Have Your Cake Page 7

  ‘What does the forecast say?’ she asked, glancing outside again. It was pleasant enough, there were intermittent patches of heatless sun but the air was electric with the promise of rain.

  Brittany looked up from her smartphone. ‘Cloudy until ten, then light showers until four.’

  Abigail turned from the window and pressed her fingers to her lips. She met Brittany’s gaze. ‘We could make it if we hurry.’

  Brittany launched into action. She charged out the back, screaming a war cry that made Abigail smile.

  Abigail hurried after her.

  There, in the front corner of the kitchen, they performed the most curious dance; stretching over and around each other, lifting and reaching in perfect synchronicity. They stood before sculpted cardboard. Stacked miniature shelves cut into a shape unlike anything anyone would have seen before. Each shelf was the perfect height for a single row of cupcakes, and Abigail and Brittany were working fast to fill them.

  Hundreds of white roses in full bloom, on angled shelves which showcased the tops and obscured the sides.

  It took thirty minutes to place everything, and a further five to wheel it carefully through to the shopfront. Brittany darted ahead, threw the shop door wide then placed a small ramp on the step. Abigail eased the trolley through the doorway and inched it carefully down to the Yard’s brick paving.

  Brittany was ready to receive it. Together, they lifted the board beneath it off the trolley, and set it down on the small chalk markers they’d outlined earlier. Without being asked, Brittany charged inside to get the last of the cakes, and came out with a tripod under her arm and Abigail’s camera bumping against her waist. Abigail lifted the camera strap off Brittany’s shoulder, relieved her of the tripod, then hurried over to the other chalk markers and began to set up.

  Through the viewfinder of the camera, she watched Brittany place the final cupcakes in the shelves closest to the ground. Brittany was so altered from her day to day that it was like looking through a filter.

  There was no hairnet. There were no rubber bracelets. Her hair was bundled in a gorgeous beehive that seemed a constant challenge to gravity. But Abigail had touched it—it wasn’t going anywhere. Brittany’s hairdresser friend had put so much hairspray on her creation that Brittany would be an hour in the shower washing it all out tonight. And her make-up was flawless. Striking. Better than Abigail could have hoped for.

  These photos were going to be breathtaking.

  ‘Ready!’ Brittany cried, leaping to her feet.

  Abigail turned on the flash.

  Brittany dragged her woollen cardigan off, tossed it inside the shop out of sight, then had the clever idea to wrench the closed sign off the door. It too went out of sight.

  Brittany turned, lifted her arms over her head, and stepped into the shelves. The small gap in the back had been measured to accommodate her—but only just. The sculpted cardboard was narrow at the top and bloomed out into a full skirt with a medium trail.

  It was a skirt of cupcakes.

  Coupled with the gorgeous beaded top Abigail had bought Brittany for the occasion, it looked just as it should: like a wedding dress.

  Abigail shook her head in stunned appreciation.

  ‘That good, huh?’ Brittany said, watching her.

  ‘Better than we imagined.’ Abigail shook her shoulders and bent towards the camera. ‘Okay, let’s do this. Just like we practiced.’

  Brittany transformed. Her cheeky smile vanished and her arms relaxed into positions that made Abigail think of the ballet. Brittany held each position for three clicks, three pictures, then did something new and held herself differently.

  The smell of ozone kept the threat of rain close to their minds, and they worked quickly.

  People were beginning to walk through the courtyard on their way to work or breakfast, and they were instantly drawn to the scene. They kept their distance, but murmured and sighed, and took pictures on their phones.

  Nothing could be done about that. They’d expected a crowd. Even hoped for a little hype.

  Once Abigail had worked her magic on Photoshop, she’d upload the best to their Instagram account, and send a selection to a series of publications. These photos, this wedding gown of cupcake roses and beautiful, beautiful Brittany—they were going to get Boucake trending on social media. Abigail was sure of it.

  For fifteen minutes Abigail tried different angles and different lenses. She changed the zoom. Changed the focus. Then she clapped her hands together and grinned at her model. ‘Done!’

  The small crowd gathered around them cheered and clapped.

  Brittany eased out of the shelving and took a bow, which made people laugh, then two strangers stepped forward to help them lift the whole thing back onto the trolley. Abigail scooped up the lowest cakes, set them carefully in a tray, then hurried up the ramp.

  She hung the sign back on the door, the open side facing the street, and people followed her in. It was half an hour before their usual opening time, but it was important to capitalise on the interest they’d generated.

  Brittany showed the men where to put the stand while Abigail hastened through to the back to grab the mannequin she’d bought and dressed last week. When the shelves were positioned, Abigail eased the mannequin into the place Brittany had moments ago stood. It wore the same top as Brittany, and had a wig styled in a near-identical beehive.

  She thanked the men and gave them each a card that entitled them to a free cupcake.

  ‘Can I get a picture with the dress?’ a woman asked, hovering nearby.

  Abigail smiled. ‘If you buy one of the cakes, sure.’

  ‘I can buy a part of it?’

  ‘Of course!’ Abigail held her hand out. ‘I’ll take your picture and we’ll sort it out.’

  The men promptly handed back their cards and waited their turn.

  Although Abigail and Brittany sold the cakes from the back of the dress around to the front to maximise its visibility, every last one of them was gone before ten-thirty.

  In a gap between customers, the women sagged on the counter and smiled at each other.

  ‘You looked glorious,’ Abigail said.

  Brittany sighed happily. ‘I feel naked without my bracelets.’

  Abigail patted her on the back. ‘Go put them on. Do what you’ve got to do, I’ll cover out here.’

  ‘Want me to get started on more?’

  Abigail glanced at the empty shelves on the dress, then around the shop at the near-empty display stands. ‘Yes, please.’ She thought of Danny, the customer with the anniversary who’d texted her his custom order on Saturday. ‘Can you double-check the Irish crème basket that’s getting picked up today and make sure it still looks good? I made it first thing this morning and I was distracted.’

  Brittany grinned. ‘What you mean to say is, it was five am and you were barely awake.’

  Abigail smiled. When Brittany stepped through to the back, she said quietly, ‘Four am.’ She turned back to the shop. ‘And no-one’s good at four am.’

  It was time to join the buzz.

  Abigail grabbed her laptop, transferred the pictures from the camera onto the hard drive, then began to work on a shortlist.

  Chapter 5

  Jo Average

  Dillon trailed his fingers along the silk smooth paintwork of the lava-coloured Lamborghini, and fancied it their best seller for at least the coming month. Leather seats, an arrow-shaped front and aeronautical design features, it was a two-hundred-and-twenty-five mile an hour fantasy. Sex in car form. A midlife crisis at a fraction of the cost.

  Adding this car to Wheels’s catalogue had been a very good idea.

  A man’s voice cracked through his reverie. ‘Nine thousand pounds.’

  Dillon turned. Steve was stalking across the yard towards him, a piece of paper crumpled in one fist. He waved the page at him when he got closer. ‘Nine thousand pounds in damages—to her car alone! The Humvee estimate isn’t back yet, but that’s going to rea
lly make my day, isn’t it?’

  A smart-arse reply scrambled up Dillon’s throat, eager to incense, but he stopped it. Buried it. Rearranged his face into one of regret and apology.

  ‘Knock it off,’ Steve snapped. ‘Your fake remorse just looks like constipation.’

  Dillon looked away to hide his smile.

  Steve re-read the estimation and swore. ‘If you didn’t own this god damn place I’d fire you!’ He paused. Narrowed his eyes at his boss. ‘What are you even doing here?’

  Dillon feigned offence. ‘I work here.’

  ‘Yeah, in the afternoons, if you bother at all.’

  Steve was pissed, Dillon could let that one slide. He was also right, but never mind that.

  Dillon’s General Manager of Sales & Finance lifted the hand holding the page to his forehead, and bumped it against his head as if he were knocking on a door. ‘What do you want to do about the bookings? The Humvee was supposed to be out over the next three weekends, and I don’t fancy calling this weekend’s twat of a groom to tell him his stags’ car got totalled.’

  Dillon stroked the Lamborghini again. ‘We could buy another Humvee?’

  Steve stared at him. ‘One of these days I’m going to ask you how much money you’ve got, and it’s going to hospitalise me, isn’t it?’

  Dillon chuckled. ‘That depends. Does your heart not like big numbers?’

  Steve grimaced. ‘Okay, so it’s a heart attack amount. Great, good for you. Do you really want to burn some of your zeros on another Humvee?’ He answered his own question before Dillon could respond. ‘Because it’s a weekend wonder but sits around most weekdays. I don’t think it would be worth the outlay.’

  It wasn’t the most practical hire for day-tripping around the city—its size made it impractical and intimidating. It was, however, a popular choice for long weekends to the coast or country.

  No, Dillon didn’t want another Humvee. But he did want this problem to go away.

  ‘Where’s it being fixed?’

  Steve told him the name of Wheels’s preferred panel beater and repair supplier.

  ‘It’s Monday. Call them, tell them they’ve got until Friday five pm—’

  ‘Customer’s coming in at four.’

  ‘Tell them they’ve got until Friday three pm, then. Remind them how much we value their support and service, then throw a cracker up their arse.’

  ‘And if they can’t?’

  Dillon pushed a hand over his mouth. ‘Throw money at them until they can.’

  Steve feigned heart pains and turned away. He walked half a dozen strides towards the office then turned back. ‘Am I throwing money at the woman’s car too? The cake woman?’

  Dillon smiled behind his hand. Abigail had a van—his van. She would be making deliveries as per usual. She didn’t need hers back as quickly as Dillon needed his back, and besides—the longer he had something to connect them, the better. He dropped his hand away. ‘No. But get some car details mocked up. Magnets or stickers, whatever. Big ones for the front, back and sides of the van we’ve loaned her. Her logo.’

  Steve raised one eyebrow then turned away.

  Abigail Mullins. Dillon had not been able to get her out of his mind. And yet, his mind wasn’t made up about her. In the sense that, he doubted her mind had been made up about him.

  He hadn’t been so hungover on Saturday that he’d missed her less than favourable appraisal of him. It had been more than him having hit her van. It had been … instinctual somehow. As if she’d looked at him and known.

  That he was damaged goods. Littered with shortcomings. Best avoided.

  He hadn’t looked his best when he’d seen his reflection in her shop bathroom mirror—sallow, nauseated, completely out of his depth. But he’d helped, hadn’t he? Broken everything first, of course, but put what he could back together.

  Even so, Abigail seemed to have recognised some qualities in him that—let’s face it—he drank to not recognise in himself.

  She’d been generous to accept his invitation to tea. Hadn’t really wanted to be there until after the drinks had arrived. But by the end of it he’d won her over. She wanted to come to Circus with him, he was certain.

  And she’d love being there. He’d booked the best table in the place. The manager had assured him there were no two better seats in the restaurant, but had warned him they’d see so much action they may not have time to speak to one another.

  There was always drinks after for that.

  Which was another thing, another pull towards the woman from the cupcake shop. He’d gone home after tea with her and gone to bed. Not a single drink. No pills to knock him out. Nothing at all, just good old-fashioned happy thoughts and sweet dreams. He’d wanted to boast to Steve about it, to any of his staff really—Dillon Wheeler felt amazing, fresh, downright incredible!—but he hadn’t. If he appeared to be too proud about one clean night people would have questions about the other nights.

  Dillon gave the Lamborghini a friendly slap then followed Steve into the main building.

  Steve was in his glass-walled office on the phone, his expression tense, so Dillon passed him without interrupting and swung through the doorway into his own office. It was only eleven o’clock. The reservation wasn’t until seven, but Abigail didn’t know that. He’d have to tell her, and the prospect excited him.

  He dropped into his desk chair—a custom-made replica of a Tillett racing seat that went a way towards fulfilling his dream of being a Formula One champion—and eased his phone from his pocket. He dialled her number.

  It went to voicemail.

  Caught without a script, he hung up without saying anything, then texted her the details. He offered to pick her up from home, but didn’t expect her to agree. She’d doubtlessly walk from her shop, as it wasn’t far. Get a few end-of-day things done, prep for the morning. He also offered to walk with her from Boucake.

  He sent the message before he could get too carried away.

  He wanted to offer her anything and everything within his capability. He wanted to make her eyes shine and her nose crease. But for now he’d keep things simple.

  Of course, simple for Joe Millionaire was vastly different to simple for Joe Average. When you had the kind of money Dillon did, simple was not so simple.

  He set his phone down and unlocked his computer. Without glancing at his emails or calendar, he typed Boucake into the internet search bar and did a little bounce in his seat when he pressed Enter.

  The page loaded and his brows shot up in surprise.

  There was a news article from an hour ago. A blogger—known for her almost prophetic reporting on all things fresh in London—was the top search result. It included a picture of two people.

  Dillon clicked on the link and leaned forward in his seat.

  The first person was Brittany, although at first glance he hadn’t recognised her. Gone was the punk rock glamour. She was pictured in a wedding gown, her slim arms out from her sides like bird wings, her hair piled high. Unsmiling, seemingly lost in thought, she was the picture of elegance.

  As was the woman facing her.

  Abigail was bent over a camera mounted on a tripod, her hair falling in limp curls over her shoulders, hiding her face. She was wearing a jacket as red as his work shirt, as red even, as the Lamborghini he’d so recently had his hands on, and striped trousers that made her look taller than she was. Through a gap in her hair, Dillon could see part of her smile. A beaming thing that had no doubt lit up the moment as brightly as her camera flash.

  There were shoulders in the picture. Partial heads of others crowded around the scene. He could just make out the shop door—electric orange between the greys and blacks of coats. They’d been in front of Boucake. This had been this morning.

  The headline read Cake Bride, which made him look again. Closer, much closer.

  His jaw slackened and he sat back in his seat.

  Not silk, not tulle, not anything remotely suitable for a wedding gown—what
had looked like intricately bunched material was actually icing sugar. A dress of cupcake roses.

  He had to know this woman. Had to get himself better acquainted with the mind that could conceive of such things.

  He scrolled down. There was a second picture, but Abigail wasn’t in it. The blogger was standing inside the shop, the ‘dress’ beside her, holding aloft a strategically removed cupcake.

  Dillon read the article quickly, hungry for details, and clicked through to Boucake’s Instagram page the moment he came across the link.

  Over an hour later he’d looked at every picture, watched every video and read every post description. His favourite had been when Brittany had filmed Abigail creating a rose; turning a stick attached to a small platform between her fingers, layering petal over petal with a piping bag. It had bloomed in seconds. She’d made it look easy. It was just a shame the shot had been of only her hands.

  Abigail wasn’t pictured in any of Boucake’s Instagram content. When she was referred to, it was only as ‘A’. Brittany on the other hand, was pictured often. Her wide smiling mouth and sharply defined chin was prominent in many of the pictures. Brittany holding trays of cupcakes aloft. Brittany pretending to throw a cake bouquet over her shoulder. Brittany laughing and pushing her flour-covered hands towards the camera.

  Abigail and Brittany clearly had a lot of fun together.

  He scrolled to the top of the page and clicked Follow.

  All this internet stalking had given him an idea. It was grand. Definitely not the stuff of Joe Average, and it would take some time. But it was another way to link them. Another way to make her smile.

  He turned in his chair to face Steve through the glass wall that divided them. He tossed a foam stress ball shaped like a wheel at the glass to get the man’s attention.

  Steve, finished with his phone call, looked up with that familiar quiet tolerance that he’d worn on his face the whole four years he’d been here.

  ‘Steve!’ Dillon said his name as if they’d spotted each other across a bar. ‘I’ve got a concept.’

  Steve pressed his lips together.