Mal glared at Brittany. His lips pressed together and his chest somehow widened, but then Isobelle was there, her tiny hand rapping on his chest and her whole body bouncing.
‘Baby, look!’ Isobelle squealed. More bouncing. ‘Aren’t they perfect? And the cake, oh the cake.’
How divided he must feel, Abigail thought. He finally had the confrontation he’d no doubt dreamed of since their last encounter—Abigail was before him at last—but they were not alone. He had a new fiancée to be mindful of. He wouldn’t behave the way the creature inside of him wished to, because it would contradict the character he had built for Isobelle. No doubt he’d ‘lock her in’ before he truly exposed himself. Engagements were far easier to break than marriages. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
Mal’s hateful eyes moved from Brittany, to Abigail, then down to Isobelle. ‘You’re happy, Belle?’ His voice was different. Saccharine.
‘So happy. Look!’ She pointed at the imitation pearls, then at the roses. ‘They all look so real!’
‘If my baby’s happy, then we’re good to go.’ He looked up, clicked his fingers at Abigail. ‘Load ’em up. The van’s in the loading bay out the front.’
The shop bell jangled. Hurried footsteps preceded two men bursting into the kitchen. Gregor, his green apron tied high on his chest and his white shirt stained with coffee, had the handle of an aluminium softball bat gripped between white-knuckled fingers. Arran had a chef’s knife similar to the one Mal had so recently been wielding.
Abigail reached for Gregor and closed her fingers around his wrist. He grabbed her, hauled her behind him.
‘Who are you?’ he barked at Mal. ‘You’re bothering these women and you’re not supposed to be back here.’
Mal smiled, but looked only at Abigail. ‘So you have three friends in the world, then.’
‘Out!’ Gregor snapped. He waved the bat end at the couple.
Isobelle looked at the centrepieces with undisguised longing. ‘But—’
‘We’ll pass them through the door,’ Abigail said stiffly.
Their eyes met, then Isobelle dropped her gaze to the floor. She followed her fiancé through to the shop, then out the front door.
Brittany threw her arms around Gregor and Arran, pulling them so close their heads almost knocked together. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘You’re both so wonderful. Thank you, thank you.’
‘I’m going to follow them out,’ Arran said gruffly. He almost pocketed his knife but caught himself in time. He nodded at his feet then bustled out.
Gregor lingered, the creases in his old face deepened with concern. ‘Are you both all right? Should I call the police?’
Brittany held her camera up. The little red light was still on. ‘No, it’s okay. It’s amazing how much being caught on camera reins someone in.’ She glanced into the shop, then back at Gregor. ‘But if you could linger?’
He patted her shoulder. It was like a bear comforting a bird. ‘Of course.’
He followed Arran out into the shopfront.
Brittany and Abigail stared at one another.
Eventually Brittany said, ‘I hate him. And she’s insane to be marrying him.’
Abigail didn’t respond. She walked over to the nearest box and looked inside. The bouquet was miraculously intact, as were the others. She closed the first lid carefully, then retrieved the small trolley from the store room.
There was a frightened bird smacking around in her ribcage, and little tremors running up the back of her legs. Her stomach contracted, then steadied. She thought she was going to be sick.
Brittany put the camera down, its lens facing Abigail, then together they lowered the box onto the trolley. Two boxes could fit on the trolley per trip, so they went between the kitchen and shop six times. Brittany filmed Abigail pushing them to the door, then filmed Mal as he lifted each box off the premises.
When he lifted the last box clear, Abigail stepped around the trolley, closed the door and locked it.
Outside, Gregor and Arran watched Boucake’s customers with folded arms.
Isobelle, who’d done little more than supervise, watched the last box be loaded into the hire van, then turned around to look at Abigail.
If there was triumph, or pettiness, or even a trace of apology in her eyes, Abigail didn’t see it. Abigail only saw a victim. A woman who was about to align her life with a man who wouldn’t value it. An old friend who was making a poor choice, and lining up to echo Abigail’s experiences. If Abigail had had a good life with Mal, Isobelle’s following her footsteps wouldn’t feel the way that it did. But Abigail had suffered. She’d fled her engagement with Mal. Ruined her reputation during her escape. And now she was standing idly by as history looked to repeat itself.
Abigail pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone.
Mal should not be allowed to marry.
And Isobelle? She may be eating from a poisoned fruit, but she hadn’t choked yet. There was still time for Abigail to do something.
A soft beep signalled the end of Brittany recording the exchange. She pushed the camera into her apron pocket and turned to Abigail, her eyes shining with adrenaline.
‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘It’s done. And not that it’s any of my business, but you should find out when they’re getting married and make yourself unavailable.’
Abigail nodded. ‘I won’t be catering at their wedding.’ She paused. She could feel something big and expansive growing in size within her. ‘In fact, there may not be a wedding to be catered for at all.’
Brittany—wide mouth closed and lips twisted in confusion, glanced between Abigail and the view from their shop window. ‘You reckon she’ll come to her senses?’
‘With a little bit of influence, yes.’ She glanced at Brittany. ‘Speak now, and all that jazz, right?’
‘As in or forever hold your peace?’
Abigail nodded. ‘Yes. I’m going to stop the wedding.’
Chapter 25
Comparisons and imitations
Five days later Abigail returned from the markets with her arms full. She was in the mood for creative experimentation. She’d spent her lunchtime walking between buckets of blooms and watching florists display their products in everything from bouquets to boxes. Whenever curiosity had slowed her steps, she’d dropped to her haunches to touch and examine. She’d tried to link texture with piping heads, natural shape with a flick of the wrist, and today had returned to the shop with two long-stemmed bundles; a half dozen Christmas red carnations, and a dozen purple azaleas.
She wanted to learn more; to extend her skillset beyond roses, gerberas and chrysanthemums. It was important that her product lines were as fresh as her cakes. In that spirit, she’d begun looking at species that could be transferred onto a cupcake—petals that weren’t too delicate, varieties that didn’t defy gravity so much that she couldn’t hope to replicate them with icing or marzipan.
She’d earmarked sunflowers as a future triumph. A recent attempt to create one had been too garish. The disc flowers and seeds had looked too much like sugar, and Abigail prided herself on imitations which required a second look.
She was also an expert at busy-work and distractions.
The dust had settled since the Mal confrontation, and to her great relief she’d not heard from the happy couple since. But an idea was ruminating. It just needed another few hours of thought. She’d sleep on it one more time, then she’d act.
She’d probably act.
Definitely act.
She would. She should. Tomorrow.
Brittany was loading a selection of individual cupcakes into a box when Abigail stepped into the store. The sole customer, an elderly woman clutching an umbrella in her hand despite the clear blue sky, smiled broadly when their eyes met.
‘Lovely shop,’ she said. ‘Just lovely.’ She noted the flowers in Abigail’s arms. ‘Inspiration?’
‘Exactly that,’ Abigail said, crossing to her and looking into the box. ‘Ah, the d
ahlias, my favourites.’
The woman looked about the shop and laughed. ‘Are you allowed to have favourites?’
Abigail shrugged and covered her mouth, as if caught out on a secret. ‘Let’s not tell the others.’
The woman laughed. ‘Don’t put ears on them and you’ll be right.’
Abigail’s first thought was of an absurd looking piped ear balanced on a cupcake. Her second thought was of Dillon.
Dillon standing beneath the ear he’d walked Floral Street three times to find, and of the date that had followed—glamorous and intimate, within an operatic restaurant that had made all of their ideas seem grander and their confessions more dramatic.
She was missing him. She’d had a look on his Instagram page a few days back but there’d been no change since Brittany had first showed her his profile. Except for the deleted picture, of course. And Abigail almost regretted being struck from his narrative. It had been a sweet photo. She’d have screenshot it if she’d realised it was the last time she’d see their smiling faces.
Even so. Looking at his page had been unwise. It had twisted her up in knots all over again. And she’d been jealous of the anonymous faces crowding around him. That hadn’t been a healthy half hour of her life. And she felt the occasional jab of memory even now, days later.
She pushed aside the beautiful memories—the ones of him smiling broadly and dancing with her under a starry night—and called up the ugly ones. Unfortunately, they came easily. Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes looking in through the broken window of her van. Twisting, nervous fingers as he’d confessed to sleeping with someone else after Circus. His slack, seedy body slumped over the edge of his bed, in his cold room, in his even colder, concrete and marble house.
She’d had her reasons, and they were as relevant now as they had been that night in the Indian restaurant.
Abigail’s metaphoric Olympic-size swimming pool was runneth over with drama. Dillon was torrential rain she didn’t need.
In the kitchen now, Abigail arranged the bouquets into vases, then snipped one of the azalea stems short and carried it over to the workbench. She set up her piping materials, plucked two fresh cupcakes from the cooling racks, and pulled up her most comfortable chair.
It began with trial and error; trying one nozzle after another, until she discovered the nozzle which most closely matched the form of the Azalea’s heart. She used a second piping bag to layer the crinkled petals, then scraped it all away when she was done.
She tried again.
And again.
Brittany came in, made some observations and offered encouragement, then she carried the bouquets out to the front counter so that more people could appreciate them throughout the day.
Abigail continued to squeeze, fold and twist, until she was certain she’d committed the process to muscle memory.
She made a dozen of them and arranged them in the display counter. The customers would be an unofficial review team. They would comment on them, maybe buy them. Abigail would listen, and she would learn.
Tomorrow she would learn how to make carnations. They would be excellent fillers amongst mixed boucakes—so broad and full, beautiful but simple. Not everyone liked roses, after all. They may be Boucake’s bread and butter, but they were not a global favourite. Abigail wanted her customers to have choices, and to come back time and again so they could make different choices.
‘They look good,’ Brittany said, bending down to scrutinise them through the glass. ‘When do my lessons begin, Obi Wan?’
Abigail smiled. ‘If any of those sell, I’ll run you through it on Monday.’
‘Sounds good.’ Brittany straightened. ‘So listen, I had this idea.’ She met Abigail’s gaze then looked away. ‘It’s a sort of game.’
‘This is business related?’
‘Oh yes, a game for the business!’ She rounded the counter and came to stand near Abigail. ‘It begins with a compliment.’
‘Savvy.’
Brittany grinned. ‘Right. Anyway, I think your roses are pretty great.’
Abigail looked pointedly at the flawless creations on the shelf beside the azaleas. ‘Thank you, but yours are equal to mine.’
‘Okay, so we make great roses. Realistic, are-you-sure-I-can-eat-this roses, right?’ Abigail’s nod bolstered her. ‘I thought we could run a competition on social media. A comparison game. Two photos side-by-side, a Boucake rose versus a Mother Nature rose. Pick the real over the sugar. We put up a series of them, get our followers to guess—and whoever gets all the right answers first wins a boucake.’ She held up a finger. ‘Subject to them collecting the boucake from the store, and being photographed for promotional purposes. We could put that in the terms and conditions. What do you think?’
Abigail linked her fingers together. ‘I think you talk really fast when you’re excited.’
Brittany became very still, as if she were afraid she might spook a wild creature.
Abigail reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘I think it’s a great idea. It promotes our product, it’s a subtle pat on the back. We do make good roses.’ She let go and held her hands up. ‘I trust you. Tell me what you need me to do and when, or tell me to keep out of your way if that’s more helpful.’
‘Really?’ Brittany bent her knees, straightened, then clasped Abigail’s raised hands. ‘Yes! Thank you. I’ll …’ She half-turned on the spot. Turned back. ‘I should go to the market. I should get a few varieties and we can replicate them. And I’ll have to get photos of them under the same conditions. It doesn’t all have to be now. We can do it over the next week or two.’
Abigail wanted to laugh. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘If I give you some photos, could you make up a poster on Photoshop? Something we can put in the window, and post on our account?’
‘Of course.’
Then Brittany danced. Her knees unlocked, her arms flew up, and she crowed at the ceiling like a bird set free.
Abigail watched her, amused and pleased, and felt a surge of gratitude for having found such a passionate and creative colleague. Abigail excelled in many parts of this business, but what she lacked in marketing flair, Brittany had in spades. And she was generous with it. Excited to share her ideas, committed to building the business. And of course, she was right about things getting busier. Abigail had needed her out the back more and more lately. The shopfront felt like a burden at times—a distraction from the custom orders. Particularly when they were under deadline and Brittany’s skills were better used for creating, rather than boxing and counting out change.
‘I’m going to hire someone,’ she announced impulsively.
Brittany stopped dancing and stared.
‘I need you in the kitchen more. I need you making this stuff—’ she gestured at the colourful boucakes on the shelves around them, ‘—more than I need you selling it.’ She paused. ‘Is that okay?’ Before Brittany could answer, Abigail hastened to add, ‘I mean, I’m offering you a promotion. Clumsily,’ she allowed, ‘but sincerely.’
Brittany didn’t reanimate.
‘How’s that marshmallow design coming along?’ Abigail prompted.
Brittany’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘There—there hasn’t been time. I’ve been researching—at home. And I have ideas—’
Abigail stood and grasped Brittany’s rigid hands. ‘This is what I’m talking about. I want your ideas. I want there to be time for them. That’s within my control, so I’m going to do something about it.’
Brittany began to nod. Infinitesimally at first, then eagerly. Her excitement burst forth like shaken pop from a bottle. ‘Yes!’
They embraced. Abigail grinned into the woman’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
When they stepped back from one another, Brittany was laughing. ‘Oh my god,’ she said, and waved a hand back and forth. ‘I just thought … When on earth are we going to find the time to interview people?’
Abigail laughed too. ‘I have no idea. I’ll hire an agency to do the initia
l scouting. Maybe I’ll just beg Tracey to come back—she was good.’
‘Is that the one who came in when I was sick? But you want someone for just out the front, right?’
Abigail gave her a light shove. ‘Don’t be jealous, it’ll be just me and you back here. You’re my girl.’
‘Damn right I am.’
But Brittany couldn’t quite hide her relief when she turned away and got back to work.
Abigail thought of her new azaleas, of the roses they’d perfected and the lips that had been too hot to remain in stock, and smiled.
Boucake was growing. And Abigail was growing with it.
Chapter 26
Return
For a week Abigail had dreamed of pink dresses, hungry marquee tents, and laughing mouths with sharp teeth. She’d imagined raised champagne glasses turning into mobile phones, their camera lights flashing, and a rainstorm of Mr & Mrs candy hearts that came down so thick and fast, party guests were forced to wade through them to the safety of Abigail’s mother’s car. Marissa let everyone in, guest after guest after guest, and the car absorbed them like clowns, until it was Abigail’s turn.
Every night, there was never enough room for Abigail.
Twice she’d drowned in the sea of candy hearts. The other times she’d woken herself up by wading in the sheets and getting herself snagged. But this morning she woke with a start, clutching her neck and thrashing her legs. She’d dreamed that Mal had choked her to death, and that everyone at her engagement party had given him a round of applause.
Abigail pushed a fist against her left eye, then her right, then sat up.
Wow, the subconscious was a bitch.
Pushing the sheets back, Abigail stretched her legs to the floor and shuffled around the bed to the bathroom. Tolkien lifted his head and yawned hugely, and he was still stretching his legs when she emerged a minute later. She scratched his head then pulled open her wardrobe doors.
Today was the day. She could procrastinate no longer.
Have Your Cake Page 24
