by Della Galton
Olivia’s heart sank. She glanced at the digital clock on her oven and swallowed.
‘Um… yes, I’m free.’ She wasn’t in the habit of lying. But Aunt Dawn knew how hectic her life was and she never asked her to do anything unless it was really, really important.
Emmeline may only be a chicken, but her aunt doted on her little flock of ex-battery hens, all of which were named after famous women she admired, from Emmeline Pankhurst to Claudia Winkleman. They were right up there at the top of her list of passions, ahead of fabulous cakes and even vintage clothes.
‘She’s in a box,’ Aunt Dawn continued a little breathlessly. ‘I’m right here with her. I’ll start walking. Save time.’
Blimey, it must be urgent.
Olivia bit her lip. ‘OK. I’ll meet you in the car park in five minutes.’
Her aunt disconnected and Olivia stared at the wrecked pink cake box on the side. Phoning Juliet would have to wait. Making another cake would have to wait too. She would need a miracle to resolve this one. Preferably in the next five minutes.
But right now, she needed to focus on Aunt Dawn. She grabbed her keys and dashed out of the door.
Deciding her aunt must be really worried to be in such a rush, she didn’t wait in the car park but started jogging towards Weymouth Quay to meet her. Hens may be almost as light as air, but it would still be awkward manhandling a cardboard box up across Town Bridge and down the stone steps.
Today the water in the harbour looked green. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Not that much different than the green-painted underside of the bridge itself. Aunt Dawn wasn’t difficult to spot. She was halfway across and was wearing a long red and white polka dot skirt and her favourite vintage denim jacket, which had gorgeous pink and red beaded flowers all over it, although her top half was mostly obscured by the cardboard box.
She was puffing slightly when Olivia reached her and didn’t see her until the last minute.
‘Oh hello, darling. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hold you up.’
‘You’re not.’ When had she become such an accomplished liar? ‘Shall I take her?’ Olivia opened her arms for the box, which was punched with air holes in both sides, and her aunt reluctantly relinquished her precious cargo.
Dawn’s face was flushed. That must be worry, Olivia surmised, because she was one of the fittest sixty-two-year-olds she knew. Tendrils of dark curly hair escaping from a workmanlike plait framed her pretty face. ‘Thank you.’ Worried brown eyes that Olivia knew were a mirror image of her own met hers. ‘I’m so grateful you could step in.’
‘We’ll soon get her sorted out.’ Olivia hoped she was right. Chickens were fragile creatures. And she needed to make that cake. Her stomach crunched with anxiety as they fell in to step on the bridge.
They were the same height, five feet nine and a half, and they were the spitting image of each other. Instead of inheriting her mother’s fair hair and English rose colouring like her sister Ruby had, Olivia looked like her aunt. They had the same dark brown, unruly hair, except Olivia’s was longer, slightly olive skin and delicate bone structure. They were often mistaken for mother and daughter. Although Aunt Dawn declared that Olivia was the spit of Coronation Street’s Alison King (she was a big fan of Corrie) and she proclaimed herself to be Alison King plus a lifetime of laughter lines. A pretty accurate description.
Olivia dragged her thoughts away from soap dramas – despite the fact today seemed to be turning into one – and concentrated on negotiating the stone steps off the bridge. She definitely couldn’t afford to drop another box of precious cargo. A few moments later they were back at her van. She put the boxed-up Emmeline gently on her aunt’s knees as requested. At least something good had come out of the cake catastrophe. If this afternoon had gone according to plan, she wouldn’t have been able to do this for at least another hour and a half and that might have been too late.
‘What do you think’s wrong with Emmeline?’ she asked as they sped along the back streets. ‘You are still using the same vet, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Mike Turner. The white building on the corner of Park Street.’
‘I know the one.’
‘I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. She may be egg-bound. She’s been in the coop on her nest, poor little thing. I thought she was struggling at lunchtime. I’m hoping I haven’t left it too long.’
‘I thought you’d be working in the shop.’
‘I was, but luckily I went out the back about half an hour ago. To check on Emmeline.’
Olivia nodded. Her aunt lived in the flat above her shop, which was like a Tardis and had a lot more space inside than there looked to be from outside. At one end of the building was a fire exit that led out onto a six-foot square terrace, which in turn led down into what Olivia had called the secret garden when she was small. It was an idyllic space full of pots and hanging baskets and it dropped down in a series of levels that were connected by steps and narrow pathways until you got to the lowest level, which had a wall around it and a gate that led to the back of the shop.
A fluttering and a scratching from the boxed-up Emmeline reminded Olivia of their rescue mission as she drew into the vet’s large car park and found a space.
Mike Turner, who reminded Olivia a bit of her old science teacher but who had a lot more charisma, turned out to be brisk and efficient. He confirmed the egg-bound diagnosis, administered a calcium shot to the docile hen and gave them a list of instructions.
‘She should be fine. She’s very healthy,’ he reassured. ‘Keep an eye on her for the next couple of hours.’
Her aunt looked hugely relieved as she stroked Emmeline’s silky black feathers.
Olivia had been so focused on the rescue mission that she hadn’t thought about her own problems, but now they flicked back into her mind with a vengeance.
The vet trip had taken less than an hour. It was nearly 5.30. Just before they left the vet’s, she checked her phone. There were no more calls from Juliet Grey, thank God. But there would be soon, she was sure. She needed to phone her and explain why she hadn’t arrived at the scheduled time and she needed a plan of action. She still couldn’t bear to think about tomorrow.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Aunt Dawn murmured on the journey back. ‘What’s going on? Is it that new man of yours?’
‘No, Phil’s fine. He’s lovely.’ She remembered she hadn’t answered his text either. Neither was he very new – they’d been seeing each other nearly ten months, but in Aunt Dawn’s world, anything less than a year was ‘just the other day’.
‘So what is it?’
There was no point in beating about the bush, her aunt knew her too well. She told her what had happened.
‘Mmm,’ Aunt Dawn said when she’d finished. ‘Awkward. I don’t suppose you’ve got another cake in stock you could use?’
‘Not fruit no. Not so many people want it, these days.’
‘Why were you taking the cake today anyway if the christening’s not until Saturday?’
‘It’s a long story, but one of the reasons is that they have a photographer coming tomorrow to take snaps for the family album of a relative who can’t make Saturday because they’re out of the country. They’re doing a mock-up of the christening. It’s that kind of family. They’ve got a marquee in the garden, a harpist, caterers coming in…’ She broke off. ‘It’s kind of irrelevant anyway, isn’t it? I’d agreed to drop the cake off today. And now I can’t.’
‘But first thing tomorrow would be OK?’
‘I think it would.’ They could still do the photo shoot. ‘We said today to allow for unforeseen circumstances. Juliet Grey is a risk-averse kind of lady.’ She shook her head as they pulled up at a traffic light. ‘It’s just as well she is.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to have to tell her. Then I’m going to have to make another top tier and re-ice it.’
‘I can help you.’
‘What about Emmeline? The vet said you needed to keep an eye on her.’
Olivia opened her mouth to protest that having Emmeline in her kitchen broke every hygiene and health and safety law in the book and then shut it again, Aunt Dawn knew that.
‘What about the shop? Is Lydia there?’ Lydia Brooks was her aunt’s right-hand woman; a small, bustling, smiley woman in her fifties, who was a specialist in lace and brocade – what she didn’t know about vintage fashion wasn’t worth knowing.
‘No, she’s off today. I closed up early. It’s fine. The shop would be shut in another half-hour anyway and I’m not expecting any deliveries or pick-ups. Passing trade will come back if they want something.’
Olivia stopped arguing as they arrived back at number five. Fortunately, her space was still free.
As they went into the kitchen, complete with Emmeline, who was clearly feeling better because she shifted in her box and clucked with indignation as they moved her again, Olivia spotted some crumbs of pink icing scattered like confetti around her back step. A reminder of her clumsiness.
‘I’ll put Emmeline in the lounge, shall I, love?’
It was a rhetorical question. Her aunt had already disappeared. A few moments later, having left the recuperating hen with water and making sure she was comfy, Dawn was back again. They both washed their hands at the small sink that Olivia had installed in addition to the main one to comply with the endless regulations there were when you baked commercially from your kitchen.
‘What else are you supposed to be doing this evening?’ Dawn enquired. ‘And tomorrow morning?’ She clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh lord, your Casualty audition. That’s tomorrow. How did I forget that?’
‘You’ve had other things on your mind.’ Olivia shook her head. ‘I need to cancel it. I’m not going to make it. Even if I could do another cake in time, I still need to deliver it first thing. I can’t be in two places at once.’ She sighed. ‘I haven’t even told the client what’s happened yet. It was literally just before you rang that I dropped the cake.’
‘Oh, my darling, and you didn’t say a word. Bless you. That is so typical of you. Did you hurt yourself?’
‘I don’t think I did my wrist much good. But no lasting damage.’
‘Let me look.’
Olivia held up her hand. ‘Not even bruised – see? It’s fine.’
‘Good. Right then.’ Aunt Dawn straightened her shoulders apparently satisfied. ‘Don’t worry.’ Her dark eyes were soft as she touched her niece’s arm. ‘We’ve got this.’
‘We have?’
‘Absolutely.’ She gestured towards the laminated sign over the cooker. The impossible we can do at once. Miracles might take a little longer.
Olivia’s mobile rang. It was Juliet Grey again. Panicking, she dropped it like a hot baking tray onto the worktop. ‘That’s the client. What shall I say?’
‘Well, usually I’d say full disclosure is best. But I’m guessing you don’t want to panic her.’
‘I don’t. I can’t.’
‘Shall I speak to her.’
Olivia mouthed an uncertain yes and Dawn picked up the mobile before she could change her mind.
‘Good afternoon, Amazing Cakes, how may I help?’
Olivia held her breath as her aunt listened to what was clearly quite a long babble of words from an anxious Juliet.
‘May I stop you there for a second,’ she said. ‘I was just about to phone you. There’s been a family emergency which Olivia is dealing with now. Your cake is done, but we will have to defer delivery until first thing tomorrow morning. I understand you need your cake tomorrow, so would 9 a.m. sharp suit?’ Her voice was a mixture of calm and authoritative. Then she listened to the response carefully. ‘Thank you for being so understanding. Yes, these things happen. Quite. Thank you. That’s very sweet of you. I’ll pass on your regards. We’ll see you at nine.’
She disconnected.
‘Not a problem,’ she said and glanced at the clock. It was approaching 6 p.m. ‘Have you got all the ingredients, love?’
‘I think so. I’d better cancel the audition and I really need to tell Phil not to come round tonight – unless he wants to help us make sugar paste roses.’
‘Don’t cancel anything.’ Aunt Dawn had fire in her voice. ‘I can deliver your cake in the morning. And I can do the finishing for you on site. Your Mrs Grey was very understanding.’
‘Are you sure?’ Olivia felt a fizz of hope thread through her despair.
‘Damn right, I’m sure. Let’s get cracking.’
3
An hour later, the ingredients were weighed out and mixed and the six-inch cake was in the oven. The timer was set for 10 p.m. which was the earliest it would be ready. The kitchen was beginning to fill up with the rich sweet scents of slowly baking fruit cake.
While Aunt Dawn had made the cake, Olivia had been cutting shapes out of pink sugar paste icing at the kitchen table. She had a pattern for the baby shoes and had completed a new pair in record speed. There were just the sugar daisies on the buckles to make. Then she would start on the teddy bear. Briefly she’d contemplated repairing the original, but it was too risky. If even the tiniest bit of grit had got into the sugar paste, it would be a disaster.
A huge amount of time went into making her kitchen a sterile place to work. It wasn’t just about the Environmental Health inspections, which could happen at any time, it was about her reputation. She had a dread of a hair ending up in a cake – or something else that wasn’t supposed to be there.
The cake itself would take between three and four hours to cool enough to be rough iced. Rough icing a cake is the equivalent to putting primer on a wall you’re painting. It’s unseen but essential in order to make the final version perfect.
She couldn’t rough ice until the early hours, but fortunately a lot of the decorative work could be done in advance.
She was trying not to think about the roses. Even with both of them working, they’d be struggling to finish them before midnight. Olivia hadn’t realised she was frowning until her aunt came across to the table. She smoothed down the apron she’d borrowed, which was white, with the words Head Cook emblazoned on it, and said, ‘Don’t look so worried. Apart from the fact that we’re working against the clock, I really enjoyed that.’
‘Thanks again. I really appreciate this. I’ll make some more coffee. Phil should be here soon. He said he’s always wanted to make sugar paste roses.’
‘I can do the coffee.’ Aunt Dawn went to the sink. ‘The more I know about your Phil, the more I like him.’
Olivia softened. ‘Phil’s great. He also said he’ll bring supplies for the chefs, something we can eat while we work, being as time is of the essence.’
‘So then…?’ Aunt Dawn’s voice had gone ultra-casual. ‘While we’re on the subject of your Phil, how is it going? Is it getting serious? Or is this just a casual fling? Not that I want to pry, darling – tell me to mind my own if you like?’
‘When have I ever told you to do that? No, it’s fine. It’s going great actually. He’s amazing. He’s thoughtful, kind, smart, not to mention amazingly hot. Sorry, too much information…’
‘I’m not completely blind. I can see the boy’s hot.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And it must be good going out with a fellow thespian – is it?’
‘Yes, it is. He totally gets it. The hope. The heartbreak. He’s had the whole acting bug thing as long as I have. He’s just as obsessed as I am. We both have the same dream – one day we’ll get that breakthrough role. Even though we haven’t yet…’ She sighed. ‘It’s different for men – there’s always lots of good parts for guys. Age isn’t so much of a thing.’
As they’d been talking, Olivia had been fashioning the sugar paste daisies for the baby shoes and now she stuck them gently onto the buckles.
She was aware that her aunt was back at the kitchen table and they both looked at the finished shoes.
‘Age isn’t so much of a thing for guys wh
en it comes to starting a family either,’ Olivia said softly. ‘It doesn’t matter that Phil’s forty-one. He can probably father children right up until he’s in his seventies and beyond, but it matters that I’ve just turned thirty-nine. I feel as though every month that goes past lessens my chances of being a mum…’
Suddenly she couldn’t speak. There was too much of an ache in her throat. She hadn’t realised until she’d said the words how much she cared. And something darker was in her heart too – fear. She was so afraid it would never happen. That she’d never get the chance to hold her own baby in her arms. That her dreams of having her own family would break apart and fall into the dirt like the smashed christening cake.
She felt a tear roll down her cheek and she closed her eyes. Bloody hell where had this come from? She heard the scrape of chair legs at the table and Aunt Dawn sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘Oh my darling, I didn’t know you were feeling like this.’
‘Neither did I until we started talking about it.’ Olivia laid her head against her aunt’s bony shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired – and stressed out. And I feel as though the clock’s ticking…’ She glanced at the oven and bit her lip. ‘In more ways than one.’
‘Hey. You’ve got plenty of time. Lots of women start their families in their forties, these days.’ She pulled a pristine white hanky out of her pocket. She always had hankies. White monogrammed vintage ones.
Olivia sniffed and took it and wiped her face.
‘I know they do, but I’ve never even been pregnant. Some of my friends have had scares, but I haven’t. And after what happened with Tom…’ She broke off. Tom Boyd was her ex and one of the reasons she hadn’t yet started a family. But the subject of her ticking biological clock and Tom’s laissez-faire attitude towards it were the last thing she wanted to be talking about when Phil arrived. ‘I’m sorry. Can we change the subject?’