The Little Brooklyn Bakery. Julie Caplin

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       Chapter 1

      ‘It’s a great offer,’ said Sophie, with only the slightest sense of regret that she had to turn it down. One day she would visit New York. ‘But I don’t see how I could go at the moment.’

      Angela screwed up her face. ‘I understand, it’s really short notice, I could bloody kill Mel for breaking her leg.’

      ‘I don’t think she did it on purpose,’ Sophie said gently.

      ‘Well it’s bloody inconvenient, and while I’ve got plenty of people queuing up to take her place in New York for six months, you’re my best food writer. You would be brilliant.’

      ‘That’s kind of you, Angela—’

      ‘Kind?’ Angela raised one of her scarily plucked, almost-to-the-death, eyebrows. ‘I don’t do kind. This is honesty. You’re a brilliant writer and I wish …’ she shook her head, ‘and don’t you dare repeat this, I wish you would spread your wings.’

      ‘And you’re desperate,’ teased Sophie.

      ‘Well, there is that.’ Angela laid down her pen with a self-deprecating laugh. ‘But at least think about it. It’s a fabulous opportunity. Job swaps don’t come up that often and if I didn’t have the twins, I’d be off like a shot.’

      ‘What about Ella? She’d love to go,’ suggested Sophie.

      Angela tipped her head to one side. ‘That girl is twenty-nine going on twelve, she’d be an absolute disaster.’

      ‘She might not be that bad.’

      Angela raised the other eyebrow, ‘And I know how much you help her. I don’t think she’d survive without you.’

      Sophie gave her a cheeky grin, ‘So you can’t send me to New York, then.’

      With a bark of laughter, Angela flipped her notebook closed, ‘We’d manage.’ Her face sobered as Sophie rose to leave. ‘Seriously, Sophie, say you’ll think about it.’

      Sophie returned to the main office where everyone was still talking about the horrible crack of bone when Mel leapt off a table in the pub at the end of her I’m-swanning-off-to-New-York-for-six-months leaving do. Across the way, the limp helium balloon, bearing the words We’ll miss you, still bobbed above a chair. Someone really ought to take it down before the incoming, very American-sounding Brandi Baumgarten rocked up to take possession of Mel’s desk.

      The poor girl deserved more than the current palimpsest of sticky rings of prosecco and crumbs of Monster Munch (Mel’s favourite) littering its surface. Grabbing a pair of scissors, Sophie advanced on the balloon and, with a satisfying snip, cut it down. She’d done the right thing turning Angela’s offer down. The thought of taking over Brandi’s desk on the other side of the Atlantic was far too much of a terrifying prospect. And poor Brandi, coming here. To a strange city. All on her own. Sophie almost shuddered. Maybe she should make her some cookies, big fat squidgy ones with lots of chunky chocolate to welcome her and make her feel at home. And coffee. Americans did coffee big time. Perhaps a little welcome-to-England pack. An A–Z of London. An umbrella. A …

      ‘Earth to Soph. How do you spell clafoutis?’

      ‘Sorry. What did you say?’ She tugged the balloon down and punctured it with her scissors.

      ‘Well done,’ said Ella, the other cookery writer on CityZen. ‘I meant to do that. Well, I thought about it. And how do you spell clafoutis? I can never remember.’

      Sophie reeled off the spelling and sat down at her desk opposite Ella.

      ‘What did Angela want? You in trouble?’

      Sophie shook her head, still slightly bemused at the suggestion that she should go to work on their sister publication in Manhattan, the American CityZen. If she told Ella she’d never hear the end of it.

      ‘How was your weekend?’ Ella screwed up her face. ‘Oh for feck’s sake, spellcheck’s changed it to clawfoot. Can you spell it again for me? I went to that new French place in Stoke Newington. A bit of a trek but … oh, how was Le Gavroche on Saturday? Oh … no, he didn’t!’

      Sophie winced and summoned up a blithe smile. ‘Unfortunately, we didn’t get there. His mum was ill.’

      ‘Oh, for crying out loud, the woman’s always ill.’

      ‘She can’t help it,’ Sophie protested, ignoring the inner bitch that agreed wholeheartedly. Was it wrong to wish Mrs Soames could time being unwell just a tad more СКАЧАТЬ