Since You've Been Gone

by Anouska Knight

  As I slid the tray of cupcakes under the adjacent serving counter I could feel the beginnings of perspiration over the back of my neck. I didn’t sweat. Clammy hands said I did.

  The diary I’d been looking for was sat by the phone, on the side next to the till. In its place, for a change. I flicked through to the following month, hoping to find a week too full to take on another Argyll job.

  “I know it’s short notice,” he said, also looking at the open diary as I checked over the bookings we had for that week. They were more than thin on the ground. Friday the twenty-fifth had been encircled in bright green ink, though, with Martha’s due date! scrawled inside. Other than that, it would mostly be a week of passing trade. He surveyed the days, largely blank on the page, and watched me carefully.

  “Sure. What were you looking for?” I asked, admitting defeat.

  “Well, the event is themed, so would that be a good place to start?” he asked, cocking his head slightly again. He cut a relaxed figure, but I wasn’t there yet. I could still feel the burn in my cheeks.

  “Sure. What’s the theme?” I asked, concentrating on my pen and the sketch pad I’d reached for.

  “Hollywood heroes and villains,” he replied with the beginnings of a playful grin. Well, of course it was. “It’s a friend’s thirtieth, so the cake should be fun, unique. Delicious.”

  I held off looking at him, as that seemed to trigger the blush response.

  “Hollywood heroes and villains? As in Jaws and Brody?” I stole a look then; the smile had widened.

  “If you like. Maybe mix it up, though. I don’t think there will be many there dressed as great white sharks.” He checked the watch on his wrist. “Look, I have to get to work. I’m not sure how these things are arranged?”

  Thank goodness for that. He’d be out of here in minutes. He hadn’t heard us larking around—it was all good. I just needed to wind things up.

  “Well, you’ve given me a theme to run with. I just need an idea of flavours, how many people you’d like the cake to feed. An idea of budget, if you have one. Then we can sketch something up for you and take it from there.” Jesse was so going to be handling this order.

  “Okay,” he said, tapping the arm of his sunglasses to his lip. “Make it to feed three hundred, budget...whatever you think is fine. Don’t worry with the sketch. I know I’m in safe hands.” He smiled and it softened the seriousness of his eyes, just as his father’s face had been affected the same way.

  “Okay. And will you need it delivered?”

  “Yes, definitely,” he said. “I’ll get someone to call you with the details, payment, et cetera. Or I can pay you now?”

  “No, no, I need to price it all up for you first. So...I just need flavours.”

  He tapped his lip a few more times before locking richly brown eyes firmly back on mine.

  “The ginger and whisky sounded perfect.”

  chapter 6

  A heavy haze of mist had been hanging over the reservoir when I left for work the following morning, but I knew that freezing though it was in a tin van spluttering against the sharp air, such mornings deceitfully heralded what would inevitably turn out to be a glorious day. It was only six-thirty, plenty of time for things to warm up and justify the aqua ballerina pumps now proving pitifully inadequate against the temperature in the footwell.

  This was one of the summer’s dying breaths—there wouldn’t be many more of them—a last and valiant stand against the unstoppable autumn, advancing once more to mark another year without Charlie.

  But today at least, things would get sunnier and sunny days were good for business. The golden girls in the café across the street would be enjoying a surge in alfresco diners, who’d all gaze over longingly at the goodies they knew we had waiting for them once they’d finished lunch. Grandmothers would pop in for iced cookies to take back to the kids, career girls would take advantage of their last chances to justify nibbling on something seasonally pretty and the odd eager male co-worker would follow them in.

  The pick ’n’ mix girls, Jess called them. Because they always got a couple of boxes between them, so they could all try a taste of everything.

  Thanks to the wonders of dreamless sleep, I felt refreshed as I made my way into Hunterstone. It wasn’t until I saw the shop that I found myself thinking of him again.

  * * *

  It was still cold as I opened up and let myself in. I collected a few scraps of mail then headed straight through for the kettle. Charlie couldn’t abide junk mail, and had the irritating habit of giving out the shop address instead of home, he said because the businesses here had bigger recycling bins out back and I guess he had a point.

  I flicked through the mail in my hand as the kettle bubbled to life: something from the electricity provider, two flyers for a local takeaway, and ah—a thank-you card. That’s nice. I slipped the card from its envelope and walked back over to the far end of the bakery, where a battered plum sofa sat within the brick alcove. This was where we power-napped on those crazy days at the height of busy season. I plonked down onto the sofa and read the note inside the card.

  Dear Holly and Jesse,

  Thanks so much for our brilliant cake! It was absolutely stunning, everything we were hoping for. Even Ben’s mum couldn’t find a fault. (Which is saying something.)

  We’ll definitely be coming back for our first anniversary cake, and our tenth and our golden! Hopefully a christening cake, too!

  Can’t chat, I’m posting this on the way to the airport. Thailand, here we come!

  Thanks again, you’ve been fab.

  Very best wishes

  Mr and Mrs Benjamin Day xx

  I pinned the card with the others and looked at the last piece of post in my hand. It was an unusual pamphlet shaped like a teepee with an invitation to Glamp it up in Wales. On the reverse, a string of bunting joyfully held aloft an address panel marked for the attention of Charlie Jefferson. Charlie had fancied us as the glamping types, suggesting we give it a whirl for our first anniversary. We never made it.

  Tea, ovens on, recycling bin, work.

  Within twenty minutes the bakery was in full swing, filled with the happy beat of whatever was playing out on the radio and the wafts of warm vanilla and chocolate. I had four batches in before restocking my mug and switching the laptop on.

  We’d chosen the right name for the shop—we were easy to find online and the email was simple enough. That also meant a reliable pile of virtual junk mail from suppliers. I clicked my way down the screen. Delete. Delete. Delete. Penny Richardson Re. Argyll Hollywood cake.

  I clicked over the email feeling a trill of the awkwardness. And something else.

  Miss Jefferson

  We require you to provide a birthday cake for an upcoming event.

  Mr Argyll has said that you’ve already discussed flavours with him, recommending the whisky & ginger option.

  Minimum of 300 portions, delivery between 8 and 8.30 p.m. Saturday October 26th. Venue details attached. Forward details of costs and payment will be arranged.

  Penny Richardson

  PA to CEO, Argyll Inc.

  Great. Another evening delivery. And at that time most likely in full eyeshot of already present guests. I hated that, people watching, waiting for something terrible to go wrong so they could upload the blooper.

  I opened the attachment. The Gold Rooms were not somewhere I’d ever been.

  I’d overheard mention of the city’s most exclusive venue when customers had chatted of beautiful people in the gossip mags out front, where some celebrity had been snapped necking with the wrong supermodel, but gatherings at the highly sought-after lounge were not usually toasted with cake, not when Moët and Glenlivet flowed so freely. And, let’s face it, at three thousand pounds a booth I was not visiting a place like the
Gold Rooms without a cake to get me in. Jesse was going to pee his pants when he knew. Groan.

  I closed the document, leaving the whole thing for him to sort out when he got in. Other than the delivery it was his baby now, nothing more to do with me.

  By the time he got to the shop, the bakes were out on display, I’d replaced the depleted shelves in the bakery with cake cards and drums and had taken delivery of the new, larger tubs of colourants we’d been waiting on.

  All I had to do now was figure out where the fifteen tubs of edible paste colours were going to live. Nowhere up high, that was for sure. I’d knocked one of the old small tubs over once without realising. The viscosity of the pastes meant they didn’t spill immediately, but rather leached out at a slow but steady pace. By the next morning, the bakery had looked like a crime scene, with blood-red goo dripping everywhere. I swear I half expected some psycho to spring from behind the storeroom when I first saw all the mess. That was years ago, and the stain on the worktop was just as angry now as it ever was.

  “The king has returned,” Jesse shouted from out front, barging in through the front door.

  “I hope you have food!” I yelled back.

  “I got you an almond croissant, but it is from the golden girls if you wanna pass?”

  I took the bag from Jesse’s hand and inhaled the delights of freshly baked pastries. “Damn, they do make good croissants.”

  Jess smiled, watching me take the treat as he knew I would. “How are you feeling this morning? After your rocky start to the week?”

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started ribbing me again about yesterday.

  “Shut up, Jess, and get to work. Speaking of which, you have a job. Email from a Penny Richardson.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A headache in the making. And it’s all yours, homeboy.”

  Jess dropped the backpack from his shoulders and slipped out of his hoody before grabbing an apron and going for the bunker corner.

  He sat down with the laptop and started clicking through the screens. I busied myself clearing space for the new supplies. Wait for it....

  “The mutha-funkin’ Gold Rooms!”

  I was grinning as Jess read every detail of the digital flyer, knowing he’d go back over it a few more times to drink in every last bit of it. This cake was going to be obscene.

  “Like I said, headache.”

  “Headache! You’re kidding me? Wait till I tell the lads that I’ve been in the Gold Rooms! Ah, man! They’re gonna be bummed. I said he was a flash sucka... D’you know, I think he might actually be James Bond.”

  Technically, that wasn’t what Jess had called him, but I wasn’t about to point it out. Those words were never going to leave my mouth again.

  “Yeah, well...we’re only delivering, Jess. I’m sorry. I know it’s an ask on a Saturday night but I can’t do it alone.”

  “Hol, we’re going to the Gold Rooms! I don’t care what night of the week it is, once we’re in, we’re in, girl!”

  I shot Jess a look.

  “Hol, come on. You’re not gonna make me leave as soon as the cake’s in, are you? That would be like taking a kid to Disneyland, letting him catch sight of Mickey then taking him home again.”

  “Jess, we’re not crashing this party. We don’t know these people. We’re not invited. And to be honest, it’s not exactly my scene. People with more money than sense, all dressed up in designer gear talking about Daddy’s yacht,” I said, batting at Jesse’s intentions hanging heavy in the air.

  “Speak for yourself—it’s totally my scene! I scrub up well, and I love yachts!” Jess was trying his best to will a change in me he knew he had no chance of uncovering.

  “Don’t look at me like that. If we were invited, it would be different. But I am no way crashing,” I said. “We don’t even know whose party it is!” There. Not my fault. My hands were tied.

  “All right. But I’ve gotta tell you, Hol, don’t be surprised if I slink off to get changed in the little boys’ room, because if I see anyone famous in there, with or without you, I am crashing the joint.”

  “Knock yourself out, Cinders. But the pumpkin and I will be leaving by eight-thirty-five, with or without you. I guarantee it.”

  The rest of the day was as busy as I’d anticipated, and although Jess was unusually quiet I couldn’t be sure if it was because he was sulking with me or mentally planning his outfit. Both probably. When things died down in the afternoon, I left him sketching out a rough design for the Argyll cake. I had to hand it to Jesse—when it came to creativity, there was nothing his hands couldn’t do.

  I’d managed to steal a few sneaky peeks over his shoulder, knowing that whatever he came up with was going to rock. Jesse was probably right. It would be his scene—everywhere was his scene. Effortlessly good-looking and funny as hell, there was little for anyone to dislike about him. Both he and the cake would be able to hold their own at the party. Sure, he was going to be contending with some beautiful people, but Jess could make beautiful right out of nothing, and that was a talent that couldn’t be bought.

  Before the end of play, Jess had finished sketching up the cake and had emailed the quote over to them. I’d made sure he’d signed it off so that they had a new name to chase. Martha had called, warning me Mum had been on the phone, we’d picked up a couple of last-minute telephone orders giving us a nice even pace until the weekend and, with no weddings booked in for Saturday or Sunday, one of us was going to get a whole weekend off.

  “Hey, Hol, there’s nothing in for the next two Saturdays. You knew that, right?” I knew he wouldn’t be sore at me for long.

  “Uh-huh. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I was thinking you take this Saturday off, I’ll take next? If that’s cool?”

  “I’m easy, Jess. Whatever fits in with your plans. Going anywhere nice?”

  “Dunno yet. My mate’s taking his girl on a road trip. If she can talk her friend into it, I wouldn’t mind a spot in the back with her.” He flashed me a full set of pearly whites and wiggled his eyebrows until I burst out laughing.

  “A road trip? Is there anywhere you won’t go for a bit of skirt, Mr Ray?” Jesse was eternally in love, but with a different girl every week. I could see what every last one of them saw in him. I loved him, too. He’d played big brother when I needed it more than I’d known, and was like a kid brother to me for the rest of the time. I had a lot to thank him for. For things I didn’t know how to say.

  “Probably.” He shrugged, all big brown-eyed innocence. “But I haven’t found it on the map yet.”

  By the time I’d done my eight-hour stint, I was ready to call it a day, and left Jess to lock up at closing time. It had been a steady day, and with all the people coming and going, I’d hardly thought about teepees until the drive home.

  It was still warm when I rattled down the track towards the cottage and, as I parked up, Dave walked out into the yard to greet me.

  “Hey, fella,” I called, creaking the van door closed with my bum. I reached into my shopping bag as I walked towards Dave, fishing for a little of the meat I’d bought from the deli on the way.

  I slid the key into the lock and pushed on the peeling crimson paintwork. Dave followed me in, nearly knocking my legs out from under me, excited for the other contents of the grocery bag in my arms. Inside the hall, the answer machine was flashing red. I hit the button and went through into the kitchen.

  “You have three new messages.” I started picking through the groceries while wrestling my bag and cardigan from my shoulders.

  “First new message, received today at eight-sixteen a.m.—‘Holly love, phone Mum, would you? She’s getting a bit tetchy that you haven’t called for a little while. I’ve told her you’re busy but, well...just give her a call, love. It would be nice to he
ar what you’ve been up to. ’Bye, love.’”

  “‘Holly love, it’s Dad again. Just don’t tell your mother I called. You know it’s just...she’d like to think you’ve just called her up. All right, love, ’bye for now.’ Received at eight-nineteen a.m.”

  Seeing all the little pots on the counter made my stomach growl.

  “‘Holly, I know you are busy, but really? Is one call a week unreasonable? Martha’s telling me everything’s fine, and the scan was okay, but I’m not sure, Holly. I think that maybe she just doesn’t want us to worry. I’m stuck over here and I don’t know what’s happening! Anyway, I hope you’re taking care of yourself. Martha says you’ve lost a little weight? Call me. ’Bye.’ Received at twelve-fifty-two p.m.”

  “Well, that’s kinda what happens when you move to another country, Ma,” I said, picking at a pot of olives. I had not lost weight. Martha had just temporarily outgrown me.

  I stuffed a few more salty morsels into my mouth and threw my things over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. I needed to work out a better warning system with Dad.

  I deleted the messages and thought about calling them as I scanned the hall for the slipper I couldn’t see. Maybe after dinner. Off the hallway I could see into the drab front room, and my other felt slipper waiting for recovery.

  It was always cold in this room. We hadn’t lit the fire in here since the first few weeks of Chinese takeaways and grand plans, and I’d since turned off the radiators to conserve energy. Until we’d knocked through the kitchen, this had been the largest open space in the whole house, and we’d used it as a dumping ground for all the furniture we were gradually rehousing around the rest of the place. It was a bit like an elephants’ graveyard in here now, picture frames long unhung and lamps long unlit. There was still plenty of furniture in here, too, including the beat-up old chesterfield Mrs Hedley had insisted we have.

  While I was being indecisive about what was going to be my favourite room in the house, Charlie had commandeered the smaller snug just off through the rear doors, officially declaring it as his man-cave. He had everything he needed in there, he’d said: sofa bed for when I was mean to him, and flat screen for when the boys came over on footy nights. It was just a cave now.