Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

  “So do you,” he pointed out, accurately and with obvious indignation, and Mabel tilted her head.

  “True.” With the tip of her pointed boot, she pushed a second chair in his direction. “Well, what are you waiting for? Sit.”

  He almost fell over his short legs hastening to join her, and Sylvie shook her head, grinning, as Mabel put a sugar snake on his outstretched palm and handed him a brush. Her instructions were abrupt and drenched with exasperation, but her hand was gentle as she guided his decorating attempt.

  When the family had left, Mabel’s new number-one fan clutching a rainbow-streaked snake, and his mother loaded down with cakes and sweets, Sylvie spoke without looking up from her notebook. “Some of the staff actually smile at customers. I casually mention.”

  “Some of the staff are simpering twits.” Mabel fluttered her brush over the side of a large fish, iridescent pearly scales appearing beneath her fingertips. A piece of nougat came flying out of the kitchens and smacked her directly on the forehead. Sylvie heard the slap of a congratulatory high five. Mabel didn’t so much as pause. “Most human beings are insincere cretins who cover egocentric impulses with meaningless social gestures. At least they buy things. Helps pay for my new couch.” She finished the fish, examined the piece of fallen nougat, put it in her mouth. “Kids are usually more tolerable. Stickier fingers, but less bullshit.”

  The floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind Mabel was full of chocolate boxes, packaged to look like vintage books. As she spoke, the hidden door in the central panel opened and Jay Fforde, Sylvie’s best friend and business partner, came in from the staff offices. He was holding a thin sheaf of papers. “Would these be the ‘tolerable’ kiddies you threatened to drop-kick into the chocolate waterfall last week?”

  Mabel was well over a foot shorter than Jay. At the bakery Christmas party, she’d glanced with loathing at the limbo pole, walked straight underneath it, and headed for the bar. She still managed to look down her nose at him now. “Valuable life lesson. If you feel comfortable shoveling handfuls of stolen sweets into your pockets, I might feel comfortable shoving you headfirst into a pipe.”

  Jay raised his brows at Sylvie. “Have we considered moving Mabel’s workstation so she’s slightly farther away from the paying customers? Perhaps about”—he made a pinching motion with his finger and thumb—“two postcodes to the left?”

  “Have we considered getting a haircut, so we look slightly less like an aging rocker?” Mabel asked conversationally. “It’s swell of you to take over potions class while Sylvie’s back on telly, Axl Rose, but you don’t have to go full wizard cosplay.”

  Jay opted to ignore that, although his fingers went briefly to his shoulder-length hair. It was quite a bit longer than usual, possibly because of his current girlfriend. Lovely woman. Kept telling him things about his artistic soul. He’d started writing poems and reading them aloud to Sylvie in their shared office.

  It had been a trying few months all round.

  She closed her notebook. “Are you sure about taking over downstairs?”

  At the street level, Sugar Fair welcomed customers into a bright, child-friendly fantasy. The architecturally designed enchanted forest was awash in jewel tones, and gorgeous smells, and the waterfall of free-flowing chocolate.

  But it was the Dark Forest downstairs that had proved an unexpected money-spinner, an income stream that had helped keep them afloat through the precarious first year.

  Four nights a week, through a haze of purple smoke and bubbling cauldrons, Sylvie taught pre-booked groups how to make concoctions that would tease the senses, delight the mind . . . and knock people flat on their arse if they weren’t careful. High percentage of alcohol. It was a mixology class with a lot of tricks and pyrotechnics. It had been Jay’s idea to get a liquor license.

  “Pleasures of the mouth,” he’d said at the time. “The holy trinity—chocolate, coffee, and booze.”

  With even her weekends completely blocked out, Sylvie had almost made a crack about forfeiting certain other pleasures of the mouth, but Jay had inherited a puritanical streak from his mother. Both their mouths looked like dried cranberries if someone made a sex joke.

  The sensuous, moody haven in the basement was a counterbalance to the carefully manufactured atmosphere upstairs. There were, after all, reasons to shy away from relentless cheer. Perhaps someone had just been through a breakup, or a family reunion. A really distressing haircut. Maybe they’d logged on to Twitter and realized half the population were a bunch of pricks. Or maybe they’d picked up the Metropolitan News and found Dominic De Vere indirectly trashing their entire business aesthetic in a major London daily.

  Whatever the reason—feeling a little stressed? A bit peeved? Annoyed as fuck? Welcome to the Dark Forest. Through the bakery, turn left, down the stairs.

  “There’s absolutely no way you can keep your current workload and take up this judging gig on Operation Cake,” Jay said emphatically. “You’ll conk out from sheer exhaustion by month’s end. And while I know you’d prefer to blowtorch your own eyeballs than work hand-in-glove with Dominic De Vere—”

  “Especially when it was directly his vote that booted you off before the final in your series,” Mabel cut in, avidly eavesdropping. The comment was heavy with ire. Despite describing most reality TV as “like looking up the devil’s colon,” the Queen of Doom and Gloom held a grudging fondness for Operation Cake. Sylvie had once had to drop a package off at her flat on a Sunday night, and had found her watching last year’s series in a onesie.

  It’s just so damn cozy.

  To watch, undeniably. Behind the cameras, it was a business like any other, with the accompanying pros and cons. Sylvie had some fond memories of her time as a contestant, and she was flattered to be asked back as a judge. She also had reservations.

  Including one towering, sarcastic reservation who’d just swiped yet another major cake contract out from under them.

  Trying to hide her dismay in front of the watching staff, she looked at the document Jay handed her. “Hallum & Fox went with De Vere’s? That brief was made for us. It’s a fantasy novel, for God’s sake. They’re holding a carnival at the launch and they opted for the Dominic Special? Five tiers, blanket white, maybe some fondant work if he’s made someone cry and is feeling festive?”

  To give the master and commander of De Vere’s his due, silently and reluctantly, the cakes inside those tiers would be fantastic. Might-as-well-keel-over-right-now-because-you’ll-never-taste-anything-this-good-again quality. But, Christ, Dominic. Colors. They exist.

  “They went for the old-school prestige.”

  “Damn,” Sylvie said softly, staring down at the Hallum & Fox logo.

  She’d badly wanted that commission, and not just because it came with an expansive fee. The launch was for the new installment in one of her favorite book series. She still backed the design she’d submitted. It would have been a beautiful, exciting cake.

  “De Vere’s has the name recognition and the status.” The other bakery had held top-tier status since Sebastian De Vere, Dominic’s grandfather, had opened the original pâtisserie decades ago. “They can get away with making snotty comments about tacky fads,” Jay said darkly. “We need to utilize every marketing plan we’ve got.”

  He glanced around the shop floor, currently devoid of people not on their payroll. He’d always had Resting Brooding Face—way back in their teen years, he’d got the part of Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the school play just by walking into the casting room—but his expression and clothing really had gone full Victorian undertaker lately.

  He started to speak, then inclined his chin meaningfully toward the door to the offices. Sylvie stuck her head into the kitchens to make sure everybody knew what they were doing. Nobody was panicking or on fire, so she followed him back through the bookcase.

  “Temporary lull,” she assured him in their messy little office, easily reading his expression. “It’s been busy all morning. We’re still riding
the wave of Strawberry Bomb sales.”

  They had pulled a queue right down the street for the Bombs, truffles with a hidden center that burst spectacularly in the mouth, thanks to a visit from a tousled-headed pop star and his model girlfriend, and the accompanying Instagram selfie.

  He didn’t so much as blink. “But?”

  She started plaiting her long ponytail. She was a stress plaiter. There were some very intricate bread loaves and rocking hairstyles in this place. “But you’re right. Overall momentum is slowing. I’d be more comfortable if we can knock things up to a higher level.”

  He tucked his hands in his pockets and perched on the edge of the desk. “It is a good thing you’re doing Operation Cake. I’m sorry, I know you’ve never exactly been jumping to get on TV.”

  Understatement of the century. She’d had to be talked into going on the show the first time round, on the grounds it could kick-start their business dreams.

  “Ten minutes after I signed the contract, I found a snow-white hair in my eyebrow.” She ran a finger over the offending brow. “I expect the rest to shortly follow suit.”

  Oh, well. Another step toward unlocking her coveted life goal of Cranky Crone.

  “It’ll be a serious boost for us. People still remember you.” A whisper of a grin. “Hard to forget. The slow-motion clip of the hoof whacking De Vere in the face has racked up half a million views on YouTube. I bookmarked it for whenever I need a laugh.” Behind the amusement, however, Jay seemed genuinely concerned about any suffering Sylvie was about to endure on their behalf. What a darling. “On the bright side, the studio doesn’t waste money. That filming schedule is fast. We’ll only have to juggle your commitments for a few weeks. And the name recognition for the judges is huge.”

  Sylvie nodded. They’d already seen a bump in mentions online and in the press. One media outlet, speculating on the show’s new judging lineup, had run a puff piece about the perceived competition between Sugar Fair and De Vere’s, which she highly doubted Dominic had even seen, let alone read, and would pay no credence if he had.

  He viewed her as a temporary, upstart blip on his radar.

  So sad for him that she intended to be a permanent, well-established nuisance.

  “We need to pull bigger event contracts,” she said without preamble, and something flickered in Jay’s expression.

  She knew that look. Even as kids, it had heralded useful information. He preferred the term “social research” over “gossip.”

  “You know something.”

  “Shall we say whisperings have become a loud hum?”

  Anticipation sat heavy in her chest. This could be the one they’d been waiting for, for months. The literal contract of the decade. If it was true. “The press has nothing new. Same litany of guesses in the papers today. Princess Rose engaged in heated snog. The princess’s new diamond ring. Wrong hand, but still! Ring! Diamond! Et cetera.”

  He rolled his eyes, all nonverbal scathing of the press, and a smile grew from the hopeful flutters in Sylvie’s stomach. “Engagement imminent, or has he really popped the question?”

  “My royal source”—and only Jay could say that without sounding like a total git—“says it’s a done deal. Official announcement from St. Giles Palace any time now. Wedding expected to be in the spring.”

  “We’re ready to go as soon as it drops.” She put one hand down on the desk, resting her fingers on the file that sat on top in priority position.

  “And you’re quite sure about this video game thing?” Jay looked and sounded skeptical. “She is a princess.”

  Sylvie snorted. “So her personal hobbies ought to be—what? Practicing ribbon-cutting? Swanning around St. Giles unveiling makeshift plaques? The girl walks her pit bull in a Metallica T-shirt, and showed up to the Easter service at the Abbey wearing a skull necklace. Gamer princess seems entirely on brand. We could do whatever the hell they like for the actual wedding cake, but we need a foot in the door first. The pitch cake has to be memorable and personal.” She grinned at him suddenly and buffed her nails against her collar. “You’re just pissed because Watson got the jump on Holmes this time. Need to up your game, Sherlock.”

  Jay’s lips were tugging irrepressibly upward. With a surge of affection, she flung her arm around his neck, and he dropped his head to rest against hers.

  “If Sugar Fair ever closes,” she said, with a note of fierceness, “it’ll be at our instigation. We will not go under. It works, and it’s going to keep working. And if that means going back on TV, fine.” She straightened. “If it meant job security for every person under this roof, I’d sign on to a bloody burlesque act with Dominic.”

  “Wow,” Jay said after an extended pause. “That image is going to be the gift that keeps on giving, isn’t it?”

  The Operation Cake team was sending a car at one o’clock. At five to one, Sylvie stood outside under the shelter of the eaves, checking her watch and pulling her coat tighter across her chest. Her breath misted in the sharp bite of the air, frosty and ephemeral. Like the steam that flowed silently from Dominic’s ears when a schedule ran more than fifteen seconds late.

  Shivering as a raindrop hit her eyelashes, she studied the Tudor architecture of the storefront across the street. It was one of her favorite buildings in Notting Hill. Like a teeny version of Liberty. It ought to be flanked by horse-drawn carriages and men in doublets and pantyhose, instead of rain-spattered tourists clutching crisp white bags and boxes.

  Her gaze lingered on the discreet, elegant signage above the door. The door she couldn’t help noticing was admitting a lot more foot traffic than the one behind her. It swung open again, and a man strode out, with all the appropriate bearing and command of a Tudor king. And increasingly similar amounts of facial hair.

  Fortunately, much less formfitting trousers.

  The maestro himself.

  A ripple of awareness went through the cluster of customers outside De Vere’s, and Sylvie started to grin.

  Phones appeared, brandished for selfies, and with absolutely no survival instincts, the crowd pounced on Dominic like a swarm of rabid bees.

  Even across the street and traffic, with her vision impaired by the rain, she could see the internal battle in his expression. A polite request to piss off and leave him alone wouldn’t bode well for repeat customers. He shook a few hands, and she started counting down in her head. When she hit “three,” his taut lips moved and the man chattering eagerly at his rigid face took a step back, looking affronted.

  Seven seconds from excited greeting to mortal offense. Nowhere near his record. Jay wasn’t the only one off his game.

  A young woman sidled in close to Dominic and tried to take a photo, and Sylvie could pinpoint the exact moment he lost all will to live.

  As a sleek black car with the network logo slid to a stop, easing smoothly into De Vere’s private parking spot, he looked up and their eyes met.

  His expression changed.

  She’d been mistaken.

  There was the moment.

  Thirty Minutes Earlier, Across the Road in That Gorgeous Tudor Building

  Where, unfortunately, running a successful bakery requires occasional interaction with other human beings.

  Three layers. Chocolate. Lemon. Pink champagne. The bride wanted lemons grown only in Sorrento. The groom claimed that chocolate made anywhere but Bruges was a waste of cacao. They both refused to consider any champagne but that of a bespoke label that produced only two hundred bottles of that variety a year, most of which were presold to a man in Chicago who, like most multimillionaires, didn’t share his toys.

  What a boon for the rest of the dating market that two such fucking pains in the arse had found each other.

  Dominic’s team had the ingredients, budget, and time for one test run. The sample cakes now cooling on the racks were shaped correctly, a good color, barely a crumb out of place. When he took a fork and tasted the spare cuts of the chocolate mud cake, he realized why several members of his s
taff were staring fixedly at various locations on the floor, ceiling, and nearest exit.

  They were already behind schedule this week, and he was out for the afternoon shooting ridiculous promos for Operation Cake. Every person in this room was paid a top-tier salary and in almost all cases did correspondingly excellent work. They did not usually stand around darting wary looks like he was the bloody Grinch about to invade Whoville, or turn overpriced ingredients into a cake with the textural consistency of cheddar cheese.

  He set down the fork. “Who mixed this?”

  Glances were exchanged.

  Lizzie, one of his chocolatiers, cleared her throat. “Aaron.”

  He should have known. Aaron’s continued employment was starting to hang by a string. There had been multiple incidents when he’d been late and careless. He’d broken so many plates, Lizzie was using the shards to make photo frames for her craft group.

  As a side note, he also kept buying hot chocolate from Sylvie Fairchild’s bakery across the street. Bakery. Funfair. It seemed to be a matter of semantics. Apparently, Aaron liked the marshmallow unicorns that floated in the drinks like small bloated corpses, and thought Sylvie was “a darling.” So not only unreliable and wasting his potential, but questionable sanity.

  Dominic counted back from five in his head. “And where is Aaron?” he asked, with whipcord-taut patience.

  “Not sure.” Lizzie turned to continue placing small pieces of gold leaf on dark chocolate truffles. “But he’s definitely not hiding in the bathroom.”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  His own workplace was meant to be exempt from the endless stream of sobbing and theatrics that encompassed the short painful weeks on the Operation Cake set. It was a grim countdown to that fiasco every year; he didn’t need a copycat version in De Vere’s.

  Aaron finally emerged, full of apologies, and with time Dominic didn’t have, he started walking the other man back through the steps he should have taken. And tried to work out what the hell he had done, because even the worst cakes produced in the TV studio didn’t usually have a mouthfeel more suited to grating on a pizza.