ON THE COVER The Last Strawberry Tart Big name fiction

Peace offering… ice-breaker… life changer… Who would imagine the power that lay in a pastry?

It was lying there in splendid isolation. The last strawberry tart. It had the crispiest golden pastry that would snap as you bit into it, buttery and slightly salty. Then a layer of wobbling crème anglaise. And on the top, tiny little fraises des bois set in a perfect circle and covered in a shiny glaze of ruby-red jam; not too sharp, not too sweet.

Jon could almost hear the tart saying Buy me. It was the perfect peace offering. A small gesture that would say “I’m sorry” to her, for the row they’d had that morning. Not that he had started it. He never did. But he knew that the quickest way to reconciliation was for him to take the blame, otherwise Suzanne would sulk. For days, sometimes. It was exhausting.

If he apologised, and handed her the tart, then maybe they could enjoy the rest of the weekend. They were due to go out with friends for Sunday lunch, and he didn’t want to sit over roast beef with a false smile fixed to his face, pretending everything was all right.

He wanted to relax and enjoy his time off, before heading off to his stressful job on Monday morning, to hit targets and sift through complaints and unreasonable demands from his superiors. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could carry on.

The woman behind the stall gave him an uncertain look, and he realised he had been standing there staring at the tart for so long it must seem rather strange. She had a big blue apron on over a white T-shirt and jeans, her hair tied back with a red bandana. He smiled, and as she smiled back he thought he recognised her. “Catherine?” he said, and she nodded. “It is you,” she said. “I didn’t recognise you at first, because you’re not wearing a suit. It’s Jon, isn’t it?”

He remembered her from one of the other branches, at one of those awful conferences in a dreary hotel with no natural light, a synthetic carpet and terrible coffee. And even worse food.

A few of them had ordered in take-away pizza after they had sat through a buffet of flaccid chicken legs and soggy quiche, listening to various speakers drone on.

They’d huddled together in Catherine’s room, he remembered, as she handed out the piping hot slices. They’d devoured them with glee, like naughty schoolchildren. He remembered admiring her rebellious spirit, wondering what on earth she was doing working in such a soul-destroying job.

It looked as if she wasn’t any more, and he felt a stab of envy.

“Is this you?” he said, indicating the stall. “Have you left?”

“I couldn’t stand it any longer,” she said. “I didn’t want to hear the words ‘mortgage’ ever again. Or ‘interest rate’ or ‘fixed deal’ or ‘loan to value’ or ‘buy to let’…” She trailed off. “Sorry,” she went on. “Are you still…?”

He sighed. “Yes. I am. Still.” He trotted out all of those words every single day. “How did you escape?” She laughed. “It was my thirtieth birthday present to myself,” she told him. “I didn’t want to spend the next ten years stressed and miserable doing something I hated. I signed up for an evening course in patisserie at the local college. I told myself that if I passed the course, I’d hand in my notice.” She grinned at him. “I got a distinction.”

“Wow,” said Jon. And he pointed at the last tart. “I’d better have that, then.”

She produced a cake slice and slid it underneath the tart, putting it into a small white cardboard box.

“Have it on me,” she said. “I was going to take it home for myself.”

“Do you think you made the right

decision?” The words tumbled out. “I mean, are you managing?”

“I make about half of what I used to. But I’m happy. Very happy. My life’s my own, for a start. And I don’t wake up on a Monday morning with my stomach all knotted up with stress…”

“Tell me about it,” said Jon. He knew that by this time tomorrow the knot in his stomach would be starting. That his Sunday roast would sit uncomfortably on top of the worry. “So do you just do this market?”

“I supply restaurants and cafés, and private clients. I’m hoping to get my own shop eventually. That’s a long way off though.” She handed him the box. “Well, good for you,” he said. “Enjoy!” she told him. He took one last look at her. She looked years younger than the last time he’d seen her. Admittedly their grey uniform didn’t do anyone any favours. But her face was less strained and pinched. Her eyes sparkled. Her smile was wide.

Food for thought, he thought, raising his hand in farewell.

He wandered back out of the tiny square where the food market was held once a month: a trove of independent suppliers passionate about what they made or grew.

He envied all of them: how wonderful to make a living doing something you adored, instead of being a slave to a corporate entity. He knew it would be hard work and none of them would be making a fortune, but there was something in the air in that little market, a sense of pride and enthusiasm that was infectious.

As he wandered along through the back streets amidst the ancient golden buildings, he pondered his situation. He was trapped, in a relationship that made him miserable, in a job he hated.

But he didn’t have the nerve to walk out of either of them. He was too afraid. When had he become such a coward? His thirtieth was looming too. Was this the future he wanted for himself?

He looked up to see a woman standing in front of him. She was painfully thin, her cheeks sunken and her eyes burning in her face. There was something sallow about her skin, and her hair was scraped back.

He recognised her: her usual position was outside the station. She was one of the city’s homeless. There were more and more of them these days, and their faces became familiar. She was, he

“I signed up for a PATISSERIE course. If I PASSED I’d hand in my NOTICE”

estimated, about the same age as Suzanne, but looked much older.

“Can you spare some change for a bed for tonight?” she asked gruffly.

He put his hand in his pocket. He found the ten pound note he’d been going to use to pay for the tart. He handed it to her and she looked surprised, as if she hadn’t been expecting him to give her anything.

“Oh,” she said, then added, “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Here,” he said on impulse. “Have this too.” And he handed her the cardboard box.

He could already hear Suzanne’s shrill voice in his head.

Don’t encourage them. They’re not even homeless, half of them. If people carry on giving them money, they’ll carry on cluttering up the streets. And they’ll only spend it on drugs…

She had no compassion, Suzanne. There was no point in arguing with her. She would just shout louder, not listen to any counter-arguments. She hadn’t always been like that, had she? When had she turned from the confident and glamorous girl he had spied on the dance floor, to someone so selfish and opinionated? Was it his fault?

The woman opened the lid. She stared at the tart. She looked up at him. “It’s too beautiful to eat,” she said. “You must eat it,” he said. “It won’t keep for long.”

She looked at him. He was surprised to see tears glittering in her eyes.

“That’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me for ages,” she said. “Strawberries are my favourite.”

She walked away, clutching the little box and he thought about what Suzanne’s reaction would have been to his peace offering. She certainly wouldn’t have shown him gratitude. She might have been cross, complaining that he was trying to force-feed her unwanted calories. Or said she preferred raspberries. Or told him she was full from lunch. There would have been a barb, because there always was.

In that moment, he decided. His life had to change. He didn’t know what direction it was going to go in, but Catherine had given him the inspiration. And the homeless stranger had given him the motivation.

He turned for home. He was surprised not to feel afraid. Instead, he felt strong and determined. He would tell Suzanne he was leaving. He would pack up his things tonight.

He wasn’t sure where he would go yet, but he had friends, or his parents. They’d be happy for him to move back into the spare room for a few nights while he sorted himself out.

Then on Monday morning he was going to hand in his notice.

It was a month later. Jon woke up on Saturday morning, the sunshine streaming through the window of the little flat he had found for himself. Just one room, with an open-plan kitchenliving-dining area and a shower room. But it would do perfectly for now.

He decided he would take his bike into town. Go to the food market and get some picnic things, then cycle along the canal tow path. Cycling was where he did his big thinking, and he certainly had a lot to consider.

His boss had been bewildered when he handed in his notice. Had offered him more money – why hadn’t he given him more money in the first place? – and had then got angry when he refused. Called him a fool. Jon didn’t care. At least he’d be a happy fool…

He arrived not long after the market opened and chained his bike to a tree while he perused all the stalls. He bought salami, and sourdough bread, and a snow-white goats’ cheese, stuffing them all in his rucksack.

He saved the tart stall for last. There were dozens of them, lined up in serried ranks. There were strawberry ones like the one he had bought last week, but also palest yellow lemon, pecan set in chewy golden caramel, forest fruits dusted with icing sugar, deep dark glossy chocolate, bright green Key lime…

“Hey,” Catherine greeted him. “You’ve got a bit more choice this time.” “Tell me which is your favourite.” “The passion-fruit meringue,” she answered, without hesitating.

“I’ll have one,” he said, and as she went to box one up for him he leaned forward. “I’ve handed in my notice,” he told her. “You inspired me.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said, looking shocked, but half-laughing. “I don’t know if I want to be responsible for that!”

“It’s cool,” he reassured her. “I just needed a push.” “What are you going to do?” He made a face. “I’m not sure. I’ve got a few options.”

“Well, good for you.” She handed him the box, then hesitated. “If you want… to go out for a drink? To chat ideas over…? I’m free tonight.”

He was surprised. He wouldn’t have dared ask her, but as soon as she said it he realised that was exactly what he wanted. To sit in the corner of a cosy pub, with a glass of golden cider, and chat things over with her. Brainstorm. Get someone else’s perspective.

Suzanne would have called him irresponsible, short-sighted. But it didn’t matter what Suzanne thought any more.

That afternoon, Jon sailed along the towpath on his bike, his knapsack loaded with goodies, his heart light. He soared along in the sunshine, feeling freer than he had ever done in his life.

He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do, but he found he didn’t much care. Something would fall into place.

It was funny, he thought, how everything had changed, just because he’d stopped to buy a strawberry tart.

FICTION EDITOR KAREN SAYS…

Next week’s big name fiction takes us to France as bestseller Rosanna Ley explores the dilemma of starting over when you reach a certain age…

He was SURPRISED not to feel AFRAID – instead he felt DETERMINED