Page 32 of The Cake Fairies
“Some cake drop results you’ll be able to see immediately for yourselves; the magic unfolding right before you.” Goosebumps dotted Annabelle’s scalp, flooding through her body, enveloping her in a warm fuzzy glow – not that she’d let on to Polly. “And others will be recorded for you on trusty video tape; hand-delivered by Nigel, then Cecil (if Nigel’s prepared to cooperate).”
“Whatisthat guy’s problem?”
“But getting your ducks in a row will be of paramount importance,” Polly read on. “Stock up on supplies,” and now her voice grew quieter. “And don’t be afraid to draft in help if help comes in a trustworthy package. Yes, the future is full of techie addiction and selfish behaviour, but there are many good souls out there too. You won’t need to look far to find them.”
“See.” Annabelle smirked. “There’s a very good reason Alex has appeared.”
“Moving swiftly on,” said Polly. “Blah, blah, blah, waffle, waffle, waffle. Aha. Here we are.Drop number one: Westminster Underground station – on or off the Tube, up to you. Cake creation? Your choice but make it at least a little operatic. The bigwigs will like that. Now go and spread the joy.”
“What? That’s it?” Annabelle recoiled. “Can she not be a little more specific? Time of day? Flavours? Exact coordinates of release? Oh, give me the folder. You must have missed something. This is stupid.”
“See for yourself.” Polly pushed the folder along the kitchen island as Annabelle scrambled across the worktop for it. “And no sneaking ahead to tomorrow.” She flipped the first few pages open. Sure enough, that really was all the direction they’d been given.
“Great. Now what?” Annabelle screeched dramatically.
“Another pot of tea and a brainstorming session?”
But the intercom rang, sparing any further deliberation.
“That’ll be Ivy,” said Polly triumphantly, stashing their secret away in one of the island’s drawers.
“Not if it’s Alex.”
“In that case you can get it.”
“My pleasure,” Annabelle let out an annoying hum, skipping to answer the phone at the door. “Oh, right, I see. Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be waiting to open it,” she replied aloud to Cecil. Holy moly, her cousin would be livid. And ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three…
“God morgen min kage venner!”
The tall blonde semi-stranger slalomed into their abode, flipped his hair from his face, swung his postie-style bag over his amply ripped chest, and took to beaming his approval around the apartment.
“Nice set up you have here.” He let out a this-must-have-cost-a-bomb whistle, dug his hand into his pocket which had been revealing a strange lopsided bulge that Annabelle had tried (unsuccessfully) to avert her gaze from, and pulled out a gargantuan and expensive-looking bottle of peppermint extract, offering it to Polly.
Polly swiped at the gift and offered her weakest smile in return, rudely turning her back to their guest as Annabelle ushered him in… until she realised he was accompanied by a female.
“Hey, Polly, Annabelle!” squealed an overexcited Ivy. “I’m early, I know, couldn’t face my history lecture – never hurts to skip a few, gotta keep up the stereotypical student façade, right?” She let out a nervous giggle. “Plus, I couldn’t wait to see you again… okay, that and the cake.”
“Oh, my goodness, you’re here! How’s the foot?” Polly hurled herself at Ivy as if she were a long-lost little sister; hugging her ferociously in a blatantly obvious bid to transfer every ounce of Alex-fuelled animosity.
Relief flooded Ivy’s face and she broke into a smile. “Amazingly, it’s nothing more than a bruise today. Mum hasn’t suspected a thing.”
“So, what’s the drill? Where do you want me?” The man firing the questions grinned teasingly. Annabelle cringed at the sexual innuendos flying about already, blinking away the various nooks and crannies of the penthouse where she’d be more than happy to have him entrap her.
“I met Ivy in reception—” he gestured at the teen “—she told me all about the way you’d both played Lara Croft. And about the cake tasting project. Well, aren’t you two ladies the dark horses? No wonder you were intent on clearing the supermarket out of peppermint,” he sucked in his cheeks.
“Annabelle, you team up with Alex at that end.” Polly refused to rise to Alex’s bait, as Annabelle ignored the swell of her heart (and her bosom) and wondered if Lara Croft was a chef, a superhero, or both. “Ivy and I will make the sponge bases.”
“Wait just a minute…” Alex put his finger in the air as if checking for the wind’s direction before flying a kite. “You mean to say you’ve invited me here to work? On my day off?”
“I did not invite you. She did.” Polly pointed at Annabelle then sashayed behind the island, hands firmly on hips. “And if hard graft doesn’t suit, you’re more than welcome to leave.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of work, sweetheart. But I don’t graft for nothing.” He paused, deep in thought. “I’m sure I’ll think up a benefit-in-kind you can repay me with a little later, though,” he winked.
Annabelle’s heart sank.
Polly removed the tea towel that was looped inside her apron strings and flipped it menacingly over her shoulder. She marched to the sink to make herself look busy. Annabelle exchanged a look with Ivy, determined to play the honourable cousin all over again; to will the ‘lovebirds’ into their proverbial nest, but it was all she could do not to laugh. Alex would be lucky to walk out of the kitchen alive.
“Before we start doing anything, shouldn’t we debrief our guests and decide exactly what it is that we’re making?” Annabelle shouted across to Polly, who’d busied herself setting up the scales, despite the fact they hadn’t a clue as to ingredients, let alone their measurements.
