Knowing me as she did, Zoë pulled the throw blanket down from the back of the couch and tucked it perfunctorily around my knees. I wasn’t stupid enough to think that the considerate gesture meant she was going to let me off the hook, though, and sure enough, she sat back and eyed me critically.
‘So what was his story this time?’
‘No story,’ I protested. ‘He just asked me to go with him to some posh cocktail party his work’s having at the High-Rise.’
‘Mmm hmm,’ she said, unconvinced. ‘And he asked you today?’
‘It doesn’t matter when he asked me. We’re mates, Zo. Like we all used to be.’
I knew instantly that referring to those halcyon days of being Aggie’s Beauty, Brains and Baker was a mistake, as she practically bristled.
‘Yeah, we were all mates,’ she agreed contemptuously, ‘right up to the point where you kissed him and he took that as an invitation to start treating you like crap.’
There was so much I loved about Zoë: her loyalty, her intelligence, her inability to see a wrong and not try her best to right it were all things I admired about her, but there were days I wished she wasn’t always quite so right about everything.
Because the evening that I’d kissed Dec all those years ago? Yeah, it hadn’t really gone the way I’d wanted it to. We’d kissed, sure – for a moment he’d even kissed me back – but when we’d pulled away I’d seen in his expression that it wasn’t the start of some grand romance for us. In fact, he’d proceeded to, very gently, very caringly, tell me that he didn’t think of me that way, that we were friends and nothing more.
That would have been that if Zoë had had her way, but it wasn’t, not by a long shot. I still loved him, couldn’t help myself, even as his behaviour over the years had become more and more–
‘He doesn’t treat me like crap,’ I said, but I wasn’t convincing myself, let alone Zoë, whose expression told me exactly how much of a drip I was being.
‘“You’re so special to me, can you buy my mum’s birthday present for me this year?”’ she said, in a painfully good imitation of Dec’s ‘sincere’ voice. ‘“You’re my favourite girl, can you give me a lift to the airport first thing in the morning?” “I know you’re busy, babe, but could you please read over this ridiculously long job application for me by tomorrow?” And what was today’s? “You know I don’t love you in that way, Baker, but can you come on what is, essentially, a date with me tonight?”’
I breathed in the fragrant steam from my tea and tried not to show how spot on her re-enactment had been.
‘It’s not–’ I started to say, but then, as the afternoon sun suddenly broke through the cloud cover and flooded the room with light, I shook my head. I was no good at lying. ‘Actually, it’s pretty much exactly like that, but I’m going to go anyway. And you don’t need to tell me how pathetic I’m being, because I already know.’
‘You’re not . . .’ Zoë’s automatic defence of me trailed off as I raised my eyebrows, and she grimaced. ‘Okay, you’re being a tiny bit pathetic.’
‘Hmm.’ I took a sip of my herbal tea, wincing as it scalded its way down my throat.
While Zoë and Dec had never been as demonstrative in their affection as Dec and I were, there’d been similarities in their difficult home lives that’d bonded them when we were younger in a way I stood outside of. And I’d had the gall to be a bit jealous of that connection back then. Now, however, I longed for the days when, with just the briefest glance, the two of them had been able to share a deep and abiding understanding of each other’s situation. No such understanding existed anymore.
Gradually, as Dec’s immersion in his uni life had coincided with his attitude towards me becoming less ‘I’d do anything for you’ and more ‘I’d prefer you do everything for me’, Zoë had withdrawn from their friendship. Privately, I thought that a big part of Zoë’s issue with him was nothing to do with me, but with how successfully he’d shed his Jarli skin and assimilated with the middle-class students he was at uni with, an adaptation to his new life that had left us behind. For a time, I’d tried to hold the two of them together, like a rubber band getting stretched more and more thinly, but by the time he’d graduated, Zoë had had enough of Dec’s new city-boy persona and refused to have anything to do with him.
Zoë broke our long silence in her usual frank way by saying, ‘One of these days you’re going to have to learn to say no to him, you know.’
‘I know.’ And I did, it was just that . . . ‘I love him!’ I exclaimed in frustration. ‘I really do. And I know that he doesn’t love me in the same way, but I have no idea how to get past it.’ She made a face and I added, ‘And I know what you think, you don’t have to say it.’
‘Except obviously I do, because you’re still not getting it,’ she said. ‘This is just a high school crush that won’t die.’
I let out the sceptical noise I always did at this point and her eyes narrowed.
‘Are you really telling me you don’t think there’s even a possibility that you keep saying you love him just out of habit? Because you don’t know any better?’
‘You weren’t there when Aggie died,’ I said quietly, not wanting to make her feel bad about it. It was hardly her fault that my beloved relative had suddenly had a heart attack and died when Zoë was overseas, but the fact was that she hadn’t seen the way Dec had been during that awful time a couple of years ago. ‘He sat with me for hours, Zo. He listened to me and talked me through it and was everything I needed during the worst period in my life. I can’t just forget that.’
‘I’m not saying you should, I’m just saying–’
‘I’m going,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s a Friday night, I’m going to get dressed up and look amazing and see what happens.’
Zoë may have been the more outspoken of the two of us, but I won when it came to sheer mindless stubbornness and she knew me well enough to know that arguing with me when I’d made my mind up was pointless.
She sighed. ‘Fine. Just promise me you’ll try to flirt with someone else while you’re there, yeah? I have horror images of you still chasing after Declan, and Declan alone, when you’re in your nineties.’
‘Hey, I’ve had boyfriends,’ I protested and she shook her head witheringly.
‘No, you’ve had stopgaps. You basically used the poor suckers to learn how to have sex in case Dec suddenly gave you the go-ahead. Not that I think any of them were complaining exactly, but still.’
While I didn’t really think my brief relationships had been quite as mercenary as Zoë made them sound, there was just enough truth in what she said to make me hang my head for a moment.
‘So what shall I wear?’ I asked brightly. ‘My never-fail little black dress? The subtly sexy emerald-green floor-length one? Or the not-sure-whether-it-was-a-wise-investment bronze number that I still haven’t found an occasion for?’
‘The subtly sexy emerald one.’ Zoë succumbed to the change in topic with commendable grace, and nodded towards the dress in question where it hung on a rack near my bed. ‘For sure.’
She was, of course, absolutely correct. The emerald dress was made of a soft, slinky material that clung and draped, enhancing all my dips and curves while hiding the lumps and bumps. Best of all, it dipped only modestly in the front, but into a deep V at the back, which made me feel incredibly sexy without meaning I spent the whole time I was wearing it checking that my boobs hadn’t fallen out. I’d bought it for my twenty-first birthday a couple of years ago, and it remained my go-to fancy outfit.
‘And how do you think I should do my hair?’
Zoë’s bright blue eyes narrowed over the rim of her mug. ‘Gio,’ she said severely, ‘you invited me over to help you get ready for a pseudo-date you knew I wouldn’t want you to go on, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ I admitted. ‘D’you think you’re a good enough friend to look past that and help me out anyway?’
She heaved a deep sigh, but nodded. ‘Fine,’ she said, m
aking it sound like it was anything but, ‘just so long as you know that Dec won’t deserve how fabulous I’m going to make you look.’
*
True to her word, an hour or so later, Zoë had worked wonders. I turned back and forth in front of the full-length mirror I had propped against the wall, more than a little impressed by her handiwork.
My hair was especially extraordinary because it was almost what you could refer to as ‘tamed’, a descriptor I’d spent years unsuccessfully trying to apply to my wayward locks. Somehow, however, Zoë had managed to wrestle my light brown, almost blonde, just-past-my-shoulders curls into a twisted bun kind of thing and pin it in place at the nape of my neck with about a million bobby pins. Of course a few spirals had already managed to spring free, but we’d decided to pretend it was intentional.
My makeup was all about touches of shimmer and soft berry lips and I wondered, not for the first time, how Zoë could take the mess of products I’d bought without any real clue about what I was doing and make me feel so pretty. She was a marvel.
‘Okay, you’re gorgeous.’ Zoë reached out to tweak a fold of my dress and met my eyes in the mirror. ‘You’re at such a Betty Boop level of hourglass, I want to use you to time something. My work here is done.’
‘Thank you.’ I turned to enfold her in a massive hug that she consented to for about two seconds before her distaste for touchy-feely moments grew too strong and she pushed me off.
‘It’s fine.’ She gave me another quick once-over, her professional eye spotting some minuscule blemish that she reached out and buffed away, before she met my eyes again. She pursed her lips. ‘About tonight, Gio,’ she said, suddenly serious, ‘just . . . be careful.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked with a confused laugh, still too enthralled with the wonders she’d worked on me to pay much attention. ‘I’ll be with Dec.’
‘Exactly my point.’ And with that, she made her exit.
If I hadn’t heard it all about a million times before, I might’ve taken more heed. As it was, I brushed her words aside, threw a protective shirt on over my dress and, gripped with nervous energy, grabbed some sugar paste out of the cupboard.
I’d always been a fiddler, unable to keep my fingers still, especially when nervous, and my mum had made batch after batch of play dough for me as a kid to keep my fingers busy. As I’d grown older and become obsessed with baking, my habit of fiddling with play dough had morphed into a routine of practising shapes and designs to top cakes and now, wonder of wonders, I was actually paid to do it.
I worked at Pickle, Peach and Plum, a local bakery that was famous for the sorts of dainty cakes you would squeal over on Instagram, and artisan breads whose aromas made people start to salivate when they were still two streets away. It was run by a tiny French woman called Céleste, whose delicate touch with edible embellishments sat at terrifying odds with her sharp tongue. Despite her tendency to whip acerbic remarks in my direction when I least expected it, I adored her, and why wouldn’t I? She’d given me the best job in the world.
I was currently assisting – as an apprentice pastry chef, Céleste had made it clear I was nowhere near ready to be let loose on a Pickle, Peach and Plum creation on my own – with the decoration of a mammoth four-tier wedding cake. The bride was demanding a floral cascade down one side of the triple-choc mudcake and I was taking every spare moment to practise crafting pastel flowers as every last one for the cake would have to be approved by my master pâtissière’s critical eye.
I was just putting the final touches to a fifth soft-pink rose – which, if I’d been at work, I would’ve completed with melted sugar dew drops – when there was a knock on my door and my heart leapt into my throat. As excited as I was, I was careful to nestle my roses into a protective container and tuck them safely into the cupboard before I answered the summons. Dec might have hold of a large portion of my heart, but so did those roses.
I took such good care of my delicate charges, in fact, that there came another, more impatient knock just before I pulled open the door and revealed Dec leaning against the doorjamb in all his dark-haired, angular beauty.
He straightened as he saw me, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘It’s a good look,’ he said, giving me a thorough once-over, ‘but I’m not sure it’s exactly in keeping with the dress code.’
Confused, I looked down at myself and realised I was still drowned in my dad’s old work shirt, the one I wore instead of an apron at home because of the excellent coverage it provided.
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘right. Give me two secs.’ And I shut the door in his face.
Racing back to the mirror, I whipped the shirt off, began fiddling with my hair, stopped when I realised I was just making things worse and applied another quick swipe of lipstick. Eyeing my coat, but then deciding it’d ruin my look, I grabbed my gold clutch, returned to the door and opened it again with a flourish.
‘Better?’ I asked.
In answer, he let out a low whistle and, taking my hand, twirled me around so the hem of my dress flared out over my one modest pair of high heels.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said, punctuating the compliment with a smacking kiss on my cheek.
I blushed delightedly and gave him a soft punch on his shoulder. ‘Flatterer,’ I laughed. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’
And it was true. Before he’d started work in the big, bad corporate world, Dec had been fairly casual about his appearance. He’d dressed like all the other guys our age, in T-shirts and jeans, and had let his dark brown curls grow for as long as it took for Zoë to not be able to stand it anymore and cut them for him. When he’d started with the firm Allsopp, Hudson and Clarke straight out of uni a couple of years ago, however, he’d suddenly become quite dapper. And tonight he was even wearing a pocket square in his grey suit. A green pocket square! It was fate.
‘We’ll be the belles of the ball.’ He grinned, holding his arm out for me as I finished locking up, and tucking me in close as I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow. It was hard not to think of us as being on a real date, albeit a much posher one than I’d ever been on before.
As we reached his car – bought with a loan that made my eyes water whenever I thought about it – he released me to hold the passenger door open and we raised our eyebrows at each other, amused by the grown-up game we were playing.
Dec was clearly in the zone, throwing out all his most charming vibes, and I lapped it up. Yes, it was a fake date. I was well aware that I was just helping him out by being the girl on his arm at a work event, but that didn’t change the fact that it was me he’d chosen to bring.
Dec might not have been the most gorgeous man on earth to those not as infatuated with him as I was – his nose was a bit too long, and he was on the skinny side – but any perceived shortfalls in his looks were more than made up for by his personality. Everyone loved him: women, men, older people, children; I’d never seen any demographic fail to be charmed by his charismatic ways. For this reason, I was sure finding a date wouldn’t have been a problem for him, but still he’d picked me to be by his side. That had to mean something.
Yes, I was sure that night was going to change the way we saw each other.
And, in a way, I was absolutely right.
*
As Theo reached the door to the stairs, he heard his curly-haired neighbour laugh, the cheerful sound intruding on what must have been the hundredth mental run-through he was performing in preparation for his presentation the following Monday. As intrusions went, it wasn’t a bad one. It was certainly a lot more welcome than the vibration in his pocket that told him his phone was ringing again.
‘What’ve you got?’ he answered without preamble.
‘A fat lot of nothing,’ Ari replied, his executive assistant accustomed, after so many years working together, to Theo’s lack of salutation. ‘I just spoke to the delightful Marjory over at Cordwell & Co and she’s promised me the contracts will be sent over first thing Monda
y morning.’ He paused for a moment for Theo’s noise of scepticism. ‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘much as I like Marjory, I think it’s safe to assume anyone who still thinks it’s acceptable to wear a scrunchie is talking out of her rear passage. I’ll start drawing up the necessary threatening paperwork.’
Theo started to jog down the first flight of stairs, considering. ‘Give them until close of business Monday, then run the cessation papers past me,’ he said as he reached the second-floor landing. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, ‘I know I’m going to regret asking this, but – scrunchie?’
‘Think under-nines girls’ gymnastic hairstyles circa 1995 and you’ll understand the true horror of Marjory’s look.’
Theo could tell Ari was grinning and felt an answering smile tug his own lips. ‘Consider me none the wiser on that one, then,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just the usual.’ And Ari began to reel them off: ‘Your sister’s sent another invite for her unveiling, the third this week for those of us playing along at home. The events team want your mum to donate a picture of herself for the silent auction next month. McKillop’s secretary has resorted to daily emails in an attempt to get you to call her boss back. Ann is still desperate to grab a moment of your time. Headhunter Harry wants to meet next Tuesday about you-know-what. Oh, and I was cornered by Herself just now.’ Ari’s usually chirpy voice suddenly lowered. ‘She wanted to know if you were going to the old dog’s birthday bash at the High-Rise tonight. Obviously, I didn’t confirm or deny – she should know me well enough by now to know that I wouldn’t – but still. Heads-up.’
Theo rolled his eyes, bored by the continued intrigues between his assistant and his ex. He and Ari had been a team for three years now, ever since he’d overheard the beanpole front-desk attendant at his previous workplace skilfully talk his way onto the private line of a notoriously reclusive CEO, and had promoted him to be his assistant just about on the spot. It’d been the best decision, both professionally and personally, he’d ever made; Ari was trustworthy, whip-smart and unfailingly good-humoured, but he was also a massive drama queen.
Cake at Midnight Page 2
