by Denise Wells
She’s just too fucking beautiful for her own good.
Time to eat, you sap.
I turn on my grill to let it heat, then prep a quick salad, thinking all the while about Tabs and just how different life may have been if we were able to keep it together and get along. After I finish my dinner, I clean up, grab a book, and settle down to read before bed. I like my solitude for the most part. Yeah, sometimes it’s lonely, but I’d rather be lonely than with the wrong person.
That’s my favorite sentiment to come out of a year plus of therapy. I was a bit of a wreck after Tabatha and I split, spiraling from girl to girl, job to job, drink to drink. It was Gregor who finally pushed me to reach out to talk to someone. Someone professional. Which is how I found Doctor Cal and grew the fuck up. He helped me both in ways that I didn’t expect and in ways I didn’t even know I needed help with.
It’s one thing to get a divorce, but it’s a whole other thing to realize the divorce was probably caused by the interference and manipulation of outside forces with the sole purpose of increasing viewership. And to then acknowledge I was too young and stupid to realize it or stop it. So, I went along with everything happening, not quite believing my marriage was ending until it was too late to turn back. Because Tabby and I had both said too much in the heat of the moment and stayed too proud to be rational about it.
Only sometimes do I believe Tabatha was the wrong person. More often than not, I think she’s the right person, but we were together at the wrong time. That we needed to grow more as individuals before being able to handle a relationship as potentially volatile as ours.
As I’m settling down and turning in for the night, I get an email from Liza Littleton asking me to attend a cake tasting two days from now in downtown Seattle. Both Wimplecox and Tabatha will be there. I don’t have a full plan in place yet for what I want to do, I just know there won’t be a single decent photo of either one of them to be found by the time they are through with all the planning. Maybe Gregor was right, and I can substitute a dildo for the groom’s nose in all the photos. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
7
Tabatha
I find parking near the bakery shortly before noon, having made good time from my hair appointment. I had my hair extensions swapped out today. My hair is long and thick anyway, these just make it more so. And my hairdresser is a genius at matching my natural red, not an easy task. Between fake lashes, control top undergarments, push-up bras, acrylic nail polish, and hair extensions, I’m not sure which parts of me are even real anymore. At least I don’t need Botox yet.
Do I?
I take a peek in the visor mirror, turning my face to and fro. Deciding I’m good for now, I move to exit the car, then quickly glance in the mirror, thinking back to my conversation with Hunter this morning about my breasts and wondering if maybe they do need to be larger. I’d just exited the shower and was drying off with a towel.
“You’ve lost weight,” he’d said.
I’d nodded and smiled. “You noticed.”
“You look good, my queen. Really good.”
“Thank you.”
“But are your breasts getting smaller?” He squinted at my chest, then put his glasses on and looked closer. “I think they are. Should we have them enlarged?”
I’d cough-laughed. “Excuse me?”
“While I love you thinner, my queen, I do prefer a more ample bosom.”
“And my C-cup is not ample enough?”
“You know what they say, bigger is better.” He’d smiled.
I’d changed the subject before I lost my temper. There’s a lot I will do to enhance my appearance, it’s a must in the entertainment industry. And even though I’m not sure if I plan to return to it, turns out Hunter is a fan of the same alterations. But I’m not there yet, mentally, at a boob-job. I mean, I prefer a larger dick, but I didn’t offer to get him an enlargement.
I pull open the door to the bakery, peeking at the exterior before going in. It’s a cute little shop, very unassuming from the street front. There’s a large display case near the cash register when you first walk in. Then, off to the side is another room with table and couch seating, a fireplace, bookshelves filled with books, and an even smaller room off that one where it appears the tasting will be taking place. Enlarged photos of cakes cover the walls, and the air is filled with the scent of sugar and vanilla.
I’m surprised I’m even on time, considering lunch hour in downtown Seattle is often crazy busy and crowded. Liza is already in the small room, talking to a man with scraggly hair and a camera around his neck, and another in his hand. It stops me. The only person I’ve ever known to do that is Pax.
Of course, Pax is the only photographer I really know in my adult life. Still, it isn’t something I’ve seen often with the paparazzi or on movie sets. Liza had all but insisted we hire this man. She swears he is the best of the best, just the best and that we are lucky, so very lucky to have caught him when he’s free. I’ve started to notice she uses the same words in repetition, over and over, and it’s annoying.
Pfft. You just did the same thing, Tabby.
“Tabatha, I’m so happy you are here. It is lovely to see you again, just lovely. This is your photographer, Matthew Hanhauser. Matthew, this is Tabatha Seton, soon to be Simpcox.”
“I’ll be keeping my name,” I say, unnecessarily.
“Oh,” Liza says. “Okay. Okay, well.”
“Nice to meet you, Matthew.” I hold my hand out to shake his, and a jolt passes through me when we touch. His hands are rough and warm. They feel good against mine. I look at our joined hands, then up at him. It’s hard to see his eyes behind his thick glasses, but I’d swear they are laughing at me.
“It is nice to meet you as well, Tabatha. Or would you rather I call you Ms. Seton?” His voice reminds me of Pax, but I couldn’t identify why. They don’t sound similar.
Jesus, Tabs, quit thinking about Pax, you are being ridiculous.
I know I’m not thinking of Pax for any reason other than this is a wedding and he’s someone I’ve married before. It’s the correlation of circumstance that keeps him at the forefront of my mind.
“Tabatha is fine, thank you for asking,” I tell him.
He nods in response and fiddles with one of his cameras. I take a moment to get a good look at him. There is something about him that is appealing, but I couldn’t tell you what. He’s not particularly attractive. He might be if it weren’t for the hair. On his head and on his face. I didn’t think anyone had a mustache any longer except for Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott. Oh, and Burt Reynolds. But it dies with those three. It has to, they aren’t a good look on anyone else, especially not on my wedding photographer.
Click.
He takes my picture as I study him. I’m fairly certain my eyes were half-closed.
“Whoa, what are you doing? I wasn’t ready,” I tell him.
“Mr. Simpcox was real clear, ma’am, he wants candid shots. I’m just gettin’ warmed up.”
“Well, could you warm up on cakes or something?”
“Sure thing, Ms. Seton.”
Didn’t I just tell him to call me Tabatha?
I look around, noticing everything is ready. We’re just waiting on Hunter. Which is odd since he’s never late. I turn my back to the others and try his cell. Voicemail. So, I send him a text.
ME: Everyone is waiting. Are you almost here?
“I’m sure he’ll be here any second,” I say aloud to no one in particular. Liza is busy on her phone. Matthew is in the other room, taking pictures of the cakes, and the baker has vanished. My stomach growls. I skipped breakfast this morning, opting just for coffee. I’m not relishing the idea of the added calories of cake, but I also don’t want to serve a cake to our guests that doesn’t taste good. So, I need to try it. I inch my hand toward the one that looks like lemon filling and swipe my finger along the frosting.
Mmmm. Oh, that is good.
I shut my eyes for a brief mome
nt and savor the taste of the sweet sugar and tart lemon explosion in my mouth.
Click.
I look up, Matthew is back in the room with his camera pointed at me. “Gotcha.” He winks.
My face flushes, part embarrassment, part anger. I’m sure when Hunter asked for candid shots, he didn’t intend for them to be me sneaking frosting when no one was looking. Or at least when I thought no one was looking.
Hunter rushes in to the room. “Oh goodness, I’m sorry I’m so late. I got stuck on a call and then traffic was terrible. Did you start without me?”
I glance at the time. Ten minutes after the hour.
“No, we waited,” I tell him.
“Ah, this is why I absolutely adore you. Tabatha, my queen, you are perfect in every way.” Hunter takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “Isn’t she just perfect, Liza?”
“She is,” Liza says, without looking up from her phone.
“Hello, you must be Matthew,” Hunter says holding his hand out to the photographer. “I’ve heard so many good things about your work. Thank you so much for fitting us into your schedule. May I call you Matthew?”
“Yes,” Matthew says, taking Hunter’s hand.
“Oh my, that is some grip that you have,” Hunter says, trying to pull his hand from Mathew’s.
“Sorry, sir,” Matthew says. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.” He doesn’t sound sorry when he says it.
“Call me Hunter, please.” Hunter claps his hands once and looks around. “Well, shall we get started?”
Liza finally puts her phone down. “Yes, sorry about that, just negotiating with the venues you asked me to look into, Hunter.”
“I thought we were going to discuss venues later?” I turn to Hunter.
“We were,” he says. “But then I decided that nothing was too good for my queen. So I asked Liza to get quotes from the top three places in the Seattle area and figured we could choose from there.”
“Oh,” I say, not quite sure if I feel relief over not having to make a larger decision than one of the three, or anger over not being consulted. “Okay.” But then I realize Hunter had hired Matthew without consulting me as well.
So: venues, Matthew, and Liza.
Again, not quite sure on my feelings about it. Do I really care about the details? No, probably not. The important thing is that I’m marrying Hunter. And that he’s happy. A big splashy wedding is important to him, so I’m going to let him have that. Which means he can plan it too.
I look down, lost in thought.
Click.
“Kindly stop that,” I tell Matthew.
“My apologies, ma’am. You sure are a photogenic little thing, though.” He tips his hat at me.
“She models,” Hunter boasts.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t model.”
“Sure you do, honey, for your clothing line.”
“I’ve posed for some marketing shots for a clothing line,” I tell him, not sure why I’m downplaying.
“Your clothing line,” Hunter adds.
“I’ll bet that sells like hotcakes,” Matthew says, smiling big.
“It does okay.” I nod.
“Okay, shall we get started?” Liza asks.
The baker appears and sets the first cake in front of us. “Per Mr. Simpcox’s request, the first is the pink champagne with raspberry mousse and vanilla buttercream.”
Both Hunter and Liza dig in.
I pick up my fork and poke at my piece.
Click.
I glare at Matthew. He shrugs.
The cake is pink.
I don’t know why, but I have a real issue with a pink-colored cake. It just doesn’t look right. It reminds me of those godawful strawberry cakes in the box, where the flavor is some kind of rehydrated fruit and the color is red #59.
Just add water.
I turn to the baker. “May I get a cup of coffee, please?”
“Make that two,” Matthew says.
I look at him. He thinks he gets to partake?
“That looks real good, Ms. Seton,” he says to me. “May I?”
He grabs a fork from the table and before I can say anything, he takes a large bite from my piece.
“Excuse me?” I say, my voice shrill.
“Real good cake, chef,” Matthew says to the baker.
“It is, isn’t it?” Hunter agrees. He turns to me. “What do you think, honey? I think it might be my favorite.”
“It’s great,” I lie. “I’m not sure about the pink color though.”
“Okay, number two.” The baker sets a cup of coffee before me, then a plate with the next cake option. “Tropical guava with fresh guava buttercream and guava jam.”
Hunter loves guava.
I hate it and do nothing to prevent the grimace from taking over my face.
Click.
Click.
Matthew continues taking shots of the cakes and all of us trying them. I don’t touch mine. One, because of my issue with guava. Two, the cake is pink. Again.
“Oh, Tabatha is not a fan of guava,” Hunter says. “But I think this is divine.”
“Hates it,” Matthew says, moving his fork in again. I slap at his arm. I don’t mean to. It’s just reflex. He reminds me of Pax when he does it. Pax has—had—no appreciation for food boundaries. Nor which plate is actually his.
“What?” Matthew asks me. “It’s not like you’re going to eat it.”
I push my plate at him.
“Not the cake for you, my queen?” Hunter asks.
I shake my head.
“Wait, how would you know I hate guava?” I ask Matthew.
“’Cause you said so,” he replies.
The baker places another cake-filled plate in front of me, taking my attention away from whatever weirdness I may have felt about what Matthew said. I wait until everyone else has gotten the same. I feel bad that I have yet to really taste any of them, with the exception of the lemon frosting.
“Salted caramel cake topped with roasted almonds and Amaretto glaze, filled with caramel-infused buttercream and thin layers of salted caramel.”
This cake is more a beige color, which I can tolerate. I take a bite and moan. Loud.
Click.
I’m certain he got me with my mouth open. I don’t even care. I’m so into this cake that nothing else matters.
Literally.
Which means we can’t have this cake. I would eat way too much of it. This cake is way too good to be at our wedding. I take another tiny bite, then push it toward Matthew before he has a chance to move in and take some for himself.
A move that also reminds me of Pax. Since it’s what I would end up doing when I wanted him to stop reaching over and eating off my plate.
“This one is too sweet for me, I think. Or maybe not sweet enough,” Hunter says. Relief fills me. Now I won’t have to worry about eating too much of it. Maybe I should just let Hunter have the guava cake, then I don’t have to worry about eating any.
“How many are we tasting today?” I ask Liza.
“Six,” she says.
Six cakes. And I’ve only had two bites of one so far that was the third cake. If I can manage tiny bites of the remaining three, I can probably get out of here with less than one hundred and fifty calories.
The baker presents another plate. “Lemon summer berry, a vanilla cake topped with lemon mousse, filled with fresh strawberry and raspberry compote.”
Click.
It’s the one I snuck a taste of earlier. No one seems to notice the swipe from my finger. I like this one too. It’s light, and the contrast of the tart lemon mousse with the sweet of the cake and the compote is wonderful. Before I can say anything, Hunter says, “Oh, way too tart. Nope, not the cake for me.”
At the same time, Matthew says, “That’s a damn good cake.”
“Liza? What do you think?” Hunter asks.
“I’m not sure a cake such as this fits the theme of the day.”
We have a
theme?
“What is the theme?” I ask.
“Splendor in elegance,” Hunter says.
I don’t even know what that means.
“Okay, so do we need a fancier cake?” I ask.
“Something more luxurious for sure,” Liza says. “Like that one.” She points to the cake that I believe is up next in the lineup. It looks like a lot of chocolate.
The baker sets this one before us. “Chocolate brownie cappuccino torte: brownie and rich chocolate layers separated by a cappuccino mouse and chocolate ganache swirl and brushed with Chambord, then topped with fresh raspberries.”
Good lord, that cake has a lot going on.
“I haven’t even tasted it and I’m pretty sure that’s the cake,” Liza says.
“Well, okay then. It looks like we’ve got a cake,” Hunter agrees, not having yet tried it either. Apparently what Liza says goes.
Click.
“Do you want to try it first?” I ask Hunter.
“Of course, my queen.”
I push mine directly to Matthew, who immediately digs in, taking over half the piece in his first bite alone.
He moans the minute it’s in his mouth. Something stirs in my nether regions; I shift slightly in my chair and clench my thighs. My reaction is ridiculous. Especially considering the man is not remotely attractive and I’m marrying Hunter soon.
Just ’cause you’re married don’t mean you’re dead.
Crystal’s voice rolls through my conscience. She’d make an excuse for about anything I did or do. Besides, it has yet to be determined whether being married again will be like being dead.
8
Pax
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: wedding photographers have it made. Cake tastings are the best. And we always get fed the day of the wedding too. I’m perfectly capable, financially and otherwise, of feeding myself. But there is something about this wedding, knowing that Tabs and the Simpleton are unknowingly footing the bill, that is darkly satisfying.
