by Della Galton
Olivia knew she wouldn’t. Ruby, for all of her sharp business acumen and easy come, easy go attitude to relationships, didn’t have a cruel bone in her body.
‘I won’t, of course,’ Ruby had confirmed ten seconds later. ‘It’s not her fault she’s married to a devious coward.’
‘No. That’s true.’
There was a part of Olivia that wondered whether the oblivious wife had a right to know that her husband had fathered a child who would end up being adopted and one day, in the far distant future, might want to track down his biological father. That was a ticking bomb waiting to explode, if ever she’d heard of one.
But she decided it was not her place to say this. It had to be Ruby’s call.
It was also going to be a tough secret to keep from Aunt Dawn. But it was one that must be kept. Their aunt may have felt morally bound to tell their mother and then Ruby would have faced the barrage of their parents’ questions and reactions.
‘I’m obviously going to have to tell them all at some point,’ Ruby had said. ‘But I need some time to get my head around it all first.’
Fortunately, Aunt Dawn was busy with the shop and when Olivia spoke to her, a little after she’d spoken to Ruby, it was a relief to know her aunt attributed her slightly subdued manner to the fact that she hadn’t yet heard anything about her audition.
This was partly true. As Tuesday passed too and there was still no word from Clarice, Olivia’s heart sank lower and lower. She was tempted to phone the agency and ask, but she knew it was pointless. If there was news, Clarice would tell her. So presumably there wasn’t and, in the acting profession, no news was bad news. She had an eightieth birthday cake to get on with too.
She also had a good chat with Hannah when she phoned for a catch-up. ‘No news yet, I’m sad to say.’
‘I will keep everything crossed for you,’ Hannah said. ‘Let me know what happens.’
Hannah was well acquainted with the difficulties of making a living from one’s dream job. She was a freelance journalist and she also wrote novels in her spare time, but so far, she hadn’t managed to attract a big enough publisher to jack in her day job.
‘How’s the writing going?’ Olivia asked.
‘Slowly,’ Hannah said with a sigh. ‘It’s really hard work writing in my spare time when I do it all day as well. But I did have a bite for a YA book a couple of weeks ago. I’ve sent them the whole thing.’
‘I’ll keep everything crossed for you too. How’s Truro? How’s your mum?’
‘Truro’s lovely. Mum’s just – well, Mum. Demanding as ever. She seems to have a job for me about twice a week. They’re always tiny, like changing light bulbs, but also urgent – even though I’ve asked her to save them up. I sometimes wish I’d stayed in Weymouth. On the plus side, I’ve joined a diving club – have you done that lately?’
‘Funny you should ask that.’ Olivia told her about her discussions with Phil. ‘We’re planning to go some time.’
‘Brilliant. Another thing you have in common.’ They talked about having things in common with partners for a bit longer before the conversation came to a natural close.
‘Don’t give up hope on the publisher,’ Olivia said just before they disconnected.
‘Ditto on the audition.’
Phil reiterated this when they chatted on Wednesday morning. ‘Maybe there’s been some glitch in the system, honey,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered, even though she could tell from his hesitancy that even he didn’t really believe that. Phil was no fool.
Wednesday lunchtime, Olivia caught up with some admin and then busied herself checking Eric’s cake, which she had iced the day before. The red sugar paste Mercedes with the sugar paste model of Eric, complete with white hair and beard, had come out even better than she’d hoped. The old man was going to be thrilled. She couldn’t wait to see his face. Presuming she got it there in one piece.
This was another cake she would be delivering personally. Eric lived alone in sheltered accommodation and he wasn’t very mobile. As she was lifting the cake carefully into its box, her phone buzzed. Olivia glanced at the display and her heart jumped into her mouth. It was Clarice. For one awful moment the cake wobbled in her grip and Olivia put it back on the worktop swiftly.
Now the moment of truth was finally here, she felt as though the world had gone into slow motion.
Calm down, she told herself. Deep breaths. She didn’t want to answer the phone with a panicked yelp. She wanted to sound cool and professional and not as though she hadn’t let her mobile out of her sight for more than a second since Friday. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t used to disappointment. It happened all the time in the acting business.
The phone was still ringing. If she didn’t answer it soon, Clarice might give up. Olivia touched the green button.
She had planned to say a bright, ‘Good morning,’ as though she didn’t have a care in the world, but it came out as a squeaky, ‘Hi.’
‘Olivia?’ Her agent’s brusque voice held a question.
‘Yes. Sorry, it’s me.’
‘Apologies for taking so long to get back to you. I’m afraid they’ve only just got back to me…’
The whole world stopped. Olivia held her breath. The figurine of Eric looked as though he was grinning up at her, egging her on. His smiley face triumphant. The clock on the wall had stopped at midday. Both hands pointed to twelve. It wasn’t even ticking. Had it actually stopped?
‘But I’m afraid it’s a no,’ Clarice went on. ‘For what it’s worth, I think they’ve made the wrong decision. Apparently, there was only a whisker between you. Better luck next time.’
‘Right. I see. Thank you for letting me know.’ Olivia felt as though she were repeating a line, parrot fashion. A line of a script before she’d put in the emotion. Her voice sounded so blank and far away.
‘Sorry it’s not better news. I’m sure I’ll have something else for you soon. Bye for now.’
‘OK. Bye.’ Olivia could hardly speak, but Clarice had already gone. She wasn’t the type to rake over the ashes. Opportunities came and went. If you got rejected, you picked yourself up, dusted yourself down and tried again. That was how the business worked.
Olivia put her phone back on the worktop. The world had gone back to normal speed. It was now two minutes past midday. One hundred and twenty seconds was all it had taken to bring her world crashing down. Even Eric didn’t look as though he was smiling any more. His mouth had a definite downturn. Maybe she should adjust that.
She reached out towards the figurine and realised that her fingers were shaking too much to be careful. Maybe she would leave it. The last thing she needed now was to ruin this cake and have to start over.
She sat at her wooden kitchen table and blinked away tears. On her fridge was a magnet which said, If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. It had been a present from Aunt Dawn. The irony had appealed to them both. But in that moment its real meaning hit her hard.
How many more times could she put herself through this? How many more times could she allow herself to hope that this time it would happen? This time she would be picked. The door to fame that had been so tantalisingly ajar felt as though it had just slammed with brutal force in her face.
There were only two people in the world who would totally get this. The first was Phil because he’d been there so many times himself and the second was Aunt Dawn. But she would be busy in the shop.
Olivia phoned Phil and he answered within three rings.
‘Hey you. How’s it going?’
‘It was a no.’ She was trying to sound casual but she was aware she hadn’t succeeded. Her voice shook slightly as she added, ‘They went for the other actress.’
‘Ah.’ A beat. ‘I’m so sorry. What are you doing? Would you like some company?’
‘Thanks, but no, I’ve got a cake delivery. Then I need to go to the wholesalers. Are you working tonight?’
‘I am, but I could
maybe swap shifts?’
‘No, it’s fine, Phil.’ She was touched that he’d offered. ‘But let’s save the shift swapping for emergencies or celebrations. I wouldn’t be much company tonight and I’m pretty busy. We’re meeting tomorrow, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, I hope so. Is that still OK?’
‘It’s great. See you then.’
‘Keep your chin up, honey. Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’
‘I won’t.’ Olivia sniffed and swiped a stray tear from her cheek. She hadn’t wanted to blub but it was impossible to hide her pain completely.
They said their goodbyes and Olivia hoped Phil hadn’t noticed her tears. She allowed herself another five minutes of self-pity, running once more through all of the dreams she’d had of being on prime-time television. Of Mum and Dad being able to tell their friends. ‘That’s our daughter, that is.’ Of Aunt Dawn’s smiley pride. Of Ruby’s pleased-as-punch delight – ‘I always knew you’d do it.’ Of Phil’s pleasure – he would have got it most of all.
Then, she wiped her face, refixed the metaphorical lid firmly back on the top of her box of dreams and busied herself taking Eric’s cake in its real box out to her van. At least she managed to get that there safely without any mishaps.
Was it only six days ago that she had dropped Arabella’s cake making this very same journey?
She remembered how touched she’d been when Aunt Dawn and Phil had rallied round, supporting her, helping to make another cake up into the early hours of the morning. All so that she could get to the audition.
So much for that.
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, she reminded herself as she locked up her front door and headed for Eric’s.
Eric lived in one of the more run-down parts of Weymouth. Flat 1B was on the ground floor of the sheltered housing block and she parked in the communal car park, breathing in the scents of diesel fumes from the nearby main road, mixed with the straggle of spring flowers that someone had planted in the border. She could hear the shouts of children from the primary school a couple of doors up. It must be break time.
As she walked across to the entrance of the flats, her mood dipped again. She had always been the kind of person who thought that things happened for a reason, but she was struggling to find a reason for the events of the last twenty-four hours. Her sister was having the baby that Olivia had always wanted – a baby that would be given away and brought up by strangers, and would never know it had a lovely, warm, if slightly eccentric birth family. And the part that even her agent said was perfect for her would be played by another actress. Olivia had googled her when she’d got home from the audition and discovered that she’d been in the business less time than Olivia. She had less experience and she was also younger, despite the fact that the script called for a woman in her late thirties, early forties. She was thirty-four. Olivia would have killed for a break like that at thirty-four.
It all seemed so unfair. When would it be her turn? Maybe never. Maybe she should do what she knew her parents secretly wanted and give up her acting dreams and focus on Amazing Cakes. Maybe she should start trying for a baby – just in case that proved to be difficult too.
What was she thinking? She didn’t even know if Phil wanted a family. Phil was absolutely lovely. But he’d never once mentioned children. They needed to talk about it. They needed to talk about their future and how they both saw it unfolding. Things had moved on from when they’d first got together. They’d got closer, but what if this was as close as he ever wanted to be – meeting up a couple of times a week to do lovely things like the picnic on Sunday. What if that’s all he wanted? She was assuming it wasn’t, but she didn’t actually know. What if he was another Tom? She needed to find out.
She blinked away the crowding thoughts and rang Eric’s buzzer. A few seconds later, he buzzed her in.
He looked even more doddery than the last time they’d met – which had only been a month or so ago when she’d called round to discuss the design for this cake. He was leaning on his Zimmer frame and puffing slightly as he let her into his front door. He was also smiling broadly.
‘Good afternoon, doll. Did you see any curtains twitching?’
He’d confessed, the last time she’d come over, that he loved the thought of his neighbours speculating about the identity of the ‘young hottie’ (his words not hers) who came calling. ‘They love to gossip,’ he’d added with a wink.
‘I didn’t see a soul,’ Olivia told him. ‘Which is probably just as well.’ She gestured towards the box. ‘They might have worked out that I’m just a cake delivery girl and not your secret girlfriend.’
‘I guess you’re right.’ Eric gave an exaggerated mock sigh. ‘If only I was twenty years younger.’
‘Thirty,’ she told him, trying not to smile.
‘All right. All right. Don’t rob an old man of all of his dreams.’ A beat while he caught his breath. ‘Let’s have a look at this masterpiece then.’
Once in the kitchen, she put the box carefully on the worktop and lifted the lid. Eric shuffled closer and peered in to see.
For a second, Olivia held her breath. What if he didn’t like it? What if it wasn’t quite how he’d imagined it would be? Or he didn’t like the image of himself? What if he didn’t see himself as she had? She had enough disappointment swirling round in her head already. She didn’t think she could deal with his as well.
Then, to her huge relief, the skin around Eric’s eyes crinkled up until his whole face was a picture of delight. ‘That’s cracking, that is. You’ve done me proud. You really have.’
He looked so thrilled that she felt the warmth swelling her heart. At least she was good at something.
‘I’m really pleased you like it.’
‘I do.’ He adjusted his glasses and reached to touch the little figurine. ‘Don’t I look dapper. I’m made up. Really, I am. Made up.’
He tried to give her an extra tenner as a tip, which she refused. She knew he couldn’t afford it. Eric lived in the shabbiest of clothes. His slippers were threadbare and she was pretty sure he eked out his pension by keeping the heating low. It was never that warm in the flat.
She was just leaving a very pleased old man when she spotted the recycling bin by the door. ‘Shall I take this out for you?’
‘If you would, doll, ta.’
‘Enjoy your party,’ she said, as she picked it up.
‘Ta. I’m looking forward to it. Can’t wait to see my Vanessa’s face when she sees your cake.’ Vanessa was his daughter.
‘Get her to take a photo for posterity,’ she told him.
‘Don’t you worry. I will.’
Outside, just before Olivia put his bag into the big black communal recycling bin, she sneaked a peek. She’d been right about him eking out his pension. In the white plastic bin liner were sixteen baked bean tins, all neatly washed out, each with its lid, not the easy-to-open ring-pull kind, tucked inside.
She caught her breath before swallowing an enormous lump in her throat. Here was an old man, unable to walk without his Zimmer frame, and clearly without a pot to pee in. He must have saved up for weeks to afford that cake, even with the discount she’d given him but not told him about. Yet he still found plenty to smile about. And here was she, half his age, feeling desperately sad because her life wasn’t working out as she’d hoped.
She straightened her shoulders. ‘Get a grip,’ she told herself. ‘If Eric can make the best of life with no money and the bulk of his years behind him, then I’m damn sure you can do it too!’
12
This was a sentiment she shared with Phil the following evening when she went to his and he agreed with her wholeheartedly.
‘You are so right. When life brings you lemons…’ he said and spread his hands for her to fill in the blank.
‘Make lemonade,’ she said resolutely.
‘Or find someone who has a bottle of tequila,’ he amended, as he went to his cupboard and produced one
.
‘I thought it was limes with tequila.’
‘I’ve got limes,’ he added, laughing at her surprise. ‘And salt. I thought we could knock back a couple of tequilas and set the world to rights. Or at least the acting world. Being positive is all very well, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a good old rant too.’
‘What a superb idea.’ Her heart lifted in gratitude that he understood so well what would help.
He tapped his nose. ‘I occasionally have them.’
Five minutes later, they were installed in his lounge on a squashy sofa in front of a low glass coffee table. On the table was a wooden chopping board on which was a row of neatly sliced lime halves, a little pot of salt with a miniature teaspoon – who knew Phil would have such things in his bachelor pad? – two shot glasses and, of course, the bottle of tequila.
‘So, is it salt first or lime?’ Olivia asked him.
‘Watch me.’ He poured out two shots, sprinkled some salt on his clenched right fist, then touched it to his lips, downed the shot and sucked on the lime.
Olivia followed suit. The salt bit was OK. The tequila left a burning trail down her throat and the lime made her screw up her face. An assault on her tastebuds which screamed in outrage. But it got much easier after the first one.
For the next hour, they drank tequila and ranted about the vagaries and unpredictability of the acting world.
This slowly got more pointed.
‘Bloody actresses barely out of drama school creaming off the best jobs,’ Olivia said.
‘Yeah.’ They downed a tequila each.
‘And who are younger…’
‘Yeah.’ Another one.
‘And prettier…’
‘Not a chance,’ Phil objected, blowing her a kiss.
‘The casting director was probably her cousin.’
‘Yeah.’ They downed a couple more.
‘At this rate, we’ll be as fissed as parts – hissed – pissed,’ Olivia said, hamming it up.
They both collapsed with laughter and Olivia knocked over the tequila bottle, which fortunately had the cap on.