Page 22 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Fourteen
ANNABELLE
Annabelle was officially minted. She’d scuttled to the Dunkin’ Donuts toilets to count all five thousand fabulous pounds of her fortune, after pleading with the guard to let her go – and after buying him a box of techni-glazed donuts in gratitude. It turned out you couldn’t just jump on a train and pay laternowadays; there were tickets to be inserted into machines, gates to negotiate, terrorists clad in hidden bomb vests to be mindful of. That’s when she’d sucked in her breath: she probablyhadzipped through aeons of time, just as Amber Magnolia had said. Just a little bit.
“You’ve had one lucky escape, young lady – appreciative as I am of thefawtfulgift,” the guard had said, tucking into the Oreo-stuffed specimen already, eyes half-closed so he could revel in the chocolate and cream manna while Annabelle concentrated on translating the crawl of his London accent. “If that’d been any number of my younger colleagues working this evenin’s shift, the only way you’d be leavin’ here would be in ’andcuffs and a cop car.”
Annabelle shuddered at the whole episode, although it had certainly revealed the power of the baked good to calm down a heated man. Maybe there was a small grain of truth in Amber Magnolia’s theory. She was now determined to stick at Polly’s side until all this was over, anyway. Although she couldn’t deny the temptation to keep back some of the stash of cash for her parents, she also felt wracked with guilt that she’d been about to abandon her penniless cousin.
The letters changed again as the train times updated themselves on the departures board in the distance, vying for her attention: Newcastle, Edinburgh, Norwich, York. Then suddenly it had all changed again to:GO BACK TO POLLY ON OXFORD STREET – 40 mins
In a split second the instruction had disappeared. Annabelle blinked fast, willing it to reappear. She trawled through the list, eyes narrowed, certain that the rather personal message had simply jumped places; that she hadn’t imagined it. She looked left and right, checking the expressions of her fellow travellers. Surely, she couldn’t have been the only one to see that? Her heart began to race, her palms became sticky.
Looking to the top of the board to work her way down the list one last time, she spotted the time and the date:
06.09.2019.
Twenty-nineteen?
Twenty-nineteen!
She coughed back her fright and drew in yet another deep breath. Panic would have to wait. Adrenalin took charge of her limbs, her brain surrendered to autopilot. It blew her onto the Paddington Underground platform, chugged her in a south-easterly direction along the poo-brown Bakerloo line, spat her out onto Oxford Street and had her sauntering, head cast down (tail between her legs) back to Polly, The Toadstool, and the fresh chunk of red velvet cake that was waiting for her at the table.
She devoured it gratefully, posh fork in hand, bolstering herself for the huge explanation she owed her cousin. In the background, a strangely familiar-looking waiter smiled knowingly, almost causing her to choke on the snow-and-scarlet sponge.
Could he be her letter Z?
Of course, he couldn’t. How stupid. She was tired. That’s why she was seeing his face everywhere she went, including runaway trains; that’s why she was getting swept up in his good looks and good manners. Actually, make that impeccable manners; he’d barely batted an eyelid when she’d trashed the place. And now it was spick and span again, as if she’d imagined the whole sorry business and a gang of fairy-tale woodland creatures had come to his rescue.
“You missed the best bit,” said Polly after a lengthy silence, cheeks dotted pink like an over-made-up doll. Oh, great. Annabelle realised her cousin really did have a crush on the waiter. Well, thank God they’d never have to see him again after today; London being gargantuan and all that: future family awkwardness spared. “We get to binge-watch cookery programmes,” Polly added.
“Do I look like I’m in the mood for a Fanny Cradock fest?”
“Not Fanny, no. Things… times have… changed a bit.”
Yep, thanks, Polly. I’ve rather figured that out for myself over the past hour or so.
“It’s all about some woman called Nigella, and a phenomenon by the name ofThe Great British Bake Off, nowadays. Amber Magnolia’s putting us up in a ‘lovely apartment’, too.” Polly made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “Not that I’m filled with much confidence on that front if the poky tent she lives in is anything to go by. Oh, and talking of fronts, she also went on to say that there’s no need to worry on the time front.”
“The what?”
Annabelle’s features crumpled in puzzlement.
“Thepast.Apparently, we’ll pick up where we left off when we go back to ’69. So, Aunt Jemima and Uncle Bert will be none the wiser about your disappearance, and I guess we’ll be returned to the fair. I must admit, I was a bit pissed off when I read that bit; to think that my brothers won’t have to get out their pots and pans, learn how to iron their smalls, and suffer the consequences of my year-long absence,” Polly sulked.
***
“Touch in with the Oystercard on the yellow reader at the start of your journey, then the gate will magically open.”
Polly read aloud from the folder, in the manner of a chef reciting a recipe.
Annabelle noticed they were attracting a crowd, as Polly scoured the red folder for more clues. She let out a massive sigh as her cousin rested their instructions on top of the entrance barriers to Oxford Circus Underground station so she could study Amber Magnolia’s words and digest them. Tuts and expletives flew their way thick and fast.
“I have money, I told you!”
“Shh. Keep your voice down.” Polly put her finger to her lips. “This isn’t the best place to advertise that.”
This had to be a joke! So, her escapade down to Paddington, narrowly avoiding getting herself arrested, had been in complete and utter vain?
