And how long would it have been before she disappeared from our lives without a word?
My phone vibrates beside me on the side table, and I reach for it, feeling nervous. I can’t handle any more confrontation. I feel emptied out and hollow.
It’s Mum.
Morning, darling! Just checking you’re still on for cake tasting with me and Angela at 10am? Clara’s not going to make it, sadly. She’s here on our sofa and not feeling too well – poor thing! Hopefully see you soon. Lots of love xx
I groan, as the memory returns. Cake tasting. Today! Goddammit. I could not be less in the mood for pasting on a joyful smile and pretending I care about vanilla icing.
But this is important to Mum and I can’t bail. Especially not if Clara already has. Yet another reason to hate her.
Mum and Angela pick me up in their car an hour later, and I try not to cry as Mum folds me into her chest for a full body hug. I let myself be crushed, immersing myself in her unconditional love. As we drive, the happy couple in thefront chat animatedly about ganache vs buttercream, as I nod, trying to stay engaged.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be moving forward with my life, I should be working, I should be heading to the library to see if E has replied. I think about E as the busy roads whizz by. I wonder whether there’s a note waiting for me in the libraryright now, containing his real name. I’m the one who asked for it, but I suddenly, intensely don’t want to know who he is. I don’t want to ruin this magical, lovely thing between us by bringing it out into the light. It will only be a disappointment. He will be a disappointment and I will be a disappointment. Reality never lives up to the dream. Nothing is as good as it should be.
And I’m so angry with Clara for making me stop believing.
I wonder briefly if she will go and see Brandon. She flew halfway around the world to avoid a difficult break-up conversation, so avoiding him here should be just as easy for her.
Angela pulls up in front of an adorable little specialist bakery-cum-café. There are ornately handwritten signs in the window promising fresh, handmade produce.
‘What exactlyisred velvet?’ Mum murmurs as we head inside. ‘Does it involve any actual velvet?’
Angela looks baffled. ‘We will ask,’ she says confidently. ‘I definitely don’t want to eat velvet.’ Mum agrees, then starts crooning, ‘Red velveeeeet,’ to the tune of ‘Black Velvet’ by Alannah Myles. They giggle intimately and my heart squeezes tightly for them.
See? Maybe it is possible.
‘What areYOUdoing here?’ an unpleasantly familiar voice slices through the moment.
‘You have to be kidding me,’ I mutter under my breath, taking in Mack from the library standing before me. He’s wearing a branded apron and a cross expression, his hands defiantly on his hips. His lips curl with fury. ‘Are you following me?’
‘What?’ I bluster. ‘Of course not! We’re here for black velvet – I mean red velvet. I mean cakes. Cake tasting. Wedding cake tasting!’
Mum and Angela are suddenly standing way too close at my shoulder, panting excitably in my face. ‘Who is THIS?’ Mum squeals and I feel my cheeks reddening.
‘Er, this is Mack,’ I mumble, mortified for some reason. ‘He’s… he works at the library, and we did an exercise class together yesterday.’ I immediately regret sharing this. It makes us sound close. Intimate. Like friends or something.
Mum moves closer, offering her hand. ‘Hello, Mack!’ she says with delight. ‘I’m Sara Poyntz!’ She pauses. ‘The library? But surely you workhere?’ she asks, gesturing at the apron.
As Mack shakes Mum’s hand, his whole expression – his entire demeanour – changes. He straightens up, his face transforming into a wide, dazzling smile.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs Poyntz!’ he says with warmth. ‘You’re absolutely right, I do work here! I work at the library five days a week, and then here one day.’ He grins cheekily. ‘Keeps me out of trouble.’
Mum giggles, absolutely charmed as I watch the exchange,totally agog. Who the hell isthisguy?! He greets Angela with the same charm, offering more little bons mots and cheeky asides. He ushers them through to the tasting room, where a variety of small cakes are laid out. My mouth waters as I take in the array of chocolate, vanilla, caramel, coffee, buttercream and – oh yes, there it is – red velvet.
‘Please take a seat,’ Mack says gallantly to Mum and Angela, pulling out chairs. ‘Can I bring you champagne? Let’s make this a truly special morning!’ Fluttering around them, I try to marry this friendly, engaging man with the scowling dickhead I see almost daily at the library. How can this be the same person who stormed off into the dark after last night’s escapade? I don’t knowthisMack at all. Not one bit.
And why does he have a second job? Six days a week is a lot.
He turns to me. ‘Are you sitting down or not?’ he asks curtly as Mum and Angela giggle excitedly, pointing out fondant fancies and icing sugar flowers.
‘Er, yes, I guess so,’ I say meekly, unsure how to respond to this Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde nonsense.
Mack hands around glasses full of sparkling liquid, and our fingers accidentally touch as I take one. He jerks away, eyes flashing. ‘Be careful,’ he snaps.
‘What is your problem?’ I hiss at him, checking Angela and Mum aren’t listening. They’re deep into a conversation about textured, drip style decoration. I shuffle closer to Mack. ‘What are you evendoinghere?’
He discreetly checks around. ‘Look…’ He turns to face me and, for a second, I am deeply horrified by my appearance. Yesterday I was covered in sick and sweat, and today I’m dressed in an old jumper and joggers. It’s not exactly been my finest set of hours. And just because Mack’s a dick, it doesn’t make any of it less embarrassing. Especially with him looking… well, undeniably good. He clears his throat. ‘… I like baking, OK?’ His nostrils flare and he looks down. ‘And yes, I need the money.’ He pauses, then snaps, ‘It’s none of your business why. So don’t even ask.’
