The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane: The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018. Ellen BerryЧитать онлайн книгу.
sit down either; you had to munch your dripping beef pattie whilst standing at the bar. Roxanne felt far too old to stand anywhere. ‘Just wait,’ she teased him.
‘Or that Nordic place where everything comes on a slab of rock?’ His clear green eyes glinted with amusement.
‘Nope, we won’t be repeating that …’
‘And not even your own, personal rock,’ he went on, enjoying himself now, ‘but a sharing one. Basically a communal paving slab for everyone to eat off. I blame Jamie Oliver.’
She laughed as his warm hand curled around hers. ‘You can’t blame Jamie Oliver for everything.’
‘Yes, I can. Last book of his I bought, everything was presented on planks. He’s single-handedly destroyed the crockery industry. Been in the china section of John Lewis lately?’ She shook her head. It was not a department she frequented. ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste,’ he added with a smile.
‘Surely that trend must be coming to an end?’ she suggested. ‘Slate, wood—’
‘I should hope so, but then, what’s next? Bricks? Roof tiles?’
Roxanne chuckled. ‘You needn’t worry about that because we’re going to an old-fashioned place where they wouldn’t dream of serving your dinner on anything but a proper plate.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’ His trace of cynicism evaporated immediately. Despite his high standing in the fashion world, Sean had no time for poncery where food was concerned. It was one of the countless things Roxanne loved about him.
‘It’s an Italian,’ she explained as, still holding hands, they darted across the main road. ‘You don’t know it – neither did I. It’s tucked down a little lane by the canal, just along here …’ They turned off the main street towards the towpath.
‘Really? I thought you knew everywhere around here.’
‘I thought so too, but Isabelle came across it on one of her walks …’
‘Isabelle?’ He groaned. ‘Christ, Rox, so she’s managing our nights out now …’ Roxanne smiled, well aware of how Sean viewed her elderly neighbour.
‘No – listen. She finds places. That’s what she does, she goes on these rambling explorations …’
‘When she’s not topping the bill at Ronnie’s Scott’s,’ he cut in with a smirk.
‘She’s never claimed to have sung at Ronnie’s Scott’s.’
‘Well, other jazz clubs, then. Any that’ll have her …’
Roxanne smiled as he squeezed her hand. The late May evening was bathed in golden sunshine, and jovial groups had already congregated outside the well-kept Islington pubs, where hanging baskets were ablaze with freesias and petunias. Relaxed and companionable, just tipping into summer: this was the London she loved, and there was no one she would rather enjoy it with but Sean.
Roxanne had found him immediately attractive and charming when he had shown up in London five years ago after a lengthy stint of working in New York. She had booked him for a relatively low-budget shoot, and the elegant shots he produced had sparked the beginning of a fruitful working relationship. It had tipped from professional and friendly to much more when, after several margaritas, they had kissed like teenagers in the velvet-lined booth of a Hoxton bar and he had asked her back to his flat. While there were no signs just yet of the relationship progressing beyond what it was now – he clearly valued his space, and they only saw each other around three nights a week – Roxanne had managed to convince herself that she should just enjoy things the way they were. They were having fun, and his busy diary was simply testament to his popularity; everyone loved him, from the interns in her office to the elderly fashion PRs who had been around since the 70s and were personal friends of Vivienne Westwood. Sometimes, she couldn’t quite believe they were together.
‘Don’t tell me she’s joining us,’ he teased.
‘Of course not,’ Roxanne laughed. ‘It’s just us, sweetheart.’
‘Well, that’s a relief …’ In fact, he was right to regard Isabelle as a whacky eccentric. A Londoner born and bred, she was suspiciously hazy about the venues she claimed to have performed at – and still sang at now, occasionally, or so she said – and a Google search of Isabelle Hudson had thrown up nothing of note. But who cared if she had fabricated an illustrious career as North London’s very own Nina Simone? Squirrelling out delightful, tucked-away little restaurants and pubs – that was something she did for real, and from time to time Isabelle would invite Roxanne to try out one of her latest finds. She was just lonely, Roxanne had decided, when she had first moved into her top-floor flat twelve years ago, and got to know the curious single lady who lived alone on the ground floor. Apparently the great love of Isabelle’s life had died before Roxanne had moved in, and although there was a son, there had been no visits that she was aware of. To say that mother and son weren’t close seemed to be an understatement, as far as Roxanne could make out. In fact, Isabelle barely mentioned him and gave the distinct impression that she wasn’t happy to discuss him at all. It seemed to echo Roxanne’s own, rather fractured family, and to her seemed terribly sad.
Sean’s arm wrapped around Roxanne’s slender shoulders as they made their way down the steps to the towpath. A few turns later, and there it was: the small, slightly shabby Italian, its hand-painted sign crying out for a freshen up, but still welcoming with the glow of orangey lamps inside.
‘This is it?’ Sean asked with a note of surprise.
‘Yes, we were here for lunch on Sunday …’
‘“We”?’ he teased her. ‘So you and Isabelle are a we now?’
‘Oh, stop it,’ she chuckled as they stepped into the hubbub, where they were immediately greeted by a cheery young woman, her sleek dark hair secured in a neat chignon.
‘Hi, d’you have a reservation?’
‘Yes, Roxanne Cartwright …’ Roxanne glanced around the room. Its dark wood-panelled walls were hung with oil paintings of Italian coastal scenes, and shelves bore numerous, rather dusty-looking bottles of wine and leafy pot plants, which may or may not have been artificial. Apart from one vacant table right at the back, the place was full. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ she added.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that – let me take your jackets …’ As they were shown to their table, Roxanne glanced at Sean.
‘Hey, this looks great,’ he enthused as they took their seats.
‘I knew you’d love it,’ she said as they were handed unadorned hand-written menus. Sean smiled with approval as he registered the simple Italian dishes: not remotely trendy, and certainly nothing served on a plank. After the waitress had taken their orders, Sean clasped Roxanne’s hand across the table and beamed at her.
‘Maybe Isabelle does know a thing or two after all,’ he conceded.
‘Well, I hope it’s special enough for your fiftieth.’
‘I don’t need special – you know that …’
‘And you are having a ridiculously extravagant party tomorrow night,’ she teased him.
‘Yeah, but only because Britt forced me to. You know what she’s like, taking charge of my life, saying she knows what’s good for me …’
Roxanne nodded. Britt was Sean’s formidable agent, and had poo-pooed his initial suggestion of a small gathering in the pub.
‘I’m not planning to keep you out too late tonight,’ he added. ‘Remember you have that meeting first thing …’
‘Yes, I know.’ She grimaced. Sean was aware that her former editor, Cathy, had been shunted off without warning to be replaced by Marsha, who had come from the terribly depressing diet magazine that was published by the same company.
‘I