by Clare London
No, his inner voice said, surprisingly stern. He wouldn’t mind working with Will even more, for an even better business. But he’d like to think about it, thank you very much. He had roots and responsibilities here he didn’t want to lose. He liked the daily banter with Maisie, and even Henry. He liked to drop in the bar for a drink, get his groceries at the little supermarket on the corner, use the launderette for his bedding, often for free because he knew where to thump the end machine to get it to work when it stuck, and the manageress wanted to thank him for the help. He liked to see the seasons change on the green across the way, watch the changes in traffic when the schools started term, watch the sports matches run by the community centre.
Will isn’t threatening to take off to bloody China.
No, but he had implied he’d make decisions for them both. That was the real issue. Donnie wondered what’d got into him. He hadn’t ever been this assertive.
About time, came that stern voice again.
So, what was he going to do with his free time today?
Bake something!
He was going to bake the damn Pride cup-cakes, whether anyone wanted them for the bake sales or not. Donnie was already reaching for his mixing bowl as ideas percolated in his mind. Maybe he’d donate the cupcakes to Handfast House. Eric had called in at the surgery last week to report that Snap, Crackle and Pop were doing very well, and his eyes had lit up at the ginger cookies on Donnie’s desk to share around the clients. He’d taken two with a blush and a grin, and told an astonishingly bad joke that Donnie didn’t really understand, about sharing chocolate in a shop doorway with someone you really liked.
Donnie kept scheming: it was keeping his mind off Will. And what was to stop him creating cakes for pets as well? With special ingredients. He could work on that in time for the pet show which wasn’t for another month. And more choc chip cookies for Maisie, Rick, Cara and the other helpers. And Henry got a strange look in his eye every time Donnie mentioned chocolate eggs, so maybe he should make some summer shaped ones. Pity he’d never found a kitchen goods supplier he could afford, because he sorely needed some new moulds and baking tins. Never mind. As always, he’d manage or borrow.
He baked all the way through lunch. He usually took his lunch break with Will, if Maisie wasn’t free. That thought dragged his mood back down for a few minutes, until the oven timer pinged.
The rich smell of cooking sneaked its way around the flat, and still Donnie baked through to late afternoon. He’d usually be getting ready to lock up the surgery with Will about now.
He missed Will.
Enough of this self-pity!
So he went out for a coffee.
CHAPTER 17
The bakery a few doors away was still open. Most of the bread had been sold, but there were a couple of cupcakes left—the odd-shaped ones that were missing most of the frosting. Donnie didn’t mind that; it was like home from home. And the new owner, Trev, made an excellent gingerbread latte.
Donnie liked Trev, he was a blunt but compassionate soul. He’d taken over the bakery quite recently, but had already built a loyal clientele. His partner Simon was a little more volatile. Maisie’s friend Cara was Simon’s sister, so they all kind of knew each other, but Simon had been the previous owner of the bakery, and was touchy about having had to sell up. But now he was working for Trev and they were a couple. It was all a bit tangled in Donnie’s mind, but he was used to the overlap of lives in their little community.
There were a couple of small tables at one side of the shop where customers could stop for a while. Donnie sank gratefully onto one of the collapsible chairs, clutching his large mug of latte and the cupcakes on a plate. When in a strange mood, coffee with cake was always a safe bet.
Trev was wiping down the display unit after passing over his last saleable items, and glanced over. “You look like you found a quid and lost a fiver,” he joked. He paused as Donnie didn’t laugh back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to rub salt in a wound.” Trev did like his phrases. “Want to talk about it?”
“Here? In the shop?”
Trev shrugged. “I’m closing up now I’ve sold those sorry blobs of cake.”
“They’re fine.” Donnie took an absentminded bite of one. It was lopsided as if its case had sunk on one side during the cooking—he knew how that happened, only too well—but it tasted fabulous. Donnie liked baking cakes as well as chocolate and biscuits, but cake was definitely Trev’s speciality. “Let me finish this and I’ll go, just as soon—”
“No. Wait. I meant I’d like your company.” Trev grinned. “I’ve got a brew on and I like to sit with a cuppa at the end of the day.”
“What about Simon?”
“He’s at the wholesalers. Needs more yeast. We’re going to expand our range of loaves.”
“You do great bread.”
“Hey, it’s ok. You don’t have to be nice to me. I’m not polite for politeness’ sake.” Trev chuckled. He was a large, stocky man, who looked like he could hold his own in any fight, but his laugh was soft and almost boyish. A gentle giant, Donnie always thought.
His comment was kind but also apt in Donnie’s case. Donnie suspected he probably was—polite for politeness’ sake, that was—and today, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Trev brought over a plate of buttered crumpets and a mug of tea to join Donnie. He nudged the plate, encouraging Donnie to take one. The smell of the melting butter was orgasmic, but Donnie barely poked at his.
“Romance trouble?” Trev asked.
“Ex-romance trouble. Or, I think that’s a possibility.”
“Never,” Trev said, startling him. Trev’s voice could match his size in volume, and he immediately said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to boom. But you never struck me as a man who gives up easily. Not if it matters to you.”
“He does,” Donnie said softly. “I thought so, anyway”
Trev looked at the crumpet Donnie had left on his plate, and shook his head. “I’m no agony uncle, but all I know is, when the rest of life is shit, baking’s always there to cheer things up.”
“Unless your baking’s shit too,” Donnie said with a grimace.
Trev laughed. “Lucky that isn’t your problem, then.”
Donnie flushed. “Now you are being polite.”
“No way. That’s not me. I’ve tasted your chocolate shapes, remember?”
“Well, yes, but that was—"
Trev continued, ignoring his protest. “And since then I’ve tried your chocolate cookies, and the coconut macaroons you did for ‘Songs from the Musicals’ at the community centre. And Simon snuck out some of the sugary snake things you made for the school play last Friday evening. We shared them when he got back.” Trev, amazingly, blushed, making Donnie wonder exactly where and how they shared those sweets. “They’ve all been excellent.”
“Actually, those snake things were meant to be fingers of vanilla fudge. I had a problem with the setting tray. And they were for the kids.”
“Yeah? Tasted great, regardless.” Trev was unabashed. “And anyway, the real talent is in getting the taste right. Anyone can make something look good.”
“Anyone. Right.”
Trev peered at him shrewdly. “You need practice. Probably a better set of tins. Moulds, too. And I don’t know what your oven’s like—”
“Rubbish,” Donnie said with resignation. Everything had to be cooked at 200 degrees because the temperature control wasn’t reliable, so he had to alter recipes by using time rather than heat. Great for batter pudding, useless for meringues.
But Trev seemed, if anything, encouraged by that. “There you are! There are times when a workman can blame his tools. There’s everything to play for in the future.”
Donnie laughed. “I hear you. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m sure you get all that from your man.”
“My man?” Did he mean Will?
“You’re dating, aren’t you? An older man, Simon tells me. He’s obviously your go-to guy
now.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Huh.” Trev looked bemused. “It just sounded to me like he’d be the one in charge. I assumed you liked that.”
“The one in charge?” Donnie felt the prickle of irritation between his shoulder blades as if someone had taken a sprig of holly to him. “You mean, of me?” Was that how it looked? That Donnie was so feeble he only existed as a groupie to the older, more experienced men in the parade?
“Shit. I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?” Trev gave a belly laugh, which rather spoiled the effect of the apology.
“Oh, hell. I don’t know any more.” Donnie tried, honestly, to look at himself as others would. He’d lost one job and snatched at another, without any more careful thought. He was now mopping up all Will’s admin at the surgery, while Will did the more important stuff. When Donnie had volunteered to help at the fund raiser, Will had stepped in and decided Donnie couldn’t cope with the extra work. Donnie’s baking was often a joke, his opinion rarely sought. Now Trev was saying everyone saw Donnie as nothing but a hanger-on. Possibly even a wannabe submissive.
“Wow,” Trev said, taking an extra large slurp of his tea.
“What?”
“That fierce look on your face. I wouldn’t want to be the guy on the end of that. You don’t do any MMA do you?”
“No.” Donnie gave a grudging smile. “Though I’m thinking maybe I’ll take it up.”
“Good for you.” Trev started to collect up the plates and mugs. “If it’s any consolation, I’m getting the smallest bit sick of everyone talking about your sodding chocolate shapes.”
“They were such a mess.”
“They were such a success,” Trev corrected sternly. “I want to ask for the recipe. Though maybe I’ll wait until you don’t have that fearsome look on your face.”
“That’s not to scare anyone,” Donnie said slowly. “It’s determination.”
“Yeah?”
“You see, I know where I belong. At least, I always thought so. But maybe I need to make more effort to find out exactly what I’m good at, what I want to do with my life. What kind of person I am. Not as someone’s friend, as their brother, as their secretary, as their go-to.”
Just me.
“Just you,” Trev said gently, in uncanny echo of Donnie’s thoughts. He stood quietly, holding the plates balanced in one large hand. He probably wanted to start clearing up the shop, but he was also allowing Donnie the time to say his piece.
“Sometimes, Donnie, you gotta be the one. You know?”
Donnie thought he did know, and right at this moment, he was immensely grateful for that respect. “You said something about me not giving up easily, when things matter.”
“Others may not see that in you,” Trev said. It was an odd, but heartening thing for him to say. “Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
“Well, you’re right about that. And a lot of things matter to me. I want life to go well. I want good things for my friends. I want to be happy.”
“Fine objectives. So, what’s in your way?”
Donnie stared at him.
Trev stared back, like a challenge, except that he was smiling. “Is it this new bloke?”
“No.” Things were becoming clearer in Donnie’s mind. “It’s not him, not really. It’s… me, myself.” What an odd, startling thought. It was as if someone had flipped that button on his phone that turned the camera to selfie.
Trev grinned. “Well, I don’t pretend to understand the backstory. But I must say, I like that look on you!”
CHAPTER 18
Donnie’s phone buzzed on his bedside table. Again and again.
He slapped his hand around, trying to grab it in the dim, early-morning light. A recipe book and a couple of pens rolled off onto the floor. He put his finger in something squidgy that he suspected was the core of an apple he’d eaten the previous evening and forgotten to clear away.
“Donnie?” came a shrill voice through the speaker.
It was Maisie. Donnie peered groggily at his phone. It blinked 06:28 at him. What alternative universe was this, when his hard-partying friend was awake before him, especially on a work day?
“Donnie, Will’s in hospital!”
What was she going on about? Donnie was suddenly, horribly aware of how alone he was in the bed: no warm body at his back, no sleepy breath on his neck. Will hadn’t stayed over.
I didn’t invite him to.
“In hospital? What do you mean?” He sat up abruptly and ran a hand over his face, trying to wake up more quickly.
“Looks like he collapsed in the parking lot behind the shops this morning,” she said. “Abi was walking his dog and found him there. Called 999 because he looked so ill. I think he broke his leg or something. And there was blood all over his head.”
But… oh shit. “When was this?”
“About six.”
Six a.m.? Maisie never got up before Last Minute O’Clock, even when she was breakfasting at Donnie’s. “How do you know all this?”
“I had a date with one of the guys who works at the supermarket. He lives in that flat on the end of the parade. I was creeping back to my car at some godforsaken hour, because Ty’s on early shifts this week, and I saw the ambulance.”
“Oh God, Maisie!”
“Hush, love, it was all over in fifteen minutes. No sirens, no flashing lights. I saw Will being helped into the van, with Abi explaining where he’d found him, how many times he’d been sick, where Will said the pain was—”
“Been sick? The pain?”
“He was conscious, Donnie, don’t panic too much. Abi asked the paramedics and they said they’ll do all the tests to see why he’s sick, and get him on a drip, and he can have visitors later today.” She took a breath after the tumble of news. “You could probably go and see him after work.”
After work? He was going right now and to hell with work! Not that he wouldn’t take a quick detour and pop a note on the door of the surgery, explaining why it wasn’t open this morning.
“Gotta go,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed. Maisie barely had time to say “Let me know!” before he’d disconnected the call and was running to the bathroom to get dressed.
Donnie made his way onto the ward as quietly as he could. It wasn’t strictly visiting hours, but luckily one of his brothers’ girlfriends was on duty, so she let him through. She didn’t seem to think the patient Will Cartwright was in any serious danger, which was sort of reassuring.
Will stirred in his bed by the window. “Donnie?”
“Hi, Will.” He sat carefully down in the chair beside the bed.
Will was on his back, his hair flattened on the pillow, his face stark white. His eyes were dark, sunken pools of weariness. There was a drip attached to his arm, a monitor clipped on his finger. The sheet over his left foot was slightly more padded, where his ankle was heavily bandaged. The neon lines on the screen at his headboard blipped along steadily but for a second Donnie was afraid to take his gaze away, in case they plunged down when he wasn’t looking.
“Donnie. I’m so glad to see you.” And then Will smiled and didn’t look so dreadful after all. “What’s up? You look like you’re the patient, when I’m the one with top-up fluids.”
It was a pathetic joke. Donnie had been in hospital a lot of times in his life, not often for himself, but with brothers and sisters who had various accidents and falls. And there had been that time he set fire to his eyebrows, creating crepe suzette flambe.
“Do they know what happened? Maisie said you collapsed in the road out back.” He couldn’t decipher the look that flashed fleetingly across Will’s face.
Will shook his head. “They’re taking tests. They don’t think it was anything sinister. Probably just a lapse in the blood sugar levels, something like that.” He saw Donnie looking at his foot, and winced. “Only a serious sprain, not a break, thank God.” His cheeks pinked. “I stupidly stumbled into a dustbin after parking the car behind the surg
ery.”
“And your head?”
Will lifted a hand to the large white bandage on his forehead. “This? Just a graze from when I… fell over.”
“Collapsed,” Donnie repeated.
“I’ll be right as rain,” Will said, too heartily.
“You vomited, too.”
“Probably a dose of food poisoning or something.” This time, although Donnie tried to keep his expression clear, Will’s eyes widened with alarm. “Oh, my God, no, it’s nothing to do with any of your cooking!”
Donnie’s heart sank. He recalled how Will always ate so very enthusiastically. Donnie assumed he didn’t have to worry about his weight so he’d never thought to question it. But they’d had a hot curry earlier in the week, and also Donnie’s ‘special’ chilli—which was what he called any meal that didn’t turn out exactly as he planned. And Will was really, really keen on extra garlic in everything.
“Please. Donnie.” Will gripped Donnie’s hand where it lay on the bed. “Don’t worry about it.” A sudden thought obviously struck him because he yelped. “Oh my God! Mrs Eddington!”
“That’s who you were on your way to meet? I mean, six is very early, just to open up. But I know you make calls outside surgery hours.” Mrs E was one of Will’s more demanding clients, with a large menagerie of assorted lapdogs, with at least one of them ill at any one time, usually several. She fed them too many treats, pampered them too much, and was fond of sleeping with them all in her bed. Donnie had often given thanks—though it was a cruel thought—that she was widowed.
“Where’s my phone? Donnie, will you check?”
“Leave it to me,” Donnie said. “I’ll call her and explain.” Will’s expensive phone was on his bedside table. Luckily his fall hadn’t broken it. Donnie could see three missed calls, and they were all from Mrs E.
“Dammit, and the diary is full this morning. Plus, I said I’d meet Henry at lunch time, to talk about what he needs to supervise the pet show. And Eric said he’d be in at twelve forty-five with a detailed flowing cashcast thingy—”