I did not work in the bakery again until the following Tuesday morning. The weekend had passed in a kind of dull haze. Hanna had phoned me to ask whether anything had happened, putting particular emphasis on the last word, and I had told her that it had not. It occurred to me that it might be prudent to return to Rote Gertrud’s house on my own in the next few days, to remove the piece of paper with my writing on it from the box before someone else had a chance to see it. I could imagine Max and Jochen chortling over it, or Timo wrinkling his nose at it. The thought was intolerable, and yet I felt so low and apathetic that I could not summon up the energy to do anything about it, not yet at any rate. When Hanna asked if I was coming out with the rest of them, I pleaded a headache, and it was not far from the truth. My head was full of dull, heavy, miserable thoughts, all tangled together like great dumb animals shut in a stall, kicking the doors and each other, unable to get out. I had not realized how much I had pinned on this, the idea that somehow my wish might really come true.
By the time Tuesday morning came round and I was due behind the counter of the bakery again, I had talked myself into a steadier state of mind. As I smoothed down my apron over the skirt of the hated green dirndl, I thought that I might even be able to face Kai von Jülich quite cheerfully, were he to come in for his ham and egg roll. Nobody would be able to tell from my face what my hopes had been, or how they had been dashed.
All the same, I almost jumped when the street door opened and the little bell jangled. When I looked up my heart was in my mouth. But it was not Kai von Jülich. It was someone else I knew, as tall as Kai but unmistakably different. Leaner, more angular, scruffier, with thick hair the colour of burnished copper and brown eyes whose gaze seemed to dance over everything, never still for a moment. He reminded me irresistibly of a red squirrel.
‘Julius,’ I said under my breath.
He was glancing around him, checking to see whether there were any other customers demanding my attention, whether my mother was lurking around in the vicinity. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he came right up to the counter.
I didn’t have time to ask him what he had come for; he plunged straight in without a preamble, without even greeting me.
‘Steffi, I’ve come to ask you if you’ve changed your mind.’
‘Julius –’
‘Tell me you’ve at least thought about it.’ He put both hands on the counter and leaned towards me. ‘You got my note – the flyer?’
‘Yes.’
Julius waited for me to go on. Put on the spot, I panicked.
‘I can’t do it. I’m sorry.’
‘Why not?’
He didn’t sound annoyed, just interested. That was the thing about Julius: he always acted as though he thought I were the most fascinating creature he had ever seen. Since I was unused to this kind of attention it had something of a mesmeric effect. I always found myself weakening and was obliged to dredge up reserves of self-will to resist him, whether it was a favour he wanted – or a date.
‘I have to get up at two thirty on Friday,’ I said. ‘I’m working in the kitchen. By the evening I’ll be worn out.’
Julius studied me for a moment, and I was sure I felt myself reddening under his gaze.
‘Come on, Steffi,’ he said eventually. ‘Please. Gina’s blown us out. She’s crap anyway, you know she is. She sounds like Klara Klein on helium. You’d be a million times better.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ I said, but I was wavering. I bit my lip, glancing covertly to the side to check my mother was still occupied elsewhere. ‘Really,’ I said, but he wasn’t giving up.
‘Your voice is way better than hers,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve heard it. School choir, remember? You were brilliant.’
I almost caved right in when he said that. Nobody ever called me brilliant. To my parents I was the also-ran, the second daughter whose interest in the family business was disappointingly insipid. At school I had been too quiet to attract any comment, good or bad. Even Timo had given me up after three years without a second thought. The lure of being thought brilliant, of having an actual talent that others might admire, was irresistible.
I desperately wanted him to persuade me – and perhaps he might have, only at that moment the little bell which hung by the door jangled vigorously as someone came into the bakery. I turned to look and froze. It was Kai von Jülich.
‘Ah … ’ I seemed to have been struck with some form of facial paralysis. I was gaping away like a fish, unable to get a single word out.
‘A customer,’ said Julius.
He shrugged and took a few steps back to let Kai approach the counter. Then he drew out a chair from one of the little tables and to my dismay he sat down to wait, his long legs sprawled out in front of him.
I flapped a hand at him, trying to get him to leave, but he was looking away, towards the window. Go, go, I thought desperately. Having Julius overhear everything Kai said, and seeing me blush and stammer like an idiot, would be bad enough, but suppose this really was the moment I had been hoping for, suppose Kai had come to ask me out, he might see Julius sitting there and think he was more than a friend. Well, isn’t he? said a voice in the back of my mind. It’s not just your voice he’s after, dummy. Amid the urgent desire to usher Julius out of the bakery I discerned a twinge of guilt, as though I were somehow betraying him. But that was ridiculous; we weren’t even going out.
By now it wasn’t just my face that was warm; the entire exposed surface of my skin was tingling hotly with deep embarrassment. I suspected I was glowing like a lava lamp. It was all I could do to stand there and face Kai, instead of bolting for the safety of the kitchen.
Kai glanced at Julius as he came in, but instantly disregarded him. Fortunately the bakery was almost empty, otherwise for the second time that morning the avid customers would have been treated to the sight of a young man striding up to the counter and leaning towards me with undisguised intent.
‘Steffi,’ said Kai.
He didn’t bother to say Guten Morgen or Morgen or even Hi. Just my name, pronounced with a lingering relish, as though he was tasting something unbelievably delicious. He looked at me as though he would like to have vaulted over the counter and laid eager hands on me right there among the sesame rolls and cheesecakes.
I just stood still, aware that I was staring at him like an idiot, but unable to think of a single thing to say. This was the moment for the wonderfully intelligent remark, the coquettish riposte, but I was as stiff and silent as a showroom dummy.
‘OK,’ said Kai, as though I had made some scintillating observation. He didn’t seem to notice that I was paralysed with self-consciousness. His gaze flickered up and down me, snagging on the low-cut neckline of the frilly white blouse. I could have sworn he actually licked his lips. ‘Friday,’ he said.
‘F-Friday?’ I stammered.
There was a feeling of faint unreality about the whole brief exchange. In spite of the way he was looking at me, my rational mind said that there had to be some unexciting explanation for this. Perhaps he wanted to order something from the bakery for Friday. I could be winding myself up to a pinnacle of expectation just to discover that Frau von Jülich wanted a Sahnetorte for a coffee morning.
A fleeting expression passed over Kai’s perfectly handsome features, a shadow of impatience at my inability to make any sensible reply. It was gone so swiftly that I wondered if I had imagined it. He leaned a little closer and I caught a hint of aftershave, a scent so intoxicatingly good that I really thought there was a danger of my swooning among the serried ranks of pastries.
‘Friday evening,’ murmured Kai. ‘Just you and me.’ There was a meaningful tone to his voice that sent a delicious shiver down my spine. He must have seen the effect of those words – just you and me – as a slight smile curled the edges of his mouth. He straightened up. ‘I’ll be here at seven thirty. OK?’
I found my voice. ‘Yes,’ I said breathlessly.
Kai glanced around. ‘Friday, seven thirty,’ he repeated. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. ‘Don’t forget.’ Then he turned on his heel and left the bakery. The door banged shut behind him, the little bell jingling wildly.
For a moment there was silence. Then I heard the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor. Julius was standing up. For a moment he stood there, looking after Kai. Then he turned to me. In the sunlight streaming through the bakery window his shock of hair was the brilliant colour of flames, but his face was cold.
‘Friday night,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I hardly dared look at his face. I knew how it looked, as though I had been caught out in a lie. I can’t do it … I’ll be worn out.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Julius with angry emphasis. He half turned, as if to leave, and then thought better of it. He came up to the counter where I was standing, nervously twisting the hem of my apron in my hands. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can’t make you come with me on Friday. But Kai … ’
With an effort I made myself face him. ‘What about Kai?’ I said defiantly.
My voice was steady, although my hands were still wringing the crumpled fabric of my apron. The way he was looking at me made me feel guilty and unreasonably I retreated into indignation; being angry with him was better than feeling as though I had somehow betrayed him.
If I had been expecting an insulting remark about my taste in men, it didn’t come; perhaps he had thought better of it. He sighed.
‘He’s not like you think,’ he said at last. ‘He’s not … ’
‘Not what?’
I picked up a cloth lying on the inside of the counter, trying to make it plain that I had work to do. Inside I felt slightly sick, as though I had been caught out doing something I shouldn’t have.
‘He’s not a nice guy,’ said Julius eventually. ‘I know him,’ he added.
I held up the cloth. ‘I’m supposed to be working.’
‘OK.’
He studied me for a moment with a frankness that made my blood boil. I began to feel that if he stood there for a second longer looking at me in that way I would throw the balled-up cloth at him. But then he turned and left the bakery without a word. The door closed and the bell’s jingling faded to silence.
Into this abyss fell the distinctive sound of someone clearing their throat. With a sinking feeling I turned to survey the room. I had been right when I thought that the bakery was almost empty; almost, but not quite. The seating area was divided up with little trelliswork screens to give the customers a sense of privacy in spite of the limited space. Behind one of these screens someone was sitting. I could see a dark shape lurking there, sufficiently well hidden by the wooden slats that I had not seen it before, but almost certainly commanding a perfect view of the counter where I stood, if whoever it was cared to lean close to the trellis and peer through one of the gaps. Having lived in Bad Münstereifel all my life, I was not naive enough to think that any of its residents would balk at such an act.
‘Excuse me,’ said a tart voice. It was a voice I recognized.
Oh no. With a creeping sense of horror I stepped out from behind the counter and approached the screen. Not her. Of all the people it could have been, lurking unseen in the corner and taking in every single detail … Please, not her.
I rounded the end of the screen and my worst fears were realized. Sitting very upright on the cushioned seat, with her gnarled old hands folded on the most enormous leather handbag I had ever seen, was Frau Kessel. Her head was tilted back so that the light flashed on the polished lenses of her spectacles, but I didn’t need to see her eyes to know that they were filled with knowing disapproval. Frau Kessel was a legend in Bad Münstereifel. They said she could hear a whispered conversation from a hundred metres away and I was not stupid enough to think that she would have missed a word of what had just passed.
I gave her a sheepish grin, the self-deprecating smile of the prisoner in the dock trying to win the jury round but knowing that the evidence against him is too great.
‘Bitte schön?’ I said, resisting the insane temptation to curtsy.
‘If you have time, young lady,’ said Frau Kessel acidly, ‘I would like to pay.’
‘Certainly,’ I said, hoping that my dismay was not showing on my face. I went back to the counter and fetched the order pad. ‘Four euros seventy-five,’ I said.
Frau Kessel counted out exactly four euros and seventy-five cents.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
I watched in silence as she gathered up her coat and bags. There was nothing to say – nothing, at any rate, that would not incriminate me further. I followed her to the door, which I held open for her.
Frau Kessel paused for a moment on the threshold and looked me up and down very deliberately. Then she sniffed and, without a word, stepped out of the bakery and set off down the street.
I stared after her. What can she do? I asked myself. It’s a free country. I can spend Friday night with whomever I want. It’s not like the bakery was full of customers and I was ignoring them or anything.
All the same, as I saw her disappear into a shop I realized that there would be mischief. I could count on it.