Page 45 of The Cake Fairies
“I’m glad you like it on me.”
“I’d like it on a shelf in a department store,” she cut him off. There. That had to convince him.
“I come from Copenhagen; I work in London. I enjoy a little cake alchemy and the science behind it. That’s it. There’s nothing more to say, Polly.”
Alex looked out wistfully into the night sky, and Polly refused to release her iron grip on the seat she’d somehow slid back up onto. This was quite unbelievable progress, when she recalled her ridiculous entrée into the pod. Even if she was perfectly entitled to react in the way she had, given the past’s horrific events.
For the first time since she’d signed a non-negotiable contract with herself to give Alex a near-constant cold shoulder, she felt just a bit inclined to offer him one to cry on. Something – and she’d hedge her bets it was a person – from his past was clearly bothering him.
But he was unwilling to elaborate, and, mystified at his silence, while equally spellbound at her ability to even partially admire the view, Polly didn’t press for any more. And yet, there was no awkwardness about it; they’d come full circle (indisputably), she was still alive, and she’d even go as far as to say that she’d enjoyed those last few minutes of their gentle descent, drinking in the shimmer of sparkly gold, silver and ruby-red lights on the masts of the boats and the banks of the river below.
Maybe one day she’d be able to fly in a plane! Okay, that might be pushing things: one step at a time.
“I’d like to take you somewhere else special before you go.” Alex was the first to break their silence. “But don’t worry, this time it’s on the ground.”
“Oh?” Her stomach flipped.
“Afternoon tea at Fortnum and Mason. I’m guessing you don’t get so many fancy tearooms in the West Country, anyway.” He shrugged at her. “We’ll book it soon.”
Heck. That sounded decidedly like a date.
“Alex, listen… tonight has been lovely… at least the last few minutes, and I’m eternally grateful to you for teaching me something new, but I’m not sure that tea and scones would be appropriate, I…”
“Iwas kind of hoping the last thirty minutes might’ve proven to you that I’m anything but the monster you’ve pigeonholed me as. Besides, tea and scones; it’s hardly whisky on the rocks for starters, with a line of coke for pudding. I’m just a Danish guy, standing in front of an English girl, asking to be…”
“Okay then,” she conceded. Had that been another movie quote? “But only in the interest of trying everything on the cake trolley. Please, no more sweet-talking of the other variety. Directly, indirectly, or in code. We’d make a lousy match, and at my age I can’t afford to waste time with silly games. Just good friends?”
Polly extended her hand for a shake. But Alex lifted it to his lips, eyes cunningly seeking out the depths of her soul, the space around them ceasing to exist as they created their own private pod within a pod.
“Annabelle tells me you’re not even thirty. It’s time to live a little.”
She supposed he had a point. Nigella had at least twenty years on her, and she didn’t look like she was gearing up for bingo any time soon. 2019 was definitely growing on her every day.
Polly wondered what would have happened had they had more time alone, had Mr London Eye not popped the precious moment by opening the door, blasting them with September’s cooling breeze. She wondered what would have happened if her head hadn’t so obnoxiously bulldozed her heart sideways – like it always did. What would have happened if she’d rooted her feet to the spot and refused to budge?
***
“You know how petrified I am of heights! Of all the deceitful and underhand things…” Polly undid all of Alex’s good work within seconds, brow knitted, eyes transformed to slits as she approached her waiting cousin, who, along with Ivy, was sporting the stereotypical teen-look tonight; blowing bright candy-pink bubbles into the chilly autumn gusts until they burst and splatted back onto her face; hands on impatient hips, evidently utterly clueless as to how long the ride went on for.
But actually, Annabelle didn’t have a clue. Polly had never admitted her fear to her.
“Sorry but not sorry, cousin of mine. You know you totally shot yourself in the foot befriending Ivy. She’s my co-conspirator in crime,” Annabelle stopped then to inflate another sweet-smelling balloon, and Polly counted the seconds in her head until it popped: one, two, three – and a half. “Until you face up to the undeniable fact that you’re meant to be with that man.”
“Oh, knock it off. How many times do we have to do this?”
And yet that very idea had Polly ripping down her defences, and mentally rifling through every item in her wardrobe for her best courting attire.Calm down. He said afternoon tea, not the backseats of the cinema. Besides, you’re not meant to fancy him the teeniest weeniest bit, remember?
But then, maybe she could turn tea for two into the ultimate test: if he ordered the coffee and walnut cake (and Fortnum’s were sure to stock that stalwart), she’d consider the possibility that he might just be letter Z cleverly disguised. Alex was hardly the way she’d expected the alphabet’s finale to be packaged, but if he showed her a sign, she might be persuaded to reconsider.
Polly found her anger with her cousin blowing away on the breeze. She wove her arm through Annabelle’s. Ivy copycatted her friend, looping her arm through Annabelle’s on the right, and Alex took this as his cue to leave them to it; his confident swagger into the night cutting elegant shapes beneath the lampposts like Dick Van Dyke inMary Poppins.
If Polly wasn’t mistaken, just for the most fleeting of moments, she swore she detected a twinkle of sadness in her cousin’s eyes.
