Since You've Been Gone

‘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.

‘OK,’ 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.

‘OK. 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 al-fresco 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 of cupcakes 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 fliers 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 the 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 bumf 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 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 smaller tubs over once without realising. The viscosity of the pastes meant they didn’t spill immediately, rather leaching out at a slow but steady pace. By the next morning, the bakery 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?’