Page 10 of Love from Pretty Beach

I t was a few days later. Darby hadn’t done anything with the video.

In fact, she hadn’t thought much about it at all because she’d spent three days at work and on each day, she’d worked late because one of the other girls had called in sick.

Which had meant that she’d come home, had something to eat, got her stuff ready for the next day and gone to bed.

Which also meant that she was now more than ready for her day off.

The morning had started with a lot of promise.

Not only had Darby woken up full of the joys of spring, she’d also heard on the radio that the weather was going to be gorgeous.

Things in her life had been a whole lot worse.

With a nice sunny day ahead of her, a blue sky out the window and a lot of motivation around her, she’d decided to get on with the job in hand of getting more footage of her yet to be started, still-a-fantasy channel.

Fairly full of herself, she’d positioned her phone against the fruit bowl, angled the light just so through the kitchen window, and faffed with her hair so it looked less bird's nest, more presentable.

She’d decided in her wisdom and by way of her notebook full of ideas that she would start a real girl’s no-knead artisanal baking segment to tag onto her first introductory video.

The reason behind it being that the bread was easy and you didn’t need to pay extortionate Hampstead prices to have it.

It really was very simple, easy even, to whack out a few loaves of your own.

Turning the oven on and with her twenty-five-year-old cast iron pot ready for its on-screen debut, the kitchen was still orange, but it was clean.

With the camera angled from a spot on her little kitchen table, all that showed of the kitchen was Darby’s windowsill full of pots of herbs and some very nice condiments.

'Right then. Here I am making artisan bread. I first started making this when, well, when I was no longer prepared to fork out my pension for fancy bread. Not that I have a pension other than what the government will be liberally sprinkling on me, but anyway.'

Reaching up to the cupboard, she took down a large old-fashioned mixing bowl and a wooden spoon.

Not sure if she’d definitely turned on the camera, she walked around, tapped on her phone and checked.

Back in her spot, she held up a packet of dried yeast. ‘This is your best friend.

If it's your first time, buy these individual packets or you can buy it in a tub. I buy both, whichever is on offer.’

Turning around to the cupboards, rather than get the step-stool to grab a bag of flour, Darby wobbled on her tiptoes and tried to reach a packet of Waitrose Essentials flour tucked in the back of the cupboard.

Not quite being able to reach, she grabbed the wooden spoon and used it as a lever to inch the bag to the edge of the shelf.

Just as it got to the right place, she went one step too far and before she could do anything, the bag of flour flew right past her and landed on the worktop.

In a cloud of flour, the bottom of the bag exploded and white smoke rose everywhere.

Seeing the funny side as puffs of flour smoke rose and flour covered all sorts of things, including her top, Darby laughed out loud.

‘And this is why I am not and never will be Nigella! What was I thinking?’

Continuing on and trying to juggle the now loose-bottomed bag of flour, she giggled, tried to salvage it and scooped a measuring cup inside whilst trying to keep the bottom together.

Flour was now everywhere. Chuckling as she looked into the camera, flour was all over her face, on the front of her top and behind her, the worktop under the cupboard was white.

Deciding to just carry on, she was mixing tepid water into the yeast when smoke began pouring out of the oven and the smoke alarm started to go off.

The comedy side of it faded quickly and the air was decidedly blue.

Darby immediately panicked about swearing on camera as she grabbed a tea towel and climbed onto the nearest chair with the intention of flicking the tea towel back and forth to get the alarm to stop.

The chair was wonky, old and it wobbled.

Darby wobbled. With the smoke alarm emitting an evil, piercing sound which felt as if it was ripping off her ears, Darby swore.

Lola, never one to be left out of a drama, began howling in harmony from her basket by the back door.

Stretching up toward the ceiling on the wobbly chair, Darby changed tact and tried to reach the smoke detector with the wooden spoon.

Swearing for England and swinging wildly in the direction of the detector, the doorbell went.

She was fairly sure it wasn’t the postman because Lola had not gone ballistic.

'Just a minute.' She called out in the direction of the hallway, though her words were lost in the cacophony of smoke alarm, howling dog, and death throes of her social media career.

Climbing down from the chair, she looked at herself in the oven as she made her way.

Not a good look. Tutting at another knock, she opened the door with the wooden spoon still in her hand and the smoke detector wailing and frowned.

The man standing on her doorstep took one look at her and took a small step backwards.

'Oh, umm, hi. Are you the old Audi down there?'

Darby narrowed her bottom inner eyelids. The man from the morning when she’d been assessing the courtyard in her dressing gown. Tall, probably a few years younger than her, thick dark hair. Very nice eyes. Tidy. Hello again. ‘The what?’

‘The old Audi parked over there. The one that needs a good wash.’

Darby didn’t like his tone. ‘The navy-blue Audi?’

‘That would be the one.’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, sorry, what do you want? I'm having a bit of a situation with my smoke detector thingy if that’s not already obvious.'

'I can see, or rather, hear that.’

‘I’m in the middle of making bread at the moment.’

The man frowned. ‘What?’

The smoke alarm appeared to get louder and Lola's howling had reached operatic levels. ‘Do you need the phone number of the farmhouse?’

‘No, I need you to move your car.’ He looked at the wooden spoon in her hand. ‘Would you like some help or should I come back? We need access.'

‘You need me to move my car now? What for?’

‘The lads can’t get the vans past.’

Darby rolled her eyes. ‘I’m literally in the middle of things.’

The man pointed inside. ‘Do you want me to help?’

'If you could figure out how to make that alarm stop screaming, I'd be forever in your debt.'

As soon as he stepped in, Darby regretted it.

She’d just let a stranger into her house.

She didn’t know him from Adam. She was going to be murdered, bound at the hands and feet, bundled off into his boot, never to be seen again.

He took in the chaos in the kitchen and headed straight for the alarm.

Tall, strong, oh-so handsome. A knight in heavy-duty workman’s pants.

Ding dong. Within seconds, silence fell over the house.

Even Lola was in awe of the man and kept very quiet.

Darby could hear herself think again. She turned off the oven and sighed. 'Thank you. What a nightmare!'

'What happened?' The man looked at her phone propped up on a pile of books on top of a stool and frowned.

Darby brushed her face to try and rid it of the flour and heard herself garbling.

'I, well, oh, my oven is dodgy. I have my eye on a new one, but yeah, I’ve been waiting to get the pine replaced.

It’s a long story.' Darby swallowed. The man appeared as if he would be quite at home in an expensive catalogue for fancy men’s outdoor clothes, all clean lines and good bone structure.

She, however, was well aware that she looked like she'd been in a fight with a bakery.

The man’s tone was businesslike, 'Right, now that we've sorted out your domestic crisis, can you move your car? It's blocking the gate and we need to get through, pronto. It’s the blue Audi parked across the access gate there. The contractors need to get through to start work.'

Darby bristled. She'd been parking in the spot for five years without anyone complaining. 'Well, technically, my house has right of way on that bit there.’ Crossing her arms, she tried to ignore the fact that she was covered in flour. ‘It's on the deeds.’

'Right of way or not, we can't get a transit van through with your car there. We've got a job to start. I'm already running late for a meeting.'

Darby didn’t particularly like his dismissive tone.

She could feel her hackles rising, which was ridiculous because he was absolutely gorgeous and under normal circumstances, she'd probably be falling over herself to be helpful.

But there was something about his assumption that she would just immediately do as he asked, combined with the way he'd gone from helping her to somewhat irritated in the space of thirty seconds, that rubbed her up entirely the wrong way.

'I should point out that I've been parking there for years without anyone having a problem with it. '

‘You’ve said.’

Rolling her eyes, Darby grabbed her car keys. Jangling the keys, she nodded. 'I'll move it now.'

'Thank you.’

As they walked towards the front door, Darby caught sight of herself in the hall mirror and recoiled.

She had flour everywhere . Meanwhile, man in patch pocket work pants looked like he'd stepped out of a construction company's promotional material. Whatever, he was about five years younger than her and wouldn’t look twice at her anyway.

Outside, her car sat exactly where she'd left it the night before, parked in her usual spot on the narrow lane.

She could see his point about the access issue - there was a gate she'd never paid much attention to, and with her car where it was, getting a large van through would be challenging.

Getting into her car and praying that it would start, a few minutes later, she was standing by his car. 'I’ll just leave it down there parked on the road. How long are you here for?'

'A few months, at least. So, yeah, my guys will be coming and going. It would be good if you could keep your car out of the way.’ He touched his right hand to his annoyingly perfect hair. 'Sorry, I need to get going and get my lads set up.'

Darby couldn’t resist a bit of sarcasm. 'Not a problem. I wouldn't want to interfere with important contractor business. Thanks for the help with the alarm.'

He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then seemed to think better of it. Nodding, he got into his van and drove through the now-accessible gate without another word.

Darby stood in the lane for a moment, watching the van disappear.

Trying to process what had just happened, she chuckled to herself.

In the space of twenty minutes, she'd had a domestic disaster, been rescued by an exceedingly attractive stranger, discovered said stranger had himself a bit of a superior attitude, and had managed to make herself sound petty and defensive in the process. She’d conducted the whole episode while being doused in flour, too. Fabulous.

Walking back to her cottage, she caught sight of her reflection in the front window and groaned.

What a shambles. Her channel debut had been derailed by smoke and she was fairly sure she'd just made a complete fool of herself in front of the most attractive man she'd encountered since moving to Pretty Beach.

Back in the kitchen, Darby addressed Lola. 'Well, Lola, that went about as well as everything else in my life recently.'

As Darby began the process of cleaning flour off every surface in the kitchen, she thought about the man.

Annoyed with him for annoying her , she couldn't stop thinking about him.

Mostly, she was wondering who he was. Her brain may have unwittingly started to concoct elaborate scenarios where she might bump into him again.

In these scenarios, she would be calm, organised and not plastered in flour.

Tutting as she started to clear up, she rolled her eyes.

She was a forty-one-year-old woman, for crying out loud.

Far too old to be having crush-like feelings.

As she cleaned, Darby felt a glimmer of something; she had no idea what.