In the stillness following the ended conversation, Abigail stared past her laptop screen, her eyes unfocused. It was impossible not to compare their lives. Each of them had been intent on different paths from the start, but somehow they’d ended up switching places further down the line. It had been Abigail who had seemed set to marry young and begin her family before she turned thirty, and Louisa who’d been determined to walk the road less travelled. But now here they were, Louisa a wife and mother, and Abigail so far from either of those things she might as well have been the one who’d gone to India and Australia. It was Abigail taking risks on a small business, and Abigail trying to piece her life together.
Abigail thought of Mal and the life she’d almost had, and couldn’t be anything other than profoundly grateful to have changed her path.
She sagged backwards onto the couch and let her gaze slide up to the ceiling.
This was not the life she’d mapped out for herself. But it was a life she was beginning to love. And tomorrow, when she hugged a bag of flour that was one hundred percent her own, she would love it a little more.
Chapter 12
From ear to ear
The walls had ears. Dillon wondered what they’d heard. He amused himself thinking about the varied conversations that had been held where he stood, and loved the game. It was Friday evening. He’d found the two ears with a little help from the internet, and after a lot of walking and observation. The first ear by the Ted Baker store had been more obvious than the second. It had taken him three lengths of Floral Street to complete the mismatched pair.
He was standing outside the Tin Tin Shop, and it was finally six o’clock. Friday had not come soon enough. He’d laboured through Wednesday, thought very little of Thursday, and had driven Steve crazy today with constant mentions of cupcakes and treasure hunts. Steve had threatened to soundproof the office walls, but Dillon suspected he’d been secretly pleased.
Clear-eyed and focused, Dillon had been at work on time for three days in a row, and he’d outlasted Steve on Thursday. He’d lingered in the office, read things on the internet, inspected cars, researched others coming onto the market. All distractions. Things to keep his mind away from a self-destructive loop of questions and doubts, and his hands away from hard liquor.
Not one drink since Monday night. Easily a record of recent times.
Abigail hadn’t asked him to quit. She hadn’t asked how much he drank, or why. She’d just withdrawn. Instinctively protected herself from the likes of him, an over-indulgent drinker, before he’d even confessed to being hungover.
He didn’t want to see that caution in her eyes again, or that dislike in the curl of her pretty mouth.
Maybe she already had a drunk in her life; a parent or a friend, maybe an ex-lover she’d left behind.
Dillon was going to work really hard to not be someone she needed to monitor or fix. Or leave.
The street was empty of day shoppers and smattered with those looking for food and entertainment. He would be one of them soon, he hoped. Arm-in-arm with a woman who fascinated him and challenged him, who fought passionately and filled her mouth with food when she didn’t want to answer a question.
Dillon checked his watch. He glanced up at the ear then searched along the footpath. He saw her the moment she stepped around the corner into sight. Hair down and flicked out at the ends, wearing a mustard yellow jacket that brushed against her knees. Silver glinted at her ears and her red-painted smile brushed against his knees. She looked fantastic. Edible. They could skip tea entirely, and if he could just kiss her, he’d be satisfied.
The red stretched, then broke, and her smile was all teeth and crinkled nose.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be where I’m standing?’ he asked when she was near enough to touch.
‘I wasn’t going to wait below the ear—what if you hadn’t found it yet?’
‘I found it Wednesday night.’ He’d come here straight after work, challenged himself to stay until he’d found it. It had been a wonderful distraction. A purpose. It had made going to bed dry a lot easier.
She looked delighted. ‘You should have told me! Sent a picture or something. We could have seen each other earlier.’
He spread his hands. ‘You set the rules of the game, I just played by them. I didn’t realise I could advance the agenda.’
She smiled.
They were doing good today. They were easy with each other. He couldn’t deny that it had been a tumultuous start, but he couldn’t regret it. They knew things about each other, heartaches and non-negotiables that wouldn’t ordinarily surface for weeks or months in a new relationship. They’d had their first fight and survived it, they’d shared secrets that could have made this all too hard to bother with, but they were both still here.
Dillon had a lot of hope.
‘This way,’ Abigail said, nodding down the street. ‘We’re walking, it’s not far.’
They fell into step beside each other.
‘Where are we off to?’
She said, ‘I’m feeding you.’
‘That’s not a place.’
‘No, the place is a surprise.’
And when they reached this surprise, it continued to surprise. The external walls of the Victorian building were heavily adorned with fake flowers. Semi-circular paned glass windows offered intriguing glimpses inside, and through the front door the world seemed to change. It was operatic decadence and old-world curiosity shop, weaved together into one flamboyant, unique venue. Heavy tapestries were both table divides and room accents. A pair of shoes hung from a chandelier. A wall was covered in patron’s graffiti and the atmosphere was like static—he’d get a shock if he got any closer.
Opera boxes overlooked the main floor. It was English, Byzantine, Gothic—even Ottoman. It was a tasting plate, and his palate approved.
They were led upstairs into one of the opera boxes, past nooks for semi-private dining, past portraits of once-known faces. They settled themselves into their balcony. Ordered drinks that had names as fancy as the surrounds. Without her coat, Abigail was a daring compliment to the extravagant surrounds. Her simple black dress was made remarkable by sleeves of strung glass beads.
Eyes on the frivolity below, Dillon said, ‘How do I know so little about this city? It’s always surprising me.’
‘Does it get all the credit?’ Abigail asked, smiling over her table water. Her eyes were as bright as the reflections in the glass.
Dillon smiled. ‘No, of course not. You certainly know some of the best city secrets.’
‘It’s mostly Soho,’ she confessed, ‘and Camden Park. I like to know where I am and what’s around me. I’ve explored very little of central London, and even less of the further suburbs. I’ll get there.’
‘When you’ve been everywhere around here,’ he teased.
His mind was racing with possibilities. Places he’d seen were discounted immediately. He wanted new places, things they could discover together. He wanted to delight her as she’d delighted him. He wanted to share a hundred teas with her, and learn another one of her secrets at each. Discover London as he discovered Abigail.
‘I enjoyed looking for that ear,’ he said.
She propped her elbows on the table and leaned across the table. ‘Tell the truth: how much was you and how much was the ever-helpful internet?’
‘The internet gave me the street.’ He held up a hand when her lips parted in mock indignation. ‘I just needed a ballpark.’
‘A single street in London is not a “ballpark”,’ she said, and laughed.
‘I promise once I had the street name I did the rest myself. I found your ear first—the one you sent me a picture of. Took me ages to find the second. Three laps of the street, actually. So many people asked me if I was lost. A few asked me if I was okay. I must have looked odd staring up at the walls.’
Abigail looked deeply pleased with herself. ‘Thanks for playing along.’
‘It was fun,’ he said. ‘I like
treasure hunts. In fact, I’ve been playing one for years. Do you know about the Space Invaders?’ She shook her head. ‘This French artist has done a series of what he calls “invasions” in cities around the world. Mosaic tiles that look like those 8-bit Space Invaders from that eighties video game. At least that’s how he started out. He has a lot of subject matter now; contextual stuff, Star Wars characters, and what have you.’
‘Are they easy to find?’
Dillon blew air through his lips and sat back. ‘So easy. The guy takes photos of them, sells maps, publishes books. He wants them to be found.’
‘So you’ve found all the London ones?’ She was smiling at him the way a parent might smile at a child: indulgently, affectionately.
He didn’t mind. He liked her attention.
‘Not even close. I refuse to look up where they are. I love stumbling across them too much. There’s about one hundred and fifty of them, and I reckon I’ve found about forty.’ He grinned. ‘I post pictures of them when I find them, but I never say where they are. The people who follow me on Instagram must think I’m nuts.’
‘What of the people who follow me, then? I only post about cakes. Hundreds of pictures about inspirations and creations. The insides, the outsides. Cakes cakes cakes.’
‘Ah, yes, but you’re niche. That’s a business profile.’ He touched the gold napkin folded neatly beneath his silverware. Straightened the knife so it was parallel to the fork. ‘I couldn’t find a personal profile for you.’
Abigail nodded. ‘I’d have given you a gold star if you could. I deleted my accounts before I moved here. I didn’t like the dialogues that came from them, mostly. The world’s quieter this way.’
This discovery disappointed him. It limited his exploration of her. There would be no photos of her in far-flung places to look at, no insights into her home or the people and things she surrounded herself with. Status updates were so interesting; what people chose to talk about could sometimes be as telling as what they chose to remain silent on.
‘Much quieter, I imagine,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘I can hear the horror in your voice, but it’s easier to unplug than you think. I’m no longer checking in or trying to keep up. The people who want to keep in touch do. Those I’m an inconvenience to don’t. I still use the internet. I read the news and adore Pinterest. I just don’t tell the internet what I’m doing.’
‘Except with Boucake.’
‘Except with Boucake,’ she allowed.
‘How did you go with those pictures?’
Abigail told him about the magazines and newspapers she’d approached and the offers she’d received. She’d played them off against one another, boosted their offers and cleverly retained the rights that they wouldn’t capitalise on. Being a business person himself, Dillon could read between the lines of her modesty: she’d created a bidding war, and she’d correctly estimated her work’s worth. The images would run across a two-page spread in The Daily Telegraph, which had been promised first rights and an accompanying interview, then later as part of an artistic baking feature article in the print and online editions of Baking Heaven.
‘You’re certainly making a name for yourself,’ he said. ‘And while we’re on topic, I should tell you: Steve almost licked his computer screen when your designs came through.’
Her delight energised him. It made him speak faster and lean closer.
He said, ‘They’re perfect. You clearly did your research, everything’s bang on. I have no idea how you’re going to do those checkerboard layers, but consider me impressed already.’
‘Thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity.’
He sat back. ‘I suspect we’re just the first cog in your corporate wheel. You’re going places.’
‘I actually have a corporate pitch next week. A bank. They have a lot of wonderful ideas I’m hoping to accommodate.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be great.’ He thought of Brittany. ‘Do you have enough help?’
‘For now. With any luck I’ll need to re-evaluate in a few months’ time. That would mean I’m on the right track, and I’d certainly welcome fewer early mornings.’
The conversation was broken when Dillon had to excuse himself to visit the men’s room. Although he was barely gone two minutes, she was on her phone when he returned, and he felt a spear of disappointment that the outside world had intruded for just that fraction of time.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked, taking his seat. He couldn’t think of a reasonable way to ask who she was talking to. He was too new in her life to ask questions like that. So of course, his vague question got a vague response.
‘Of course.’ She pushed the phone back into her small purse and didn’t elaborate on what had divided her attention. But her smile … it was marginally wider, if not a little coy. And he would have liked it, had he thought that new smile was for him, or because of him. He glanced at her purse, then cleared his throat and looked around at their extraordinary surrounds.
They watched a waiter downstairs navigate the rabbit-warren of tables and chairs, then smiled at each other when they realised the waiter was coming to them. As he took their orders, Dillon made the interruption a kind of marker. No more work. This was a date. Their third date. And there was an ache in his chest, a kind of pressure that only kissing her would relieve.
What they needed was some atmosphere.
This came after tea. After she’d insisted on paying, which never happened when people knew his financial situation; after they’d exchanged descriptions of the erotic artworks in the bathroom; and after they’d stepped out of Sarastro, and begun walking along Russell Street towards Covent Garden.
He took her hand and held it as they walked beneath the pillared frontage of the Theatre Royal. She gripped his arm and squeezed it when they stood in front of SugarSin, marvelling at the mouth-watering, rainbow range of sweets. Every step and shared glance seemed to reduce the distance between them, until he felt so emotionally and physically close to her, that when music began to play, it seemed so obvious and natural that they should begin to dance.
The English folk singer, playing his acoustic guitar against the backdrop of the grand Convent Garden Market Building, smiled at them as they shuffled their feet and turned slow circles around each other.
Abigail was quiet but smiling, and Dillion both wanted her next words, and loved the intimate silence between them. The striking beaded sleeves had disappeared beneath her jacket, but he hoped to see them again. He could feel the shape of them beneath the material when he ran his hands up her arms, and down again.
The next song was a slower one, and it wasn’t long until others came. Some were dressed for fine dining, and others for a walk around the neighbourhood. One couple held their Dachshund between them as they turned and laughed and kissed.
Abigail watched them, then she smiled at Dillon and let her gaze settle somewhere below his right ear. Over her shoulder, Dillon saw an assemblage of contemporary and historic buildings, a sea of cobblestones, red phone boxes and smiling faces, and felt that Abigail had opened his eyes to the wonders of his own city. He moved her closer within the circle of his arms, and something in him became infinitely lighter when she leaned her head against his neck.
When the song ended some people clapped quietly then drifted away, but others, like them, waited and hoped for more.
The street performer obliged. And the song he played next was more romantic than the last.
When the song was rising and falling to its sweet conclusion, Dillon eased back so that he could see Abigail’s face. He lifted a hand to cradle her cheek, and stroked the soft skin with his thumb. She lifted her chin a fraction, and he accepted the invitation. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
Their lips were slick pillows, moving over and against each other, and he felt their friction low in his abdomen and in the back of his knees. They were gentle with each other at first, then his hand moved around to cup the bac
k of her neck and the kiss became firmer.
Dillon didn’t hear the song end, but it was quiet when they drew away from one another. It was as if London itself was holding its breath for the moment that followed. He certainly was.
She smiled. ‘Let’s do that often,’ she said.
And he was so charmed that they immediately did it again.
Dillon put a fifty pound note in the street performer’s guitar case, then let Abigail steer him towards the Covent Garden tube station. Their date was drawing to a close, but despite that, they were hand-in-hand and smiling like they’d been nominated for awards. He was halfway through a story about that one time he’d seen the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, when Abigail stopped walking, and positioned herself in front of him so that she could hold both of his hands.
She didn’t say anything, just kept smiling, so he haltingly continued his story.
When he was done with it, she told him about the one time she’d gone on the London Eye. She lifted her hands high to illustrate, and he watched them with amusement. ‘The capsule was enormous,’ she was saying. ‘And air-conditioned, which I imagine makes a big difference on a warm day. In fact, just being enclosed in that glass room with so many people—airflow would be important, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’ll make a point of going some time,’ he said. He laughed when she thrust her hands in the air again in mock celebration, but then the sound caught in his throat, and he tumbled into a surprised silence.
Behind Abigail’s splayed fingers was a small green-eyed creature, clinging to the bottom corner of a building overhang. It was five tiles high and thirteen tiles wide, and a vibrant orange against a dark green background. A Space Invader. One he’d not seen before.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he said, reaching up to grasp Abigail’s hands and turn her on the spot, ‘but I’ve just seen …’ He trailed off. When he looked from the tiles to her face, she looked unsurprised and pleased, and he realised that not only would she believe it, but she’d been expecting it.
Have Your Cake Page 14
