Since You've Been Gone

by Anouska Knight

  Cruelty’s not confined to those hours. If only that were the case I could just engineer my sleep pattern to skip the daily ordeal, but the truth is any part of the day can be as crushing when you wake on the battle line between dreams and reality, only to find you’re always standing on the wrong side.

  I clamped my eyes shut before they tried to find the clock on the dresser, burying myself back beneath my duvet to savour the last echoes of my dream. Sleep, Holly...get him back. But even thinking pulled him away.

  Charlie had died two days after his twenty-seventh birthday. It had been twenty-two months since I’d last felt his touch, and five minutes since I’d last heard his voice.

  chapter 3

  The cake sitting downstairs was not the sort of thing an eighty-year-old lady should be looking at. I needed it out of the house and in the van, before Mrs Hedley, our neighbour, could poke her head out of her front door.

  It took minutes to throw my clothes on and run a brush through my hair before loosely pinning it back in a scruffy bun. I liked scruffy buns. I liked anything that began with scruffy. Easier, quicker, done. Dave watched me as I applied a touch of powder in the mirror of the dresser, disguising the signs under my eyes of my recent sleepless nights. I’d savoured last night, every precious second I’d had with Charlie, but I still looked washed out.

  I slipped on a pair of navy ballerina pumps, shut Dave up in the kitchen, grabbed my things and the cake and crept out over the gravelled path. I shouldn’t really be wearing jeans to deliver to a stately home, but they were indigo and it had got dark as I’d changed. If I was lucky I’d just be in and out and my clothing would remain irrelevant. I was also delivering outside of shop hours, and at nearly eight o’clock on a Friday night, they were lucky I wasn’t in pyjamas.

  The darkness of the yard made avoiding Mrs Hedley a little easier, and getting the cake safely into the back of the van a little more perilous. Peril was the name of the game when it came to delivering cakes and a van as old as my dad didn’t help that.

  I’d just clicked my belt into place when Mrs Hedley opened her door and waved to me across the yard.

  As soon as I wound down the driver’s window, I instantly regretted it. You could roll the thing down all right—it was getting it to slide back up again that was the trick.

  “I’m just popping out, Mrs Hedley. I’ll only be an hour or so. Don’t worry when you see the lights coming back up the track,” I called. As if. We were secluded here but Mrs Hedley was the scariest thing in these parts.

  She continued waving, so I started driving, steadily over the dirt track towards the main road, fighting all the way with the jammed handle.

  It had never worked. We had Charlie’s truck to use between us, but I needed something for deliveries. I had my eye on a nice clean little utility van, but Charlie said I needed something to help my business stand out from the crowd. Those innocent blue eyes of his had made easy work of convincing me that a Morris Minor was the best van for me. It was a cartoon of a vehicle, in deep burgundy with CAKE! emblazoned on both sides in bold gold lettering. I must have been mental. Cakes needed suspension. This van did not have suspension.

  After five minutes of crawling my way steadily over the stones and divots of the track, I finally made it onto the smooth of the road. It was a straight run to Hawkeswood Manor Hall, about half an hour’s drive from the cottage, less if I didn’t detour around the forest. Which I would. I didn’t use that road anymore, not since flowers had appeared tied to the trees.

  Once out on the road, I relaxed, as the ride became a much easier one. Smoother, but definitely not much faster. Charlie had said that not managing more than fifty before the engine started screaming in protest was all part of the van’s charm. Charm had a lot to answer for around these parts. The van was just one more in a long line of Charlie’s daft ideas, like adopting a dog who ate more than we did, and driving into work on his day off when he should have been eating breakfast with his wife.

  A car approached from the other direction, giving me a chance to check the cake when the headlights fell across the van. There were no streetlights here as the forest began to thicken out along the roadside.

  All good so far, Hawkeswood was about another fifteen minutes away.

  At the week’s start, Jesse and I had just begun the Monday-morning ritual of divvying up jobs for the days ahead when the first customer of the week, a Mrs Ludlow-Burns, had walked into Cake.

  “Testicles,” she’d said tartly from the other side of the counter, “on a plate. If you’re up to the job?” Her cool grey eyes had deviated then, first inspecting the displays around her, then giving all of Jesse’s six-foot-something a considered once-over. Jess, wide and athletic, had towered over the woman, but despite the pearls and tweed she was by far the more intimidating of the two. Outside, a chauffeur had stood waiting dutifully beside a Bentley, which shone more violently than the sun. “And I’d like for them to be large,” she’d added, holding up two gloved hands to make her point.

  “Human?” I’d asked. It was all I could think to say.

  She’d gone on to produce a pristine shoebox, Dior set in gold against the crisp white of the lid, inside a pair of brand-new black patent-leather peep-toe heels, as shiny and new as the Bentley.

  Jesse’s sister was as shoe-crazy as mine, and knowing what the shoes had probably cost, he’d made the mistake of complimenting the customer on them.

  “They’re not mine,” she’d snapped at him. “I’ve never worn an open-toe heel. Open-toes are for sluts.”

  A cake in the shape of a delicate male region wasn’t the weirdest request we’d had in Cake, but customers weren’t usually so...aggressive.

  We were instructed to put one of the shoes, specifically the heel, right through the thick of a testicle. She said she wanted the cake to look painful. Like marriage.

  She’d been a particular woman, used to things a certain way, no doubt. Even the delivery had its own set instruction—the cake had to be at Hawkeswood Hall, eight-thirty sharp, where a Mr Fergal Argyll was to sign for it personally. Not a member of the house staff, but Mr Argyll himself. I’d had the distinct impression Mr Argyll wasn’t a very popular man; this cake didn’t exactly look celebratory.

  I felt into the top of my bag for the delivery sheet. No signature from Fergal Argyll would mean I forfeit the remaining half of the money, a condition Jess had told me I shouldn’t have let her bully me into. I’d reminded him that with the summer wedding season drawing to a close we could do with more cash in the till.

  “Don’t worry, Fergal will like you,” she’d said, looking us both over. “But I wouldn’t send your friend here. They’ll eat him alive.”

  I looked at Jess and wondered what she had meant by that. From the cornrows peeping out from under his beanie to his size-twelve high-tops, he didn’t look like someone who couldn’t take care of himself. But then, he’d certainly look out of place at Hawkeswood—we both would.

  “Madam...your shoes!” I’d called after her as she’d strode out through the door.

  “Keep them.” She’d smiled coldly. “The slut will have to source her footwear elsewhere from now on.”

  * * *

  The van growled as I tried to shift from third to fourth again. It stuck sometimes, and you had to double-pump the clutch. There was no place for heeled shoes in my life. I’d got married in wellies, the one day of the year, Martha had vehemently told me, I was traditionally obliged to make an effort with my footwear. So I did, and bought myself a brand-new pair of Hunters to match Charlie’s. Mum’s lip had twitched at least twice over their appearance in the wedding photos.

  * * *

  Between the glow of burning lanterns Hawkeswood Manor Hall was regally announced with a sweeping gated entrance off the main road. It wasn’t usually all lit up like this. There must be some kind of functio
n on tonight. Figured. Where there’s a cake there was usually a function to go with it. I took the bend slowly so as not to jostle the delicate consignment in the back. I’d modelled the Dior shoe, a near enough perfect likeness for the real deals left behind in the shop. Jesse had made the main body of the cake, seeing as he had more physiological understanding of that area.

  The van began to judder violently and I felt a flush of momentary panic. As if this van needed cattle grids to negotiate.

  Finally, smoothly, the approach led me through opposing stone pillars and into Hawkeswood’s courtyard. The intricate detailing of the Gothic priory before me was stunning, set in the warm glow of numerous uplights nestled in grassed borders. There was something special about Hawkeswood, something more than just its beauty. It wasn’t the grandest place I’d seen, although it was certainly grand, but it differed from other stately homes I’d visited. It was lived-in, and there was something about a home that a venue simply couldn’t emulate. Life maybe. Not just in its Sunday best.

  I parked at the end of a row of cars, and pulled my phone from my bag. I had a little while yet—it was only a quarter past—so I sat wrestling the window back into place.

  There was movement underneath the archway of the main entrance vestibule, where a young guy appeared leaning casually against the wall beside him. He looked over at me sat in the front of the van, and it was enough to make me leave the window until he looked away again. I went back to watching the time on my phone until a shock of red drew my eye back to him.

  The woman looked as though she’d just stepped from a movie screen, a Nordic goddess dripping in elegance and a blood-red evening gown Martha would die for. She was stunning. No one would be looking at my clothes with women like her here; I could easily have gone with the PJs.

  Her almost white-blonde hair was tied back from her neck in a bun, too, but it was far from scruffy. It was perfect. She was perfect. So striking, in fact, I was finding it hard not to look at her. If the man thought so, too, he was playing it very cool. The blonde lit herself a cigarette and leaned in towards him. I watched as he repositioned himself. A lovers’ tiff maybe? Ah, well, we all had those, even the beautiful people it seemed. Hopefully they would move back inside before I had to haul the cake in past them both.

  Eight-twenty. I’d just sit here quietly, then, minding my own business for a few more minutes.

  Eight-twenty-three and they were still there, her still drawn to him, him still reluctant.

  An absurdly loud and rigorous ringing cut through the hush in the courtyard. It made me jump out of my skin and the dream couple both snapped their heads around to stare at the source of the racket, blaring from my open window. “Damn it, Martha,” I hissed, frantically trying to hit the right button, any button, to shut the noise off.

  “Hello?”

  “Hol, where are you? I’ve been ringing,” she said, relief in her voice.

  “I’m working, Martha. Where’s the fire?” I glanced over at the couple under the archway. The goddess threw her cigarette and stalked back inside. The boyfriend was still looking on.

  “No fire. I was just worried when you weren’t at home.”

  “I’m not always at home, Martha. I do have other things to fill my days, you know.” We both knew that was a skinny truth. “Look, I’ll call you when I’m home. I’ll be about an hour? Don’t freak out until at least ten o’clock, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, and already I felt guilty.

  “Okay, love you.”

  “Love you, ’bye.”

  The call ended and, thankfully, the boyfriend had gone.

  The doors into the lobby were left open, revealing a grand welcome to the manor with timber panelling to the walls and a huge staircase climbing at least two floors above me. An attractive brunette somewhere around fifty approached me with a smile. Her smart white blouse and black pencil skirt suggested she was staff of some sort.

  “Hello, may I help you?” she said.

  “Hi, yes. I have a delivery for Mr Argyll.”

  The cake was too tall to use the box lid, and her smile faltered when she caught sight of the cake.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “And which Mr Argyll is expecting this?”

  “I was asked to deliver it at eight-thirty sharp to a Mr Fergal Argyll.” I smiled.

  The lady nodded. That made sense to her.

  “Well, Mr Argyll’s in the games room, just through the double doors at the end of this corridor if you’d like to go through. Let me take your bag for you, dear. You have enough to carry.”

  I wasn’t sure why I’d brought the bag in with me. It was unlikely anyone here would want to break into the van for it.

  “Thank you. I just need to get the delivery sheet for Mr Argyll,” I said, rummaging through my bag.

  “Well, I can sign that for you,” she offered.

  “Oh, that’s okay. Mr Argyll needs to sign for it in person.”

  The hallway was long, giving me more time to fathom how I was going to open the heavy double doors when I reached them. A nervous-looking gentleman in a dull suit stepped through one of the doors, hurriedly stepping into the hallway.

  “Could you hold the door, please?” I asked, before he could scurry off. The gentleman obliged, allowing me and my armful of cake to slip through unobstructed into the hubbub of the voices on the other side.

  “Good luck,” he declared in an educated voice as the door closed between us.

  Inside, I found myself standing in a room every bit as impressive as any I’d been in, bedecked with richly illustrated tapestries and wallpapers hanging against the warm tones of even more antique panelling. At the far end of the room a huge stone fireplace took up most of the wall there, others occupied by row upon row of books. It was a library-cum-games room, and smelled as it looked: cozy, old and vibrant. Charlie would have gone nuts for a room like this.

  None of the twenty or thirty men, most in formal dress, slowed from their card games as I fumbled the cake onto the nearest surface. Laughter throbbed around me, along with cigar smoke and general merrymaking. This was very definitely a boys’ club, not a place for girls.

  Which one is Fergal Argyll? I wondered, scanning the room for a face to match the name, or maybe the cake. Over at the fireplace, the colour of danger caught my attention again. The only other woman in the room, the goddess’s presence put me at ease instantly. I looked at her across the smoke and laughter, and smiled that smile of sisterhood women have for one another. She lifted her chin and looked away, and like that I was on my own. I watched as she waltzed past her admirers to the loudest gentleman in the room.

  He was raucously shouting at his fellow card players, rising to his feet when the goddess-cum-ice maiden approached his table.

  “Watch out, boys, here’s ma lucky charm,” he declared in a gentle Scottish accent. His hand rested where her gown dipped at the small of her back. He was handsome, in his jacket and kilt, and suited the vibrancy of his surroundings. I’d put him somewhere around the fifty mark, although something about him seemed both younger and older.

  The ice maiden accommodated him with a smile and then looked over at me, her gaze leading his.

  “What do we have here?” he asked. “Another gift from the dragon, perhaps?”

  It was him. It had to be. “Mr Argyll?” I said.

  “At your service, sweetheart. What can I do for ye?” His short, neatly cropped greying beard gave him the look of a laird, whilst darker hair falling forward over serious eyes were more the edge of a backstreet boxer.

  “I have a delivery for you. Could you sign here, please?”

  Argyll approached the table and peered down at his cake. The boom of his laughter made me jump for the second time tonight.

  “I take it this is te celebrate ma divorce papers?” he asked, a look of contentment i
n his dark eyes. “I have te hand it te her,” he said. “She’s got a streak, all right, that woman. Have a look at this, boys,” he growled heartily, grabbing the cake from its box and spinning it around to show his company. “She always told me I got by not on the size of ma brain, gentlemen, but on the size of ma balls!”

  He turned from his audience of dinner jackets and rested serious eyes heavily on me. He was a handsome man, if not flamboyant, and smelled of a heady mix of cigar smoke and brandy.

  “You, miss, have got the size of me about right.” He grinned, looking to the pair of testicles in his hands.

  “Glad you like them, Mr Argyll. Would you mind signing for them?”

  He put the cake back down on the table next to us and I held my pen out for him. His eyes still hadn’t left mine.

  “Ye don’t look convinced, darlin’. Here...let me prove it to ye.” I watched him cock his head, smiling, before my brain could register what was coming next. The ice maiden disappeared from view as Argyll’s kilt rose high into the air between us. His beard wasn’t the only thing greying. My eyes darted upwards, focusing on his huge hands. He had worker’s hands, years of hard graft ingrained in the set of his knuckles, like Charlie’s and my dad’s.

  It was time for me to leave.

  I left the delivery sheet alongside the cake and calmly turned for the way out. I didn’t need Mrs Ludlow-Ballbreaker’s money that badly. Jesse would have to lump it.

  The ice maiden’s boyfriend stood watching, his eyes following as I crossed the room towards him. I hadn’t felt enough embarrassment to blush until I saw him watching me closely. It was no wonder Fergal Argyll was so sure of himself—judging by his son, he must have had a youth full of women clamouring for his attention.

  A Scottish accent followed me out through the doors, slipping from the mouthful of cake Argyll was chomping on. “No wonder the ladies love me, boys. I never knew I tasted so good!” It was safe to smile here. I was nearly out.