Have Your Cake Page 9

  Abigail privately thought it was a pretty average proposal story, as far as stories went. They’d had a fight which had escalated to a forced proposal. She’d reflected, and had since surmised that it was the only thing, really, that would have got Mal out of the mess he’d created. But she just smiled. Second to Abigail, and perhaps third to Abigail’s mother, Isobelle was Mal’s greatest fan.

  In Isobelle’s eyes, he could do no wrong. He was powerful, successful and charming. He publicly praised Abigail and bought her lavish gifts. He got along with everyone and often had more than three invitations to choose from each weekend. Popular, public Mal thrived under the spotlight of local politics. Many believed he would inevitably find his way to London, poached by a parliamentarian or the like, and Abigail liked London, but she knew it unfortunately wasn’t in their future. Because Mal was a big fish in the Sheffield pond. He wouldn’t step too far away from generations of connections, and decades of favours and advantageous friendships. In London he would just be a well-regarded no-one from nowhere. Where was the power in that?

  Abigail hadn’t shared this theory with anyone. Her mother’s slavish adoration of her daughter’s fiancé was not based on an open dialogue with Abigail, but on a reflected spotlight. Marissa Mullins basked in Mal’s popularity and professional highlights. She didn’t want to hear that her future son-in-law’s proposal was subpar, or that he was secretive and prone to temper. She wanted to hear what school he’d helped to secure additional government funding for, or what ribbon he’d cut and who’d been there to see and fawn.

  Abigail’s friends would discuss relationship dramas over a tasting plate when they all got together, but Abigail was rarely offered much sympathy. As far as they were concerned, she was living a golden life. But they didn’t see what was behind the public face, or endure the cold silences he was prone to. She would nudge the conversation that way, hoping for advice, but it always seemed to be skipped over then lost amongst the group’s praise of Mal’s latest community initiative.

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ Isobelle said, eyeing the growing population of cupcakes.

  Abigail didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Armed forces could raid the living room now and Isobelle would still state her opinion over the chaos.

  ‘How many people have you invited?’

  It felt like every eligible voter, but Abigail said, ‘Over a hundred.’

  ‘Which is what, ten or eleven tables? If you’re planning on making a centrepiece for each table, you’re going to have to get a lot faster. And even then, you’re going to be at this around the clock the day before. You’ll have to be, or they won’t be fresh. And if people can’t eat them, then what’s the point?’

  Abigail kept piping.

  ‘What I’m saying,’ Isobelle went on, ‘is that you’re one person. And you’re going to have a lot going on as it is. I think you’re overreaching.’

  Abigail straightened and began to refresh the piping bag. ‘I’m sure there was a generous offer to help wrapped up in all that negativity,’ she said lightly. Isobelle’s lips made a surprised pop, but Abigail spoke over it. ‘But I was actually thinking two centrepieces on either end of the front table.’

  Isobelle rolled her shoulders. ‘Centrepieces go in the centre.’

  Abigail stared across the table at the one-woman downer show, who was so jealous that her skin was almost tinged with green, and said, ‘Wow, of course. I’m so lucky you’re here.’

  Chapter 7

  Star performer

  Circus was everything Dillon had hoped for, and then some. It was dark and mysterious one moment, then brightly lit and breathtaking the next. Performers in cabaret costumes stalked along the banquet table stage, delighting the crowds with their contortions, strength, and enormous personalities. The drinks menu had made him wish for a little bit of everything and the food menu had made his mouth water. The rich scents of spice coming from the kitchen had been both torturous and delightful, and the meals that had been carried to the many tables had been an artform.

  The only thing Dillon found wanting was the company.

  Abigail had said very little since they’d been seated. She’d watched the performance with a detached kind of exhaustion. She’d animated when he’d complimented her on the Boucake wedding dress, but then curled over her entrée and eaten like the whole thing was an effort. She looked pretty, but she’d not made the same amount of effort as himself, or even close to the efforts of the women around them. Circus was a classy place that encouraged its patrons to dress decadently, yet Abigail hadn’t changed out of the clothes she’d worn at work. The red jacket their seating hostess had taken to the cloak room was the very same she’d been wearing in the blogger’s photograph from this morning. And her striped trousers were obviously the same, for how many striped trousers could a person own?

  Dillon didn’t need her to say it explicitly, her body language was clear enough: Abigail didn’t want to be here. Which was a profound anti-climax to his day of anticipation.

  She should have cancelled.

  Abigail looked up from her dark, silky cocktail—chocolate liqueur, raspberry jam and bourbon—and finally mustered the energy for a smile. ‘I’m sorry I’m such rubbish company tonight.’

  It would be polite to contradict her. Instead he drank from his Casa Ananas.

  ‘I was up at three,’ she explained, leaning towards him, ‘and working from four. It was a crazy day and I should have realised I’d be like this. I’m sorry. I should have suggested another night.’

  Dillon looked around the room, at the glitter and glamour, at the escapism and the indulgence, and wished she’d suggested another night too.

  ‘I saw your Instagram profile,’ he said, moving the subject away from excuses. ‘Clever stuff. You look like you have a lot of fun at work.’

  ‘I do.’ She smiled, but her nose didn’t crease. ‘How about you, did you get in trouble at work?’

  ‘Because of the Humvee? No. I mean, Steve probably wanted to string me up, but he made a few calls to the right people. It won’t affect the business too much.’

  The music changed. It became more energetic and the lights over the stage once again blazed bright. A woman strode out, walked the length of the table once, twice—affording everyone a long look at her glorious legs—then she stood in the middle … and ate fire.

  Dillon and Abigail didn’t speak again until after the performance.

  When the music returned to a sociable level, Abigail leaned towards him again. ‘Do you like the theatre?’

  It was a fair question as he’d suggested this theatrical place, but Dillon didn’t know. ‘Never been,’ he said. She blinked quickly and leaned back in her seat. He smiled. ‘You’re not the first person to have that reaction. I’ve never been invited, frankly. And I’ve never thought to invite someone.’ He waved a hand at her expression of surprise. ‘You clearly like it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s magic. Although, I shouldn’t speak like I know what I’m talking about—I’ve been to two shows in my life.’ She listed them.

  He angled his head. He wasn’t a theatre-buff but he could read billboards. ‘They’re showing now, aren’t they?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve been to two shows in my life, and they were in the last two months. It was too far to travel before.’

  He couldn’t agree or disagree, because he didn’t know where she’d lived before London. Hours over tea and drinks last night, and he’d still gone home knowing so little about her. She’d been vague about where she’d grown up, vague about her past and her plans. He knew she liked the idea of the sea and loved London, that she no longer licked the frosting bowls and had travelled some, but he knew little more than that.

  Yesterday, he’d wanted to know everything. Today, he thought he might be wasting his time. He couldn’t be sure if her mood was more exhaustion or disinterest. She’d been so present at Inamo. She’d asked questions and wanted to see him again—as soon as possible. Now
she spoke to him like it was a chore. At this rate they’d likely never see each other again beyond tonight.

  His disappointment was acutely uncomfortable.

  Their main meals arrived. It was easy to concentrate on his plate for a time, to savour the incredible flavours then chase them with his chilli-infused cocktail. He ordered another drink, something with gin and elderberry. Abigail asked for water.

  A short time later their meals were cleared and the third performance of the night began.

  As a muscular man used chains hanging from the ceiling to suspend his body in various positions, Dillon’s attention wandered towards the bar. The lavish marble-topped counter and the many-coloured bottles crowding the wall behind it—it was beautiful. He wished he was sitting at one of the high stools, sampling the spirits at his leisure.

  Abigail drank her water and watched the performance with unfocused eyes.

  Dillon drank his cocktail quickly and ordered another.

  She stopped him from ordering a fourth. ‘I might need to call it a night, I think,’ she said, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand.

  The waiter who’d come over to take Dillon’s order retreated discreetly.

  Dillon moved his hand away. ‘Yeah, let’s call it.’

  He pushed his chair back and stood. He was across the restaurant floor in moments, and waited in the quieter entrance foyer as she collected her coat from the coat room.

  Abigail looked at his empty arms. ‘You can’t find your coat ticket?’

  ‘I’m not leaving yet,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my eye on something on the dessert menu.’

  Abigail held her coat closer to her chest and visibly struggled to respond. ‘Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you. Let’s go back to the table.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll eat at the bar. You go home, sleep. I’ll fix up the bill on my way out.’

  ‘But it’s my turn,’ she objected. ‘You paid for tea last night.’ The distress in her eyes was filtered by fatigue.

  He shrugged. ‘I wanted to come here. You were my guest.’

  Now leave, he thought, so we can end this awkward dance. This was just another performance now, one not on the performance venue’s agenda.

  ‘Thank you.’ Abigail’s voice was small, as laced with apology as his drink had been laced with bitters.

  ‘Want me to call you a taxi?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll catch the bus.’

  He pressed his eyes shut. The offer was filling his mouth, expanding his chest. He tried to hold it in, but it came out in a rush of breath. ‘Want me to walk you to the stop?’

  Her cheeks shrugged in a fleeting smile. ‘No.’

  Unsurprising. He wouldn’t have accepted an offer like that either, not one spoken with such obvious reluctance. He nodded. Haltingly leaned forward and briefly touched his lips to her cheek. ‘Good night.’

  She stared up at him. The worlds of words swimming in her eyes didn’t make it to her mouth. She said simply, ‘Good night,’ then was gone.

  Dillon hesitated in the entrance foyer. He looked in the direction she’d gone, then back towards the restaurant that was bright and vibrant and full of energy. Pulsing with everything Abigail hadn’t brought to the table tonight.

  He went back inside.

  A waiter was hovering uncertainly by their table. His expression relaxed when he saw Dillon approaching. ‘Sir, will there be anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to move up to the bar. Would you bring me the dessert menu and fix me up with another one of those cocktails I just had?’

  ‘The Mystic Cactus, sir?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Of course.’ The man gestured towards the bar and the many empty stools surrounding it. ‘Sit anywhere you like, I’ll bring everything right over.’

  Almost everyone was still in their tea seats, enjoying the third course Abigail hadn’t been able to endure. Dillon had his pick of positions, so he chose the stool closest to the barman, with an easy view of the stage, and settled in. Within five minutes he had a fourth cocktail in his hand. Within fifteen minutes it was a Bulleit Rye. Within an hour, Dillon was talking to a group of women who’d travelled in from Teddington to celebrate a colleague’s retirement.

  He bought them all a round of drinks, then later bought the most interested one a second dessert to share. He thought fleetingly of Abigail when the woman pulled her stool so close that they were hip to hip, but then didn’t think of her again. Because he wouldn’t see her again. There were only transactions left between them; the insurance claim, the van he’d loaned her. She’d claimed exhaustion—and a three am start was certainly a long day—but it had been more than that. She’d been distracted and remote, her mind elsewhere.

  So now Dillon’s mind would be elsewhere.

  This was a dance he knew. Parties, drinking; Dillon had tumbled into this world years ago and found the fall hadn’t hurt.

  He didn’t leave the bar until one am, and he didn’t leave alone.

  Chapter 8

  The past, present and future

  Tolkien was aggrieved. His biscuits were overdue for a stir and he’d been robbed of Abigail’s attention since the early hours of the morning. He stood by the automatic dispenser, tail high and whiskers twitching, watching her, and Abigail felt a fresh swell of exhaustion move through her body like a rising tide. Soon she would be underwater.

  But first, the cat.

  Abigail sloped into the kitchen and prodded the biscuits with a fingertip. Tolkien stared at her. She sighed. She gave the biscuits a hearty shuffle until at last the cat was appeased, then went straight to the couch to collapse. There was no air in her blood. Her lungs felt compressed and her head … Her thoughts were moving sluggishly one moment, then erratically the next.

  The past, the present, the future … it was a heady cocktail because today had felt like a three-for-one.

  Isobelle.

  How was it that Abigail’s cupcake bride had been a siren song to this particular, and most unwanted, bride-to-be? The smallness of the world struck her. The overlapping nature of it. Social media was an infinitely-headed thing, and sometimes it had teeth. That Isobelle had seen the post and connected with it, on the very day she was in London, too … the odds were incredible. The odds that Isobelle was marrying Mal, however, were less incredible. She had revered the man. Looking back, Abigail could see that clearly. From the start, Isobelle had been as struck with the young politician as Abigail had. She’d not, however, been chosen.

  But time could rewrite slights such as that, for now it was Isobelle shopping for the big white dress, and Abigail on the sidelines.

  Not that this was a show Abigail wanted to watch.

  She shouldn’t have accepted the job.

  It had seemed sensible at the time, even brave. She’d been the bigger person. Her professionalism had been threatened and Abigail had protected it. But now, away from the pinstriped walls and sugar bouquets, the move felt needlessly reckless. Isobelle might have complained had Abigail turned her down, but to who? The people back home in Sheffield? Their opinions didn’t matter a jot to Abigail now. To the world via social media? Maybe some people would have bought into Isobelle’s tirade, but Isobelle wouldn’t have been a customer. She wouldn’t have had a legitimate customer experience to base her slander upon—she would have just been someone refused service. But Abigail had discussed product and tentatively booked a date. Isobelle Waters and Boucake had a professional relationship now.

  Stupid stupid stupid.

  Finished with his late night snack, Tolkien sauntered over to the couch and watched Abigail from the floor. From where she lay, arms and legs askew, she could see just the top half of his face. Unmoving. Arrested.

  ‘Blink, you creepo,’ she said.

  Tolkien blinked.

  She imagined his censure. He, the laziest of cats she’d ever met, judging her for lying there, whiling away the hours with her thoughts and regrets. She
supposed she could read one of the many books cluttering up her side tables; so many had been bought on a whim ahead of a free evening, but so few had been opened because there were many nights after long days in the shop when even armchair travelling seemed exhausting. Television was the same; she often couldn’t keep pace with the plots or rapid-fire dialogue, and so just stared, vacantly, at the changing scenes and moving colours until she fell asleep on the couch.

  She really did need to hire someone else. The workload was building, and since opening six months ago her life had tipped wildly out of balance. She gave everything to Boucake. All of her time, all of her energy and creativity. It was a wonder Tolkien hadn’t turned tail and sought out someone a little more present.

  When Dillon had literally crashed into her overworked, overstructured life, it had felt like divine intervention. Of course, she hadn’t seen it that way until the night in that strange restaurant with the interactive tablecloths, but she saw it that way still.

  He was a reality check. A treat. Something exciting and special, just for her. Something apart from Boucake. Someone who made her feel like Abigail the woman, instead of Abigail the small entrepreneur.

  At least, he had been all those things until she’d so spectacularly bungled their second date tonight. It should have been such a special night. Circus had been a visual wonder and the food—what she could remember tasting of it—had been good. Dillon had clearly secured them the best seats in the venue, and he’d tried so hard to lift her out of the slump that had been an unwelcome third party at their table. Her change in mood would have been difficult to navigate, she thought now. She hadn’t been able to muster the same levity and enthusiasm that she’d had at Inamo, and it was early days. Bad moods could be mistaken for disinterest. And she had certainly been in the worst of bad moods.

  It grated on Abigail’s nerves that Mal and Isobelle weren’t staying in the past where they belonged. They’d had no place at that table, between her and a man that was her present, and maybe her future.