“Need water” was Martha’s strained reply. The pile of shopping bags next to her on the couch made it all become clear. Half of them had fallen onto the floor. Next to them, two very swollen ankles disappeared into nude satin courts, with heels at least as high as Jesse’s afro the last time I’d seen it.
“Martha, when your ankles get to be as wide as your husband’s neck, it’s time to leave the heels at home, honey,” I said, moving around the pile of discarded goods to sit with her. Jess had already gone for water, so I peeled the hair off her face and tied it back with the spare hairband I’d had on my wrist. “Are you all right, sweetie?” I asked, watching her for the truth.
“I can’t do it,” she panted. “I thought I could, but I can’t.” Jesse returned with a glass of water and Martha gulped it down.
“Can’t do what, Marth?” I asked. “Power-shop around town in these?” I nodded to an offending shoe.
“Nice shoes, Marth,” Jesse added before taking her glass back off to the bakery.
“I can’t be a glamorous mummy,” Martha said, her eyes dewing over as I watched.
“Martha, you mentalist. There’s nothing glamorous about sweating your way around town on tippy toes. Don’t be so ridiculous. You look a million bucks.”
“Do I?” she asked, all little-girl-lost.
“Always, Marth. But do yourself a favour and chill out. This can’t be good for little one, can it?”
“No. You’re right. I need new shoes. I never thought I’d say this, Holly, but I need shoes...like yours.”
I made a point not to take offence where it wasn’t intended, although I was tempted not to tell my sister that I had a spare pair of flats for her big fat feet back in the bunker.
“Where did you park, Martha? Or is Rob in town somewhere?”
“No, he’s home. Learning how the sterilizer works. I’ve parked in the multi-storey but it was just too far with the bags.” Her breathing was evening out and normal colour had returned to her face.
“Okay. Well, just relax for a while. I’m nearly done here, so I’ll get you a cuppa, and then I’ll drive you round to your car. Okay?”
Martha nodded and looked just like I remembered her when we were little and she’d hurt herself, so Dad had her sit on his knee until she stopped crying. I kissed her on the head and started for the bakery.
“Hol?”
“Yep?”
“Would you mind if I took my shoes off in your shop?”
I grinned back at her for being so prim. What a burden. “Sure. I’ve got some flats you can use.”
“Hol?”
“Yep?”
“Can you pull them off for me, please? I can’t reach.”
* * *
Martha eventually dragged herself through to the back and found no end of enjoyment nibbling on the plate of cupcakes Jesse had brought out back for them both. I finished on the laptop while Jesse added the final flourish to tomorrow’s cake and Martha chatted seasonal colour trends with him.
Jesse showed Martha the latest object of his affection in one of our mags, and Martha showed Jesse her favourite wedges in a magazine she’d brought in with her.
“I can do better than those,” Jess said, dragging her over to the bunker, where he reached up for the paper bag I’d forgotten we’d been safely keeping on the shelf there.
Martha’s eyes widened when she saw the shoebox.
“Oh, hello, my little Dior-lings,” she cooed over the pretty black heels. “Go on, Jess, pop one on my foot for me,” she said, flopping back onto the plum sofa.
“No,” I said firmly. “They’re at least an inch higher than the ones you’ve just rode in on. I’m sorry, but you’re a week off your due date, Martha. I’m putting my unfashionable yet unswollen foot down.”
Martha pulled a face, settling for just looking some more. “They’re brand-new! Oh, what a waste, Hol. I can’t believe you haven’t been pottering round in them.”
“Ha, I value my life,” I said.
“But they’re so pretty! How come they’re here?”
“Some bird gave them to Hol. What a waste, huh?” Jesse was winding us both up.
“A tragic waste.” Martha sighed. “Although, we could share?”
“Martha, they don’t belong to me, or you could gladly have them. We’re just hanging on to them until someone comes back to collect them.”
“She won’t be coming back, Hol. You know she won’t.”
I had to admit, it did look unlikely.
And they were both right—it was a waste.
chapter 10
Autumn had really started to push in on Hunterstone come Friday, by which time I’d already told Jesse that I was taking the eleventh mystery cake to its final destination, a skateboard-inspired super-cake for some lucky teenage boy. Whoever he was, his folks had gone to town on him. I’d never seen such a detailed cake. As ever, Jesse had outdone himself with intricate models, a hand-painted graffiti-daubed wall, half-pipes and other crazy stuff kids threw themselves around on these days. I was more than a little concerned I might break it, and half of me wished I hadn’t said I’d deliver it, but I was still niggled about the coincidence of so many random orders.
Jesse was right, though—we were having a good run, and when he pushed me on it I really couldn’t think why I was prodding at it.
For so long, the shop had been demoted to no more than a distraction, but the last few weeks had reminded me what going to work used to feel like. With such loose design briefs, we’d been allowed to thrash out ideas and play with techniques we hadn’t seen much chance to use. And there had been enough money running through the till that I’d even dug out the catering-equipment brochure. We did desperately need a new oven. I’d also considered getting the van suspension looked at, amongst other things.
“So Rob’s going to be emptying the storeroom and repainting it?” Jesse asked, as I was about to drive off with the cake.
“No, Rob’s going to be hiding from his wife. We just need to supply a bogus list of jobs to throw her off his scent. She’ll be spending the last week run up to D-day eating Häagen-Dazs in front of the TV, but if she calls we need our story straight.” I smiled, turning the key over in the ignition. The van choked to life.
“Sure you don’t want me to take it?” Jess asked.
“It’ll warm up. I’m going straight home from there so I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah, okay. Drive steady.”
“See ya.”
* * *
After two unfortunate misunderstandings of the city’s one-way system, St Harry’s Square finally peeked into view slightly later than I’d intended.
The square itself sat back off the road, segregated from those who weren’t residents only by a long run of old brick wall, crowned with tall iron prongs of ornamental railings. On the other side of the enclosure, uniformly planted maple trees stood ablaze in angry bursts of oranges and scarlet—nature the arsonist. The contrast was staggering against the lush green of cool grass at the square’s centre, and it was as though the refurbished town houses behind in pale stucco and shiny buzzer panels had gathered around the spectacle to watch them burn.
The van had warmed up, thankfully, and pulled smoothly into the gated square. Everything was so orderly here, it was easy finding the right address for the lucky skater. It was slightly harder finding a spot close enough to park the van. Eventually, after looping the square again, I settled on the only space that would allow me the room I needed to get the back doors open.
I walked across the square and punched the buzzer for 19 Richardson. A clunk before the door opened and a young hipster in a blue checkered shirt and Ronnie Corbett glasses looked out at me from underneath a mass of blond hair.
“You’re late,” the kid said, face full
of disdain. I was late; he was right. I didn’t really have anywhere to go with the snotty little git.
“Sorry. Road trouble. I’ll go and get your cake.” I smiled.
“You do that,” I heard him say as I walked back to the pavement outside his house. The customer is always right, I thought, closely followed by: And next time Jesse’s delivering, leave him to it. I bet the little twerp wouldn’t have been so smart with Jess towering over him.
After trekking around the corner with Jesse’s edible art, I made the delivery as short and sweet as possible and then got myself back into the van. The seat belt finally clicked home after the usual fumble, and I turned the key over. A spluttering of ignition, then nothing. I tried again. Nothing.
“Oh, come on! You’ve warmed up already!” I yelled, grateful that I hadn’t parked where the kid could see me from his ivory tower. Another fruitless attempt and I knew I had to get this van sorted out. My head flopped back into the seat and I took a deep breath. This wasn’t the first time. The van just needed a few minutes to consider its future on the scrap heap, then I’d start it up and we’d be on our way.
I needed a new van. Thanks to all the recent orders, there was extra in the bank, and after delivering to the little creep at number nineteen and finding absolutely nothing to add weight to my paranoid suppositions, I gave in. It really didn’t matter where the work came from so long as Jess got paid and Cake kept ticking over. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving forward a bit more. I could put a down payment on a proper van that would get me home after a delivery. Charlie would still be right—this van would have more character than anything I could buy from a dealer—but it would be great to make deliveries a little easier.
What I needed was a van that I could rely on, something that would keep me warm and comfortable. Something like the sleek black Range Rover crawling through the gates onto the square now, with huge silver wheels and blacked-out windows so no one could see me sat in the front like a doughnut when the engine refused to start.
Yeah, right.
I wasn’t really much for cars, but it was nice, and— Oh, look at the size of that boot. Multiple cake drops—every girl’s dream! I watched as it came around the square on the right of me then cruised around two more sides before drawing to a halt in the middle of the road behind me. I watched as the shiny truck waited outside number nineteen.
From the top window, the kid with the attitude glared at the Range Rover outside. The driver’s door popped open and out stepped the unmistakable figure of Fergal Argyll. I almost leaned against the horn as I scrambled to turn around in my seat for a better look back there. Fergal Argyll? What was he doing here? He looked more normal without his kilt, but not normal enough to be here. He was wearing some sort of leisure gear, golf I think, and had rounded the truck to open the passenger door. With the door still open I couldn’t see whose hands had found themselves wrapped around Fergal’s back—obviously a woman’s but I very much doubted that they were his wife’s.
Fergal closed the door as the ice maiden walked from the car to the door of the town house looking every bit the golf enthusiast as her boss. They’d been friendly, but—I thought she was with Ciaran. The look on the kid’s face had said it all. They were at it and he didn’t like it. By his colouring, I was guessing at kid brother. Well, no wonder he had an attitude.
19 Richardson. Penny Richardson? PA to the chairman and chief exec of the Argyll empire? I was guessing so. Personal assistant—so that’s what they called it now. Well, good luck to her. If she stuck it out hanging off the arms of rich men, maybe eventually she’d find something for her, and her brother, to smile about.
How one of our cakes came to end up at her place was a mystery, though. If she’d wanted a cake for the kid, why didn’t she email it through like she had done Ciaran’s order? Most people would have tried for a discount. Maybe she did and Jesse forgot to mention it.
The Range Rover purred towards where I was still sat in the van. An unexpected thrill of panic sent me slumping down into my seat. As if that would help. This vehicle was not made for stealth. That it was the only car on the street older than a year paled against the other comparisons it would draw. Colour, form, Cake! in foot-high lettering. I cringed as Fergal rolled past me and out of St Harry’s Square.
Lately, it seemed, whenever anything out of the norm occurred, an Argyll wasn’t far away.
I readied the key to try the engine again. I had my AA card in the glovebox if I needed it. As if the van had had a complete change of heart, the engine growled into a nice steady rumble.
* * *
As I left the dim streetlights of the city and drove north past Hunterstone, I thought about the collection of characters that had seemingly appeared from nowhere in my life. It had been a month since I’d taken the order for Argyll’s Dior heel cake, and since then had felt as though they’d never been off the radar.
I was already driving away from Hunterstone when my arms decided to steer back towards the shop. I was being stupid, and anal, and there was no sense or reason to it, but the Argyll link—no matter how tenuous—would keep me up tonight, I knew it. And that, more than anything, bothered me.
I let myself into the shop, flipping the lights on as I went. The bakery clunked into view, one area at a time as the overheads flared up. I only needed the order sheets. I could have asked Jesse for the info I wanted over the phone, but then he’d know that which up until now he’d only suspected. That I was nuts.
Within minutes, I was back on the road for home and, if I’m honest, feeling a little bit of a berk. But then, only I knew it, so that was fine.
Dave’s annoyance at my late return was about as masked as the skater kid’s. Dave had taken it one step further, though, and had vented his emotions on my slippers. They were officially dead.
“Okay, I get it. I’m late!”
Dave wasn’t hanging around for excuses. Instead he went over to wait at his food bowl. Once he’d been sorted, I jumped on Charlie’s laptop in the man-cave. Within minutes, I was looking through Penny Richardson’s profile on Argyll Inc.’s website. She didn’t look as pretty in her headshot. Her smile didn’t suit her as much as I thought it would. Maybe she didn’t use it outside of marketing shots. I hadn’t seen it in the flesh yet. I pulled ten other sheets from my jean pocket and started to flick through the names on the orders.
Ms Beirne, Mrs Copeland, Mrs Peterson, Mrs Stephenson, Mrs Krohl, Mrs Randall... I came out of the ice maiden’s profile and scanned the screen in front of me. Argyll Inc.’s team ran to some thirty or more hard-hitters, all with artsy headshots in rows of five along the screen. Jesse had said that all of the houses he’d delivered to had been nice, so the top of the screen seemed a good place to start.
First up was Fergal himself. He looked good in his picture, handsome. The grey tones of the black-and-white photography became him, and I could see what the ice maiden might see in him, other than his fortune obviously. Alongside Fergal, a few names that meant nothing to me. Then, a few names that did.
Donald Stephenson, Head of Residential Estates; Carl Copeland, Development Director; Jamie Peterson, Construction Director. Further down the screen, Heidi Beirne, Head of Customer Care; Andrzej Krohl, Director of Asset Management; Bert Randall, Acquisitions.
We’d been making cakes for the whole bloody company! A wave of annoyance flooded through my brain. But why? Why the secrecy? Which Argyll was it, for a start, and what the hell were they up to? I tallied up what they had spent with us over the last three weeks. Excluding the Hollywood cake, the figure stood at five thousand, six hundred pounds. What the hell were they playing at? Were they trying to size us up or something?
My eyes followed the screen all the way down from the heavyweights, until one photo stood out, every bit as photogenic as his father. Ciaran Argyll, Chief Brand Officer. Black and white became him, too, making already
dark eyes abyssal. I stared, the annoyance slipping like snow in an avalanche as I tried to decipher why I cared so much.
chapter 11
A little light fishing was one thing, but I had gone too far last night, Ciaran’s name scattering off my fingertips as effortlessly as my own would have.
I’d thought that shedding light on the whole cake-gate situation would increase my chances of a decent night’s sleep. I was wrong. For much of last night I wrestled with insomnia and the many images of Ciaran Argyll’s party lifestyle whizzing around my head. Along with feta, cyber-snooping was not something I would be indulging in before bedtime again.
At first sight, there hadn’t seemed to be much about Ciaran on the Net, other than references to Fergal Argyll’s only child, and heir to Fergal Argyll’s fortune. The images of Ciaran Argyll, though, were altogether more inclusive. Partying with a brunette, partying with a blonde, partying with two blondes, this year, last year, three years ago, snap upon snap of a man enjoying his father’s money and the lifestyle it afforded him. Fergal was often in the background, but all the cameras had preferred the antics of the younger Argyll, who seemed more than happy for the attention.
Today was going to be one of those, I could already tell. I felt so pent-up this morning, so...so frustrated. Just, niggling and niggling.
Dave had picked up on my mood and stayed out of my way, as had the van, which started first time. I had two hours before opening up at ten, just long enough to get to Hawkeswood, say my piece and get to Hunterstone. All I had to figure out now was whatever my piece was.
The journey there didn’t clear that one up any. Mist hung a few feet from the grounds of Hawkeswood Manor, making it seem more Gothic than the last time I’d been there. It also looked more formal without the bustle of merriment. Seeing Fergal’s Range Rover next to the sportier car Ciaran had parked outside the shop almost made me lose my nerve, but I was here now and if I left...well, I’d be a chicken.
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