Part One:
Life in a small market town, one 'up north', is never small. Really, it makes a certain celebrity out of anyone. From the mechanic in the garage off the high street, to the dairy farmers who live in the big house on the hill, all are familiar, mostly friendly, faces on any given day they find themselves in town. You will even hear 'That's the Tracey family now' as their silver Nissan SUV goes past.
Life for you, however, was yet to be determined. After you finished school, you went 'down south', off to university. And this was not a criticism; you literally had to go south as the town you were from was one of the northernmost in the country. But following graduation you returned home to take in the changes that had occurred while you had gone.
And one was big, to say the least.
But you are getting ahead of yourself. Let's begin with explaining what life was like in those days before university.
For starters, you would get up each morning at about 10 am, shower, spray some Lynx deodorant over yourself and then dress in your tracksuit - all before heading out to catch up with mates. Although, in that time, rarefied as it was by the end of one thing (school) and the burgeoning of another (university), you tended to stray from your friends and their rubbish talk about passing pensioners, old teachers who 'done us in' by marking essays that were barely written (you always finished yours), and their amusement in petty theft from the newsagent's - to nothing over a fiver in value. So, as it was, you found yourself in L's Cafe; the name signifying a local mother, Laurel, who opened the business when you were about 13 years old.
But in the cafe, more a bakery stocking a small menu of cakes, slices, muffins, a few types of bread, and in between sampling most of the offerings as you avoided your mates from school, you befriended Freya, the older girl who worked there most afternoons.
Asking around when you were back at home, you found out Freya was Laurel's niece, and that she was 20. 'She's been away for a bit, trainin' in hospitality,' Ma said over the breakfast table. 'A real sweet one, pet.' She could tell I fancied her, much to my initial embarrassment. 'So don't sit still like a stale bottle of you-know-what ... go and buy something. She might even talk to ya.' So, with some shrapnel in my back pocket, collected from birthday and Christmas money, I installed myself at the table by the window; in part so I could watch for any other friend who might see me, but more so I could take in the whole cafe. It reminded me of my grandparents' house, complete with lace curtains and prints of famous artwork.
'Hiya!' Freya would always say, appearing from behind the till or cake display. Her pale face would redden a little when she saw it was me, mirroring what mine felt like it was doing. 'Let me guess. Ginger cake and chai?' She would half-close one of her dazzling hazel eyes and press a thoughtful finger against her lips. 'Got it in one,' was all you would lamely reply, smiling. 'Ah! Good one!' She'd congratulate herself with a hand on her hip, sometimes a faint slapping would occur in her excitement. 'You go sit now, matey. I'll whip these up for ya.' She'd hold my gaze momentarily then wink, before disappearing to the industrial noises of the small kitchen and pleasant scent of cinnamon.
Well, at least for the most part, this routine would happen daily. The conversation changed, of course, but Freya's delight in what she was doing never did.
That is, as it happened, her enthusiasm for baking consumed her. Shortly after you became her 'favourite', she would often join you at the small table by the window, telling you how she tried a different recipe to the ones Laurel had written - 'playing with the ingredients, sweetening here and there' - and increasingly, bringing a second plate over - 'I've not had anythin' since dawn and I'm Hank Marvin'''. In this time, and as you would discuss football, the future, Adele's latest record, you noticed Freya's uniform - 'stage black': black cotton t-shirt and black leggings - seemed to fit her more snugly than before. She was fairly short to begin with, but the flour-coated uniform seemed to stick to her growing body, exposing a soft belly and occasional slightest sight of back fat when she was facing away from you. And when you looked across the table at her, you could see her once sharp, pale face had now softened at the edges, dimples pooling in her cheeks and on her chin. Whether it was because of the sweet treats or something else, you felt yourself hardening to this increasing softness, thinking more and more about her when you were at home.
****
You weren't ashamed to defer your enrolment to university, and neither were you embarrassed to spend most weekdays dropping in to L's Cafe; you could afford it, physically and financially. And, as you often fantasised, you were able to see more of Freya this way over the next six months. You liked the conversation, the friendship; the warmth of her wide smile as you came in. It was far better than any phone-gazing and online FIFA matches with your mates.
After showering, now beginning to dress somewhat formally (jeans and a polo shirt), you took your time getting ready to move in the morning.
'I'm going out,' you'd say, pressing open the front door.
'Off to see ya girlfriend, are ya?' Ma would say from behind the paper, a lurid headline about terrorism, welfare cheats or the Opposition facing you.
You would laugh at this. 'Yes, yes, off to see my girlfriend.'
'Well she's a good baker, that one, so I don't blame ya,' you would pause for a moment, sensing the slightest thing was amiss. 'But I think she might be a little too good, if I'm honest.'
Feeling suddenly quite self-conscious, gulping some air you would ask: 'And why's that, Ma?'
'Have you not seen her? She's let herself go a little. I guess it's true; you either lose your face or your arse!'
Ma would generally laugh up into the dusty ceiling when she would say something mean, but it did get you thinking: Had you not noticed Freya's change? You knew she tended to miss breakfast most days, filling up on, as she would put it, 'Today's worst-sellers, all good to me, though!'. You could also see she was redder in the face more often than just when she'd greet you; out of breath even. Maybe she was a little chubby. Who cares? Not you.
In fact, you admired the way she took her heaviness in her stride. The more you thought about it, the more you recognized her slapping her hip or buttocks when she guessed your order correctly, the flesh jiggling. You liked how she would spill more of her food on her chest, perhaps because she ate so quickly at times; how she would happily, blissfully with her eyes closed, let you feed a spoon-or-forkful of your own into her greedy, almond-shaped mouth. 'Quality control is quite rigorous here,' she'd say, laughing, her voice muffled by rich chocolate cake. 'But the results are in,' she'd add, searching your face. 'All top-class!'
You suppose Ma was right: Yes, Freya had put on a bit of padding.
But what did it matter, really? It just meant she was cushioned against the intermittent bumps she suffered as she huffed past cafe furniture, you'd see in her furrowed brow, she could have sworn was further away than that.