Thin Girls Don't Eat Cake

by Lindy Dale

  Cole regarded Adelaide quizzically. She wasn’t the card type. He leant over and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “Thanks. But you did a fair amount of work too.”

  “It’s not from me.”

  Curious, Cole opened the card. “You’re simply the best, better than all the rest” sang a group of chipmunks from somewhere hidden inside it. When he’d finished laughing Cole began to read.

  Dear Daddy,

  By the time you get this I’ll be no more than a star winking at you in the sky so I wanted to say a big ‘WELL DONE’ on making our dream come true. I wish I was there. I would give you the biggest hug ever. But I’m watching you from Heaven and eating cake, too. I love you more than the universe.

  Your best daughter ever,

  Phoebe xoxoxo

  PS: If the reporters come back give them an interview and tell them to go away.

  “She got it ready a month or so before she died,” Adelaide said. “She threw a tantrum until I drove her to the bottle shop. I helped her pick out the champagne but she paid for it with pocket money she’d saved. She made me promise not to give it to you until today. Apparently, we’re now meant to toast her for giving you the idea.”

  Cole sniffed back a tear. “That’d be like her. Cheeky little minx.”

  They raised their glasses to the small-framed photo that Cole had mounted on the back wall of the shop. It was in an inconspicuous spot, because even though he knew Phoebe would have hated it and would have wanted to be the talking point of the place, he didn’t want his deceased daughter on show. It was bad enough that he’d called the shop by the name she’d chosen before her death. Bloody macabre, when you thought about it — a tribute to his dead daughter having the word ‘death’ in the title. But that had been Phoebe. She was probably laughing at it up there in Heaven.

  “Here’s to you, Phoebs. I’m sure you’re up there giggling at the antics that have gone on today and I’m only going to say this once. You were right. To the best daughter in the world.” He drank the champagne down.

  “To Phoebe,” Adelaide echoed.

  Cole put the glass down and turned to the small commercial kitchen out the back. “Right. Enough of that. If we’re going to open up again tomorrow, I’ve got a shitload of cake to bake.”

  “I’ll go and get us some takeaways from the pub,” Adelaide said as she grabbed her handbag from under the counter and pulled out her wallet. “You can’t work on an empty stomach and you’re not having cupcakes for dinner.”

  Like he’d want them. Right about then, Cole was wishing he’d never opened a cupcake shop.

  “Should I give the reporters one last interview?”

  “It might get rid of them. Do you want me to send them over on my way to the pub?”

  “I guess. If I do it, it’ll be done for another year. Then we might be able to have a bit of normality around here.”

  “I doubt that will ever happen. The women aren’t going anywhere in a hurry.”

  As Cole stood for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb and mulling over the day, his eyes went out the window and over the road to Olivia’s shop. Phoebe would have loved Olivia and he was positive Olivia would have loved Phoebe. Now that the shop was open and things were less hectic, maybe it was time to tell her how he felt. Olivia, that was. He loved his daughter but he wasn’t in the habit of talking to dead people.

  Chapter 18

  Scrubbing mud and cow poo from the floor was not exactly my idea of a fun way to spend my after work hours, but there I was, at half past six at night, doing that very thing. Other than my interview with the reporters — it turned out I knew one of them and boy did he have some gossip about Graeme — it had been a crappy day. Mr Evans’ cocker spaniel had been uncooperative resulting in one of his ears being trimmed considerably shorter than the other and a rather unhappy Mr Evans. The women who’d come in to shelter from the rain while they waited to get into Death By Cupcake had left crap all over shop. Anyone would think they’d never heard of a rubbish bin. But the most tiring part had been resisting the urge to join that line; the urge to go and see what the fuss was about. That had been absolute torture. So, rightfully, I was feeling a teensy bit peeved at the new shop owners over the road.

  At last, I switched off the lights and prepared to lock up for the day and as I was doing so I looked up to see that the shop across the road had cleared. There was a lone light shining from the back and two figures were behind the counter. One of them was waving at me.

  Oh, what of it, I thought, deciding to do the neighbourly thing. In hindsight, and after I’d checked the takings for the day, I’d concluded it wasn’t their fault the shop was a huge success. And the extra people in my own shop had resulted in a few sales and bookings, despite the fact that people had to climb over the reporters outside the door and had left mess everywhere. I raised my arm and returned the wave. I couldn’t behave like a right bitch forever. That shop wasn’t going anywhere, so I supposed I’d have to find a way to live with it.

  Then a second figure raised a champagne glass in my direction. Male. That one was definitely male.

  Now, who would be waving to me like that? And who could that man be?

  *****

  “So, next Friday night’s fine, then?” Mum asked, as she handed me a serving of low fat chicken curry with basmati rice that was small even by my new eating standards.

  “Is that it? I’m on a diet not a hunger strike.”

  “You’re beginning to look so trim, it’d be a pity to spoil it now.”

  I ignored the comment and concentrated on making every last bite — which amounted to about three — of my miniscule dinner enjoyable. And enjoyable it was, until my mother dropped the bombshell.

  “So next Friday’s okay?” she repeated.

  I swallowed the mouthful as slowly as I could, letting the taste linger on my tongue. God it was nice. Since I’d gotten over the whole Mum and Connor fiasco, my tastebuds seemed to have taken a turn for the better. They’d begun to long to vegetables, of all things, and savouries. I hadn’t wanted a cake for days. It was like that binge had been the final one.

  “For what?”

  “For the date.”

  Date?

  “Did I agree to this? When did I agree to this?” I know I’d been preoccupied but I had no recollection of any engagements the following Friday night.

  “Yes. I asked you the other afternoon.”

  I cast my mind back to the last time I’d seen Mum. Thursday. The shop had been chockers with people and I’d caught one of those cupcake women trying to make off with a dog lead and collar by sticking them down the back of her jeans. I hadn’t exactly been on top of my game. I remembered Mum muttering something about a man or a date but I hadn’t paid a great deal of attention. Seemed like that had been an error of judgement.

  “So who is this date with?”

  “Gerry. He’s a lovely boy. I know you’ll adore him. He’s an accountant.”

  Bring on the party.

  I gave myself an internal slap remembering I was trying to be positive in my love life as well as my diet. “And I agreed?”

  “I double checked on the phone yesterday.”

  Where the hell had my head been yesterday?

  “You said it would be fine. I think you’ll like Gerry. He’s very handsome. Pecs like rock… At least, that’s how they looked when we met in the free weights.”

  God, if my mother had met this Gerry at the gym he’d more than likely have ‘roid rage or something. Mum’s taste, before Connor, had notoriously run to men with hairpieces and hideous orange tans. There was little hope he’d be below the pension age.

  “You don’t have to do this, Mum. I’m fine with you and Connor. Really I am. You don’t have to set me up with every Tom, Dick and Gerry that lobs into town. I won’t throw myself into a vat of cake mix if you have a man and I don’t.”

  “But I confirmed it with you. You said it was fine so I told Gerry. You can’t back out now. It’d be
very rude.”

  I could feel a migraine coming on. “When and where?”

  “Friday next. I told you. Six o’clock at Tom’s Tavern.”

  “You told him I’d meet him at Tom’s? Mum.”

  Nobody was ever seen at Tom’s unless they’d been barred from the other two pubs in town. Tom’s bar staff were under the illusion that spirits were something that went bump in the night. The only drinks they knew how to mix came in a can, laced with mountains of sugar and were popular with underage drinkers. I couldn’t have a date there. Gerry would have formed some preconceived idea about me before we even met. If my mother hadn’t already supplied him with one.

  “Can’t you ring him and tell him I’ll meet him at The Merrifield Hotel? At least they have carpet from this century and wine that comes in a bottle.”

  Mum gave me a look. “I don’t know when you got to be so picky. You’re going on thirty, possum. You don’t want to be left on the shelf. You should be grateful you even have a date on a Friday night.”

  “Yes. I’d be more grateful if the venue was changed, though.”

  Mum forked a chunk of chicken and began to furiously chop it into even smaller pieces. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And I won’t be eating dinner with him. One drink. That’s it. I don’t want to waste my food points on alcohol.”

  Besides, if it were only a drink, I could beg off if we weren’t suited saying I had a prior engagement. There had to be contingencies for this sort of silliness.

  “Any other conditions, Your Highness?”

  “Nope. I think we’re done. Now tell what me you’re planning for this wedding. Am I going to be a bridesmaid because if I am you have to wait until I can fit into a size 12 again.”

  Which hopefully would be sometime in the next few months.

  *****

  After dinner, I helped Mum to rinse the dishes and pack the dishwasher. As was the usual routine, I went to switch on the coffee machine to warm up but before I had a chance Mum’s thin spidery hand flew out of nowhere to stop me.

  “Ah, no. No coffee tonight,” Mum said, hurriedly.

  “What? Why?”

  “Um, I’m tired. I’m having an early night.” Her eyes darted about the room like balls in a pinball machine unable to meet mine.

  “But it’s only quarter to eight. You can’t be going to bed now.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m super tired and I have to be up at five to go to Boot Camp.” As if to prove the point, Mum began to wilt. It was as if someone had let the wind out of a balloon in front of me.

  “So Connor’s coming over for a booty call and you’re too afraid to tell me.”

  “No.”

  I shook my head. “You’re a worse liar than he is.”

  Having hung the tea towel over the handle of the oven, Mum went to gather my things. Dumping them in my arms, she raced me down the hall.

  “I mean, it’s not like I don’t know he’s coming over,” I said. “I’m quite capable of having a conversation with him without ripping his head off, you know.”

  I wouldn’t enjoy it but I was capable of it.

  “I know, darling, but Connor’s feeling self-conscious about the whole thing. I’m sure you understand. Now, pop off home and think about what to wear for that date. Don’t forget to wash the Spanx before you wear them. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  With that, I was bustled out the door and the door slammed promptly behind me. My family was weird. Utterly weird.

  Chapter 19

  Happy hour on a Friday night at the pub was not typically a rip-roaring affair. Usually, a few of the local business owners pulled a couple of tables together in front of the open fire and drank for an hour or so before going home to a night in front of the telly. Some would sit at the bar and chat to the barman until they’d eaten the free bar snacks and analysed the weekend’s upcoming football games. And Beth always had her ‘girls’ table, as she liked to call it. The group consisted of Beth, Shannon-down-from-Perth, Maggie and Jane. Sometimes I sat with them too but mostly I enjoyed mingling with whoever was available. By six o’clock the drinks crowd usually thinned out and families from around the town began to trickle in for a counter meal in the dining area. But there was always plenty of room. You could swing a tiger safely in the space. As long as you didn’t let it loose.

  Tonight however, the pub was a different place. It was packed to the gills. There were faces crowding the bar I hadn’t been in contact with for a good three years. Footy jumpers stretched across bellies that were decidedly bigger than the last time I’d seen them. Even old Bangers, who I was positive had died in 2011 was there, plain as day, ordering a schooner of beer. The dining room was full too, the excitement level higher than a rock concert. It was like the town had won the lottery and nobody had told me.

  Either that, or Mum had informed them I was on a blind date and they’d come to spy. Probably the more likely scenario.

  I jostled my way to the bar and stopped to order a glass of wine. I swapped a cheery ‘hello’ with Jane and Maggie and turned to survey the crowd, looking for my date. It was pretty hard to see when every tall man in Merrifield was suddenly standing in the way but I cocked my head this way that, in vain hope I’d spot Gerry without the spectacle of everyone making a fuss.

  Which was totally likely. The folk of Merrifield loved to be involved. In fact, they’d probably want to come on the date with us if they could.

  “You look nice tonight, lovey. That top’s very flattering,” Maggie said, surveying me as I took some change from my purse to pay for my drink. “I can see how thin you’re getting. It was a pity to hide yourself away under those baggy outfits. You’re so pretty.”

  “Thanks Maggie. It’s a bit of a struggle at times but I’m happy with my progress.”

  “How long has it been now?”

  “Two months and twelve kilos.”

  “Twelve kilos! Lord. You never needed to lose that much did you?”

  “Apparently.”

  “You look amazing.”

  “Hopefully I’ll look even more amazing when I reach my goal.”

  “That’s the spirit. Think positive.”

  “On a blind date, are you?” Jane enquired.

  There were no secrets in this town.

  “Only a drink. Have you been talking to Mum?”

  “Jim told me.”

  I threw a glare towards Jim, who was by the pool table playing eight ball with Beth. He gave me what I supposed was meant to be an innocent head nod in return and went on with his shot. Old bugger.

  “How did he know?” I asked. Honestly, the speed with which my mother could spread gossip was second only to Mrs Tanner.

  “From the gym, I think.”

  I shook my head and taking my drink from the bar continued around the corner towards the tables.

  “I reckon that’s him over there, mate. In the yellow,” Jim called after me. “He looks bloody nervous, poor bloke.”

  And who wouldn’t, with their entire personal life on show for the town?

  As I reached the other side of the bar I passed Fern, the yoga instructor. She was demonstrating seated yoga poses on a barstool. A group of lads from the Merrifield Bulldogs had gathered and were egging her on as she contorted her body into more and more complex positions.

  “Oi, Jim!” one of the lads yelled, pointing to Fern, “Is this how you did your back in a while back?”

  “Have you got a pair of these yoga pants like Fern’s, Jim?” asked another. “Red is so your colour.”

  “Don’t you get smart with me, young Jonesey,” Jim retorted. “A bit of stretching wouldn’t hurt your footy game any. You looked worse in that last game than my ex does when she’s out for a jog. And everyone knows she can’t run to save herself.”

  As the bar erupted in laughter, I spotted a man sitting alone at a table in the corner. Though how I hadn’t seen him through the crowd was beyond me given he was wearing a bright mustard shirt and a thin red tie
that coordinated perfectly with the colour exploding over his cheeks. He also wore a rather thick pair of black plastic spectacles that he clearly needed to have checked by an optometrist because even though the menu was centimetres from his nose he was peering at it as if he were unable to read. Then there was his hair — a full crop of rather tight tangerine curls.

  He looked like a male version of the lead in the musical, Annie.

  Gerry. It had to be him.

  A sudden urge to kill my mother flooded through me. She’d mentioned nothing about Gerry being quite so challenged in the looks department. Probably because she’d known that no one on this earth would be attracted to a man who dressed like an oversized hot dog. And physical attraction of some sort was a prerequisite in a relationship. I couldn’t kiss a man who looked like I should be putting him in a pot of boiling water before dousing him with mustard.

  I considered leaving but decided instead to slip back to the bar for a second drink. If Gerry had made an effort on my behalf the least I could do was smile and have a drink with him. Who knew? He might be charming beneath the… mustard. If there was one thing I’d learnt as an adult it was that you never judged a book by its cover. Taking up my second drink and a deep breath, I headed in his direction, plastering my friendliest smile on my face.

  “Gerry?”

  The man looked up. Bright green eyes twinkled in a friendly looking face. He smiled nervously, his perfect teeth giving him a strangely handsome air. Mum hadn’t exaggerated about the pecs, either. From the way that shirt was moulding to his body, Gerry had the physique of a Greek god underneath.

  Well, this was a turn up. He was a bit cute when you saw him front on. In a geeky ‘I’ve-escaped-from-the-set-of-a-high-school-movie’ kind of way.

  “Olivia?” Gerry stood and pulled out the chair opposite him, gesturing for me to sit.

  Very gentlemanly. And not the norm for Merrifield where chivalry was an art form dying faster than an un-watered pot plant.