Page 17 of The Cake Fairies
“Wake up, Polly, for heaven’s sake. We’re not so long out of a war. People have morals; have worked hard to stand on their own two feet again, providing their own food to put on their own tables. Nobody wants to feel like a charity case anymore.”
Hmm. We’re a lot longer out of a war than perhaps you realise…
At least, Polly hoped World War Three hadn’t been and gone during the time they’d just volleyed through.
Annabelle began to chew her nails, a brand-new habit that startled Polly; for this was her cooler, calmer, more collected cousin; the girl who always had her act together. The one who Polly had grown up wishing she could be. Just for the day. Just to know the way it felt to look in the mirror at a submissive hairdo. Just to have the courage to truly express herself. Just to know what it meant to have her parents around.
“Guy approaching table… approx. twenty-five past five… from your side of the imaginary clock, anyway,” Annabelle continued in hushed tones. “Not bad looking either. Not bad looking at all.”
Polly felt her cheeks turn Tor Fair candyfloss pink; at least she hoped they weren’t the same shade as the cumbersome folder which Annabelle had finally put down on the table. The folder which screamed THE CAKE FAIRIES in bold capital letters for another capital – London – to see! She flipped it over quickly, an anxious smile on her lips. The closer the man got, the more she struggled for air, and the warmer the room became.
Pull yourself together.
“Hey there, ladies. How are you enjoying The Toadstool? Are you sure I can’t bring you some cake to accompany your drinks?”
Despite the mesmerising forget-me-not blue of his eyes, and the rise and fall of his wavy buttercream locks of hair, she found herself immediately drawn to his hands, wondering how they might feel secured around her waist in a hot and steamy dance – any hot and steamy dance, she wasn’t fussy. And then she gave herself a short sharp mental slap across the face. He was way too young for her. Five years her junior at least!
“We’ve got a decadent triple-tiered red velvet on the specials board today,” he went on with his sales patter. “Just a few pieces left, ’cos that one’s mega popular,” he said, and did something Bond-like with his eyebrows. She scolded herself silently for falling for the charm he was well aware he exuded. “The honeycomb, hazelnut and rosemary torte’s pretty epic, too.” His otherworldly accent tinged his words with the promise of fairy tales and northern lights. Polly was a goner.
“Cuz? We’re waiting for you.”
Was it that obvious? Annabelle grimaced at Polly’s unchecked display and, not for the first time in twenty-four hours, Polly wished the ground would open up and swallow her, and her utterly square behaviour.
Especially if that meant she’d never set eyes on the Adonis again.
“The torte?”
She stabbed a guess at just about the only word she remembered from his spiel, eyes glued to the clock on the wall, not trusting them to leave his clothes on.
“I’ll try the red one, erm, thanks.”
Annabelle put in her own order, apparently captivated by her gnarled fingertips. How could she get the words out without fainting in his presence? Polly needed to mimic her cousin and mimic her fast. No way was she falling at the feet of a man, mere minutes into their foray.
“Coming right up,” Adonis replied, an undeniable spring in his step as Polly risked looking his way again once his back was turned. She vowed to adopt the role of stoic Ice Maiden on his return. And wondered which part of the world that wonderful accent came from. It definitely wasn’t the kind of broad Somerset she was used to.
“God, that was lame, Polly. Even by your standards.” Annabelle groaned, pointing her fingers at her mouth as if she were about to vomit.
It was true. Polly always got hot and bothered if she came into contact with a good-looking guy; a rare occurrence in Middle Ham, admittedly. Annabelle could hardly blame her when she was so out of practice.
“What? No. He’ssonot my… bag.” Polly gave a pathetic wave in the Adonis’s direction. “Not at all. I just got a bit overwhelmed by the delicious names of the cakes.”
Annabelle shook her head and closed her eyes in an apparent bid to block out Polly’s lack of cool. “I can see I’ll be taking the train home alone.”
But Polly was hardly listening. She had to sneak another furtive glance at him. Just a small one. And then that would be that. He was too good to be true – and waiting on tables in a café, too; an apparent master of confection. How could she possibly retain a morsel of self-preservation when he came back with the cake or, in her case, ‘torte’? And that sounded French. What if she didn’t like it and it was garnished with some sort of futuristic snail and garlic puree, and then she’d have to painfully explain herself when he returned for her un-touched plate?
“Mother and Father will be beside themselves with worry.” Annabelle brought her back down to earth with a bump. “If this is London, then I’ve been there, done that and got the T-shirt now, thank you very much.” She seized the folder, hugging it possessively to her chest, adding another layer of panic to Polly’s current predicament. “And there’s not a damned cake on this planet that’ll change my mind. It’s getting late. Look outside, lights flickering on everywhere. If I don’t get the last train of the day, my poor parents will be in pieces.” Annabelle’s voice warbled and her eyes welled up. Polly budged her chair closer to her, reaching out to envelop her cousin in a hug. She might not understand the pull of Annabelle’s love-hate Marmite bond with Aunt Jemima and Uncle Bert, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t be sympathetic.
“I should never have suggested we peep inside that wretched tent,’ sniffed Annabelle. “All of this is my doing. I’m so sorry, Polly. I’ve ruined our lives… and my mother and father’s… and your brothers’.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that last lot.”
Annabelle peeped out from beneath the shield of the folder, which she’d been soaking with tears. Polly caught her eye and they both erupted into spontaneous laughter.
“That’s more like it!” Polly winked.
“Seriously, though,” Annabelle managed. “How are they going to cope without you?”
“That’s not my problem for the moment. This is.” She rolled her head to the left and the right to gesture at the people who so evidently needed their sweet intervention. “And don’t be sorry. Despite all outward appearances, I get a very good feeling about our adventure.”
