she thought, closing her eyes and swaying her body, barely aware that she was the only one on the floor.
Roxanne had always loved to dance, right from when she was a little girl; back then, no one had known as she’d done it in secret, in her bedroom, having put on one of her favourite records to mask yet another of her parents’ monumental fights downstairs. As she’d twirled on her faded floral carpet, she had ceased to hear them at all.
An escape, that’s what it had been back then in Rosemary Cottage – just as it was now. There was something magical about music, the way it could transport you to some other place. With her vast collection of crackly old jazz records, her neighbour Isabelle understood that too.
Roxanne caught the DJ’s eye and he grinned at her. He had a full, bushy beard, as was mandatory amongst a certain breed of twenty-something males right now. What would happen when the fashion was over? she mused. Would the companies that made all the necessary beard oils, balms and pomades – she wasn’t entirely sure how these products differed – go out of business?
The track ended, and she was seized by an urge to hear something from way back, something she had danced to as a little girl in her bedroom in the eaves.
Another track started but it wasn’t right: all this music was all too esoteric. What the DJ needed to play was … what was it called again? Heck, it was her absolute favourite, she’d danced to it a billion times and now she’d forgotten it. She wobbled slightly on her black patent heels and pushed a slick of damp hair away from her face. Across the room, Serena waved and gave her an everything-okay? sort of smile, but Roxanne didn’t really register it. She was too busy approaching the DJ, trying to explain over the pulsing music, ‘D’you have, er …’
‘Sorry, love? What was that?’
She frowned, trying to flick back through her mental Rolodex of songs that had meant so much to her as she was growing up. The DJ was peering at her in a bemused sort of way. ‘I can sing it for you,’ she yelled at him. ‘Can you listen for a minute?’
‘Aw, don’t worry, darling,’ he said with a patronising smile, as if she was an old lady who had just biffed him with her wheeled shopping trolley.
‘No, no, I’ll remember it if you let me sing the start. Could you turn your music down, please?’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘Sorry …’
‘I remember it now! Dancing Queen by Abba. D’you have it?’
The DJ sniggered again. ‘No, love, it’s not really my kind of—’
‘You must have!’ she begged. ‘It can’t be a party without Dancing Queen …’
‘Oh, you reckon?’ The young man grinned.
‘Could you at least have a look?’ She wobbled on her heels and clung to the front of his booth as if it were a swaying ship.
‘Off you go and dance,’ he urged her. ‘You’re a great dancer. Pretty impressive moves, you’ve got there …’
She peered at him squiffily, wondering if there had been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. No, she was just being paranoid, and no wonder – it had been a terrible day, so of course she’d drunk too much and was feeling sensitive. But what the hell? She was tottering off now and dancing, still on her own, feeling happy and light and not caring that Sean had just thrown her a concerned look, and was shaking his head and muttering into someone’s ear, or that she was one of the oldest women in the room.
Sean waggled his hand to beckon her over but Roxanne just laughed and turned away. How boring he was, never venturing onto the dance floor. Age didn’t matter one bit! Britt was beside her now; skinny, sexy Britt, who Sean reckoned to be around forty, although no one was sure and she refused to divulge her age.
Roxanne glanced back at Sean and cried, ‘C’mon, it’s your party! Come and dance!’ He just gave her an inscrutable look and disappeared back into the crowd.
Now more people had joined Roxanne and Britt on the dance floor: Johnny, Serena, Kate, Louie and a couple of new girls from Roxanne’s preferred model agency. They were all dancing and whooping, hair flying, and nothing mattered to Roxanne anymore. Not until she glimpsed a new arrival who was looking around expectantly. Marsha! What was she doing there? Sean didn’t even know her. Roxanne stopped dancing and stared, realising now that Marsha hadn’t come alone, and that Tina Court was hovering at her side. Tina, who’d been hired as the new fashion-director-in-chief! Roxanne had seen her at enough events to recognise her, even in dim light. She was a tiny woman, bird-like with pointy features and brows plucked to the point of near-invisibility. Her long, straight black hair hung in a glossy sheet, and her wincingly tight outfit comprised a shimmery cobalt blue dress with a silver belt and towering nude heels. Marsha was still wearing the same cream shirt and dark skirt she had had on all day. Now the two women were laughing together as if enjoying a particularly hilarious joke.
Roxanne glanced around wildly for Sean, seized by an urge to demand to know why they were here. Okay, so Britt had probably pulled together the guest list, but Sean must have been involved at some point. He’d have been happy to delegate responsibility for the bar staff, the DJ and drinks – but not who was coming. Maybe Britt had insisted Sean invited Marsha, with her being an editor of a glossy magazine now? Roxanne supposed that made sense. But why Tina – the one Roxanne was apparently being so brave and stoical about? Her blood seemed to pulse at her temples as she watched them accept drinks from a waiter and gaze around as if they were utterly entitled to be there.
‘Okay, Rox?’ That was Serena, gently touching her arm.
Roxanne flinched. ‘Yes, I’m fine …’ She tried to carry on dancing, realising how terribly drunk she was now, and aware of several glances in her direction. She needed water or more of that puffed rice. It was too hot in here, that was the trouble; lately, her internal thermostat seemed to have gone haywire. She tottered away and stepped outside, onto the red metal fire escape where she inhaled the evening air. From here, she took in the view of London; it was unusually warm, even for late May, verging on stuffy. Perhaps a storm was brewing.
Further down on the steps, a couple of models were smoking. Usually, Roxanne didn’t mind the smell of cigarettes. She had been a smoker herself until she had finally managed to quit last year, after visiting Della and feeling like an idiot, puffing away on the pavement outside her bookshop with virtually every passer-by stopping to say hi. But now, as the girls’ cigarette smoke plumed upwards, she felt queasy. She looked out again over the city she had loved with a passion since she had arrived here at eighteen years old, and felt nausea rise in her.
Back in the studio, she scanned the vicinity for Marsha and Tina, keen to avoid bumping into them. They were nowhere to be seen. A waiter glided towards her with a tray laden with more glasses of champagne. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, knowing it was the last thing she needed, but since when was champagne about need?
As she took a sip, a familiar voice floated above the hubbub: ‘Yep, Roxanne’s definitely here. I spotted her dancing like a nutter a few minutes ago.’ That was Marsha – and what did she mean by that? Roxanne whipped around to see her, still with Tina at her side, turned partly away and facing the seafood bar. A fresh wave of nausea rose in her stomach, and for a moment she feared she might be sick.
‘I thought she might not turn up tonight after your big announcement,’ Tina replied.
‘Of course she has,’ Marsha retorted. ‘You do know she’s seeing Sean, don’t you?’
‘You’re kidding!’ Tina gasped, still clearly not registering her presence.
‘No – honestly, they’re a couple. Everyone thought it’d just be a fling, ’cause you know what he’s like …’
‘Oh God, yeah,’ Tina murmured.
‘But apparently those days are over,’ Marsha crowed. ‘They’ve been together a while now …’
Roxanne’s