The Little Brooklyn Bakery. Julie CaplinЧитать онлайн книгу.

       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