Have Your Cake Page 5

  ‘So that Humvee wasn’t your car. Will they let you near another one of their precious babies after yesterday?’

  He shrugged. ‘The boss is pretty easy-going. Some days he even likes me, so I’ll probably be okay.’ He mirrored her posture. ‘How about you, then? I know you keep a very cool head in a time of crisis. I know you lie about deadlines and you create incredible things with your hands. How is it possible I didn’t know about your business until yesterday?’

  ‘It’s relatively new. I moved to London a little over six months ago, and it’s been a constant battle for exposure ever since. Men tend to discover it when they’ve got an occasion coming up. I hired some whiz-bang computer guy who did all kinds of things to my website metadata so I appear in the topmost search results.’

  Dillon blinked. ‘I have no idea what you just said.’

  She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Neither do I,’ she said, meeting his gaze again. ‘No idea at all. But it works, so he gets to keep his money. We’re also not very corporate yet. It’s a next step. An aspiration, of sorts. But it’s hard to compete with event caterers who do more than desserts. Boucake is a novelty and a sugar hit, but it’s not a meal by any stretch of the imagination.’

  ‘I love the name, by the way,’ he said.

  The light from the table felt like it moved inside her. ‘Thank you. I’m pretty proud of it.’

  They smiled at each other.

  Before she could think how to next fill the silence, the waiter who had escorted her upstairs returned with their drinks.

  Abigail’s gaze followed the drinks’ progress from tray to tabletop. Fascinated, she leaned forward. Hers was a naked can, like a soup can or a vegetables can, its top neatly cut away. Crushed ice was steepled in the middle and adorned with mint and a skewered lime. Dillon’s cocktail was housed in a naked soft drink can, the aluminium untouched by any brand or colour. His was topped with ice and fruit too, but also adorned with a bamboo straw.

  They looked over their cocktails at one another, and she felt a curious sort of kinship with him. A shared wonder.

  ‘Would you like any help with the menu?’ the waiter asked.

  Abigail shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  Dillon smiled up at the man. ‘Me too. Thanks.’

  When they were alone again, Dillon lifted his drink towards her. She lifted hers, wondering what he might toast to.

  ‘At the risk of sounding … however this sounds: cheers to what’s turned out to be a very happy accident.’

  Indeed. She almost toasted to his perseverance, but shyness stopped her escalating the mood.

  She tapped her soup can against his drink can, then they drank.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I, um. I grew up in West Bay in Dorset. I don’t like the sea.’ He set his drink down then toyed with the stick of bamboo. ‘I’ve lived alone for four years. In Stratford.’

  ‘Goodness,’ she replied. ‘Stratford.’ East London’s centre for culture and leisure, and of course primary real estate which belonged to a type of clientele she dreamed of coming to the attention of. Where she lived in Kentish Town—notably less affluent than Stratford—she could ride one bus thirteen stops to Camden Park. A very reasonable commute compared to others who spent hours moving between places each day. And apparently Dillon shared her good fortune. ‘Wheels is also in Stratford, isn’t it?’

  Dillon nodded. ‘Getting to work’s easy.’

  ‘I bet it is.’

  From a quaint fishing village to the urban heart of the capital—there was a story in that for sure. Instead there was a moment of silence, an unnatural beat in the conversation.

  Dillon shifted again. ‘This is probably the point in the evening when you decide if you’re getting your food to go … or not.’

  ‘Oh.’ Abigail smoothed her skirt again.

  He was nice. He’d helped her yesterday and had continued to help her today. He looked at her in such a way that made her feel somehow powerful. What was the harm in a meal? Things could go south over the entrée, but so far things were good. There was no logical reason for her to leave, there was only that low, choking twist of fear in her gut that likely had nothing to do with him as a person.

  She hadn’t dated for a long time. Nerves were natural.

  Fear, of course, was not, but that was on her.

  She’d almost conquered it. This was another step towards the proverbial safe zone.

  She leaned forward and touched the place where her plate would sit. An options menu lit up, then a picture of spicy salmon and rice filled a non-existent plate, looking real enough to taste and mouth-watering enough to order. She scrolled down and the dish changed. ‘I had my eye on something really messy,’ she said lightly. She looked across the table and smiled. ‘Best I stay put for it.’

  Dillon grinned. ‘Sounds logical.’

  For the next few minutes they gave their full attention to the menus. Abigail felt spoiled for choice and wanted a sample of everything. She picked the edamame beans for an entrée and the black cod main, then immediately had food envy when Dillon told her he’d ordered the miso soup and claypot green chicken curry.

  ‘We can share,’ he said, showing his generosity again.

  He sat back, eyes on her face, and waited.

  It took almost a minute of unbroken eye contact for her to realise he was waiting for her to share a little about herself in turn.

  She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and thought hard about her options.

  Who was she now? Who was she—who could she be—to this man? She’d hit the reset button on her life six months ago, reinvented herself. Turned away from almost everyone and everything. She could say whatever she liked about herself now and it could be true, could be possible. But what a shame to start something on a lie.

  To stall for time, she made a joke. ‘I don’t know what to say to someone who doesn’t like the sea.’

  She liked the way his brows lowered and the way his mouth spread and spread before it curved.

  ‘You like the sea?’ he asked. ‘The coast?’

  She shrugged. ‘I haven’t had much to do with either. I guess I like the idea of them. The romance of the horizon, the unfathomable depth of the water. I mean, it’s a different world on a pebble beach, isn’t it? There weren’t any salty winds or harbours where I grew up.’

  ‘Inland?’ he prompted.

  ‘As inland as Britain gets, I dare say.’ She carefully propped her elbows on the edge of the table. The projection didn’t react. ‘What don’t you like about the sea?’

  He didn’t offer something off-hand in response, instead he seemed to look inward for the answer. ‘Its changeability, I guess. Its extremes. It offers fisherman a bounty one day, then smashes their boats on the rocks the next.’

  Spoken like someone who’d survived or thrived according to its mercy.

  Dillon nudged the conversation on. ‘I hope I know the answer to this, but … you live alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ She inclined her head. ‘I’m single.’ When he blinked in surprise she laughed. ‘That wasn’t a tough code to break.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She thought back to what he’d said. ‘Does that mean to say you’ve been single for four years?’

  Again he chose his words carefully. ‘I’ve not been in a relationship for four years, correct.’

  But there had been women. With that face and the perseverance he’d shown turning up at her shop, of course there had been women.

  He waved a hand towards her in invitation. ‘And yourself?’

  Ah. Well. This was the moment where she would decide to go one way or another. And she didn’t know which direction she was going to take until she opened her mouth and the words came out. ‘Six months. I was engaged and now I’m not. I am now in London—’ she reached for her can and lifted it, ‘—and he is not.’

  She drank.

  If the detail shocked him, he concealed it well. ‘If all goes well tonight, you and
I should share war stories over more cocktails.’

  He was letting the subject drop, lifting her off the hook and steering the conversation away. She appreciated it, and followed his lead.

  ‘Do you like London?’ she asked. ‘Only that half my customers live here and seem to hate the place.’

  Very seriously he said, ‘I love London.’

  She smiled. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Have you travelled much?’ he asked, taking his turn with a leading question.

  Her answer was a head roll that was part nod and part shake. ‘I’ve done a few trips into Europe; a week here and there in France and Italy. One wonderful holiday in Turkey and an eye-opening weekend in Amsterdam. You?’

  His answer surprised her.

  ‘I haven’t travelled much. I had no money when I was with someone, and since I could afford to there hasn’t been anyone to share it with.’

  ‘You never considered going solo, or joining a tour group?’

  ‘I considered it.’

  The conversation lagged again. There were walls, she thought, around parts of his mind, just as there were in hers. She didn’t test the mortar, she left well enough alone.

  If she tested his he might test hers.

  ‘How much frosting did you eat yesterday?’ She grinned. ‘Tell the truth.’

  A smile whipped across his face and he looked quickly at his lap. Shoulders up in a kind of ‘bad dog’ way, he said, ‘Yeah, a fair bit.’

  ‘And later you felt …?’

  ‘Like there was no bottom to the sugar crash that gave me the mother of all headaches.’ He met her eyes again and pressed a hand to his stomach. ‘And this? It wasn’t good.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I suspect you’ve built up a kind of tolerance, being around that all day?’

  Abigail said, ‘Goodness no. I avoid the stuff. I’ve quite lost the taste for it, actually. You can only overdose so many times before you build a new kind of survival instinct.’ The memory made her smile. ‘I was always licking the bowls when I first opened. For about a week and a half, then not a single bowl since.’

  Their waiter appeared on the staircase, carrying two serving boards loaded with artfully displayed food. He approached their table and set them down with a flourish.

  Conversation was occasional after that, and mostly about the food and venue.

  It was possible to book a taxi using the interactive tabletop display, but when it was time to leave they opted to walk for a bit.

  Outside, the air was brisk. The cloudy day hadn’t warmed the close-set buildings that lined the street, so Abigail shrugged on her jacket and pulled it tight over her chest. The wind licked over the skin exposed below her skirt and she shivered.

  ‘Let me call you a ride,’ Dillon said, noticing. There was nothing he could do about her bare legs, short of insist she step into the arms of his leather jacket. This appeared to distress him.

  She touched his arm then curled her fingers around her jacket. ‘I’m fine, but thank you. And thank you for tea, it was better than I’d imagined it would be. And I’d imagined it would be wonderful.’

  His eyes were on the hand she’d brought back to her chest. He lifted his gaze to her face, pushed his own hands into his jacket pockets and rolled his shoulders forward. ‘I know other wonderful places.’

  If he went on to say his flat in Stratford, she’d be disappointed. This night had been so classy and interesting, she didn’t want it to end with a proposition for a one-night stand. She wanted to see him again. Walk the perimeter of his walls again, measure the degrees of his various smiles.

  He looked away, as if shied by the words he was about to speak. ‘It’s actually right around the corner from your shop. I remembered when we were eating. It’s, ah … well it’s called Circus.’ He gauged her reaction, seemed bolstered by her slow smile. ‘Pretty self-explanatory, but basically a circus-themed restaurant with tabletop performances. Above the tables too, I imagine. Everywhere, really.’ Then his smile was self-deprecating. ‘I’ve always liked that sort of thing.’

  She adopted a look of deep consideration. ‘It sounds exciting. Thank you for the recommendation.’

  Surprise forced a little pop of air out his mouth. ‘Oh. I …’

  She bounced on her toes and looked up through her lashes. ‘I would love to go with you, if you’re asking.’

  His expression cleared. ‘I am asking. A breath away from begging, really.’

  Warmth flooded into her cheeks and swirled around her chest. The chill seemed far away. There was just the heat of excitement, and a dizzying crackle and pop borne from his compliment.

  ‘When?’ he asked. He looked at the pavement between their feet, as if measuring how much of it he could cross.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Playing hard to get was for other people, she thought. For people who liked the drama of the unknown. She liked having something certain to look forward to. Something with just enough definition to feel tangible. Mysteries made great book plots, but they were largely unwelcome in her heart.

  ‘I’m free tomorrow,’ he said, with what appeared to be equal enthusiasm and as Brittany would say, ‘zero chill’. ‘I’ll call in a booking.’

  She wanted to offer to do it, but she knew tomorrow would be hectic. She’d likely forget until the afternoon and lose out on the last table, so instead she thanked him.

  ‘Did you ever want to run away to the circus?’ she asked playfully.

  He grinned. ‘No, but I guarantee you I’ll be running to it tomorrow.’

  He walked her to her bus stop then waited with her for her bus to arrive. They spoke about incidental things. Things they’d seen online which had amused them. News headlines. Public transport punctuality. When the brightly lit box of windows and wheels turned the distant corner and moved towards them, he gave her a closed-lipped smile.

  She wanted to put her hands up. Shake her head. Anything that would stop a moment that might lead to a bus stop kiss.

  She wanted better for them. Perhaps a kiss beneath a flaming ring. A kiss on her doorstep, even, if it came to that. Just not this.

  But he didn’t move closer. Hands back in pockets, he looked past her, at the end of the night speeding towards them. ‘This was memorable,’ he said. ‘No games or bravado—I like you.’ He took one small step backwards. ‘I’m really looking forward to tomorrow.’

  The cool air couldn’t touch her, she was apart from it all.

  ‘Me too,’ she said. She waved a hand. ‘To everything you just said.’

  The bus eased towards the kerb, brakes squealing, then stopped. The doors hissed open and she stepped inside and turned.

  She got another closed-mouthed smile. How strange to long to see his teeth again.

  The door closed and the bus moved away. She watched him grow smaller in the window until the road curved and he was gone, then she took a seat, stared at her lap, and wondered.

  First impressions aside—after the shock of the crash—her instincts hadn’t favoured him. In fact, she’d scarcely liked him. Now she found him engaging and sweet, considerate and generous. Far from the mess that she’d chalked him up to be.

  She thought of his deep brown eyes, so intense and alive with desire, then thought of the first time she’d met her ex-fiancé. She’d liked Mal immediately, and look where that had gotten her. Hindsight proved that Abigail’s instincts weren’t the most reliable guide, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that she’d not clicked with Dillon from the outset. She was clicking with him now. And now was what she wanted to focus on.

  Abigail’s one-bedroom flat was at the top of the narrow stairwell running up the spine of the old, red brick block of flats. The stairs on the carpet were nearing the end of a long life and the paint on the walls was flaking and stained, but Abigail had stopped seeing these imperfections months ago. Her previous home had been modern and spacious, and there had been little chance of overhearing her neighbours next door as her home in Sheffield had bee
n a stand-alone house on a wide block. This place was a contrast in every way it was possible to be different. But it was home now. And she loved its quirks.

  She could hear her neighbours in the flat below hers anytime their conversations became in the least bit emphatic, and her view from the topmost floor was nothing remarkable, but few people knew she was here, and no-one in the building bothered her.

  Abigail pushed her key into the lock and heard the high mewl of her roommate inside. She smiled and opened the door.

  ‘Hey, kitty ’kien,’ she said to the wide-eyed cat striding towards her. She set her bag down, held her arms away from her body, and laughed when the cat leapt against her chest and clung on. Abigail curled her arms around it, kissed its forehead, then went straight to the kitchenette, like always.

  Tolkien swung his head around to watch their progress across the flat. The moment Abigail stepped onto the kitchen tiles, he wriggled free and landed soundlessly at her feet. The food bowl, more than half full of biscuits, got every ounce of his attention.

  She wondered if he knew how fancy his bowl was. Or if he understood that the timed food dispenser attached to it hadn’t come cheap, and that the biscuits would taste the same whether she rummaged her fingers in them or not.

  Abigail obligingly dropped to her haunches and poked the biscuits. Tolkien watched, purring, then began to eat the moment she stepped away. In ten minutes he would join her on the couch and sit between her and whatever she was looking at. They had a routine, the pair of them, and it suited them both.

  She liked that she had an idiosyncratic cat. It was surprising that she had a cat at all, but he’d adopted her on the street one blustery evening four or so months ago, almost against her will. She’d fed the starving thing half of her own tea, and the next day as she’d tried to find his owner, he’d settled in. During their first night together she’d learned he had an affection for bed linen, and the next day she’d learned he harboured an intense distaste for London. He did not leave the flat even when she left the door or window open.