by Beth Morrey
“You’ll still see him at weekends,” offered Angela. “And there’s always the school holidays.”
Of course. The holidays. I found a last piece of mayonnaise-drenched chicken and speared it.
“Speaking of which,” she continued, “did Sylvie tell you, she’s off to France for the summer?”
My dismay came crashing back. “The whole summer?”
“Yes, her mother has to have an operation, and she’s going to stay with her afterward, help her out.” Angela reached across the table to touch the back of my hand but it was more than I could bear, so I moved it away, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
“I thought her brother lived in France?”
“He does, but he’s got too much on, apparently. Typical.”
“Oh dear, her poor mother.” I felt guilty that my first concern was my own loss, and envy of this offstage presence who could summon Sylvie and be with her for a whole sun-soaked summer. If I had an operation, would Melanie come and tend me at my bedside? Of course she would, and probably Octavia too. Though they would both drive me mad. We’d come a long way since my mother marched for women’s rights, but we still did the tending, on the whole.
The library, Otis, Sylvie. I sensed my fragile house of cards wobbling and fingered my pearls nervously, remembering my New Year’s resolution. Angela still wasn’t smoking. She seemed much better though, and I was glad. She deserved a happy life, not one tinged with regret.
I went home, mainly to enjoy Bobby’s vociferous greeting—she needed me, and I needed a reminder that someone did. But rather than hang around the house twitching, I decided to go for a walk, get us both a bit of fresh air. Once we were out, I found myself wandering toward Sylvie’s house and discovered her in her front garden, pruning the parterre. Seeing us, she ceased her ferocious clipping and beamed.
“Missy! How nice, come in for a coffee. I’ve just made some zucchini cake in defiance of the shortage.”
“What about Aphra?” I gripped Bobby’s lead.
“Don’t worry, she’s off somewhere butchering small creatures.” Sylvie threw down her pruning shears on the front doorstep and led me in, where we were greeted by Decca and Nancy. They bore Bobby off for canine mischief, leaving us alone in the kitchen, which as usual smelled of a thousand indulgences.
An enormous sponge cake squatted on the peninsula, topped in a cream frosting and carelessly scattered with minuscule ringlets of lemon zest. Sylvie picked up a silver cake-shovel and plunged it into the middle, cutting me a huge slice, which she set in front of me with a spoon. “Tuck in.” For a while we sat in silence, preserved in a kind of reverence for the cake, the like of which I had never tasted before. Each bite bounced around my mouth like an arcade ball, cherished by every taste bud. That hint of lemon sourness cutting through the sweetness of the frosting, its dense grittiness caressing my tongue. Sylvie was a genius, everything she touched turned to ambrosia. I noticed Bobby had rejoined us and was drooling at my feet. Usually I would have given her a morsel but this was too delicious to waste.
“God, I’m good,” said Sylvie, licking her spoon and sitting back on her stool with a sigh of satisfaction. I nodded, my mouth full of sponge. Bobby pawed at me, her claws scraping my leg, and I shook my head at her, still chewing and relishing, so she scampered off to rejoin Nancy and Decca, casting me a slightly truculent look as she left.
“So, what’s new?” Sylvie poured a cup of coffee from the cafetière and pushed it toward me.
“I’ve lost my job at the library,” I mumbled, scraping up a last spoonful.
Her mouth opened in surprise. “No! How on earth?”
“Budget cuts. Deirdre was very apologetic.”
“Merde. You poor thing, are you sad about it?”
“Yes, a bit.” I paused. “I’ll miss having somewhere I need to be.”
Sylvie looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Hmmm. Talking of which, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. I saw Desiderata Haber last week—”
“Oh, the Habers were so lovely. Their poor son.”
“Yes, poor Sam, hopelessly indulged by loving and in-love parents,” scoffed Sylvie, picking up our plates and walking over to the dishwasher with them. She continued with her back to me. “Anyway, we got talking and Desi said . . . I mean, she mentioned—I hope you don’t mind my asking . . .”
“What?” I spied a speck of cake on the peninsula and picked it up between my thumb and forefinger.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Leo? I had no idea.”
I could hear the dogs scuffling in the living room, faint growls and whines as they wrestled and rolled. Even without seeing her, I recognized Bobby’s voice among them. The crumb of cake fell from my finger and I stared at it, fighting a rising nausea, the sickly sweet smell of the frosting assaulting my nostrils. I’d had too much. I could feel Sylvie watching me and risked a sideways glance. She looked concerned, holding the cake shovel in one hand and a tea towel in the other. Still I said nothing.
“Missy. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just . . . so sorry.”
“No need. It’s fine. I—I . . . must be going. I said I’d take Otis to the playground this afternoon.” I tipped myself off the stool, stumbling and fumbling for my bag and Bobby’s lead. “Thank you for the cake, it was delicious. I must get the recipe from you sometime.” Gabbling, I just needed to get out of there before I embarrassed myself further. Hearing the clink of her lead, Bobby scrambled back into the kitchen, nose twitching. With shaking hands, I clipped it on.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just . . . Please don’t go.”
“I must.” A solitary tear fell but was absorbed into Bobby’s thick fur. Head down, I made my way along the corridor to the front door, feeling Sylvie and her pity behind me.
“I shouldn’t have asked,” I heard her say. “But I just wanted you to know—if you ever need to talk . . .”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I must go.” I grappled at the latch and wrenched the door open, feeling the bile rising in my throat. Lugging Bobby along, we stumbled down the steps and between the neat hedges, where I could see the early weeds of spring poking through the soil. Hearing the door close behind me, I gagged and yanked Bobby’s lead. We made it around the corner before I vomited, a congealed yellow custard that projected from the back of my throat, splattering onto the pavement, where Bobby sniffed it cautiously and looked up at me, her expression alert and curious.
“Don’t worry,” I gasped, groping for a nearby railing to hold on to. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”
I heaved a few more times, then, checking that no one had seen my indignity, used a few leaves to cover the offending cake-mix. Seeing her favorite urinating patch, Bobby promptly crouched and did her business, causing me to retch again. I could feel the sweat beading on my brow, legs still trembling from the purge. As I began to totter toward home, my mobile rang.
“Listen, I feel bad about your job and the after-school thing,” Angela said as soon as I answered. “I wasn’t going to ask you coz kids’ birthdays are so fecking hideous, but do you want to come to Otis’s party on Sunday? You don’t have to do anything, just hang around drinking prosecco and listening to balloons popping, but you might like to see him get his cake.”
I thought of Sylvie’s cake, gleaming on the peninsula, and then oozing on the pavement like a gross yellow toad.
“I’d love to,” I said, my voice croaky. “Thank you for asking me.”
“No problem. Though you won’t be thanking me on Sunday when you’re dodging those little bastards. I’ll text you the details.” She hung up, and I put my phone back in my bag, trying to focus on this little thing I could look forward to—to banish the ghost Sylvie had just raised. If I could do that, perhaps the feeling of doom I’d had of late would dissipate eventually. I was sure Sylvie wouldn’t mention Leo again, and we coul
d just forget it ever happened. Sometimes it was better not to think about things—bills, phone calls, arguments—because that way you could hold them at arm’s length, maybe indefinitely. If I could just hang on a little while, things would get better again, I could forget again. Just for a little while.
Chapter 42
Sunday dawned bright and clear, one of those beautiful days when you could feel the world opening up again after the bolted door of winter, tender shoots curling out of the damp ground, the earth unfurling beneath us as the tide surged back in. When I walked Bobby that morning, greeting my fellow dog walkers and sucking up the fresh air like a tonic, the spring was back in my step. After the unsettling episodes of the last few days, I was glad to be going to Otis’s party, to clap as he blew out his candles, to give him the present I’d spent so long pondering, see him with his friends. I would absorb their youth and energy and let it recharge me. What did the job, the bills, the phone calls, the creaking bones matter? The day was young, the sun was warm, and with Bobby by my side I was raring to go.
Six hours later, I was raring to leave. I had no idea children’s parties were so ghastly. In my day they were much tamer affairs—a few friends, sausages and pineapples on sticks and a Victoria sponge cake with the age dotted out in Smarties. I remembered one of Mel’s parties, the dim light and breathless anticipation when I carried out the cake, her little face screwed up in concentration as she waited. She was always worried about blowing out the candles. “What if I don’t blow them all out at once? Will my wish still come true?” She would fret about it for days beforehand.
For Otis’s party, Angela appeared to have invited thirty chemically fueled gremlins and their prosecco-powered, utterly disinterested zookeepers. The little fiends raged around the cramped church hall while their parents necked fizz and prattled about house prices, ignoring their appalling offspring entirely. Poor Angela was scurrying round filling up people’s glasses, offering olives and removing sharp kitchen implements from tiny hands.
I stood in a corner, thinking that in many ways it reminded me of the St. Botolph’s party where I met Leo. Too hot, and loud, and things being thrown around while people talked nonsense to each other. Still, at least I wasn’t going to get overlooked in favor of another woman this time. I snatched a glass from Angela and took a sip, ducking as a carrot stick whizzed past my ear. One of the beasts reared up in front of me, roaring, his face covered in hummus like a kind of war paint. Holding my glass above my head, I roared back at him, earning myself a few disapproving looks from the zookeepers. Briefly chastened, he soon recovered and continued his rampage, kicking over a chair and felling a younger child with a well-timed punch. “Horatio!” rebuked one of the women vaguely, before spearing an olive and resuming her conversation about council planning laws.
Feeling the urge to escape, I made my way to the back of the hall in search of the kitchen and found Angela seated at a small table with her head in her hands. She looked up as I entered.
“Oh, it’s you. Aren’t you glad you came?” She sank back down again and pressed her fingers to her temples. “I told you it would be horrendous.”
I fetched her a glass and poured her the dregs of a prosecco bottle.
“I can’t drink, I’ve got to clear up after and pay for it all. I should have booked an entertainer but I can’t afford it. Most of them get in these guys called Jackanapes, they turn up and do everything—flap a big rainbow sheet about and keep them occupied—but they cost, like, hundreds and I thought, ‘I’ve got this covered, I’ll do a Pass the Parcel and we can make our own entertainment.’ What a fucking joke.” She took a slug of the prosecco. “I’ve got five kids whose parents didn’t RSVP, so I wasn’t expecting them and now I haven’t got enough party bags, I’ll have to hand them fucking fivers on the way out. Jesus Christ.” She took another gulp. “And none of the mums like me because I’m a single mother and they think I’m going to steal their husbands. As if. They’re all bankers who stay late at work to avoid bedtime and train for marathons at the weekend so they don’t have to help with childcare.” She drained the glass. “Why did I do this again?”
“Mummeeeeee.” We both turned to see Otis at the door. He looked slightly woebegone and my heart jumped in my chest at the sight of him in his new robot costume. “Can we do Pass the Parcel?”
“Yes, love, is it that time already?” Angela got to her feet, smoothing down her tousled hair. Otis wandered around the kitchen, idly exploring.
“Where’s the cake?” he asked, poking his head in the fridge.
“Over there by the sink,” returned Angela, putting empty bottles in a bin bag.
“No, it isn’t.”
Angela turned and looked at the counter. Next to the sink was a foil-covered cakeboard, entirely devoid of cake.
“Where’s the fecking cake?”
She started to stalk around the room, pushing paper plates and napkins to one side, opening the fridge, peering inside the bin bag in increasing desperation. Having searched through all the cupboards, she returned to the table and gripped one edge with both hands, staring at me with wild eyes.
“Where’s the cake?” she breathed.
Otis’s lip started to tremble. “Where’s my cake? Did you forget it?”
She turned to him immediately. “No, sweetie, of course I didn’t. Mummy will find it. Why don’t you go and play out there and we’ll start Pass the Parcel in a minute?” She bundled him out, ignoring his protests, and turned back to me, panting.
“So the cake’s fucked off. We need another one.”
“Where did it go?”
“One of those little bastards will have nicked it. Slimy little feckers, I hope they choke on it. Listen, we’ve got half an hour, maybe forty minutes. If I give you some money, can you get in a cab and go and buy me another?”
“Of course.” I felt daunted, but also delighted to have a genuine reason to escape this hellhole. Angela delved in her purse and pulled out a wad of notes.
“Right, here you go, that should be enough. You need to be back by five, otherwise the sugar withdrawal will kick in and they’ll run amok.”
Feeling slightly hysterical, I giggled as I took the money and put it in my bag.
“Oh, and Missy? It needs to be a robot cake.”
I turned back, perplexed.
“A robot cake?”
Angela nodded grimly. “He’s really into robots now. I was up till three A.M. painting the icing silver and making antennae out of Satellite Wafers. WE CAN’T LET HIM DOWN.”
I took a deep breath. “One robot cake coming right up.”
Luck was on my side. A black cab pulled up across the road with its light on just as I emerged from the hall, blinking in the sunshine. Hurrying forward, I hailed it and waited as the driver made a U-turn to come and pick me up.
“Where to, love?”
Settling in the back, I hesitated. Where did one go to buy an emergency robot cake on a Sunday afternoon? I took my phone out of my bag and told the driver to head toward Upper Street, then called the only person I could think of who could rescue this situation.
“Darling, I’m so glad you called,” said Sylvie. “I’m so sorry about the other day—”
“Never mind that,” I barked. “I need your help. Otis’s birthday cake went missing and I need to get him another one, but Angela says it must be a robot cake. I’ve got some money but I don’t know where to go.”
“Where are you?”
“In a cab going toward Upper Street. I need to be back by five o’clock.”
“Give me two minutes.” She rang off and I sat back and put my seatbelt on as the streets of Highbury flashed past.
“That’s a new one,” observed the taxi driver, eyeing me in his mirror.
“Children’s birthday party.”
“Thank Christ I’m past that,” he replied, turning toward Canonbur
y. As we thudded our way over a series of speed bumps, my phone rang and I snatched it up.
“Right,” said Sylvie. “Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once. There’s a little place near Angel, owned by a friend. He owes me a favor. I’ll text you the address, and he should have something for you by the time you get there.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me; thank Etienne Durand, one of the finest pâtissiers on the planet. Good-bye and Godspeed!”
We raced through the streets of Islington, my driver now thoroughly committed to the venture, promising to wait outside the shop while I went in to collect the goods. He told me his three children were grown up, scattered across the globe in diverse lives and professions—“That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? They’re off, doing their thing”—while he and his wife lived in Enfield and waited for grandchildren. “I know we won’t see them much, them all living all over the place, but they’re nice to have, aren’t they? I’ll like seeing the photos.”
Having received the address, we turned into an expensive-looking Georgian terrace where every window had a Juliet balcony, and then turned again, squeezing down a narrow cobbled mews. At one end was a tiny corner shop that looked like it should have been in Diagon Alley. A sign above the door read DURAND’S in flowing script.
“You sure this is a cake shop?” queried my driver, pulling up outside.
“I’m not sure that’s what the owner would call it,” I replied, getting out and checking my roll of notes.
Taking care not to trip on the cobbles, I knocked on the shiny black door and stepped back. After a few seconds’ agonizing wait, it opened and a tall dark man poked his head out and regarded me solemnly.
“I’m Millicent Carmichael,” I stammered. “Sylvie Riche sent me.”
“I am Etienne Durand,” he said, bowing and gesturing me in. I waved to the cab driver and stepped inside.
It looked nothing like any kind of shop I’d been in before. There were no cakes on display. We stood in what appeared to be an elegant sitting room with a chaise longue at one end and a round oak table in the middle, surrounded by chairs. For some reason it reminded me of a funeral parlor. I repressed a snigger.
