Page 26 of The Cake Fairies
Polly lapped up the compliment gladly, today’s kit consisting of high-waist jeans, burnt orange top, and an utterly divine fitted toffee leather jacket. Meanwhile, Annabelle looked less convinced, decked out in a petrol-blue striped satin polo neck jumper, and marmalade-orange print full-length skirt. Polly swore she’d purposely pulled out the most hideous combo she could find, just to make a point that sixties fashion couldn’t be rivalled.
The stretch limo’s horn beeped again impatiently, and thoughts of vanity dissipated. Cecil hurried them out of the building: “Have fun, see you later. And a small request if I may – rather naughty of me while I’m on the job, I know, but my quails’ egg supplies are somewhat dwindling. I don’t suppose you’d be so kind as to pick me up a box or two?”
“Pleasure,” smiled Annabelle, taking the outstretched ten-pound note. “Gordon Bennett! Please don’t tell me we have to cook with quails’ eggs in the twenty-first century?” she whispered to Polly.
“So, you know where you’re going, then?” a middle-aged man with quite the strangest hair-do asked the women. Besides the rugby bump of his nose and the enormous dustbin lid hands gripping the wheel, frontally he sported an impressive (if you liked that sort of thing) chestnut-coloured quiff. And from behind, his tresses were shaped just like a giant jigsaw piece! How Polly longed to put scissors to them. Nigel continued to talk to the road in front of him, oblivious to the once-over he was being given, as they settled into the sumptuous back seats, hardly able to process the enormity of the vehicle – and the bottles of pink champagne laid out before them. They had seen this mode of transport (and all its bells and whistles) flashed into their living-rooms in any number of Hollywood sagas, but being on the inside was, well... “You do need to strap yourselves in if you want me to put my foot on the gas, you know. S’not not an optional extra.” He tugged at the seat belt running across his shoulder and hinted they should imitate his move. It seemed a little overcautious but evidently safety had notched up a gear in this day and age.
“So then,Waitrose. Home of the middle-class wannabe and upper-class shopper, purveyor of swan fit for the Queen.”
“Is it? We wouldn’t… er… really know. We haven’t actually been there before.”
“Hold tight to your credit cards then. This trip’s gonna cost you.”
Polly put that particular hurdle to one side for the moment. Payment by plastic wasn’t part of her repertoire. Yet another new skill to learn about – and quickly. Thank goodness they’d remembered the folder.
“Then again you can probably afford that if you’re staying in KensingtonMeeeeews.”
“Are you always this cheerful?” quipped Annabelle.
Polly cringed inwardly.
“All part of the service, ma’am.”
It took fifty minutes to negotiate the wild jungle that was the London (non-rush hour) traffic, and Nigel was still no better equipped in the good humour department by the end of it. But they’d reached their destination at last. Now they could crack on with day two’s instructions – although hopefully not literally when it came to those delicate quails’ eggs. Nigel pulled up outside the vast shop front, budged not an inch to open the door (unlike in the movies) and Polly and Annabelle tentatively stepped outside.
“And get someone to help you to the limo with the bags,” he yelled out the window to the astonishment of the passing shoppers. “No way my gyppy back’s going to support the kind of spree you ladies have in mind.”
“Yes, Nigel.”
The girls exchanged a glance, agreeing it was infinitely easier to agree with this guy at all times.
Polly felt like Gretel in the fairy tale. Waitrose was out of this world surreal, from the warm and enchanting entrance which seemed to pipe out all things aspiration, its vapour trail swirling over the hills and far away, to the tantalising taste opportunities sprinkled liberally throughout the store. How could so many varieties of food exist? It was a far cry from the humble village corner shop. She had to take a steadying breath so as not to let herself get dangerously overwhelmed.
Would she like to try a piece of Manchego cheese, whatever that was? How about a sip of luxury Bonfire Night hot chocolate, since Guy Fawkes season was just around the corner? A morsel of gluten-free, nut-free carrot cake to accompany it, perhaps? Hmm. Strangely enough, the latter was failing to allure her.
“Don’t waste time browsing every aisle,” Amber Magnolia had instructed. “And try not to get waylaid by the ever-present sampling opportunities. This branch likes to dole out freebies of entrapment at every corner; you’d never leave the shop. Head straight for the numbered lanes as per these notes; stock up on all the baking items you desire, then pay up with this credit card at the checkout.” The shiny gold piece of plastic had been scruffily Sellotaped into the book, along with a not-so-secret four-digit pin code. Polly thought it best that she take charge of all of that. “It really couldn’t be simpler,” the memo had continued. “Then back to the apartment, before Nigel gets niggled by the 5pm rush hour. Never a pleasant experience.”
Something told Polly that Amber Magnolia was referring to their driver, rather than the roads.
They made for the fruit and veg aisle; a pair of rabbits caught in the flickering overhead neon supermarket lights, dazzled by the array of fresh produce on offer.
“Well, blackberries and rhubarb are going straight in the trolley.” Polly tried not to baulk at the prices. “We need to make the most of them before the season’s over. Though quite how we’ll fashion them into a cake on a grand scale is anybody’s guess… Quick, grab those last few rhubarb bundles before anybody else does, Annabelle.”
“I think you’ll find you can get them all year round nowadays, what with the forced rhubarb triangle of West Yorkshire doing its bit for first world problems,” a smart Alec upper-crust male in a white linen suit and matching hat interrupted them.
“Right, yeah, course you can,” Annabelle expelled a nervous laugh. “My cousin’s been out of the country a few years, haven’t you dear?” she said, putting an armful of rhubarb back in its green container on the shelf, smug at her ability to produce some speedy banter.
Meanwhile, Polly made a mental note to look up what sounded like the most barbaric means of coaxing a vegetable to grow.
Up and down the aisles they trotted, adhering to Amber Magnolia’s advice; the trolley fast resembling a curiosity from exotic lands. You name it; they’d stashed it, from jars of South American dulce de leche to bottles of Polish kirsch, tubs of Italian mascarpone to Great British butternut squash, and stevia to orange blossom water. Polly felt like Alice in a retail version of Wonderland, desperate to sample it all. “I think we’re almost done now.”
The trolley was threatening to cascade a lava stream of ingredients all over the supermarket floor, but Annabelle flung a tube of edible silver balls in for luck. It was refreshing to see that some things had remained blissfully unchanged. Polly had a wonderfuldéjà vuof painstakingly placing those mischievous silver bobbles a fraction of an inch apart to add a little sparkle to her masterpiece of icing, for the last village wedding she’d made a cake for, back in Middle Ham.
Annabelle’s exhausted face reminded her it was time to head to the tills. They’d probably survived on all of four hours sleep last night. That discreetly and expertly cooked breakfast had been hours ago, too. They needed to get back to their colossal but cosy den, eat whatever they recognised as edible from the full to bursting fridge, and then start to plan ahead – at least as far as day two, and a certain woman, would allow.
“Okay, just one last,lastthing.”
Polly eyed a pale green bottle which appeared to contain the extremely alchemic-sounding peppermint extract. Typically, though, it was located on the highest shelf.
“Well, it’s no good looking at me: I’m at least six whole inches shorter than you. Maybe there’s a lanky shop assistant lurking nearby who we can ask for help?” said Annabelle.
“We can’t wait for one of those to materialise, and I haven’t got the energy to hunt one down. You heard how impatient Narky Nigel was on the journey here. He’ll be drumming his fingertips at the wheel, about to indulge in the sort of medley of beeps that could get him – and our lift home – arrested. No, it’s easily grabbed: I’ll just climb up these couple of shelves, secure my footing and swing for it like a monkey, nothing to it at all.”
“Polly, no! I don’t think that’s the best idea…”
But it was too late. Polly was already scaling the shelves, knocking down formerly neat rows of vanilla extract bottles. Then just as she was falling, she thudded against the broad, strong, and surprisingly cushioning shoulders of a tall blonde male; a tall blonde male who could have spared her a whole lot of ridicule had he shown up about ten seconds earlier.
“Adonis?”
