Page 53 of The Cake Fairies
How could Annabelle possibly have forgotten the cake stuff? It’d been the very last thing Polly had reminded her to do before she’d run off in such a hurry.
“So where exactly did this lot come from?” Her eyes flitted from bag to bag. There had to be a dozen, standing proudly to attention, emblazoned with logos hinting at luxurious contents. “This must have cost a bomb.Annabelle?”
“We’ll talk about it later. Don’t worry. No credit cards were battered in the process.” She laughed and scurried away before Polly could draw another breath. “Ah, yes, before I forget… he’s… that would be Alex…” a muffled voice and a forehead reappeared at the kitchen door. “Sent a message to say tea’s booked for Tuesday at four. Lucky girl.” She peeped a little further around the door frame to throw Polly a strange and rather hurried wink, then disappeared anew.
Polly couldn’t deny that this sudden and rather delicious confirmation of her date with destiny made her heart flutter. To the tune of one of those romantic serenades a sexy guitarist strums, beneath his beloved’s bedroom veranda, on sultry Californian star-strewn nights.
But then Ivy gave her a look, and Polly was brought back down to earth with a massive bump. Something fishy was going on. Even the teen could detect it. She let out an elongated sigh. The best thing Polly could do was shrug as she plopped the solitary lemon that Annabelle had purchased in the fruit bowl. Meanwhile, her cousin bounded up the stairs to restock her wardrobe. But there simply wasn’t time to dwell on her apparentnouveauriches.
Polly and Annabelle already knew the task of the day. After toasting the success of last night’s cake pop spectacular, they’d sipped at their bubbles, and, once midnight had safely struck, read on – this time just the one page – to see what the new dawn heralded.
“Back to Westminster today. All that wealth, all that power, and yet it’s a space that’s shared with one of London’s largest pockets of homeless people; souls like you and me whose lives have been turned upside down through no fault of their own, leaving them with little choice but to escape.”
Polly felt like she’d swallowed a brick when Annabelle read out that bit. The times she’d been tempted to run away herself, from the fate she’d been lumbered with; the number of extra bodies they could easily provide shelter for, right in this very penthouse. Although in a roundabout way, wasn’t that what they, too, were in 2019? None of this modern life was truly their own. How very different her situation would be if, in the blink of a sixties pastel-blue shadow and black kohl encrusted eye, she’d fled from her brothers and never looked back.
“Today could go one of two ways: the decision-makers, the politicians, the trouble-shooters and journalists… the tourists; they’ll be business as usual as they blindfold themselves to your benevolence, pretending none of this exists, retreating further into their bubbles. They’re used to blocking out kind-hearted people dropping coins into flat caps as buskers play their ukeleles, sing their songs, recite their poetry; attempt to connect with the inner-beings and charitable side of the well-heeled and wealthy. Their immunity runs high.” Annabelle practically gulped for breath after offloading that lot. “Or they’ll be moved like they’ve never been moved before. Here’s hoping for the latter.”
And was that: the extent to which Amber Magnolia was prepared to elaborate.
“As helpful as flipping well ever,” Annabelle snapped the folder shut and they stared for several minutes into early morning space.
But now, as London’s resident pigeons cawed their hunger in the skies above, and the sun attempted to crack through the heavy eiderdown of cloud, it felt like a new day, though technically it was one and the very same. Lunchtime was the moment to do this, Polly decided. “Annabelle, Ivy,” she shouted. “This is your one-hour warning!”
Tourists would be milling around, grabbing shots of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament; Lords, High Court judges, and the generally high and mighty would be dashing about for a bite to eat (and the odd liquid lunch). Polly could only hope this would mean they’d catch humanity at its peak.
