Before she could believe her own situation enough to scream, he pushed down on her throat and silenced her.
Chapter 10
Treasure hunt
Isobelle rang the Boucake shop number first thing the following morning. ‘He’s good with it,’ she said without introducing herself. ‘He asked a bunch of questions, but he doesn’t think it will be weird.’
‘It’s going to be weird, Isobelle. Maybe not for the pair of you, but your family and guests are going to ask where your customised centrepieces came from.’
‘I won’t tell them anything about you.’
Abigail put a helpless hand up when Brittany eyed her from across the kitchen. If this had to happen, then that was definitely Abigail’s preferred course of action. She wouldn’t get any referrals for this job, but she’d let the cash comfort her.
‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through?’ she pressed. ‘I’m going to be seeing you the day of your engagement party. Speaking to you. Taking money from you.’
‘As long as that’s all you’re taking, I’m not bothered.’
‘I’m not a threat, Izzy. I don’t want your fiancé.’
‘I know, you as good as broadcast that.’
Abigail squeezed her eyes shut and pinched her nose. It had been Isobelle who had been sure the word had got around. She’d not worried so much about the facts as she had about the reach of her gossip. When Abigail had been alone in that downtown hotel, her small bag of possessions by the door and her heart still racing from that horrendous moment of exposure, the messages had come thick and fast. Izzy just said …, I just heard …, I can’t believe you’d do that to Mal, he deserves so much better.
That had been the day Abigail had deleted her social media accounts. A few days after that, she’d had a new phone number and the messages had stopped at last.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea. Isobelle, I’m going to have to decline the job. This is all too personal to be professional.’
Isobelle didn’t speak for so long that Abigail pulled the phone away to check they were still connected.
‘I know you’re upset,’ she began, putting it back to her ear.
Isobelle cut her off. ‘I’m not upset because you’re not declining the job. If—’ her voice went sharp when Abigail began to protest, ‘—you don’t deliver my order to me I will ruin you.’
Abigail held the phone so tightly the blood in her fingers began to pulse.
‘I want cupcake bouquets. So, I will get them. This is the least you can do after everything you did.’
A beat. ‘Fine. But customers who threaten my business not only risk not getting my best work, but they have to pay in full upfront. And we don’t deliver outside of Greater London, so if you want them, you’re going to need to figure out a way to transport them. I look forward to receiving your complete payment by close of business tomorrow.’
She ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bench. It slid a few inches then stopped.
Brittany waited until Abigail’s breathing ratcheted down from hyperventilation before she moved or spoke. She walked up to the edge of the large workbench and flattened her palms on top of it. ‘We are not doing that order. No way, not for that crazy bitch.’
She sounded far away. Her voice was softened by the noise in Abigail’s head. Ideas. An assault of them.
‘I want you to film me packing our next bouquet,’ she said.
Brittany blinked in surprise. ‘Okay.’
‘The dry ice, the reinforcements within the boxes, everything. A test run to get the frame right. I want you to set up the tripod and the camera, and we’re going to film every one of her centrepieces from start to finish.’
‘And the cake?’
‘And the stupid cake, we’ll film that too.’
‘You want to document everything,’ Brittany said, understanding. ‘To protect us.’
‘Every moment of it, until the last box is handed over.’
Brittany slapped her hands on the table. ‘You have that clause—in your custom order contracts. The one about the products being used for promotion.’ She beamed when Abigail raised an eyebrow. ‘I say we exploit it. Showcase the hell out of this order. Write personal messages for each post, share a bit of the story.’
‘I don’t want to share the story,’ Abigail snapped.
There was a beat of surprised silence, then Abigail left the conversation. She strode out to the shopfront and checked the stock levels in the glass cabinets. They’d caught up since Monday, they were on top of things again. There was nothing to straighten or clean, nothing to make without being wasteful. She couldn’t keep her fingers still. She could feel the tick of her pulse in her temples, and the first slick twist of guilt in her gut.
Brittany stepped out a moment later, her expression closed.
Abigail sighed and turned to her. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you like that. I know you were just trying to help.’
Brittany pushed at her rubber bracelets. ‘It’s okay. I didn’t mean you should share all your business. I know you’re a heaps private person. I just thought … if we could control the dialogue a bit, whatever she might say about us would be seen for what it was.’
‘You mean like, “Boucake’s honoured to be making centrepieces for old friends today”.’
‘Yeah, frame it positively. Build up so much evidence against her she’d be stupid to try anything.’
Abigail nodded. She stepped around the counter and sank onto the stool behind the register.
She’d worked so hard to disappear. She’d severed all of her connections to home, kept her face and name away from the business accounts, cut everyone from her life who had turned on her … only for a beautiful photograph to lure a horrible piece of her past right through the shop door.
‘So, old friends, huh?’ Brittany asked carefully.
Inside, Abigail felt hollowed out. Outside, her skin seemed stretched and dry. A curious mix of something like pulled cheese and autumn leaf.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘O-cake,’ Brittany said softly. ‘If you ever do, I see you more than I see my family. Just sayin’.’
‘Loud and clear.’
Brittany slapped her hands together and the mood broke, like a fractured mirror. ‘What now?’
‘I’m not sure. I was just thinking how on top of things we are.’
‘Go get a coffee then. Walk it off.’
‘We just opened,’ Abigail protested.
‘Yeah, but you didn’t just get here.’ She chivvied Abigail off the seat.
Out on the street, a single cupcake in hand, Abigail doubted she could walk far enough to make herself feel easier about agreeing to Isobelle’s demands.
Of course, the woman may not pay. Abigail would send the invoice herself the moment she stepped back into the shop, and Isobelle may baulk at the cost or the conditions, and then all this angst would be for nothing. Or Isobelle would pay, and become the most documented job in Boucake’s short history.
Abigail wanted Boucake to have a long history. To become a London landmark of sorts, or a family legacy. Customers would come and go, some would be a dream and others the opposite—but none should have the power to threaten her business this way. In a year no-one would care about Abigail’s past. Wounds would have healed and interest would have lapsed. In five years it wouldn’t matter that Abigail had almost been a bride. Maybe in five years she would have made it to a wedding, and maybe she’d be well into celebrating her own marriage anniversaries. She just had to keep her perspective now. It wasn’t a requirement to be living her own happy-ever-after in order to sell a part of it to others.
She crossed the Yard and stepped into Beatha Bakery. The smell of warm bread and freshly ground coffee was glorious, and she filled her lungs with it. Gregor, the barrel-chested, larger-than-life storeowner, caught her eye and smiled. She held up the cupcake, their agreed currency, and he laughed. It was a thick, comforting sound. The kind of laug
h which built then broke. He held a finger up and she nodded.
Minutes later she was stepping back into the Yard, a coffee in hand. She smiled at Arran, who was standing in front of his convenience store restocking apples in the angled barrels by his yellow door, and felt a little better for having had these small interactions.
These people were her community. She’d fled here, and they’d welcomed her. They’d been here at the beginning of her new beginning, and they’d never guess the depth of her gratitude for their smiles.
She walked along Neal Street towards the Covent Garden Station, passed it and paused on Floral Street. People bustled along the sidewalk with shopping bags and tourist maps. Shopfronts promoted their latest stock in their glamorous street windows; the latest fashions and must-have accessories. Promising lifestyles that at times competed with the promises of their neighbours. Be more active. Relax and unwind. Travel the world. All you need is here.
West of the Covent Garden market, the Ted Baker store was her destination. She cast her eyes up the wall alongside it, and smiled when she saw it. A small protrusion, a shell-like shape with a small recess in the middle—the very thing Brittany had offered only ten minutes ago.
An ear.
Soho was full of character and curiosities. Treasures to be found both by accident and design. This was one of two ears on this street, mismatched, far from being a pair, and it gave her an idea.
She took a photo of the moulded body part and sent it to Dillon with the caption Covent Garden lending an ear.
The reply came quickly. Is that on a wall?
Was he at work, standing between glamorous vehicles, speaking with people who sought a more pricey experience than the free one she’d just sought? Was he wearing that red, red shirt, smiling down at his phone, waiting for the conversation to continue?
She typed, Find me the other one by Friday 6pm and there’s a mysterious date in it for you.
It was an easy enough task. An internet search would besiege him with information; pictures, the artist’s name and motivations, locations—both vague and precise depending on the blogger. She wasn’t hoping to baffle him so much as excite him. Treasure hunts were for all ages. The prizes just varied.
Will you be waiting at this location at 6pm on Friday?
She smiled at the message then looked over her shoulder in the direction of the other ear.
Yes, she typed, don’t keep a lady waiting.
If he’d wanted to keep the conversation going, he didn’t. He let her have her mystery.
Abigail returned to Neal’s Yard in much higher spirits. She bought a coffee for Brittany and pastries for them both, and the gift made Brittany squeal with delight.
Her mouth full of flavour and her tastebuds singing, Abigail opened her laptop and drafted Isobelle’s invoice. She attached the terms and conditions, slightly modified from those distributed to less combative customers, and pressed send. She flashed her middle finger at the screen, then changed windows and began to research motorsport winner podiums.
Chapter 11
Magic number
Tolkien didn’t get his standard biscuit stir when Abigail arrived home. Instead, he got a fright as she barrelled in the door, dropped her bag on the floor, and, seemingly oblivious to his nerves, continued to make noise after noise whilst bustling between rooms, until at last she dropped onto the couch and was still. He watched her, scandalised, as she rechecked her phone screen then opened the lid of her laptop. She glanced at him and laughed.
‘Get over here, kitty ’kien, we’re celebrating.’
He did not move from his safe space under the dining table.
Abigail grinned and returned her attention to her multiple screens. It was almost time to video call her sister, but there was something important she needed to do first. After wine. She drank from the glass she’d brought over from the kitchen and thought she’d never tasted something so sweet. It warmed her body like a compliment, and before she’d even taken a second sip she knew she’d have a second glass.
She took a screenshot of the image on her phone, then loaded the image into the chat window she shared with her sister, ready to send.
Minutes passed. She was early. She typically didn’t run from the bus stop, bound up the stairs and skip her usual routines, but her excitement was like fizz in her bloodstream and now that comfortable time buffer she’d put before the arranged time felt like a mockery.
She bounced her feet impatiently, which made the wine in her glass dance.
Still in his bed under the dining table, Tolkien made a noise of displeasure. Abigail glanced at his screwed-up face, then glanced at the time in the bottom corner of her laptop. She hesitated, then shot to her feet and darted into the kitchen. Tolkien tensed, then, realising her intent, hurried after her.
Abigail dropped to her haunches beside his bowl and thrust all five fingers into the more than ample pile of biscuits, and she shook them with such vigour that she imagined they’d still be rattling as they moved down the cat’s throat.
Tolkien nudged her aside to reach them.
The laptop chimed. The thick, up-down pitch of an incoming call.
Abigail barrelled back to the couch and accepted the call before she’d even sat down, so the first picture Louisa got when the call connected was of her sister’s falling body.
‘Hey!’ Louisa said, her voice familiar and wonderful, and full of the exclamation marks that could both exhaust and energise Abigail.
‘Hey, yourself!’ Abigail returned. She got comfortable then pulled the laptop towards her. ‘Okay, good chat. Put my nephew on now, please.’
‘Ha ha,’ Louisa said. ‘Straight into the stand-up set tonight, then.’
Abigail grinned. ‘It’s good to see your face.’
‘Yours too.’
The sisters exchanged fond looks, then each began speaking at once. ‘I have news,’ they said together.
Abigail hesitated. She wanted so badly to go first. It would be the highlight of her day to see her sister’s face when Abigail sent the image waiting in the text section. She’d thought of little else since checking her bank account balance on the bus ride home. That magic number had stared back at her, and exclamation marks had filled her mind, and then she’d waited and waited for Louisa to log on. But Louisa had scheduled this chat. She was the one who’d gotten up at some ungodly hour. And even through the small rectangle on her screen, Abigail could see Louisa was bursting to share.
‘You go,’ she said, at the same time that Louisa said, ‘Yours first.’
‘Is yours quick or …?’ Abigail hedged.
‘It is definitely not.’
‘Okay then me.’ Abigail clicked the trackpad and the image appeared in the conversation screen. There was a moment as Louisa registered that she’d received a message, then another moment as she opened it and processed it. It was a screenshot of a money transfer receipt. Every pound—or dollar, in Louisa’s case—of the money that Abigail owed her, repaid in full.
‘But …’ A line appeared between Louisa’s eyebrows. She scrutinised the image, then looked at her sister. ‘Abby, you didn’t do anything stupid like take out a loan, did you?’
‘What?’
‘Because I don’t need that money back until you can comfortably pay it. And if you can never comfortably pay it, Sam and I can manage. I mean, you’d be our first call for a spare kidney—’
‘Za,’ Abigail said, using the nickname she’d given Louisa as a child, ‘I didn’t take out a loan. Business is good and I’ve been saving hard.’
There was a stunned silence. Then, ‘You’ve already earned that much in savings?’
Abigail nodded.
Louisa cursed. ‘How have you tricked that many people into buying your food?’
They shared a laugh, and when it tailed off, Louisa seemed to have swelled with emotion. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said. ‘You’re so incredible.’
Not knowing how to accept this compliment, Abigail deflect
ed it. ‘Thank you for giving me this chance. That money …’ Emotion filled her throat like toffee, and she found she couldn’t finish.
‘I know,’ Louisa said. ‘I wish you’d never needed it, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.’
She was referring, of course, to Mal. The man who had cut Abigail off at the knees, both reputationally and financially. Once Abigail had fled Sheffield the money had dried up quickly. Abigail had lived in Mal’s home and her car loan had been under Mal’s name, so she’d had nothing of significant value to sell. Not even the ring. Mal had reported that stolen and she’d been forced to return it rather than pawn it. Without a job and without access to the savings in the joint account she shared with her abuser, things had been bleak. It had been Louisa who had filled Abigail’s new bank account. Who had put up the deposits for Abigail’s home and business rental agreements, and funded the initial business costs. Louisa and Sam had been private partners for a time, bankrolling Boucake as it bloomed into being.
Now the business belonged completely to Abigail.
With today’s money transfer, everything from the bags of flour to the small cachous balls had become hers. And it felt amazing.
She couldn’t wait to go into work tomorrow. Just to touch everything, and surround herself with her success.
‘Or at least,’ Louisa said, cutting through Abigail’s thoughts, ‘I’d try. Things are about to get a bit more expensive around here.’
The shining, self-satisfied thoughts were hard to shake, and Abigail was slow to get her sister’s meaning. ‘What? Why?’
Louisa’s expression changed. Her eyes dropped towards something out of the screen. ‘Because three will soon become four.’
Just like the moment after Abigail’s news, there was a beat of silence.
Then there was a lot of noise.
Much later, Abigail and Louisa ended their rather breathless conversation when Zachary, the soon-to-be big brother, woke and started crying.
Have Your Cake Page 13