She didn’t look for Dillon.
Her fingers flew over the familiar steps required to set up and secure the bases. She gave directions at first, but her helpers just got in the way, so she gave in to her instincts and at last shooed them away. Some went to polish already gleaming cars. Others stood back, at a loss now that their task had been taken from them. Abigail ignored them all. She anchored the bases with bottles of champagne and sparkling wine, each of them boasting the most expensive of labels, but each uncorked and filled with sand. They were a private triumph, and something she and Brittany had laughed over often.
This job was the first time Abigail had given Brittany homework, and her protégée had outdone herself. Tasked with sourcing empties of the best of the best, she’d raided the recycling bins of upmarket night clubs. Moët & Chandon, Krug Brut, Dom Perignon, Boërl & Kroff Brut Rose … they were all here. As was a particularly eye-catching bottle of Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon White Gold, a champagne encased in a plated white gold, laser engraved sheath. A quick internet search suggested that this little number sold for near-on fifteen-hundred pounds.
She wondered if Dillon had ever indulged in it. If he was often a patron at venues which only served such decadent choices. What had he ever seen in humble, basic Abigail Mullins? She couldn’t pronounce some of these labels, let alone afford them. And she’d never be so indulgent as to throw so much money into something she merely drank. So had she just been a novelty? Had the prince come down from the castle to slum it with a commoner, for a money-can’t-buy experience he could later laugh about with his friends?
Abigail snapped the lid off the nearest container, thrust the thin, spiked dowels into her pocket, then seized the first black-iced cupcake. Her fingers worked fast, but her brain was careening out of control.
If that was truly the case, if Abigail had just been a novelty, why then, had she been the one to end it? And why had it seemed to break him so much? The Instagram picture of the two of them had been riddled with sweetness, not sarcasm. His eyes had been lit with adventure and his caption had been an in-joke shared with her. Not with the world. There had been no malice in his memory of that day. And all those other dates … the electronic tablecloth, the opera box seats and the starlit slow-dance. The motorcycle sidecar and the sight of him perched on her couch, amongst her things and beside her cat. Waiting for her to return so he could kiss her again and again and again.
Abigail pressed her lips together and tried to concentrate on her work. Her thoughts were betraying her, and they were feeding the crazed dance in her stomach. Was he standing in the main building, watching her through the mirrored windows? Did he like what he saw?
Being the cakes, of course. The products he’d paid a small fortune for.
She stepped back and blinked the job back into focus. And pleasantly surprised herself. Her body might be under siege, but her fingers had been working apart from all that madness. And they’d done just fine under her absent supervision. She’d almost completed one side of the checkerboard floral arrangement. It was really coming together, and people were pausing all around her, admiring it and praising her.
She smiled at each stranger, then redoubled her efforts.
Half an hour later, when she was working on the second half of the second podium, a man in a red collared shirt neared her, but didn’t pass as all the others had. He was standing on the edge of her line of sight, and the flash of colour made her pulse spike.
Had Dillon come at last?
Her fingers faltered. She fumbled, and a small white frosted cupcake spiralled out of her grasp and landed—frosting first—on the ground. Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, fought for some self-control, then dropped to her haunches to retrieve it.
Another hand beat her to it.
‘I’m sorry,’ said a deep male voice. ‘I knew I’d break your concentration. I’m really sorry. You’ve been working like a demon and I’ve honestly been standing back there for about ten minutes trying to get the stones to interrupt you.’
Abigail knew without turning that her new companion wasn’t Dillon. She might have known his voice underwater, and this wasn’t it. It was vaguely familiar though. She turned, and the sight of Steve made her smile.
‘Oh hi,’ she said, a little breathlessly. She’d become so tense at the idea that Dillon had come at last, that seeing his business partner made her limbs feel suddenly lighter. She touched a hand to her chest and laughed. She accepted the squashed cupcake when he handed it to her, and stood.
‘Is this a disaster? Can the space be hidden at the back somehow?’ he asked. He flashed an odd, incomplete smile. ‘If you need to use it anyway I won’t tell.’
She glanced at the grit clinging to the smeared icing. ‘Oh, no. I bring spares. I always bring spares. You have to prepare for every eventuality in this job.’
‘Like being run off the road.’
It was an attempt at humour, she knew. It was a shared story which linked them, and which should have made them both laugh. But neither of them seemed happy to revisit the memory.
Steve rubbed at his neck as Abigail tossed the cupcake into the collapsible waste bin she’d set up by her feet.
‘What can I do for you, Steve?’ She checked the time on her phone then gave him her full attention. She was ahead of schedule, this unexpected interruption wouldn’t put her behind.
‘I know you’re busy,’ he said, his eyes following her phone as she dropped it back in her pocket. ‘And like I said, sorry for interrupting.’ She waved away the apology and he nodded his thanks. ‘I was just, ah … wondering when we might see the man of the hour?’
Abigail straightened and turned. Microphones and guest seats had been set up during her fugue of focus. At least half a dozen of the seats were occupied by bored looking persons flicking through pages on their iPads, and a camera crew was setting up. Everywhere she looked Wheels staff members were wiping or sweeping. It was like a hive.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, then she looked back at Steve apologetically. ‘But that being said, I’ve barely looked up. And I never spoke with Lindsay. I know you gave me his number, but there were so many images online I just figured I needn’t bother him.’
Steve had emailed through the personal contact details and work bio of the event’s guest of honour, the much admired and highly acclaimed racing driver Lindsay Wells, in case Abigail had wanted a first-hand account of life on the track. For inspiration or accuracy, she’d not been sure. But she’d not called him. Brittany, upon seeing his pictures on a winners’ podium, had asked if she could call him, but Boucake and all its representatives had not made contact. So when Lindsay was turning up was anyone’s guess. Presumably it would be Dillon’s responsibility to know?
Steve frowned at her. ‘I know where Lindsay is, he’s inside getting briefed. I’m looking for Dillon.’
Abigail’s eyes widened. Understanding was coming slow. Why would Dillon be MIA from his own event, and why would Steve presume she’d know where he—her ex—was?
In the pause between Steve speaking and Abigail replying, his appearance seemed to crystallise. He was sharply dressed and impeccably groomed—his eyebrows were even trimmed. But he was coming apart. His eyes were overbright and his expressions appeared considered. He wasn’t reacting fluidly, but rather as someone might who was limiting their expense of energy. He was so tightly wound and anticipating disaster, that just to look at him made her heart race uncertainly, in a kind of stress echo.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, although he clearly wasn’t. Why did people ask that? She’d hated how many times she’d been asked that when she’d been with Mal.
He ignored the useless question. ‘Please call him. Just for my peace of mind. I’m sure he’s on his way. Or maybe he’s in the car park. But I need to know. People are asking.’
‘But we …’ The words died on her open lips. Steve was one scrap of bad news away from popping a vein in his forehead. Now didn’t seem like the time to bring him up
to speed on his boss’s latest personal drama. ‘I’ll call him.’
They stared at each other.
‘Now,’ she added quickly. ‘Okay.’
She lifted her phone from her pocket again, searched her contacts then dialled. It rang once, twice. Three times. She smiled awkwardly at the man opposite her. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe.
The call connected. ‘Abby?’
Abigail flinched against the nickname. Dillon’s voice was thick and muddled, and she immediately suspected that she’d woken him. For Steve’s sake, she kept her voice light. ‘Have you left home yet?’
‘What?’
She laughed. ‘Really?’
‘What?’
Her mind was leaping all over the place. She had to protect Steve from imploding, but she also had to protect Dillon. She couldn’t say why it was suddenly so important to her that he not have another bad day. Guilt maybe. Or perhaps it was her gratitude for this opportunity, and a little selfishness that she wanted it to go well for both of their professional reputations. Whatever the reason, her motivation doubled.
Dillon was still at home. Either drunk or hungover. He was well-practiced at the booze, so it stood to reason that he would have rallied from time to time and managed to fake sobriety. She needed him to do it again. Just long enough to please the masses and protect his company’s reputation. Never mind his own reputation, he obviously didn’t care much for that.
‘Yeah,’ she said, pretending to be responding to a question. She glanced at the second cake stand. ‘I’m almost done. Ten minutes maybe.’ Steve glanced at the stand then back at her. He looked hopeful, the poor bastard. ‘Of course I can pick you up. I’ll be there in …’ She glanced at Steve and pretended to appear shy. She spoke into the phone. ‘This is a formal invitation to your house then? So I can get your address off Steve?’
A flash of surprise came and went on Steve’s face, then he nodded. Fervently.
She smiled wider. ‘Steve, he said yes.’
Steve lifted his hands and swept them both towards himself. ‘Yes, yes. Fine. Tell him he’s going to put me in an early grave with frights like this.’
‘Did you hear that?’ she murmured.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’ Dillon was listening, but he was perplexed.
Steve lifted a pen from his breast pocket and scribbled an address on the back of his business card. He handed it over, gestured at the cake stands, mouthed an apology then hurried away. Off to resolve the next drama.
Abigail’s smile slipped from her face. She turned away from any possible onlookers and lowered her voice. ‘Now you listen,’ she said. ‘I will be at your front door within half an hour. When I get there you will be dressed and ready to fake it, do you understand? Take a bunch of aspirin, drink water, and be ready. This bloody car can’t launch itself, and Steve doesn’t look like he could handle stepping into your shoes right now.’
She heard him curse as he remembered.
‘Half an hour,’ she repeated. She ended the call then whirled around to complete her presentation. There were only fifty-odd cakes left to place, she could do that within ten minutes, but she’d have to give directions for the next step. There suddenly wasn’t time to do it herself. ‘Can I have some helpers?’ she called to no-one in particular and in no particular direction.
Red shirts materialised.
‘There are two thin plastic sheets on the front seat of the van. I need someone to get them.’ A red shirt sprinted away. ‘These need to be covered,’ she said, all the while placing and piercing the last of the black and white cupcakes. ‘Open the covers out and very gently cover each one. Weigh the plastic down with anything you can find except my bottles. I have to go off-site for twenty minutes. If the wind picks up take the sheets off as quickly and carefully as you can, otherwise everything will smudge. These covers are just for bugs and dust whilst we wait to start.’
All around her people were nodding. Her heart was stuttering and her arms were itching to be thrown wide, to create a barrier between her creation and those who might touch it before the cameras could immortalise it. But she had to let go and step back, and trust this next step to strangers, or else she wasn’t going to get to Dillon on time.
Lift. Place. Pierce.
Lift. Place. Pierce.
The sheets arrived.
Lift. Place. Pierce.
Her helpers began to carefully shroud the first collection of cakes.
Lift. Place. Pierce.
Abigail did this forty more times, then it was a matter of adjusting the last of the cakes into the final space. There were four pairs of eyes upon her as she worked, and she thought there might have been five sets of still lungs in the moment it took to position the last piece.
She finished, and everyone exhaled and straightened.
There wasn’t time to congratulate herself. She clapped her hands. ‘Okay, the second—just like the first! I’ll be back. Get Steve to call me if there are any issues. And thank you!’ She wheeled on the heel of her foot and darted back to the van. She typed Dillon’s address into her maps application as she buckled in, then turned the volume up high.
An authoritative female voice gave deliberate, enunciated directions, and within minutes Abigail was there. On a street populated with big dollar properties and gleaming luxury cars. She double-checked Steve’s business card, then shook her head and pocketed it.
It was time to see how the other half lived.
Chapter 20
The only spot of colour
After sitting on the couch for a long time following the phone call from Abigail, Dillon pushed himself gingerly to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. He turned on the tap, cupped his hand beneath the flow, and bent forward to slurp from his makeshift cup. Everything hurt. His feet. His stomach. His head, of course. But also his spine, curiously enough.
What could he possibly have done that had hurt his spine?
He straightened with effort. Without his housekeeper, Mary-Anne, rustling through his first aid box and counting out his aspirins, the thought of medication was overwhelming and nauseating. He didn’t risk it. Instead, he used his energy to get to the bedroom. Something he hadn’t bothered to do when he’d got home sometime this morning.
He really really needed a comfortable couch if this was going to become a habit. His neck felt like it had been stepped on.
Dillon opened the front door for his impending guest then continued on to the bedroom. His bed was unslept in, but it had been slept on at some point. He remembered collapsing on it sometime yesterday, but the time of day wasn’t so clear in his mind. Something had been bright in his eyes, so it might have been sometime around one. That was when his place was most flooded with natural light. He gripped the back of his collared shirt and attempted to pull it over his head. It got stuck.
He lost his balance and fell over.
Abigail, he thought from the ground. She’d called him. She was coming here.
And then belatedly, he thought: the launch party.
Christ, there would be so many people there already. Before his world had turned to shit Dillon had been on site every day, getting the team pumped and ready. Flattering and engaging the sponsors. Reaching out to past customers who fit the profile. He’d been beyond motivated, he’d been possessed. He’d kept telling himself that every set of eyes he turned towards his prized new commodity—the Veneno Roadster—would also be turned towards Boucake’s first corporate display. He’d wanted to show Abigail Mullins off to the world. He’d plumbed every source and chased every lead. His team members had called in favours and Dillon himself had made donations in his company’s name—whatever it had taken to draw in a crowd with reach.
Now Dillon was lucky to reach the toilet bowl before vomiting.
He hugged the porcelain and concentrated on his breathing.
He was going to die here. The coroner would say it was from alcohol poisoning, but Dillon knew it was from a broken heart. He’
d never drank this much in his entire miserable life, and that was largely because he’d never been this miserable before. This was the lowest of lowest of lows. Nobody in the world made ladders long enough to reach these depths, so he was probably stuck here too.
He wiped his mouth and sagged against the bathtub.
Abigail would be here any minute, and he didn’t want her to see him like this.
There was an unwritten rule that exes were supposed to outdo each other, but at this rate Dillon wasn’t even a competitor. She was going to take one look at him and know she’d dodged a bullet.
He sank lower onto the cool tiles, and pressed a shaking hand to his face.
Minutes passed, and Dillon took advantage of the lulls in his apparent seasickness by completing small tasks. Getting up. Turning on the shower. Washing the fresh vomit down the drain, then holding on for dear life until he was steady enough to step beneath the spray. He wanted a cold shower, but if Abigail walked in and saw him naked, a warm shower would be less embarrassing. At this late stage, Dillon would take whatever small measure of dignity he could get.
What had he been, since her, except varying degrees of drunk and stupid? His Tuesday night bender had turned into days of booze and bad decisions, and now here he was, and it was somehow Friday. It was alarming that there were such sizeable gaps in his memories.
She came when he was out of the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and sagged over his knees. He heard her call his name by the front door, and much later, he heard her come hesitantly into the room. It took a heroic effort of will to roll his head to the side so as to look at her.
They regarded one another in silence.
Have Your Cake Page 20