A PIECE OF CAKE

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘That looks very pretty,’ he said, when I’d released him from his vow of silence. ‘It’s unusual to see a blue wedding cake.’

  ‘The bride’s favourite colour is that Wedgwood blue and the cake is horseshoe shaped because she runs a riding school. Her fiancé is the local blacksmith, so it’s a marriage made in heaven,’ I added.

  ‘Forged to last?’ he joked.

  ‘And that,’ I agreed, switching the kettle on to make a cup of coffee before we set out. When I turned, I caught him looking curiously round my kitchen.

  ‘This isn’t at all how I imagined it would be – I thought you’d have a much bigger area to work in and yet here you are in a tiny cottage kitchen!’

  ‘The house belongs to my parents – they bought it as an investment years ago and when the last tenants moved out, I moved in and started up my business here on a small scale.’

  ‘But Laura says you’re very successful now?’

  ‘The orders book is pretty full, but it’s taken some time to build up to that. And now I suppose I’m a victim of my own success, because I need bigger premises, but I haven’t really had time to look for anything.’

  ‘I like the area round here. I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet to live and ideally I want a little bit of land, or a big garden, so I could keep hens and grow vegetables, that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘But near Knutsford, where I’m living now, the prices are sky high.’

  ‘That’s because all those overpaid footballers are living there,’ I said dryly.

  ‘Touché!’ He smiled at me wryly. ‘You know, I’ve thought about you a lot since we met, Kate.’

  ‘Have you?’ I said, trying to sound casual, though I admit my heart did a little flip and I was probably blushing. I’d forgotten quite how attractive he was …

  But then I remembered all those photos I’d seen of him at parties, draped in stick-thin blondes, and got a grip on myself. ‘I thought you’d be too busy playing with your friends, on and off the field,’ I said, making it sound as if he was ten and playing tag with his gang until his mum called him in for tea.

  ‘I work hard, but I don’t play hard. I’m not a party animal.’

  ‘Really? That’s odd, because I saw some recent Hello! magazine pictures of you in a nightclub, with a lot of girls. You looked as if you were having a good time.’

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a Hello! reader, somehow,’ he said pensively.

  ‘I’m not, but it’s my hairdresser’s favourite magazine, so the only thing to read when I’m there. You seem to feature a lot.’

  ‘Well, that one was a teammate’s birthday bash. I only showed my face for half an hour and I’ve no idea who the girls were,’ he said. ‘Things aren’t always as they appear in the press.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I conceded.

  ‘Look Kate, I know we got off on the wrong foot right from the start, so I’m not surprised you’ve got the wrong impression of me, but you never really gave me the chance to say sorry about what happened at the reception. It was just one of those stupid things. None of us appreciated how much time and effort it had taken you to make all those little cakes. When Laura explained, I could see why you’d had a severe sense of humour failure.’

  ‘I’ve got a perfectly good sense of humour,’ I said with dignity. ‘But I thought you all behaved like a gang of idiotic adolescents and it was a waste of good food, so there was nothing funny about it that I could see.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said quickly and was so contrite that by the time we’d stowed the cake away in my van, which is a small white one with ‘Kate’s Cakes’ lettered up the side in gold, and I’d driven him to the reception venue, we were chatting in a much friendlier way.

  I left the cake in the careful hands of the staff and then, since the country house hotel was advertising afternoon teas (though goodness knows who to, other than the guests staying there, because it was so out of the way there couldn’t have been much passing trade!), we gave in to temptation. He suggested it, but I was ravenous by then, having worked right through lunch.

  It was a proper tea, too, with a three-tiered china stand groaning under the weight of finger sandwiches, scones, meringues and tiny cakes.

  There were little pots of jam, pats of dewy cold butter and dishes of whipped cream. It was a glutton’s delight.

  While we ate our way through this feast, we talked about all kinds of things, but especially his plans to move to the country.

  ‘I’ve got two dogs from a rescue home and they could do with a decent garden.’

  ‘Oh? What are they like?’ I asked, interested and he got out some snaps.

  ‘Here we are. This is Mitzi on the left and she’s part spaniel, you can see by the floppy ears. And the other is Minty, who I think is mostly bearded collie.’

  I admired the two happy-looking dogs and then showed him the faded snap of my beloved old dachshund, Snoopy, that I always kept in the back of my purse.

  ‘He died five years ago and I really miss him. But when you live and work from home, keeping the dog hair out of the kitchen can be a bit difficult, so I haven’t got another dog.’ I sighed. ‘I have to keep everything immaculately clean and that would be so much easier in a separate unit. I’ll have to start looking for one.’

  ‘Or buy a house with an outbuilding that could be converted into a cake-making workshop?’ he suggested.

  ‘In my dreams,’ I said wryly. ‘House prices might be much cheaper here in Lancashire than where you’re living, but so far I haven’t even managed to save enough for a deposit on a tiny terraced cottage – too busy ploughing money back into building up the business.’

  ‘I admire your enterprise,’ he said, then looked down at the snaps of Mitzi and Minty again. ‘It’s a bit difficult when I’m away from home, because I tried leaving the dogs in kennels and they pined. Now I get someone to stay and look after them. I’ve already got a daily dogwalker for when I’m out, then I take them again in the evenings. I think that’s the best part of the day.’

  ‘Oh, I’d so love another dog,’ I said enviously. ‘I’ll get one as soon as I’ve moved the cake making out of the cottage.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything in the local estate agent’s that’s appealed,’ he said, ‘but I might try looking round here, now I’ve seen how nice this bit of Lancashire is.’

  ‘You’d certainly get more for your money than in the Knutsford and Wilmslow area,’ I agreed. ‘But don’t you footballers all like to cluster together in the same place?’

  ‘Some do, but we’re not all the same, you know! I like to get away when I’m not training or playing.’

  ‘That doesn’t quite tally with that Hello! magazine.’

  ‘Couldn’t we forget about Hello! magazine?’ he asked plaintively. ‘Honestly, I only make token, short appearances at parties and stuff, because I’m friends with everyone and I don’t want to be standoffish.’

  ‘I suppose if you’re in a team, you can’t very well not,’ I conceded

  He looked at me. ‘I bet you’ve never even seen a football game?’

  ‘No, I haven’t and I have about as much desire to watch one as I have to go to Disneyworld.’

  ‘That would be absolutely zero?’

  I nodded. ‘Unless you can get minus zero.’

  ‘Refreshing,’ he said, then smiled and offered me the last scone.

  ‘No, you have it,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve eaten enough … maybe too much.’

  ‘I like a girl with a healthy appetite. It makes me feel self-conscious if I’m tucking in to a decent meal and the person I’m with is picking at a lettuce leaf.’

  ‘I’ve certainly got a healthy appetite all right, and even if I dieted for a year I’d still never be a skinny Minnie. Nature designed me to be small and plump, so I decided long ago not to fight it.’

  ‘Small and curvy,’ he corrected. Then he gave me that smile again, which had serious resistance-sapping qualities.

  He also has eyes the colo
ur of expensive chocolate and night-black, silky, straight hair … In fact, he was so handsome that I was convinced his only interest in me was purely friendly, born out of contrition about what happened at the Shapcott reception.

  We shared the scone, liberally coated in clotted cream and strawberry jam, and then, sticky and replete, thought we’d better get back.

  I had to get ready for Laura’s hen party and he was off to join the rest of Harry’s friends for the stag night.

  ‘And this one I can’t sneak off early from, seeing as I’m the best man, so in charge of getting Harry home again in one piece,’ he said.

  ‘I’m supposed to do the same for Laura, but luckily she’s not a big drinker. Anyway, she’s got a scary mother, so she’s not going to be out that late!’

  ‘I wish Harry had,’ he said glumly.

  ‘Never mind, he’ll soon have a scary mother-in-law to keep him in order.’

  ‘I’d better go, but I’ve enjoyed today, Kate, and I’ll see you again tomorrow, all scrubbed up and nervous about losing the ring, or forgetting my speech,’ he said, standing next to his car with the keys in his hand. I’d expected it to be some flashy sports type, but it wasn’t, just a modest dark blue estate, with a dog guard across the back.

  In fact, I’d been wrong about him right down the line, so it was starting to look as if I’d misjudged him, and all footballers weren’t alike, after all.

  *

  I have to admit that when I followed Laura up the aisle and Wes turned and looked right at me, his dark, angular face breaking into a warm, friendly smile, my heart skipped a beat in its hideously uncomfortable boned satin bodice.

  I had to drag my eyes away from his and concentrate on what I should be doing: supporting my best friend through her big day. But it all went beautifully, and then afterwards, as we followed the happy couple back down the aisle, Wes silently tucked my arm into his and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he whispered warmly in my ear, though up to that point I hadn’t thought stiff, sky-blue taffeta with puffed sleeves did an awful lot for me.

  ‘That dress is exactly the same colour as your eyes,’ he added.

  ‘You scrub up well, too,’ I said sedately, though that was the understatement of the year: he looked entirely delectable in his silky-smooth dark suit.

  ‘First the official photographs and then the reception – and this time I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ he promised very seriously, though I was sure I detected a glint of devilment in his brown eyes.

  ‘Let’s hope they all are too,’ I said slightly tartly, as his teammates poured out into the sunshine after us and started pelting the bride and groom with great handfuls of dried rose petal confetti, but I was smiling.

  I’m hopeless at throwing anything – you’ve probably grasped that I hate all ball games – so when I tossed my bouquet over my shoulder it went upwards like a rocket, rather than outwards, and on its descent was neatly caught by Wes, who was standing right behind me.

  You can imagine the comments some of his teammates made about that!

  *

  The speeches had been made and now Laura and Harry stood together behind a little table draped in a lacy white cloth, pretending to cut the cake for the photographer, though of course it would have to be partly dismantled before they could really do that.

  I admired my handiwork with secret pride, wishing I could have squeezed my camera into the silly little ruched satin dolly bag that went with the dress. The ball of white rosebuds seemed almost to float above the lower tier and, from where I stood, looked rather like a beautiful coral formation. …

  I thought of all the hours it had taken to create those sugar paste rosebuds – a true labour of love for my best friend’s big day and, now that I saw the finished thing, so well worth the time.

  Laura, in her simple white satin sheath dress, trimmed with silk roses and clear, sparkling crystals, looked almost as delectable as my cake and certainly Harry was looking at her as if he’d like to eat her!

  The cameras flashed again and then Laura’s Aunt Mimi, who had evidently already been at the sauce, tottered precariously past me on her unwisely high stiletto heels, holding up her mobile phone to take a snap.

  ‘Say cake!’ she trilled brightly, then to my horror caught her heel on the edge of the carpet, tripped and fell headlong, grabbing at the table with her long scarlet talons as she went.

  It tilted and then slowly rocked back as she let go her grasp – and so too did the ball of roses, like an egg in a spoon. For one agonising second I thought it would settle back into place, but then it tipped over and fell, bouncing off the edge of the table with a soggy thud and shedding the little bride and groom figures before rolling to a stop at Wes’s feet.

  There was a silence. As if in a nightmare, I saw his face – the blind instinct of a player as his leg swung back and then forwards to boot the ball – and the look of horror as his foot connected and he realised exactly what he had done.

  I was dimly conscious of a sort of animal roar from his teammates as they surged forward in a baying pack, but by then I was also obeying my instincts and flinging myself forward in a flying tackle to grab the cake.

  When I got up, clutching the battered remains to my boned bosom, there was a cheer.

  Mimi was, quite literally, being carried away by a handsome waiter, with her arms twined around his neck, so that she looked like a rather overblown heroine from the cover of a romance novel.

  The happy couple were still standing, transfixed, behind the table. Then I noticed that the corner of Laura’s mouth was twitching and knew she wanted to laugh.

  Wes was trying to offer me some kind of apology, but I brushed him aside, dusted off the dented and broken ruins of my lovely creation, and then stalked over to set it back into its place. Wes followed, humbly proffering the bride and groom figures and I snatched them without looking at him and jammed them down hard into the icing.

  We stepped back and there was a spatter of applause, then Harry hastily invited everyone to help themselves from the buffet.

  ‘Kate …?’ Wes said again beseechingly. ‘Please forgive me! I—’

  ‘Go away!’ I hissed furiously, then turned my back and walked over to the furthest table away from everyone else, where the desserts were laid out.

  I stood there, my hands resting on the white linen cloth and my eyes blurred with tears of rage, getting my temper back together again: not for nothing do I have red hair! For two pins I’d have run amok with the bridal cake knife, and I knew who I’d like to slice and dice first …

  ‘Deep breaths, Kate – it’s only a cake,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Get a grip – after all, they did take the photographs first. It would have been so much worse if it had happened earlier.’

  I grazed on a couple of comforting chocolate fondant fancies and began to calm down, until finally I started to see the funny side myself – especially the horrified expression on Wes’s face after he’d booted the cake! In fact, I could feel an almost hysterical bubble of laughter welling up from somewhere deep inside …

  Wes must have followed me over, but had wisely been hanging back, unsure of his welcome. Now he touched my arm and said cautiously, ‘Kate? I’m so, so sorry! What can I say? It was purely an instinctive reaction, but I know that doesn’t make what I did any better.’

  ‘Do you know how many hours of work I put into that cake?’ I demanded, without looking at him.

  ‘I can guess.’

  ‘I was making rosebuds for days. I made hundreds of the things.’

  ‘Look, I couldn’t feel any worse than I do right now and if you aren’t going to speak to me for another six months, like last time, I’ll wish I’d kicked myself and not the cake.’

  ‘I could do it for you?’ I offered.

  ‘Go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better … and I know you didn’t see the humour of it last time, but when you did that amazing flying tackle and got up holding the cake—’

 
He broke off and I could tell from his voice that he was trying not to laugh.

  The plate in front of me was heaped with large, heart-shaped meringue nests, piled high with cream and strawberries and, all at once, something just came over me: the next thing I knew I was grinding one all over Wes’s handsome, dark face.

  I think it was the sound of the other guests laughing that finally brought me back to my senses. My hands dropped, shedding meringue and cream down my blue taffeta, and I took a step back, but not before a half-nervous giggle had worked its way to the surface and escaped my lips.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said, my voice trembling. ‘Lost your sense of humour?’

  Wes, his face serious, so far as you could tell under the crumbly coating, licked the cream around his mouth. Then a grin broke through the encrusted meringue and he said, ‘Well, I think honours are about even now, don’t you?’

  Then suddenly he pulled me into his arms and kissed me, making sure he transferred a lot of the meringue, cream and strawberry on to my face in the process.

  Somewhere I could hear cheers and the sound of camera shutters clicking, but I was lost in the moment.

  You should have seen the photographs: love is the sweetest thing.

  Below is the wedding cake recipe which was first included in my novel, Wedding Tiers, which is all about a creator of weird and wonderful wedding cakes. At the end of the recipe you will find the photograph and description of the Elizabethan pomander cake that I made for the Wedding Tiers book launch party, and it’s very similar to the top tier of the cake that Kate, in A Piece of Cake, makes for her friend’s wedding.

  WEDDING CAKE

  Because the fruit is left to soak in the alcohol before the cake is baked, this is a quick cake to make at short notice, though of course it tastes even better if made well in advance. This makes one eight-inch round, rich, dark, fruit cake that can also be used for Christmas cake.

  Ingredients:

  The dried fruit plus glacé cherry element of this recipe should total two pounds in weight, though you can safely vary the different quantities of the ingredients within that to include, say, more mixed peel and less cherries, or more sultanas and less currants. The following is one combination.