Page 46 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Twenty-Two
ANNABELLE
Annabelle’s sleep was fitful at best, images of Polly and Alex embracing in that space-age egg cavorting across every scene. It put her in mind of the time she’d locked besotted but shy Priscilla and Mike, her high school friends, in one of the cattery pens at Mike’s parents’ business back in the village. It had been his sweet sixteenth party, and, having parents with a little money and a lot of land, he’d invited all of his school pals over for a knees-up in the orchard. But the supplies of ginger beer had disappeared quicker than anyone had expected, and Aphrodite Annabelle couldn’t watch the will-they-won’t-they scenario for a moment longer; had lured the lovebirds over to the cattery side of the field under the false pretences of seeing a feline escapee, pushed them into an empty pen and…Three years after that, they’d tied the knot and Priscilla had had her first child.
But thirteen-and-three-quarter years later, nothing had changed for Annabelle: always a bridesmaid never the bride.
She wouldn’t badger Polly for a rundown on the ride. She didn’t need the complete and unabridged backstory to her cousin and Alex’s fairground attraction; she knew for sure that her matchmaking skills had instigatedsomething, reigniting the spark that had nearly burst into rampant wildfire too soon – until that crash of Waitrose china had dousedalmostevery ember. Now it was rekindled, just waiting for a seamless procession of marriage and babies and happy-ever-afters to embellish its glow.
Annabelle would just have to hope she’d find solace in the leftovers of London’s lurking Lotharios, wherever they might be. The phone trilled, interrupting her thoughts:
“Good morning, my dear.” It was Cecil. This one was definitely too old! “Amber Magnolia’s video has arrived by special delivery,” he said, thankfully unaware of Annabelle’s swift assessment and rejection. “There’s a Post-It note attached saying: ‘see below before you press play’.”
“Right, erm, cool,” Annabelle was mystified. What was a Post-It? “Thanks, Cecil.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. I’ll send it up presently.”
Polly had finally risen and emerged from her room by the time Cecil had ding-donged the delivery into the apartment. And, oh yes. There was an undeniable glow to her cheeks this morning, all right. At the very least they’d snogged when they were on top of the world as Big Ben had chimed the hour with his fatherly blessing, Annabelle was sure. She fixed Polly a coffee in a bid to think about something else. And today she did the daily read out – not the easiest of tasks, with a bunch of peeling fluorescent notes randomly covering a battered video case: “You did pretty good, Cake Fairies. Not bad at all for your first attempt.” She sensed the curve of Polly’s smile as she sipped at her drink. “Here’s a little action replay so you can see things have a wonderful way of working themselves out in the end.”
If only that sentiment were referring to Annabelle’s bleak love life. “This will be the one and only video I send to you: a) it’s too time consuming, you literally have no idea what it takes to put this thing together, b) speaking of things… they’ve kind of moved along rather nicely with Coconut Shy Man… who’s anything but timid, as it turns out. All of which means I have fewer hours in the day. Ciao for now. Oh, Alberto’s Italian, didn’t I say?”
Annabelle worried her breakfast might resurface. So, basically everyone in 2019 was getting it on apart from her.
“But I digress.” Annabelle’s shoulders sagged. These notes really were all over the place, the woman had it bad. “If logistics prevent you from hanging around to watch the cake drop magic unfold, you’ll be the better equipped to use your imagination after watching this.” Annabelle held the video tape in the air. “Enjoy witnessing the fruits of your labour (that berry-studded stunner of Alex’s was a marvellous idea, by the way).” Polly threw in an obvious tut. “And then set to work on this evening’s task. You’ll find all the details in the manual and I’m happy-dancing already; you’re going to LOVE this one.”
“Shall we get it over with?” said Annabelle, taking in the time on the giant wall clock.
“Might as well,” Polly replied with her own lengthy sigh – which Annabelle tried to ignore because it spoke of fantasies as opposed to frustration. She picked up the folder instead, leafing her way forward to the relevant page.
“Day Three: Fe Fi Fo Fum is a new concept in nightclub; a silent disco.”
“Say what?” asked Polly. “Crikey, today’s teens don’t know how easy they’ve got it with all this choice laid out before them… our teens are… were… oh, you know what I mean,” she batted her hand. “Ours are lucky to get to a disco once a year, and that’s only by trekking to a city. Of course, you want to hear the bop of the music once you’re on the dance floor.”
“There’s little left to surprise in this erratic era,” Annabelle retorted, tracing her finger back to where she’d left off, swallowing down an unexpected bubble of homesickness. “It’s not my intention to throw you into the path of danger,”she continued, and they gulped in unison. “And yet Fe Fi Fo Fum (from hereon in I suggest you refer to it as Fe Fi – much quicker that way) has been going through a spate of ugly recently: knifing, petty robbery, GBH (technically that term’s been around since 1861, but has only really been put into use since 1983, so you’ll be excused for not knowing it stands for Grievous Bodily Harm).”
Annabelle snapped the folder shut. “That’s enough,” she yelled as if Amber Magnolia was hiding behind the curtains and she was seeking her out. “This is absurd!”
“This is bring-in-the-army-tanks dangerous. She can’t be serious,” Polly shuddered taking several gulps of her coffee.
“Not a chance. She can get lost.” Overcome with fury, Annabelle opened the folder again. “What else has she got in store for us? Skydiving off cliffs, cake drops on train tracks? The giddy old minx is a flaming liability!”
She grabbed at a ream of the paper to flip it forward. Stuff the rules. Where had following those benignly ever got them in life? It was time to outwit their senior. How could she possibly have their best interests at heart? She might’ve conned them under canvas with the polished sincerity of her gaze, but Annabelle refused to follow these idiotic directions for a moment longer without knowing where exactly they led.
Except the pages refused to budge, and now those they’d previously read snapped resolutely shut, taking possession of Annabelle’s hand like some sort of Venus fly trap.
She yelped. It bloody smarted!
“Oh. My. God. She’s only gone and put this thing under a spell. My fingers and thumb are actually stuck, Polly! Don’t just sit there gawping. I’m being eaten alive here! Pull me out, quick.”
Polly sprang to action, releasing Annabelle’s hand with ease.
“How very strange, I didn’t notice anything untoward. Maybe you’re just imagining it?” She flew away with the fairies, no doubt re-living every intricate detail of last night’s romance. Annabelle wanted to gag at the unfairness of it all. And now it would seem the evil witch was sending her telepathic messages via the very objects that surrounded her. Well, she had another think coming if she thought Annabelle was sticking around to put up with that. “It’s not exactly the most conventional situation we find ourselves in,” Polly continued, as if to reconfirm Annabelle’s madness. “Why not take a nap? You look exhausted. I can get started on whatever it is we have to do and wake you later.Annabelle?”
Annabelle rose in a hypnotic trance; unable to move any further for several seconds, unable to process what had just happened; an invisible force field pinning her to the spot as if to bargain with her to behave. This was like something ripped out of a psychedelic Lewis Caroll book. She didn’t like it.
“Annabelle?” Polly was practically screeching now, desperate for some kind of verbal response.
Before long she’d shaken whatever it was off, and taken to pacing around the kitchen island instead, as was fast becoming both of their processing rituals, not before pushing the pathetic red folder across its surface. It landed with a plop in Polly’s lap. She was madder than she knew was possible; incandescent to the tune of that folder’s hue. She couldn’t find the words to match her kaleidoscope of emotions.
