‘Of course, they love the colours. And the, uh, taste.’ She wiped the corner of her mouth and he mirrored the action.
He felt the icing sugar, brushed it away and smiled broadly. ‘I have a daughter. It’s her birthday next week and my wife has organised a party for her. Do you cater for parties?’
‘Yes, I love to.’
Or would love to—this would be her first. The cachous balls compressed around her stomach.
‘May I have your card?’
Abigail fished a spare from the front pocket of her handbag. He took it, held it up in thanks, then shook her hand again.
‘You’re very talented. Thank you for meeting with us.’
‘Thank you, it was a pleasure.’
A profitable, corporate pleasure.
She was escorted outside by the Communications Manager, who was practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
‘I’ve seen your Instagram,’ she said, pressing the ground floor button in the elevator. ‘I’d love to work with you to get some time-lapse videos for a background presentation. I know that’s tight,’ she said when Abigail’s eyes widened, ‘but maybe I could send someone over before you deliver everything. They could film what we need, get the presentation done back here—you wouldn’t need to do a thing.’
Abigail turned to the doors when the elevator pinged. They stepped out into the lobby and turned to one another.
‘It’s definitely something we can work out the details for,’ she replied. ‘I’d want Boucake’s watermark in the corner of the slideshow.’
‘Easy.’
Abigail suspected anything she requested from this point forward would be ‘easy’. They were as keen to work with her as she was with them.
The women agreed to speak again soon, Abigail promised to send the contract through by close of business, then she was alone on the footpath, her mind buzzing and her heart skipping.
Two jobs. A run-away success, by any measure. It was a shame Brittany was home ill, because Abigail was in a mood to celebrate.
She thought of the temp she’d been forced to arrange at the last-minute, and threw her hand up to wave down an approaching taxi. The tube would take too long, she wanted to get back quickly.
Adrenaline pushed her fatigue back to a manageable distance. She thought of Dillon as she climbed into the backseat, and smiled when she remembered his disbelief at the hour that she’d woken him. She’d warned him—bakers were early risers. She’d given him a bland cup of tea then sent him on his way, then boarded her bus and allowed herself a few minutes of satisfied reflection before she’d slipped into work mode.
In all, it was just after ten-thirty in the morning and Abigail had already worked what some would consider a full day.
Brittany had texted her last night—sick and full of apologies—and it had changed everything. Abigail’s start time, her morning schedule. Jean, a saint who walked amongst the masses and worked at Attic Recruitment, had found her a temp to work in the shop for the day, but it was a short-term solution.
Abigail needed more help. Everything fell to pieces when Brittany was sick. Abigail had to close the shop to attend appointments or make deliveries, and the stock suffered because she had to prioritise the custom orders. It wasn’t smart business.
Everything was as she hoped it would be when she stepped through the front shop door a short time later. At least, it seemed that way for the duration of a single smile.
‘Tracey, you all right? How did it all go?’
The temp was a fair-haired German girl. She had extensive sales experience and a quiet disposition, and had made a fine first impression in the brief moments Abigail had been able to spare to show her around. She’d been sitting behind the counter, but stood when Abigail walked in.
‘Good, miss.’
‘Abigail, please.’
Tracey nodded. ‘You had eighteen customers, thirty-six sales and one custom order.’
‘Goodness, Tracey, you didn’t need to itemise.’ She checked out the display. It was running low on roses and all the delphiniums had been sold. ‘But thank you. Any problems?’
Tracey hesitated.
Abigail looked up.
‘This woman came in, about an hour ago, wanting to see you. Had a lot to say. I think she knows you personally, it didn’t seem to be about the business.’
Isobelle. It was the week of the engagement party. The invoice had been paid in full and this was no doubt the first of many check-ins. Surprising that she’d made another visit to the store, though. Unless she’d had another fitting in town.
‘You get a name?’ Abigail asked, rounding the counter.
‘No, but she’s outside.’
Tracey pointed through the shop door to Gregor’s alfresco seating across the yard. There was a woman sitting apart from the corporates who’d come out from their offices to enjoy the sunshine. She was wearing a shirt so white, angels would use her drycleaner, and sunglasses wide enough to hide the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes.
Abigail cursed and dropped her handbag behind the counter. ‘What did she say?’
Tracey hesitated again.
‘Never mind,’ Abigail said, walking back around to the front. ‘No doubt it was wildly offensive, I won’t ask you to repeat it.’
Tracey’s obvious relief confirmed the worst of Abigail’s suspicions.
To think Abigail had been having a really good day.
‘You all right if I step out for a few minutes?’
‘Of course. Tug on your right ear if you want to be rescued.’
Abigail hesitated. ‘Pardon?’
Tracey illustrated a right ear tug.
‘Right.’ Abigail laughed. ‘You know, I’ll probably take you up on that.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out.’
Back outside in the late morning sun, Abigail stepped around tourists taking pictures and claimed the seat opposite the woman who really had no right to wear such a flawless colour.
They regarded each other with the only thing they had in common anymore: dislike.
‘Mother.’
The disapproval was swift.
‘What sort of business is this, that you’re out all morning and employing people who don’t know where you are?’
‘A short-staffed one.’ She caught Gregor’s eye and waved down a wordless offer for coffee. He frowned at the woman in white and stepped back inside. ‘Isobelle told you where I was,’ she guessed, returning her attention to her mother’s sour expression.
‘Of course she did.’
‘Of course,’ Abigail murmured. ‘Because the two of you are so close.’
‘Don’t start.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we were just continuing.’
Marissa Mullins waved a heavily-ringed hand through the air, as if Abigail’s words were flies. ‘Seven months, nothing. Not a single call, no note. You just run away like you’re eleven years old. What was I to think?’
‘Whatever Mal told you to think, I dare say.’
‘Enough. Enough of that.’
Abigail was not going to sit here and be scolded. ‘Whatever you want, the answer is no. If you have something to say, I have some sort of business to run, so talk fast.’
Marissa bristled. ‘Disrespectful as ever.’
‘Insult me again and you’ll see my back.’
Marissa pressed her thin lips together. Her lipliner was a shade darker than her lipstick. Abigail itched to point it out but didn’t want this moment to last a second longer than it needed to.
‘This job you’re doing for Isobelle. These …’ she glanced over Abigail’s shoulder at the display window of the shop, ‘bouquets. People are talking.’
‘I dare say they are. And you’re listening as always.’
Abigail wondered if Marissa knew that her youngest daughter was expecting a second child. She wondered if she mourned that lost relationship, or if she was relieved to be free of the association like she was with her eldest daughter, the d
isappointment sitting opposite her now.
‘You may have thrown your reputation—’ Marissa’s eyebrows shot up when Abigail pushed herself up from her seat. ‘Wait. You sit and listen to what I have to say!’
‘Like you listened to me?’ Abigail challenged.
Marissa looked away and huffed a breath.
Abigail stared at her, for a moment irresolute. As horrid and self-serving as this woman was, she was her mother. But how much did that relationship excuse? She thought of Louisa, thousands of miles away, who had been so mistreated by this woman that she’d chosen not to introduce her son to his English grandmother. She remembered the morning she, Abigail, had called Marissa for help only to be disbelieved and discarded in favour of social prestige. Then she thought of the key Marissa had given Mal that had enabled Mal to entrap her.
Her indecision clarified itself.
‘I want nothing to do with you,’ Abigail said, leaning forward. ‘I’m not your daughter anymore, do you understand? Never come here again. Never speak to me again. Now you’ve lost us both.’
Marissa’s lips parted, and time stretched. Her expression was fixed and her enormous sunglasses obscured her eyes, so it was a moment before Abigail knew how Marissa had responded to this verbal eviction.
‘You’re just like your father,’ she said, revulsion in her tone. It curled her lip and creased her powdered nose. She threw one hand towards Boucake. ‘A gambler and a fool. A disgrace.’
‘You won’t miss me, then,’ Abigail replied. Before she turned, she gave in to the burn in her chest—the unasked question that had been a snapping, consuming fire within her all this time. ‘You believe that Mal hurt me, don’t you?’
Marissa stood and lifted her chin. Her long-nailed fingers flexed on the bag she held against her torso like a shield between them. ‘My marriage with your father was far from perfect.’
Abigail’s memories of her father couldn’t fill a five minute conversation, she hadn’t known the man and her mother hadn’t spoken of him. Maybe Marissa had been abused. Maybe she hadn’t. It almost didn’t matter. She’d not acted in her child’s best interests, but her own.
‘You believe me, though, don’t you? That he hurt me.’
‘Yes.’
Without another word, Abigail walked away. She did not look back, and Marissa did not call after her.
***
Dillon stared at the small, unwelcome letters on his phone screen until the screen dimmed then went black. He set the phone down and gazed around his flat. They hadn’t had plans, but after sleeping together on Sunday, he’d assumed they’d see each other again on Monday.
Abigail’s text had been vague—bad day, looking forward to seeing him later in the week—and had left him with more questions than clarity. Had she not landed the bank job? Was it something to do with Brittany? And when later in the week?
Sunday hadn’t been as much a coming together of bodies as it had been a coming together of souls. He was the first man she’d slept with since her fiancé. She was the first woman in years that he’d slept with sober. She’d invited him into her home, he’d felt comfortable there. He wanted to be there again. To listen about her bad day, and kiss it away.
There was so little to do here, in this flat he’d once considered the centre of excitement. This was a space for parties. For loud music and foggy faces. This place was designed for high energy and low connection, for obvious displays of wealth and a clumsy grind of bodies. There was no blanket on the couch, no trinkets of the places he’d been. No warmth at all, and so little of the colour spectrum that lived at Abigail’s. There was so little of him, in fact, that this flat could belong to anyone.
Except Abigail. If it belonged to Abigail it would have as much personality as she did.
Dillon picked up his phone and unlocked the screen. He scrolled through his gallery and smiled down at her smiling face. One Soho nose, two. Three, and a particularly amusing fourth nose. All seven of them, and then a photo of their cheeks pressed together, triumph in their eyes. He opened it in Instagram, added a filter that made the mustard colour of her jacket pop, then posted it with a short caption.
Then he opened the search bar and tried to learn a little more about the enigmatic woman who’d had a bad day.
Chapter 16
Dill’s mills
Abigail treated herself to a late start on Tuesday morning. There were no custom orders to be collected before lunch. There was enough stock in the display cases. There would be nothing to do, so she arrived at a very respectable 8.00 am, and didn’t feel at all bad about it. The traffic was a different adventure within peak hour, but the noise and the jostle had kept her mind off her mother.
She’d messaged Louisa after the fight, simply saying, ‘I no longer have a mother.’ Louisa’s response, delayed because of the time difference, had made her laugh when it had finally come through. She’d simply said, ‘I thought we were orphaned more than two decades ago?’
Perhaps they had been, and Abigail had never gotten the memo.
She used the hour before she opened the shop to wipe surfaces and rewrite the flavour of the day board. She’d woken with a peanut butter and truffle combination on her mind, and could have a batch ready by nine-thirty. To keep eager mouths from requesting it before she was ready, she kept the board inside, and got to work sifting flour and beating eggs. She was sliding trays into the oven when Brittany came into the kitchen.
Abigail flashed a smile over her shoulder. ‘Hey! You’re feeling better then?’
‘Yeah. Listen, the strangest thing …’ Brittany stopped speaking when Abigail whirled around to grab a third tray. She waited. Began again when Abigail stopped moving.
‘So …’ Her eyes were wide and wild, but pinched in the corners. Her lips were parted. She looked so unlike the Brittany of Friday that Abigail’s hands slapped down to her thighs, forgotten.
‘What’s going on?’
Brittany glanced over Abigail’s shoulder. ‘Tell me what you’re doing first.’
Abigail gestured towards the flavour board. ‘Peanut butter truffle dahlias.’
‘How’s it made?’
‘I’ve already made it. Brittany, what’s going on?’
Brittany shook her head. ‘How are you styling it?’
‘You’ve done dahlias before. Brittany—’
‘A … Dillon’s put a photo of you on the internet.’
This was not the news. The gravity in Brittany’s voice wasn’t rock-bottom yet, Abigail could hear that it had a ways to go. Abigail said, ‘How do you know this?’
‘It came up on my newsfeed.’
Abigail’s hand appeared between them. ‘Show me this picture.’
Her fingers curled around the slim phone Brittany handed over. She turned it over and the screen brightened. It was an Instagram picture. Dillon and Abigail were cheek-to-cheek. They could be an advertisement for toothpaste with those smiles. There was an indistinct shape over Dillon’s left shoulder, and the caption read Seven for seven noses of Soho. There was a hashtag after it: #satisfaction.
It was sweet, she thought. But they hadn’t had the social media conversation yet—this picture would have to be deleted.
Brittany knew Abigail was private and preferred to be behind the camera, but this seemed like an overreaction to a single picture. What was the reason for the apprehension on Brittany’s face? Why was she so worried this would upset her? And when did Brittany start following Dillon on Instagram? Abigail didn’t even follow him yet.
‘People are sharing it on Facebook and Twitter.’ Brittany licked her lips. ‘He’s some kind of B-list celebrity.’
Abigail moved the picture closer to her face. ‘A celebrity?’
‘Maybe C-list. He has a crazy amount of followers and from what I can tell, a crazy amount of money. He’s like a London socialite.’ They stared at each other. ‘You didn’t know.’
Abigail shook her head.
Brittany touched Abigail’s elbow. ‘Okay,
listen. You’re probably going to want to take that.’ She nodded at the phone. ‘Go find a seat and have a look through his profile. I’m going to keep going with the cakes, and I’ll work the counter.’
The little device felt like a bomb. ‘Brittany …’
Brittany shrugged her lips, and although she appeared encouraging, she sounded sad. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
Except it wasn’t. It turned out to be worlds away from okay.
Sitting at a small corner table in the Beatha Bakery, Abigail ignored the coffee that had appeared at her elbow and scrolled through a seemingly endless album of incompatibility. Almost burying the pictures of Space Invaders and flashy cars, were countless pictures of parties. Alcohol. Women. Close-ups of slack mouths and glassy eyes. Fingers around cocktail glasses and long legs in heels. Photo after photo of take-away coffee cups, some with partially obscured phone numbers written on the side. There were fewer than a dozen staged photos amongst them. The majority were candid. Uncensored. Confronting in their intimacy. There was a sparing use of filters—Dillon appeared to like his world unmanipulated. Raw.
His profile name was dillsmills, and almost every post featured the hashtag wheelsup.
She exited the profile and loaded a search bar.
Dillsmills had over three-thousand results. Wikipedia linked the profile name to one Dillon Wheeler, owner of London’s premium automotive experience company, Wheels. His net worth was estimated at six million pounds.
He wasn’t even from the same world as the humble looking nobody he’d been pictured with. That’s what had generated so many likes and shares online: Abigail was being cast in a mystery-Cinderella role, beside a prince and his kingdom.
Abigail had fallen for a man—slept with a man—who’d lied to her. Not about how many drinks he’d had, or about how she truly looked first thing in the morning—but about who he was. And his evidently cavalier approach to privacy and decorum was at complete odds to the way she was and the way she needed things to be. If thousands of people liked a cheesy couples photo under a piece of urban graffiti, how many people were going to like making the connection between her photo and her identity? And once they knew that, it was a hop, skip and a jump to knowing what she’d done.
Have Your Cake Page 17