Page 48 of The Cake Fairies
***
Ivy arrived in the afternoon, after the bakers had got themselves to grips with the day’s duty.
“Shouldn’t you be in the library between college lectures?”
Honestly. Polly was turning into the girl’s mother, with her incessant quizzing of Ivy’s movements. Then again, perhaps with good reason; she was definitely safer in a library than wandering the streets. Not only that, but Ivy didn’t realise how lucky she was, having the opportunity to take her education further.
“Free period.” Ivy avoided eye contact, charging at the incredible structure beckoning her, moth to flame, on the kitchen counter.
“Ohemgee. Like what evenisthis?”
“We haven’t come up for a name with it yet,” said Annabelle, still in awe of today’s confection herself. “Perhaps you’d care to christen it?”
Ivy grabbed at an unattended fork and made to dive in.
“Nooooo!” screeched Polly.
“Stop right there and don’t move an inch further!” Annabelle couldn’t help but shriek along. It’d taken them an age to angle those churros sticks just right. “Look to the left: we made you a miniature version, just like yesterday.”
“So you have. Phew. Close call, guys. Very close call.” Ivy laughed nervously.
She wasn’t kidding, thought Annabelle, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Ivy stepped towards her magnificent cake, taking in the alternating layers of satin-edged mocha and dark chocolate until she reached the birds’ nest of churros, woven – a little higgledy-piggledy, admittedly – on top; a pot of decadent and velvety chocolate sauce sitting in its middle, whose surface just begged to be broken with an indulgent dip.
“Woah. This is one rustic belle. But you can’t call it that.” She smiled playfully. “I know. How about Churreallygottaeatme?”
Annabelle cringed. Polly frowned.
“It’s terrible, I’ll be the first to admit it, and it sounds more like a very bad attempt at an Italian accent, as opposed to anything remotely Spanish, but I don’t see you two coming up with anything better.”
“She’s right!” the cousins chimed in sync, causing the three of them to collapse with the kind of laughter that had you laughing at the laughter, laughing at the laughter of the laughter, and forgetting the original subject of those glorious giggles in the first place.
“I’m coming with you tonight to the club drop,” announced Ivy, mid-churro dunk.
She tipped her head back as if she were Cleopatra feeding herself a bunch of grapes and sucked somewhat ineptly at the gleaming sauce.
“Oh, it’ll be late-late. This drop’s a special one,” said Polly.
“Look, it’s no probs. I’ve got my toothbrush in my backpack, and you guys are hardly short on decadent soaps and shower gels. Besides, it’s almost the weekend. Mum thinks I’m staying over at my ex’s house… what with the teachers’… er… strike tomorrow. It’s been way too handy to pretend we’re still together,” she sped up her spiel then, “I can’t believe I thought it was the end of my life when he did me the most massive favour of all and ghosted me.” Okay, teen-talk was like a whole other language within a language, in these modern times. “Somehow, if I’m with Slimeball Samuel, then that’s all right and I’ve got the freedom of the city… so much for women’s lib.” Ivy shuddered, features creased as she went in for another mocha-frosted churro bite. She reminded Annabelle distinctly of her younger (in actual time-ageing years) freedom-seeking and all things independent self. And was it her imagination, or was she spending just a little bit less time texting and checking on her phone updates, at least when she was in their company?
“Okay then, but just this once, and as long as you’re sure it won’t get you into trouble.”
She made an executive decision to let three become a crowd, plus the fact, neither she nor Polly were exactly capital city street-wise; it would be good to have somebody who was a little savvy by their side.
“Cool. We’ll have a ball. And this one’s gonna go down a treat, by the way.” Ivy waved her last golden churro stick between little and large varieties of the cake, a giant beam taking over her face. “Hold that thought, I’m off to the ladies.”
“How do you think she’d react if she found out what we’re really doing here?” Polly whispered, once she was sure the coast was clear, evidently unconvinced that Ivy tagging along tonight was the best idea. “How do you thinkAlexwould react?”
“Maybe they already know,” said Annabelle.
“No way. That’s imp…”
Annabelle sensed the cogs turning in Polly’s head. Surely, she was beginning to realise it actually wasn’t beyond the scope of imagination.
“Think about it. How do we know that AM hasn’t chosen the characters already, lined up the scripts; that every minor detail hasn’t been signed and sealed with whoever it is that she reports to?”
“Because only Cecil has alluded to her. Because we have free will.”
