‘Steve!’ Dillon called again. ‘This is the idea of ideas.’ He dragged himself in the chair towards the wall using just his feet, leaned forward and gestured Steve closer.
Steve’s top lip twitched.
‘Steve!’
Chapter 6
Trending
Boucake was trending. Thanks to a popular blogger coincidently on site during the shoot, Boucake’s Instagram profile had garnered over three hundred new followers, and the hashtag #boucakebride was popping up on countless social media posts.
Abigail and Brittany hadn’t stopped squealing all day. Every time a Google alert had led them to an article about the shop, they’d huddled over the laptop and grinned themselves into headaches.
Now, with fifteen minutes until closing time, Abigail was burnt out. It had been a ridiculously early morning, followed by a stressful few hours and a barrage of emotional peaks. They’d taken turns making stock for the shelves and barely kept ahead of demand, and Abigail had sent off some low-res teaser pictures to various magazines and newspapers. She was exhausted. She could hardly wait to flip the door sign from open to closed, make her way home and crumple on her couch.
She’d order take-out. Leave the front door unlocked so the delivery person could walk right in and hand it to her. Sleep until—
Circus. Oh bollocks, Circus. She was seeing Dillon tonight. She was not going home and putting her feet up. Instead she was putting her best foot forward at an exciting restaurant with a nice man.
She grimaced at the front door.
She’d cancel. Not cancel—reschedule. Was it too late? Was that too rude?
Abigail pulled her phone out from under the front counter and checked her messages. She pinched her brows and sighed.
She was too late to cancel, he’d got them a reservation and offered her a variety of ways to begin the night. A home pick-up, a shop pick-up … Abigail needed an energy pick-me-up just thinking about all the conversation and the body language, and the high-energy circus performance that was so so far from passively watching a television show and napping on the couch.
Nevertheless, she’d said she’d go.
Sounds wonderful, she typed. I’ll meet you there. The message flew off to wherever Dillon was at the moment, and Abigail returned to obsessing about closing time.
The mannequin and the cardboard skeleton of the dress were still in the corner of the shop. She’d thought to move it through to the back, as it looked strange without any cakes in it, but it had proved to be a point of fascination. People had come in on their lunch breaks to see it. Every customer had commented on it, then checked the internet to see what it had looked like in its full glory.
Brittany came through from the back, wiping her hands on a cloth. She’d rubbed at her eyes over the course of the day and smudged the mascara her friend had so painstakingly applied, so now she looked more tired than Abigail felt. She said, ‘Last batch for the day will be finished in ten.’
Another hundred cupcakes to decorate in the morning. It was endless. Fortunate then, that Abigail loved what she did.
‘I was just thinking,’ Abigail said, looking back at the empty skirt, ‘maybe we could fill the dress up again. Capitalise on the interest.’
She looked back when Brittany didn’t answer.
The woman’s expression was fixed. Her hands were frozen in front of her body, she was no longer wiping them. Quite possibly no longer breathing.
‘Never mind,’ Abigail said quickly.
Brittany let out a breath and sagged. ‘Thank god for that. Look, I get it: we’re a buzz at the moment. But shouldn’t we let your photos speak for us now?’
Abigail nodded. Brittany was right. The photos—carefully Photoshopped to exaggerate the contrast and increase the image brightness—were hopefully going to bring them business in droves. Two magazines had already replied to her email seeking expressions of interest, and one newspaper was angling for an exclusive. The dress had done all it needed to.
The shop door opened and a gust of cool air barrelled inside. The dangling beads on the mannequin’s shirt danced.
Abigail worked to put a smile on her face. One last customer. One last professional exchange.
She was going to sleep on the flour bags in the storeroom until it was time to walk to Circus. It was the only way she’d make it past eight o’clock.
The woman who walked in was short and petite. She wore jeans with holes that showed her knees, a striped turtleneck top and an overlarge beanie. Her hair—brunette streaked blonde—was a severe bob that for the moment obscured her face. She hurried over to the dress without sparing Abigail or Brittany a glance.
If she’d come in hoping to walk away with cakes today, her choices were limited. There were just three bouquets left on the glass shelves; one vanilla bouquet with vanilla bean flavoured roses, and two chocolate bouquets with lemon zest gerberas. In the display case there were only four separate cupcakes topped with wide-leafed dahlias. Boucake’s crop had been well and truly harvested today.
‘I’m so glad I made it in time,’ the woman said, glancing quickly at her Fitbit.
Abigail’s brows lowered and her spine straightened.
The woman turned towards Abigail, and her face took the wind from Abigail’s lungs.
In fact, Abigail’s face seemed to take the wind from the woman’s lungs as well.
‘Abby?’ the woman ventured.
Isobelle Waters. Thirty-five. A certified yoga instructor. She favoured cider over wine. She was an Estee Lauder Beauty Adviser who loved her job—indeed, who had done Abigail’s wedding make-up trial. And who Abigail hadn’t seen for almost seven months.
She’d planned to never see her again.
Judging by the surprise on Isobelle’s face, she’d not found Abigail so much as happened upon her.
‘Izzy,’ Abigail said. Her voice was a wheeze. She coughed into her hand then pushed her hair back from her face.
‘You work here?’
Beside Abigail, Brittany was smiling. ‘Oh my god, someone who knows you.’ She thrust her hand over the register and Isobelle blinked at it before offering hers to shake. ‘Brit,’ Brittany said. ‘I work for A. You are the first person I’ve met who—’
‘Brittany,’ Abigail said sharply. Brittany’s mouth froze in an O shape, her next word half-formed. ‘Can you please check on the oven? When the trays are cooling you can head off.’ She looked at her apprentice and softened her words. ‘Thank you for everything today. You were magnificent.’
Brittany raised her brows, and—her mouth still in an O—walked through to the kitchen.
When Abigail looked back at Isobelle, her old friend’s surprise had changed to intrigue.
‘Not work here,’ Isobelle said with wonder. ‘You own this place. I should have guessed the moment I saw you.’
Abigail didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to have this conversation. Didn’t want to have it, didn’t know how to escape it.
Isobelle’s expression changed again, and it catapulted Abigail back to the beginning of the year. Back to when everyone had looked at her the same way—with a blend of confusion and disbelief. With condemnation.
‘So this is where you went,’ Isobelle said quietly. She looked around the shop. ‘This is where you are.’
Abigail swallowed. ‘Are you still in Sheffield?’
Of course she was. Isobelle had been born there, lived there her whole life, and would die there. That she’d even ventured outside of it to come to London was a wonder.
Isobelle nodded. ‘Yes, but I’ve moved.’ She blinked rapidly and touched her face. ‘I, ah … I mean, small world, isn’t it? I saw your bride picture on Twitter earlier today. I had a full day of appointments but I thought, “I have to see this place”.’ She paused. ‘I thought, “It’s just what I’m looking for”.’
Abigail’s eyes darted down to the woman’s left hand, and sure enough, a beautiful diamond ring glittered there.
‘You’re eng
aged,’ Abigail breathed. She looked up at the woman’s face and gave her best attempt at a genuine smile. There was a sharp pain in Abigail’s chest, a concentrated twist that made her gasp. To Isobelle, it must have sounded like a burst of emotion because Isobelle seemed touched.
‘Thanks,’ she said, even though Abigail hadn’t yet congratulated her. ‘It’s recent but I’m already into the swing of things. I went dress shopping today and I, well, I’m obviously looking for wedding flowers.’ She turned and waved a hand at the empty dress. ‘Or cupcake flowers, actually.’ She turned back. ‘Like what you were going to do, I guess.’
Exactly like what Abigail had been going to do. She’d picked the cupcake flavours, practiced and practiced the roses she’d liked. Practiced for weeks until they’d looked good, then for weeks more until they’d looked great. Abigail had learned to make cupcake bouquets for her own wedding, and Isobelle had drank many teas and ciders by her elbow during the whole thing.
‘That’s cool you were able to make a business out of everything you learned.’
Abigail nodded. ‘Yes, it wasn’t all a total waste.’
Isobelle pursed her lips and fussed with a fold on her shirt. Just as she’d done when Abigail had come to her following her own disastrous engagement party. She’d said very little to her face, but Abigail knew she’d had a great deal to say about the whole disaster later over drinks with their friends. Isobelle, who’d called herself Abigail’s best friend for years, who should have been her greatest champion, had instead been her loudest judge.
Abigail tried to move the conversation along. ‘When’s the big day?’
Isobelle looked up. ‘February.’
Another similarity. Abigail hadn’t known when she’d been planning her wedding that Isobelle had wanted so many similar things for herself. ‘A winter wedding,’ she said. ‘Lovely.’
Isobelle nodded. ‘We like the snow.’
This whole moment needed to end. This woman needed to leave. Abigail wasn’t the jealous type, she didn’t envy Isobelle the happy-ever-after that had eluded herself, but looking at her and remembering the way Isobelle had turned from her—turned on her all those months ago … it was doing unkind things to Abigail’s handicapped heart.
This exchange was going to set her back days, perhaps weeks of hard-earned acceptance.
‘I was hoping to place two orders, actually. For an engagement party and then for the wedding itself.’
‘Are you serious?’
There was a beat of silence as Isobelle registered Abigail’s incredulity. The polite smile slipped. ‘Of course I’m serious,’ she said.
Abigail said nothing. Surely she didn’t need to? Abigail had needed Isobelle. She’d turned up at Isobelle’s door with tears in her eyes and fear in her heart, and been rejected. Abigail’s reputation had been overshadowed by Mal’s reputation, and Isobelle had crossed the floor to stand in Mal’s corner just like all of Abigail’s friends had done before her. She’d been the last to cross, but she had crossed. And now she wanted a favour? The strained silence conveyed all of this better than Abigail’s muddled mind might have managed with words.
Isobelle considered her, then said, ‘I’m not asking as a friend. Obviously. I’m asking as a customer.’
Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. Would agreeing to this job bring her some kind of closure? Could selling her new product to her old friend be cathartic in some way?
Maybe she could be the bigger person here. Take the job, treat Isobelle as a customer and nothing more, then move on with her life. It would be one less confrontation to fear. One less piece of her past that had a hold on her.
‘What are the details?’ she asked.
Isobelle’s mouth stretched in a thin smile. ‘The engagement party is in two weeks. One hundred and ten people, eleven tables. I was thinking a “boucake” centrepiece on each, and then a traditional cake. Do you do traditional cakes?’
Abigail nodded.
‘Just a small one,’ Isobelle went on. ‘Everyone will probably be caked-out, you know? With all those centrepieces. Maybe just large enough for the wedding party. Three groomsmen, three bridesmaids. And—and my fiancé and me.’
Abigail nodded again.
‘Could I have a quote?’
Abigail uncrossed her arms and walked around the counter. She approached a product book opened on a beautiful music stand, and turned to the centrepiece section. Isobelle hurried over to stand at her elbow. Abigail said, ‘It all depends on how high, how many “flowers”, if you’re hiring the stands or buying them.’ She pointed at a few images.
Isobelle leaned further forward, and Abigail was free to let her face sag in exhaustion. This was better, talking business. But it felt like they were talking about the past. About Abigail’s engagement party. Abigail’s winter wedding. Abigail’s cupcake bouquets. The similarities were painful to recall. A happy-ever-after lost.
Although, had it ever really been on the cards with Mal?
No wonder Isobelle had been so unforgiving: Abigail had ruined what must have been, from the sidelines, Isobelle’s dream wedding too, not just her own.
Isobelle, however, was unlikely to make Abigail’s same mistakes. Everything would end happily for her. Although with a different bridesmaid in the mix, following Abigail’s departure from her life.
‘Who’s the groom?’ Abigail asked, flipping to the back page where there were some images of traditional cakes for Isobelle to consider. ‘Do I know him?’
She likely did. Sheffield was a big city, but Abigail had moved in all the same circles as Isobelle.
Isobelle straightened and looked at Abigail. ‘You do. And I’ll actually have to ask him if he’s okay with all of this.’
‘With cupcake centrepieces?’
Isobelle rolled her shoulders. ‘With you being involved.’ She swallowed. ‘Abby, it’s Mal.’
A horrible silence stretched its barbed arms between them.
Not just Abigail’s engagement party. Not just Abigail’s winter wedding. But Abigail’s cupcake bouquets, Abigail’s friend, and Abigail’s groom too.
(Before)
Green
Abigail ended with a flourish, which neatly broke the tip of the petal free from the tool she was using to guide the fondant into shape. The petal sank, and sank, and Abigail waited for gravity to leave the thing alone … but in the end it just looked wilted. She scraped it off and dumped it onto the blush pink discard pile by her elbow.
The discard pile was starting to outweigh the soon-to-be discard pile, but she was getting better. The mixture just needed to be stiffer, and maybe the room a little cooler.
‘Can you turn the heater off for a bit?’ she asked her audience.
Isobelle, down to the short-sleeved shirt that had been buried beneath layers of cardigans and jackets when she’d first arrived, hesitated. ‘How long’s a bit?’
Abigail glanced at her, then dropped half a tablespoon of flour into the icing bowl between them. ‘However long it takes for me to get this right.’
‘But I’ll get cold,’ Isobelle complained.
Abigail adopted the same whiny tone, ‘Then go somewhere else.’ She grinned to take the sting out of the dismissal then began to mix the ingredients. When it was suitably stiff and the heater was no longer making everything from Abigail’s flowers to Isobelle’s bangs sag, Abigail tried again.
This petal was better than the last, and infinitely better than the first.
She turned it on the small rotating cake stand and created another petal. Then another.
When she was finished—and the petals almost perfectly matched up—she set her tools down to admire the single cupcake.
From the opposite seat, Isobelle watched the cupcake too, albeit with a frown.
‘Tell me again what you’re doing?’ she asked, reaching for her cider.
‘I’m making a cupcake bouquet,’ Abigail said. ‘I’ll make heaps of these, then I’ll put
them all together and they’ll look like a real flower bouquet.’
‘Why don’t you just get real flower bouquets?’
‘Because everyone can get those,’ Abigail murmured. She leaned forward to scrutinise her handiwork. She needed to improve her spacing, and she needed something edible that could realistically imitate stamens. Seven weeks didn’t seem long enough to train herself in this form of cake art, but she was going to give it her all because if it worked, the statement would be worth it.
And if it didn’t work, Abigail could just get flowers. Like everybody else did.
But wow, this was fun. It made her heart feel like purring. She was dreaming of sugar flowers in her sleep, and during her work days daydreaming about doing this on a bigger scale. There were certainly more people in the world who would love what she was doing. But would they love it enough to pay? It was an unformed aspiration, still fluffy around the edges. Maybe it would all come to nothing and she’d never shape icing again after she was married … But maybe she would.
‘Have you set a date?’ Isobelle asked. She poked the tip of the nearest petal and laughed when Abigail poked her.
‘February,’ Abigail said, tending to the dent. ‘Maybe the first weekend. We’re hoping for snow.’
‘A winter wedding,’ Isobelle said, her words riding on a sigh.
‘Yeah, I’m thinking of getting a wrap made to order, that kind of sits off the shoulder—’ Abigail straightened and illustrated with her hands, ‘—like this.’
Isobelle sighed again.
Abigail made a second cupcake, and although it wasn’t perfect, it took only a fraction of the time. She decided to continue. There would be time for finessing. Now was the time to see if her concept worked. Elevated cupcakes, affixed to foam balls, adorned with whatever best matched the theme she hadn’t yet decided upon.
‘I just love your proposal story,’ Isobelle said. She pushed her thumb over the condensation on her bottle, and stared into the glass as if there were a tiny screen there, and on that screen, Abigail and Mal standing hand-in-hand before a jewellery store display case.
Have Your Cake Page 8
