“Spare me the details,” said Polly, pulling a face. “Is he publicly out or still in the closet?”
“Out and proud, according to Wikipedia.” Nathan had checked on his phone as soon as the meeting ended. “And the patron of a number of queer-related charities.”
“Very noble. Well, you never know. Maybe he still has feelings for you.”
“Yeah, right. He’s a film star now. Doubt he’ll even remember me.”
“Bit of closure then.”
“How about you? Do you ever hear from Rick Astley?” asked Nathan, relying on the time-honoured tactic of the best form of defence being attack.
“No. And you know we don’t talk about him.”
To this day, Polly had remained tight-lipped about the mysterious older man who had romanced her on a girls’ night out. All Nathan knew for sure was that he’d turned out to be a divorced dad whose kids went to the school where Polly taught, a total no-no in her rule book. A number of times, she’d tried to shut his advances down, but the man had been persistent, vowing that he would never give her up. Hence the Rick Astley tag.
“We’re a couple of lost causes, aren’t we?” he said, finally smirking. “Should we tie the knot? Date other men but with the added advantage of a married couple’s tax allowance?”
“Sanctioned infidelity doesn’t work for me. You know that. But if you discover a long-lost straight brother somewhere in the world, then get back to me. Otherwise, friendship will have to do.”
“So, what dark secrets have you found out about our new chairperson? And don’t tell me you haven’t already Googled her.”
About to take a sip of her drink, Polly froze and narrowed her eyes at him.
“You really think that little of me?”
Nathan snorted. “I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re thorough.”
Polly’s slow smile morphed into a frown.
“Nothing yet. Not even a sniff. And everyone has a footprint in this digital age, even in Crumbington. I got Doris to do some digging. Arlene Baxter is a ghost.”
“She’s definitely scary. What, then? Witness protection?”
Polly provided a trademark roll of her eyes.
“The husband’s well known on media sites. Even her two kids. But there’s absolutely zilch on her. Not that we’ve found. Not yet. Total mystery.”
“As much of a mystery as you volunteering on the committee year after year?”
“You know why I do. Our Head thinks someone from the teaching faculty ought to be involved, and I get to attend something on behalf of the school without my teacher’s hat on. And, more importantly, I get to hang out with Crumbington’s coolest baker.”
“More like Crumbington’s biggest fraud. So cool, he’s only ever trusted to turn on the ovens, never to make a batch of dough or bake a tray of bread. Arthur Meade is the real star of Fresher’s.”
“Sell up, then.”
Polly liked to use the same blunt argument to shut down Nathan’s grumblings. She had heard him bemoan his fate all too often. Poor Arthur Meade had tried to teach him the basics, but Nathan had neither the enthusiasm nor the talent for baking. Fortunately he managed the business side well and seemed to be a hit with the customers.
“You know it’s not that easy.”
“Why not? Because of a misplaced sense of duty to keep a family business going and appease the ghosts of your ancestors? How very Dickensian.”
“You know it’s not just that. Staff rely on me for their livelihood. Besides, I’m good with the financials. And even with competition, we still make enough to keep the lights on.”
“What about the ovens?”
Nathan looked away. Due to falling demand, they only used two of their four ovens, but he was not about to tell Polly that. He finished the last of his lager and wiped the foam moustache from his upper lip.
“Is the beer inspiring any other outside-the-box ideas for the fête?” she asked.
