Page 95 of Not in a Million Years

It didn’t, of course. It was just flour and eggs and butter and sugar. But it was also time, expertise and love. It was a way of saying thank you to Mona for the work she did, providing a sanctuary for lonely people. It was a way of bonding with my friends. A way of soothing my own soul in the small hours of the morning.

It could even be an offering of peace, I thought.

So when the train inched into the station at last, I didn’t go to see Daniel. I didn’t go straight home either. I went to the supermarket and stocked up on ingredients. I dug out the heart-shaped tins I’d bought to make a cake for Abbie and Matt’s ten-year anniversary. From memory, using the recipe my mum always made when I was little, I baked a chocolate cake. Not just any chocolate cake – the ultimate, perfect one, sinfully rich and feather-light, sprinkled with brandy, sandwiched with raspberry cream and topped with glossy ganache.

And the next morning, I placed it carefully in my nicest tin and got on the bus that led to Daniel’s home.

But once I was seated on the top deck, my cake cradled carefully in my lap, doubts assailed me. What a bloody stupid thing to do. What the hell would he make of a woman he couldn’t stand rocking up to see him on a Sunday morning bringing – of all things – a cake, like he was my ageing aunt or something? What if he had someone there with him – one of those women who stayed overnight before availing themselves of his extensive collection of spare toothbrushes? What if he told me to fuck off?

What if he laughed at me?

At least you’ll have tried, I told myself firmly. As risks go, baking a cake and getting a bus isn’t exactly up there with sinking your savings into bitcoin or abseiling off a cliff.

Still, despite my internal pep talk, I had to fight the urge at every stop to get off, go back home again and stuff several slices of the cake into my gob, washed down with gin, before having a good old cry and seeing if there was anyone on Tinder who looked nice.

But I didn’t get off. I stayed put, my stomach churning with nerves and my heart beating harder with every stop.

At last, the bus began to inch along Daniel’s local high street, the smells of the greengrocers, butchers and fishmongers lining it wafting in through the open window. There was the shopping arcade where we’d met for coffee what felt like a year ago, although it was actually only a few weeks. There was the dodgy pub and the less dodgy one.

And here was the familiar stop at the end of Daniel’s road.

Clutching my cake tin as protectively as a new mother with her baby in a sling, I alighted and walked slowly down the tree-lined street. The leaves of the chestnut trees were fully out now, creating a canopy of green over my head and rustling in the gentle breeze. I could hear music coming from an open window. A black-and-white cat lay on a wall, sunning itself, and I wondered if Daniel stopped to fuss it when he walked past.

Lucky cat, I thought, then smiled at my own silliness. If my plan paid off, within just a few minutes I might be submitting to his caresses myself. But I wasn’t going to get ahead of myself.

I stopped in front of his door, noticing for the first time how different it was from his neighbours’ – a smooth slab of hardwood, varnished but unpainted, the grain of the wood as bright in the sunshine as the lighter streaks in Daniel’s hair. The knocker looked like it was made of pewter, a glossy deep silvery-grey.

I reached out my hand, raised it and let it fall. Then I waited.

And waited.

There was no answer – he must be out.

The fact that I felt crushing disappointment rather than relief told me all I needed to know.

You can try again tomorrow, I told myself. The cake will keep. You can text him, like a normal person, instead of turning up on his doorstep like a nutter.

And then I thought, Or you could try round the back. If he’s in his workshop, maybe he didn’t hear the knock?

So, fresh hope and nerves jangling inside me, I walked down the narrow alleyway that led to the back of the building. I’d never been there before – I only knew from seeing the metal roll-up door at the back of Daniel’s workshop that there must be some kind of yard out there, presumably where he loaded pieces of furniture into his van. Clearly in my mind, I could picture the muscles moving in his arms as he carefully lifted a heavy item, his brow furrowed in focus, his strong back braced to take the weight.

I turned the corner at the end of the alleyway and froze – because there in front of me was Daniel, doing exactly what I’d imagined him doing. The rear doors of his van were open, backed close up to the open shutter leading to the workshop. He was carefully manoeuvring a heavy object wrapped in sacking up into the vehicle, his arms below the sleeves of his faded black T-shirt moving just as I’d imagined, his hair falling over his eyes, his jawline taut with concentration. I could hear the scrape of his work boots on the concrete and smell sawdust and turpentine.

He placed the package in the van and stepped back, wiping his palms on his jeans. Then he turned and saw me.

‘Hello,’ I said faintly, stepping towards him, clutching my cake, sweat springing out on my palms and my breath coming fast, as if I’d been running rather than sitting on a bus.

‘Kate. This is a surprise.’

‘Yes. It was meant to be.’

‘Actually’ – his face broke into a guarded smile – ‘I was just on my way to see you.’

‘To see me? Why?’

‘To bring you something.’ He gestured to the back of the van.

‘Oh. Wow. That’s random, because I brought you something, too.’

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