‘Eight hours that took, Dylan! It’s got to be delivered in …’ I looked at my watch, ‘four hours!’
‘Can’t you just patch up that one?’ he asked in a small voice.
‘No, Dylan. I cannot patch up that one. For a start you’ve eaten half of it, and even if you hadn’t eaten the cake, you’ve picked off all the decoration.’
‘You mean those little flowers? Did they take long to make then?’
I levelled my best death stare at him, not bothering to explain further the painstaking process of sculpting fifty delicate roses in intricate detail, half of which had been fired down by Dylan to assuage his drunken munchies.
‘What was it?’ I heard Tom’s husky voice from the kitchen doorway, and turned to see he was looking at the remains of the cake. He was bare-chested, as I had come rushing out of the bedroom like a lunatic, wearing his T-shirt. Lou and Dylan were looking between us. Lou was grinning like someone who had just escaped a mental asylum and Dylan’s eyes had narrowed.
‘Um … wedding cake,’ I muttered, my eyes glued to his chest.
‘For today?’
‘Yes.’
‘For someone you know?’ he asked in a confused tone.
‘Client,’ I muttered, still transfixed.
Luckily Lou stepped into the fray. ‘So, my half-naked friend,’ she addressed Tom, pushing past Dylan to get to the kettle. ‘As it would seem that Frankie here is currently unable to form more than one-word sentences, allow me to explain. She’s a baker. Biding her time mending hearts with you idiots, but when she starts palliative care part time in two months she’ll be opening her own bakery. In the meantime she does bespoke cakes from home. She is an artist really. Here, take a look.’
Lou retrieved her phone from the kitchen counter, started punching buttons, and handed it over to Tom, who had moved forward to sit on one of the stools.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered as he flicked through images that I assumed were my portfolio. ‘These are amazing. Some of these are ones that you sketched, aren’t they?’
I was surprised he even remembered that I sketched, leave alone what they were. I shrugged.
He handed Lou back the phone and I was impressed that he didn’t even glance at her lace-encased chest. I doubted that many men had that much self-control. I noticed with disgust that Dylan certainly didn’t. He had moved to the stool next to Tom, his mouth was slack, and his eyes were alternating between Lou’s breasts and her arse.
‘Frankie,’ he started in a small, whiny voice, his eyes still fixed on Lou as she stretched up to get the instant coffee. ‘I know you’re alittlecross with me right now, but I don’t feel at all well and I think I need some breakfast.’
‘Ugh!’ I threw my hands up in the air, then whirled out of the room, deciding to at least shower and get out of the damn T-shirt. Hopefully once Tom had covered up again I would regain the use of my faculties.
Once in the bathroom I stared in the mirror and let out a small scream. The half of my hair I had obviously slept on looked like it had been backcombed and bits were sticking straight up. It turned out that Lou’s makeup job hadn’t stood up to a bout of vomiting and a night of drunken sleep, and most was residing under my eyes and down my cheeks. It was like theNight of the Living Dead.
One scorching-hot shower later (thankfully makeup free after much scrubbing), I shoved on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, took a deep breath and stepped back out into the flat. Lou was happily cooking, still in her skimpy pjs, and they were all sipping coffee. Tom and Dylan were laughing about something and I stopped in my tracks and stared. Having him sitting in my kitchen laughing, totally at ease, was bizarre.
‘You okay, Frankie?’ Tom called over when he saw me standing there. ‘Stroked out again?’ I wanted to answer that no I was not okay, and I wanted to ask him what the heck he was still doing here, and possibly tell him to jog on and stop scrambling my brain.
Instead I ducked my head, mumbling, ‘I’m fine,’ and skirted the boys to get to coffee. Maybe after some caffeine things would start making sense.
Lou handed me my favourite mug filled with milky coffee just the way I liked it, and I shot her a suspicious look. She ignored the look, smiled sweetly at me, and dumped two mountainous plates of eggs and bacon in front of the guys.
‘Eggs, Frankie?’ she asked, looking like some sort of porn star-slash-domestic goddess. I made a gagging noise, which I thought would suffice as my answer.
‘Thought not,’ she chirped. The two most annoying things about Lou were her ability to look good in the morning and her lack of hangovers. She turned the hob off and faced me. I had now taken a stool at the breakfast bar next to Dylan, as far from Tom as possible, and was wondering when he was planning to leave.
‘So,’ Lou said, drawing out the word and sounding a little too pleased with herself, ‘we solved the cake problem whilst you were in the shower so you can have it ready for the wedding at three.’
‘That’s great if you wouldn’t mind helping,’ I answered gratefully, relieved that I could palm off a lot of the measuring and other grunt work to Lou.
‘Um, actually, Frankie,’ Lou said cautiously, biting her lip. I narrowed my eyes at her.
‘What?’
‘I can’t help this morning, I’ve got um … I’ve got to go out. Bikini wax. Urgent. It’s like the undiscovered rainforest down there; whole tribes will be setting up camp soon.’ Dylan choked on his coffee. ‘But luckily Tom here can help you. Won’t that be nice? You can pay him back for all that slave-driving on the wards.’
