Have Your Cake

by Elise K. Ackers

  ‘That’s it,’ said a voice above him.

  Dillon abruptly straightened in his seat and looked up. A man stood by his chair, hands on hips. There was a stained apron covering his front, and a coffee machine portafilter grasped in one of his wrinkled hands. The man shook it at him.

  It was the man he’d bought his iced tea from. Ten minutes ago the man had been all smiles and niceties. Now he looked moments away from clocking Dillon over the head.

  ‘That’s it?’ Dillon repeated.

  ‘That’s it,’ the man agreed. ‘I wasn’t sure at first. Maybe you just liked the view or something, but now I know.’ He shook the portafilter in Boucake’s direction. ‘They’re the view. You’re staring at those women. Well I tell you; they’ve had enough trouble—so on with you!’

  It was Dillon’s surprise that made him so easy to chivvy out of his seat.

  Standing now, watching his unfinished iced tea being taken away from him, he could only think to ask: ‘What trouble?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said they’ve had trouble.’

  The man’s hands were now full so he couldn’t wave Dillon away, which Dillon suspected he wished he could.

  ‘I said on with you!’ He looked past Dillon and threw his voice further. ‘Arran!’

  ‘No.’ Dillon held his hands up and turned. There was no-one there, but people in the convenience store were looking up from their purchases. ‘You don’t need back up, old man. I know Abigail. And Brittany. I was—you know, dating and what have you.’

  He was deliberately misleading about tense. It didn’t seem wise to volunteer that Abigail had shown him the door.

  ‘She asked me to meet her here,’ he went on, and pointed at the shop. ‘I’m early.’

  The old man narrowed his wary eyes. ‘Come to think of it, I think I recognise you.’

  ‘You would,’ Dillon said quickly. ‘You should. I’m Dillon. I’ve been here loads of times.’

  ‘And that other idiot?’

  Dillon let the insult pass. ‘Yeah, who was that?’

  ‘Some dickhead and a woman.’

  Dillon glanced at the shop. ‘A couple?’

  At first this didn’t make sense. She’d been hassled by customers? Had an order gone wrong? But then he remembered Abigail’s controversial decision to make her ex-fiancé’s engagement centrepieces, and thought he understood. Mal and Isobelle. And all had not gone well.

  ‘Is she okay?’ Dillon asked his accoster.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Is Abigail okay? Did he hurt her?’

  ‘No. No, he threw a few things around, said a few dickhead things. Brit got it all on camera. Says he hasn’t come back. But you can see why I didn’t like you staring at their shop like that.’

  Dillon nodded. ‘That’s decent of you. You’re a good man.’

  ‘We’re neighbours,’ he said. ‘We look out for each other.’

  ‘You and Arran, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, me and Arran. I’m Gregor.’

  The men regarded each other, then nodded. Gregor glanced at the iced tea in his left hand and shrugged his mouth. ‘I’ll, uh … Here.’ He set it back on the table and stepped away. He looked about to apologise, but then changed his mind and lifted his chin.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m done with it. I’ll set your mind at ease and head on over there. Get her to wave back to you.’

  Gregor picked up the tea again. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  Which meant Dillon was out of time. He’d been called on his procrastination.

  He smiled weakly, rolled his shoulders, then stepped away from the café chairs and the Yard’s neighbourhood watch. It felt like a long walk to the Boucake shop door, and when he opened it, the doorbell seemed more like a clang than a tinkle.

  She was there, standing behind the register, her hair bundled high and her lips painted the colour of sin. Her blouse was the palest of greens and when she stepped around the counter, he saw that she wore boots over her jeans that came halfway up her shins. She was a knock-out. If he’d had a plan, one look at her would’ve cleared his mind.

  As it was he had no plan, and no words.

  ‘All right, Dillon?’ She checked the time on her phone. ‘You’re early.’

  He glanced at her phone, as if he could see the time on the small screen. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  He looked back at her face and thought he saw genuine welcome there.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘it’s slow in here. We can leave now. I’ll let Brittany know.’ She turned.

  Dillon called her back.

  He pointed over his shoulder. ‘This is going to sound strange, but could you give your guard dog a wave?’

  ‘My …?’ She stepped around him and looked through the window.

  ‘Gregor the Great.’

  Abigail waved. She smiled at her protector, then turned back to the man who would stand between her and danger too, if ever given the chance. ‘I hope he didn’t give you too hard a time.’

  ‘Sounds like there’s been some excitement.’

  Abigail looked set to brush this off, but Dillon held up a hand and stopped her.

  ‘What went down with Mal? Did he hurt you?’

  ‘Some things went down, some things came up.’ She shrugged it off. ‘Agreeing to it all wasn’t one of my better ideas, but it’s done now.’ And that, he thought, was evidently all he was going to hear about that. She pointed towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll grab my bag and we can get going.’

  She left.

  A burst of colour in the display cabinet caught his eye. He drifted towards it, and what he saw made his eyebrows rise. Mouths. Lips opened for a kiss. Dozens of them, in rich red wrappers. He remembered the picture she’d shown him on one of their earlier dates, and later that he’d seen for himself on Instagram, and the memory warmed him.

  ‘These look good,’ he said when she returned. ‘But they’re different than how I remember them.’

  She grinned. ‘These are a different product. They’re leaves, actually. Lip-shaped leaves from South and Central America. Gorgeous, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’ve seen better,’ he said, letting his gaze fall significantly on her mouth. He watched it curve, and felt a pull of delight low in his belly when he looked up and saw her nose crease.

  ‘Smooth.’ She hesitated. ‘Let’s hit the road.’

  Brittany appeared in the kitchen doorway. Unseen by her boss, she smiled at Dillon and offered him a small wave.

  He smiled back, then followed Abigail out of the shop and down the street to the parking garage. It was a sweet treat walking beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she pawed through her handbag looking for keys, and pushed her fringe back from her face, as he itched to do. He opened the passenger door of the van, and watched wordlessly as she climbed in the other side, reached over and hastily gathered the logos he’d bought for her.

  It was possible she’d thought to peel them off when she’d parked it, but something told him her drive out of the city had been a deliberately anonymous one.

  Where had she gone?

  It was most likely she’d gone back to her hometown, but to see Mal and Isobelle? Why?

  Their expired relationship didn’t make him feel like he could ask, so he said nothing and buckled in. They made polite conversation on the drive to the repair shop, and as every street slipped past his window, he knew he was running out of time.

  He’d pictured mending fences somewhere less confined, but maybe it was perfect that he should try it in a van. After all, hadn’t their lives been brought together by cars?

  ‘So you’ve been good?’ he asked. It was a soft start, but he’d warm up. He’d dreamed about all the things he’d say if he ever saw her again, but in his mind the mood had never been this taut. It discouraged familiarity and candour, and so he was on the back foot.

  Abigail checked over her shoulder and changed lanes. ‘Yep. Aces.’ Her answer was clipped and distracted. Far from warm, as she�
��d been minutes ago in the shop when she’d felt comfortable.

  ‘Your, uh … The cakes you made for the launch were fantastic. I never got the chance to tell you that. People are still talking about them.’

  ‘Thanks. It drummed up a fair bit of new business, so I’m grateful.’

  He looked out the window and pressed his eyes into a squint. Surely they would discuss the weather next, for they were talking like polite acquaintances. It was making his chest tight. He turned back in his seat, making a concerted effort to look engaged in the conversation. ‘By the time we get there and do the exchange it’ll be near-on five. Will Brittany close up?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’ Another lane change.

  ‘Could you spare thirty minutes for a coffee?’

  The atmosphere in the van shifted. It became static, like crisp, thin air before a storm. She glanced at him and smiled, but with obvious effort.

  ‘Let’s see how we go for time,’ she said. ‘I have a unicorn cake and a hundred unicorn-dust cupcakes to make before a party tomorrow. Either way, I’m going back to the shop tonight.’

  ‘It’s just a quick coffee.’

  ‘Which for all I know is an hour long heart-to-heart about things I just don’t have room in my head for right now.’

  Stung, Dillon didn’t press the point. It was true, he had hoped coffee would have blown out to tea, but now he wondered if he hadn’t just had all his questions answered already. She wasn’t thinking about them. He, Dillon, had done little else but. Yet it was looking likelier by the second that Abigail Mullins had moved on from their week-long love affair. Moody now, he turned towards the passenger window and didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when they’d parked and were walking towards the panel beater’s reception desk. ‘I’ve had a terrible morning. That doesn’t excuse how I spoke to you in the car, of course. But just so you know, I’m not on edge because of you.’ She paused and he paused too. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Her gaze sharpened, as if she were adjusting the lens of a camera for portrait focus. ‘And I see you’re looking good,’ she said. ‘Maybe better than I’ve ever seen you.’

  He straightened proudly. Hand in pocket, his fingers curled around the small aluminium coin resting at the bottom. His twenty-four-hour chip. Technically, he should have had six rattling around in there—for he hadn’t touched a drink since his sponsor had shaken his hand—but the next increment was a month. So this particular chip was going to be with him for a while.

  He thanked her. They kept walking.

  It took forty minutes for Abigail to be reunited with her van and inspect its various components, and she was clearly delighted to see that ready had truly meant ready. Dillon had shared the logo design files with the repairer and lined up the best custom vehicle wrapping company to complete the job. It looked as good as new, and standing beside it, utterly sober, it shamed him to think that he’d once been so affected as to not see it in all its magnificence before crashing headlong into the side of it.

  He could’ve damn killed her. The thought had possessed him.

  Out on the street, Abigail smiled down at her keys, returned to her at last, and bounced them in her palm. ‘We need to talk about that car park,’ she said.

  Dillon’s smile dimmed a degree. ‘I paid for an extra month. Earlier. It’s contract-based, so there’s an exit fee.’

  She nodded. ‘I thought there might be. But listen, it’s a really helpful spot and business is getting better by the day. So I was hoping you’d let me buy out the lease.’

  There was a beat of silence as he processed this.

  First the van, and now the parking space—it was the last tie he had to her world. If she bought out the lease they would be balanced out, neither in debt with the other. Free to move on with their separate lives. What reason would she have to ever call him again? And how many times could Dillon organise a cupcake catered launch at Wheels before it began to look as desperate as he felt right now?

  ‘Can we get that coffee?’ he asked. ‘Please?’

  Abigail’s eye twitched. She hesitated for a beat too long, then sighed. ‘Okay, sure.’

  A bit more enthusiasm would have been welcome, but Dillon would take what he could get right now. He extended his arm to indicate she should lead the way, and followed her into a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that had fully embraced its industrial setting. They sat on shaped concrete stools and propped their elbows on burnished bronze narrow tables. Miniature cacti speared out of repurposed industrial grade pipe pots, and copper bare bulb pendants lit the space with a butterscotch glow.

  ‘There are some really great places in London,’ he said, thinking of the extraordinary places they had visited together. ‘We could spend a lifetime exploring them and probably still not see them all.’

  ‘Because places would turn over,’ she agreed, ‘and change.’ She reached for the basic, all-caps menu and skimmed the drink options. She handed the page to him then checked her phone whilst she waited for him to decide.

  He decided on a simple flat white, looked up, and knew immediately that all was not right with the world.

  As he watched, Abigail’s face grew progressively paler. Her thumb scrolled then stilled. She typed a flurry of letters then scrolled again. When her compressed lips began to turn white he couldn’t say silent any longer.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Boucake,’ she said, in a voice so thin it could barely hold up under its own weight. ‘Boucake is trending.’

  He sat back. ‘Congratulations?’ he ventured.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not congratulations.’ She reached suddenly for her bag. ‘I have to go.’

  He was vaulting forward to seize her wrist before his mind had even registered that he’d moved. ‘Wait!’ burst through his lips. Too loud and sharp for this small space. All this waiting and improving himself—for himself, of course, but god damnit also for her. Pining and pitying himself, and walking around and around his living room trying to imagine how she might decorate it, so that he might do the same and feel as at home in his place as he had that one time in hers. The relief and excitement he’d felt when she’d called. He’d been counting on a second chance. Or a third chance, or a fourth chance—whatever it was he was up to now. Everything inside of him had aligned itself to this moment.

  But she was leaving. And she might never have truly been here in the first place, as she’d been so distracted from the onset.

  Abigail whipped her hand back so fast that Dillon’s hand thumped to the tabletop. Her eyes were hard.

  ‘Don’t you ever grab at me like that again.’

  His offending hand flew up in the air in surrender. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t. I’m sorry. But please don’t go.’ His hand moved towards her again, but palm up this time, beseeching her. ‘I have so much I want to say to you.’

  ‘Dillon, I have to go. I don’t have time for this.’

  He stood, and by doing so, partially obscured her path to the exit. He opened his mouth to protest again, then saw the break before he heard it. Something about her disposition changed so radically, that what had moments ago seemed like uncontained distraction, now pulsed from her like beats of single-minded rage. Her eyes widened and were wild, vicious things when she half-shouted the words that opened the world beneath his feet.

  ‘Get out of my way! Don’t you get it? This is over! Stop pushing at me, and stop touching me. You’re not good for me, and I said no. I said no!’

  The people in the café had fallen into a stunned silence. The woman behind the counter had frozen mid-way through bagging a muffin and the person waiting to pay had completely turned around to stare. All of their gazes had been on Abigail at first—the source of the sudden sound—but now their eyes were shifting to Dillon.

  The villain.

  Mortification heated his bloodstream and made his face burn. He imagined his cheeks were as red as the raspberry conserve on the nearby plate.

>   Incredibly, through the haze of her sudden fury, Abigail seemed to register the transference of blame. One moment she was skin over fire and the next she was sagging before him, her shoulders dropping and her face slackening. ‘I’m not good for you either,’ she said. Her voice wobbled. ‘This relationship has had a guillotine over its neck from the start.’ She filled her lungs with a long breath, then said, ‘I’m a cheater. I’ve cheated. Okay? I am what you despise. We were never going to work.’

  A second passed, loaded with everything that had been and could have been between them.

  The next second that passed contained nothing.

  She pushed past him and hurried out to the street.

  Dillon stood there, shaken to his core. That word. Cheat. It lashed at him, a cat-o-nine tails against his heart. One lash was his ex’s name. One lash was Abigail’s. The others were that hated word. That breaker of houses. That poison of all poisons.

  Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat.

  His skin tore and everything he was spilled out of his body to pool at his feet. With a shaking hand he sought the small chip in his pocket, and grasped it.

  (Before)

  Red

  It had taken three days to get the password to Mal’s phone. Each time he’d left the room, Abigail had repeatedly touched the home button on his phone with her unregistered finger, which forced him to type out the password when he next tried to use it. He griped about the clunky technology and often shielded his screen from view as he rectified the issue, but finally he unlocked the device without giving the process his full attention, and Abigail was able to memorise the number sequence.

  She’d checked his calendar when he was in the shower, and now here she was, sitting in a semi-private booth in the far corner of a decadent corporate lunch spot, waiting for him.

  She had her back to the front door, but she could see the warped bodies of the men and women who entered in the highly reflective surface of the chrome vase on a side table nearby. It was supporting an expensive arrangement of lily varietals, and highly useful in surveilling the room.