Confetti & Cake

by Laurel Remington

  Violet cocks her head. ‘You had stage fright. It can happen any time – like where your adrenaline kicks in and you feel out of control.’

  ‘I certainly felt out of control.’

  ‘My Aunt Hilda says she feels that way sometimes when she’s meeting clients. She’s an estate agent, so she has to show strangers around houses and talk to them on the phone and stuff.’

  ‘So what does she do?’

  ‘Yoga and meditation – stuff like that.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You think doing yoga is going to help me go on TV in front of millions of people, annoy all my friends, and cook something in a celebrity chef kitchen without my voice going hoarse and my hands shaking as I’m trying to measure out a teaspoon of salt?’

  ‘Well, if it’s as bad as you say, then maybe yoga is worth a try.’

  ‘No! What’s worth a try is calling Producer Poppy back. Maybe Annie didn’t explain it right. How fantastic it’s going to be. And if she still insists that it’s just me, then I’ll tell her I can’t do it. That . . . I don’t want to do it.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ve got it.’

  ‘Good.’ I breathe out.

  ‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ Violet says. ‘Let’s meet up after school. I’ve got something I need to do right after.’ Her eyes grow dark, like it’s something she’s dreading. ‘I can come to yours about five. You can call her back, and I’ll be there so I can let you know how you did. Is that a deal?’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ I suddenly notice how quiet it is around us. ‘We’d better go in and get changed.’ I pull a face. More than once, Violet and I have been late to PE because we were chatting and had to do ten press-ups each as a punishment.

  Sure enough, we’re the last ones to get changed. As I’m shoving my school clothes in the locker and starting to put on my kit, I realize how, once again, the entire conversation has been about me and my problems. Why can’t I be a better friend?

  ‘What about you?’ I say. ‘How are things going with Fraser?’ I keep my voice low in case anyone’s still in the toilets – I know Violet would be mortified if it got spread around that she liked him. ‘You guys seemed pretty cosy making the truffles the other day.’

  ‘Oh that.’ Maybe it’s her slouchy gym top, but Violet’s shoulders seem to slump. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘He hasn’t texted me in the last day or so. I guess it’s pretty hopeless.’

  ‘Hey, don’t say that.’ Talking about someone else’s problems, I’m on more solid ground. ‘He seems a little shy. You have to work out how to get him to come out of his shell.’

  We sit side by side on the bench and put on our trainers.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. I just wish . . .’ All of a sudden, the sadness I’ve noticed in Violet recently seems to be back in force. ‘Maybe it isn’t a good time – for either of us.’

  ‘Look,’ I grab her hand and pull her off the bench. She’s helped me by listening, so the least I can do is help her with her ‘boy troubles’. ‘Let’s kill two birds with one stone. When we meet up later, I’ll make my phone call, and then we’ll make something for Fraser.’

  ‘Make something?’

  ‘You know, like we talked about – we’ll bake him something for you to give him. Like a ‘welcome to the club’ gift, or something.

  She cocks her head sideways. ‘He’s not the only new member. There’s Naya too . . .’

  ‘I know, but come on, Violet – you have to do something. I thought we could make him something Scottish – like shortbread biscuits. That’s Scottish, isn’t it?’

  Her face flushes. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, let’s pretend we know. We’ll come up with a cool flavour, and you can pipe chocolate on the top. Fraser likes chocolate.’

  Her eyes brighten. ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘So . . . you’re in?’

  From inside the gym, a whistle blows. Late again – my arms are already aching from the thought of the press-ups.

  ‘I’m in,’ she says. We both take off at a run to join the class.

  The worry monsters

  Things may not be sorted – far from it. But at least we have a plan. When I get home, I go to the kitchen to get a snack. Immediately the door to the Mum Cave slams. ‘You know how important this is to me!’ Mum is yelling into the phone. I don’t hear the response, but then she says, ‘Well, if you don’t like it, then don’t turn up on the day!’

  I wince, wishing I hadn’t overheard. Surely, Mum can’t be talking like that to Em-K – as in, the man she’s going to marry? They’ve been fighting a lot lately, but like Violet said, that’s just wedding nerves – it must be!

  Inside the Mum Cave, things seem to quieten down – one of them must have put down the phone. I expect her to come out at any second, though I’m not quite sure what to say if she does. She won’t be happy that I haven’t sorted out things with the TV producer – quite the opposite. Now that Producer Poppy has ditched my brilliant idea, I feel like telling her that I won’t do the show at all. That will drive Mum around the bend. And even if I did do the show, Mum won’t want any advice from me – like that maybe she should be a little bit nicer to her husband-to-be. She may not write her tell-all parenting blog any more, but when it comes to relationships, she sees herself as the expert.

  Still, she’s my mum, and if she’s upset, I should try to help. I’m about to go knock on the door and offer her a cup of tea when I hear her voice again – this time lower. ‘Oh hi. Hope this isn’t a bad time. I just . . . thought maybe we could meet up for a drink. I could use one.’ There’s a pause and then she laughs – a high-pitched laughter that I don’t remember hearing before. It’s not a good sound.

  But before I can listen in any further, the doorbell rings. Relieved at the distraction, I go to answer it. It’s Violet. I take one look at her face, and know that something bad has happened.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, alarmed.

  ‘Nothing.’ She looks down at the mat. ‘I’m fine.’

  Two hours ago, when lessons ended for the day, she was fine. I went home, and she said she had something to do right after school. I don’t know where she went, but now she most definitely is not fine.

  ‘Come on in,’ I usher her. ‘Do you want some cake? I made one the other day to practise for the wedding cake – it’s raspberry ripple with white chocolate icing.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  If I didn’t already guess that something is majorly wrong, this confirms it. If anyone has a sweet tooth, it’s Violet.

  ‘OK.’ I lead her inside past the front room where Kelsie’s watching TV, into our kitchen, and through the wall to Rosemary’s Kitchen. The huge range cooker that always gives off a little heat makes the room cosy and comforting. But today, it’s as if neither of us even notice.

  ‘Sit,’ I command. I go to the fridge and get out a jug of orange squash. I pour two glasses and sit down opposite her. She takes the glass and stares at it without blinking.

  ‘I hope this isn’t about Fraser,’ I say. ‘Because we’re going to get that sorted. I found a recipe for butter shortbread with cranberry and orange. Doesn’t that sound good? With chocolate piped over the top . . .’ I trail off, feeling like I’m pleading for a lost cause.

  ‘I think . . .’ She bites her lip and turns away.

  ‘Violet!’ I come over to her side of the table and try to put my arm around her shoulder but she shrugs me off. I’ve seen her upset before – when we’ve had a falling out, when she’s argued with Aunt Hilda – and, whether she admits it or not, over the whole Fraser thing. But there’s something about seeing her like this . . . well, it scares me.

  ‘Hey,’ I say softly, sitting down in the chair next to her. ‘Whatever it is, you know you can talk about it with me. You’re my best friend.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she says. ‘I’ve done enough of that.’

  ‘But it’s not Fraser—’

  ‘No,’ she snaps, jumpin
g up from the chair. ‘It’s not Fraser or any stupid . . . boy crush thing.’

  I stare up at her like she’s struck out at me. ‘OK, fine, if you don’t want to tell me—’

  ‘I’ve been seeing a counsellor,’ she blurts out. ‘After school. That’s why I couldn’t come right away.’

  ‘A counsellor?’ I blink. Violet’s such a fun, happy person – so normal. ‘I thought they were for kids with . . .’ I say without thinking. I can’t finish the sentence. Of course she’s seeing a counsellor – she lost her parents! I must be thick for not realizing it before.

  ‘With what?’ Violet stares at me. ‘Mental problems?’

  ‘I was going to say “problems”,’ I lie, knowing she’s hit the nail on the head.

  ‘Problems.’ Her laugh is bitter and hollow. ‘If that’s what it’s about, then half the kids at school would need to do it – wouldn’t they? Or even all of them.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, I talked to the counsellor because I don’t want my friends to think I’m some kind of freak.’

  ‘I would never think that! You can talk to me. I mean . . .’ I pause, ashamed, ‘I’m constantly banging on about my issues.’

  ‘It just sounds stupid when I talk about it. But it’s really doing my head in. I’m not sleeping, and I keep having nightmares.’ She purses her lips. ‘About my parents.’

  ‘Oh.’ The room suddenly seems chilly. I rewind back to the first few days and weeks when I met Violet. She was new at our school, and I thought we could be friends because she didn’t know about all the baggage I was carrying with Mum’s blog. One day, I’d been whingeing and moaning about Mum and the blog and how bad I felt . . . Me, me, me. Violet was living with her Aunt Hilda, and before that day, I’d never asked why.

  When she told me – that both of her parents had been killed in a car accident – I couldn’t believe it at first. But I soon got the whole story, and all the awful details. Her dad had been killed outright, but her mum was in a coma for months before she died. I still can’t even imagine how it must have been for her. I mean – I’ve got my issues with both my mum and my dad. But I just don’t know how I could ever handle it if I lost both of them like that.

  ‘I keep dreaming about the house where we lived,’ she continues. ‘It’s so real . . .’

  ‘And what happens in the dream?’

  ‘My parents are there in the house. It’s like they aren’t . . .’ she takes a breath, ‘dead.’ The word echoes around the room, seeming to suck the air away. ‘It’s like they’re living there, going about their lives, and I’m not there with them. It’s like . . . I’m the one who’s gone.’

  I shiver. ‘What does the counsellor say?’

  She sinks back against the worktop, looking at the floor. For a second, I worry she’s not going to answer; that even talking about it is proving to be too much.

  ‘She says I need “closure”,’ she says, finally breaking the silence. ‘That’s what they call it. It’s like, closing a door on the past, so that I can move on. I’ve never really accepted that they’re gone. That they’re not coming back. And for some reason, I’ve tangled things up in my mind that they might still be at our old house living our old life.’

  I don’t know what to say, but I move closer to her.

  ‘Which just sounds so lame. I mean, I know they’re dead – I’m not stupid.’ Her face clouds with anger. ‘I was there with Mum at the end. And I went to the funeral. I heard the words the vicar said at the ceremony. I saw . . .’ she shudders, ‘the coffins disappear behind the curtain. That’s what happens when people are cremated. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’ I feel like icy fingers are squeezing my heart.

  ‘Well it’s true!’ A tear rolls down her cheek.

  I don’t know what to say, so I reach over and put my arms around her. This time, she doesn’t pull away.

  I let her cry into my hair, feeling the warm tears soaking through my top. It’s like something inside of her has broken – something that was holding back her emotions like a dam blocks a river. And now, everything needs to come out. That much I understand. I stroke her sleek black hair, as she shudders and sobs against me. I don’t know how much time passes, but I know that I’ll be there as long as she needs me.

  Cake and ‘closure’

  Eventually, I persuade Violet to have a piece of cake and a glass of milk. Maybe it’s the sugar, or the soft, mellow flavour of the vanilla sponge rippled through with gooey raspberry, but it seems to calm her a little. I listen as everything she’s been holding inside her starts to come out.

  ‘The nightmares started a few months back,’ she says, licking the buttercream off her fork. ‘I kept seeing myself in the car with them. Though in real life, I wasn’t. I’d been unwell that day, so a neighbour came over to look after me. Mum and Dad sang in a choir. They had a concert that night.’

  ‘Your mum and dad sound nice.’

  She wipes away a stray tear. ‘At the time, I didn’t really think too much about it. We were just, you know, normal. Mum worked at an insurance company. Dad taught music at the school. We weren’t rich or anything. But family was important to them. I mean, we used to have dinner together every night. Mum cooked. Nothing fancy – just stuff like potatoes and chicken, or cottage pie. On the weekends she’d bake bread, and sometimes she’d cook roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. That was my favourite.’

  ‘Wow, Violet, to me they don’t sound normal, they sound amazing.’

  Violet laughs sadly. ‘Before, I’d have said you were wrong. I got stroppy over my homework, or the fact that they wouldn’t let me have a phone, or stay up late and watch TV. But now . . .’ she trails off. ‘I just miss them.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. The words sound lame and useless.

  ‘She also made macarons . . .’ she sighs wistfully, ‘Mum and Dad both loved macarons. Do you know what they are?’

  ‘Um – they’re biscuits, right?’

  ‘They’re little French sandwich cookies, made with almonds and egg whites. You can make them with different colours and flavours in the middle. Though, I’ve never tried.’

  ‘We should make them.’

  ‘Maybe sometime.’ She shrugs non-committally. ‘Anyway, then over the last few weeks, the dreams changed. To the ones where I was in my old house but my parents couldn’t see me. The counsellor thinks that I’m having the dreams because it’s been almost two years. Friday’s the anniversary of the accident.’ She shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe it’s been that long. I mean, it hurts so much – every day.’

  She stands up and takes her plate to the sink. She seems to be feeling a little better after the cake, but hearing what she’s saying, I feel a whole lot worse.

  ‘So what did the counsellor tell you to do?’ I ask, worried that I might say the wrong thing.

  Violet’s eyes grow huge and haunted. ‘She says I have to face up to what happened. Face the fact that there are new people living in my old house now. So I’ve decided that I need to go back there.’

  ‘Go back? Won’t that make it even worse?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s the only way I can think of to get closure.’

  ‘Oh?’ I puzzle over this. ‘And what does your aunt say?’

  ‘I haven’t told her. Aunt Hilda struggles to talk about what happened – she tries, but it’s not easy. I mean, Mum was her sister. She’s taken me to put flowers on the grave a few times, but that was hard for both of us. I know she just wants me to be happy living with her – and most of the time, I am.’ She wipes away a stray tear. ‘I just want the dreams to go away. I want to be able to focus on the good memories, not the bad ones. I don’t know if going back there will help, but I’ve got to try something.’

  I look away, concentrating on washing up our plates with sudsy warm water. It’s taking all my effort to be strong for her. ‘I want to help, Violet,’ I say, finally. ‘If there’s anything I can do, then you have to tell me. I mean, I had no idea.
Maybe I should have . . .’ the guilt floods into my chest but I force it away – this isn’t about me – ‘but really, I didn’t know you were going through this. I just thought it was “boy trouble”.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, there’s that too,’ she says. ‘So if you really want to help, then let’s make that shortbread.’ There’s a tiny flicker of light back in her eyes. ‘I may as well find out sooner rather than later if there’s any hope of getting Fraser to notice I’m alive.’

  ‘He’ll notice.’ I put away the plates and go over to get our aprons.

  Or else he’s toast, I don’t add.

  Icing kisses and chocolate hearts

  In the end, Rosemary’s Kitchen works its magic, or maybe it’s the special recipe book, or just the fun we have making the orange and cranberry shortbread with piped-on white chocolate smiley faces (and a few hearts that I insist we do in spite of Violet’s reluctance) – but somehow, the hours go by and it doesn’t even feel like time has passed at all. Violet seems back to her normal self, as if the ‘worry monsters’ have stopped sniffing around for the moment.

  We chat and laugh and lick the spoons and the bowl, and Violet draws a heart on my cheek with chocolate and I pipe some XXs and OOs on hers for luck with Fraser. We make a batch of millionaire’s shortbread, with a dark chocolate top and a thick layer of sea salt caramel. When I take a bite, I can’t believe how delicious it is – the shortbread flaky and the caramel rich and velvety.

  ‘Is this the best we’ve ever done?’ I ask Violet.

  ‘Um hum,’ she nods, chewing and smiling at the same time.

  By the time the shortbread is finished, and we’ve cleaned up the kitchen, it’s after nine. We go through the hole in the wall back to the kitchen in my house and, all of a sudden, it’s like a chill wind from the real world has come rushing back.