Just Desserts

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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‘…if any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or for ever hold your peace.’

Father Truman paused and stared out at the wedding party.

The silence in the restaurant was so thick it was almost tangible.

It was not the first wedding that had been performed in Boui-Boui. Trudy had catered for several weddings where the bride and groom had asked to use the Michelin-starred facilities for their marriage. With its envied reputation, its associations with local celebrity and its trademark chintzy decor, Boui-Boui was a desirable location for such an important event.

Trudy recognised the priest. Father Truman was the local minister who had officiated at two or three previous marriages. He was a charming man and seemed to take genuine pleasure from being able to bring a couple together through the wedding service. But Trudy didn’t think she could warm to the man on this occasion.

Father Truman’s expectant silence continued.

Harvey Walker, the best man, stared out at those gathered. He looked resplendent in his morning suit. With black tails over a silver waistcoat, he held his top hat in one hand and wore a proud smile. Trudy thought he was looking for Charlotte, to give her a warming smile. The couple seemed to have been smiling at each other a lot recently.

His gaze fell on Trudy. His proud smile saddened a little.

Trudy warned herself that she wouldn’t cry.

Imogen, the maid of honour, chewed her lower lip nervously. She looked like a woman who didn’t care about the impending photographs. Her gaze flitted constantly between the bride, the groom and the priest. Her eye make-up, heavy and dark, had already been smudged by tears.

The restaurant was crowded. As the expectant silence stretched, a handful of guests shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. On table thirteen, Daryl leant close to Trudy’s ear and lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘You should say something.’

Trudy tried to push her away and silently shush her. She was loath to admit that she had been thinking the same thing.

‘Just clear your throat and cough,’ Daryl suggested. Her voice was incredibly soft. Her words were obscenely tempting. ‘It would be enough to let the bastard know that he shouldn’t have treated you so badly.’

‘Not now,’ Trudy insisted.

‘I’ll do it,’ Daryl promised. ‘I’ll shout out and say he shouldn’t be marrying that hatchet-faced bitch. He should be marrying you. Just give me a nod and I’ll do it.’

Trudy’s cheeks had turned crimson. She fretted that, in the service’s inescapable silence, everyone would hear Daryl’s outraged whisperings and might understand the embarrassment of what had happened. The idea of all Bill’s friends and family knowing about her shame was unthinkable.

‘Daryl,’ she warned softly.

‘Very well,’ the priest declared, breaking the silence. He turned to the bride and said, ‘Do you, Aliceon Johnson, take William Hart to be your lawful wedded husband?’

Trudy didn’t hear the rest of what was being said. She was too busy chastising herself for not taking Daryl’s advice. She should have halted the ceremony. She should have screamed and wailed. She should have shouted, ‘You can’t marry her. You can’t marry her because I love you and I thought you loved me.’

An hour later and the ceremony was concluded, the speeches had been mercifully drawn to a close and most of the buffet had been consumed. Guests were milling and mingling whilst an overly enthusiastic DJ encouraged everyone to take their place on the dance floor.

Daryl was in the arms of her latest girlfriend, Beatrice. Even though the music around them was loud and upbeat, the pair gyrated slowly together as though listening to a sultry ballad that only they could hear. Daryl was wearing peach colours for the wedding and they complemented the pastel greens worn by her partner. Beatrice’s gown was worn off the shoulder, revealing a yin-yang tattoo.

Daryl kept touching the tattoo as they danced.

It was only a small detail but it made Trudy happy for the pair of them when she noticed the intimacy. Their relationship had been swift but it looked close and she thought it was destined to last. Trudy empathised. Both of the women were slender and blonde and attractive. They looked like a perfect match as they rocked and swayed to the rhythm of unheard music.

Trudy had to wrench her gaze away. The acrid taste of jealousy was rising in her throat. She wasn’t particularly attracted to women but she found herself envying Daryl and Beatrice for the happiness they were sharing and she didn’t want to feel envious of something that was obviously so special.

‘How are you coping?’ Charlotte asked.

Charlotte wore an Alexander McQueen creation. It was light cotton, as white as the bride’s wedding gown, and its tailored cut accentuated the balance of Charlotte’s slim waist between her broad hips and ample bosom. Her brunette tresses were down to her shoulders and the ‘V’ above her nose was deep as she scowled with concern at Trudy.

Harvey stood next to her, his arm linked in hers. He looked equally concerned and waited patiently for Trudy to say, probably for the hundredth time that day, that she was fine and well and bearing up under the circumstances. She had practised the line so many times she could now almost say the words without feeling as though she was about to burst into tears.

Almost.

‘Do you need a drink?’ Charlotte asked.

Trudy shook her head. She was avoiding alcohol today. The day’s events were proof that she could make poor decisions. She didn’t need to take on alcohol to help further impair her judgement.

‘Something to eat?’ Harvey pressed.

‘I’ll get something for myself, thanks.’

She excused herself from their well-meaning interest and went to the buffet table. None of the remaining sandwiches appealed to her. She walked past most of the savouries without giving them much attention. Her interest, as always, was focused on the desserts.

She had glimpsed a selection of muffins on display and she wanted to investigate further. She nudged the fuchsia-haired maître d’ and asked, ‘Nikki, are those what I think they are?’

Nikki glanced at the display.

‘Kali’s mini carrot cakes?’

Trudy released a sigh. Kali was Boui-Boui’s resident pâtissier. Trudy had heard rumours about the woman’s legendary mini carrot cakes but she hadn’t previously had a chance to sample one. She took out her smartphone and snapped a couple of shots of the desserts before Nikki could raise an objection.

‘I thought she’d stopped making them,’ Trudy mumbled.

‘She had. But this is a special occasion.’

Trudy stepped closer to admire them. ‘Have you tried one yet?’

‘I’m working. Give me credit for some professionalism.’

Trudy picked up one of the mini carrot cakes. She had heard several people talk about the pâtissier’s speciality muffins, but Kali had never made one while Trudy worked in the kitchen.

The dark golden sponge suggested brown sugar as well as the addition of various rich, exotic spices. Inhaling their bouquet Trudy caught a note of coriander and a suggestion of nutmeg. The surface of the mini-cake was hidden beneath a smooth white layer of icing, decorated by curly slivers of orange zest.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ asked Nikki. ‘Or are you trying to sniff the flavour out?’