Page 56 of The Cake Fairies
The men scrabbled to the front of the stall.
“Oi! Line up in a respectable queue for the lady.” Baz bowed as if Annabelle were almost the Queen, and at the very least Nigella.
She served every one of her subjects, amidst a plethora of praise-filled profanities, watching on as the magic continued to unfold per bite. Pop’s son, and Polly, dusted themselves down in time for the temporary stallholder to make a killing, selling practically his entire van’s worth of stock; although he thought it best not to tempt fate and kept the bazookas well and truly hidden underneath the paste table. Baz, and his slightly less terrifying equivalents from the rival team, the boys in blue, had fist-bumped, which seemed to be the new handshake. Then there was a Mexican wave of this special style of high fives; blues and yellows becoming BFFs – in the hashtag-trending words of Ivy. And, finally, Baz clambered onto the flimsy paste table – Pop’s son retreating to his curtain hideaway once more – to make an historic speech:
“Lads, lads, lads,” he began, and friendly banter and ferocious bingeing came to an abrupt and abiding halt. “It’s been our tradition since I was knee-high to a grasshopper to instigate war, as you know.”
“Wayhey!” cheered a cluster of yellows.
“Well, no more.” Baz silenced them, holding a signet-ringed finger aloft. “Today we’ve been shown by two of the most inspiring ladies I have ever met… and I’ve had a few…” The laughter resumed, and Baz granted it five seconds before raising his whole hand up for silence. “There might be an alternative ritual to celebrate our animosity and general hatred towards one another’s teams. And that, my boys, is cake. Glorious cake! May we know it, may we be it; may we raise it.” Baz held what remained of his third piece of Blueberry Drip to the heavens and the shindig continued, attracting quite the audience, until he took firm command of that, too, leading a mass and well-mannered conga into the stadium.
While Annabelle and Polly might have retained their twenty-nine-year-old statuses in modern Britain, it was fair to say that the stresses and strains of that particular cake escapade had aged them by a further twenty-nine years. God only knew how Pop’s son would fare the morning after.
“Well, that was one way of going grey not very gracefully.” Annabelle munched on a spicy Thai cracker an hour and a half later, immediately dousing its flames with her water glass. She wasn’t sure she was cut out for some of these new food fads.
The palatial Asian restaurant proved the perfect base to hang out in before the mighty crowd’s disperse, and, although they’d need to be on another type of ball (that of their wits) for the return Tube journey home – once again, why hadn’t they taken up Nigel’s lift? – alcohol was definitely needed for Dutch Courage tonight, unless they were lucky enough to travel home accompanied by Baz and his comrades.
“You never did tell me how you acquired all those new outfits,” said Polly, completely changing the evening’s theme.
Shit. Annabelle had been hoping Polly wouldn’t go there. She felt terrible for frittering away almost five grand – give or take the odd fare and the doughnuts she’d gifted the baldie at Paddington, anyway. Hadn’t her original plan been to save it up and take it back to her parents? Not that she was confident it would have had any monetary value in 1969. And that notion alone would have to make it right. What choice did she have, but to splurge the entire lot on herself? Without giving a thought to Polly. Except for this token meal.
Annabelle decided she might as well brazen it out. She had plenty more brazening planned, after all. “C’mon, cuz. Fair’s fair. I was gifted a few hundred pounds, remember?” Always best to be modest.
“I can’t say that I do?”
“I told you all about it the evening we were curled up on the sofa, sipping cava. Evidently those bubbles went straight to your head.” Annabelle laughed awhat-will-I-do-with-you?laugh. “The lady at the Tube when-I-didn’t-have-money-for-my-fare,” she said it so fast that it came out like a long Germanic word.
Polly still looked clueless.
“Surely you remember?” she coughed, “A kind, elderly dear who must have sensed my plight, and somehow seen, via the forlorn look in my eyes, the hideous wardrobe that bitch was going to lumber me with. I felt positively dowdy in those clothes. You have to admit you got the cream of the fashion crop. All I’m doing is beautifying myself up a bit. These all came from charity shops,” she patted at the high-end High Street black and white Whistles tunic and legging combo she was currently buffed-up to the nines in. To today’s celebrities, said outlet probably would be the equivalent of a charity shop, so technically she was being truthful. “Don’t forget, I do need to find my own letter Z too.”
Polly thoughtfully bit into her prawn and lemongrass fishcake and chewed on it while Annabelle struggled with another outbreak of envy. How was it that this girl, brought up on beef stew, poached eggs and mashed potato; her closest family member, her own flesh and blood; how was it that Polly could take to this exotic cuisine like a Peking duck to water? A starter to Annabelle was a good old bowl of chicken soup. Tomato at a push.
“I suppose,” said Polly slowly. “But those posh store bags told a different story?”
“Well, it was one of those newfangled posh charity shops, wasn’t it? Anyway, talking of getting dolled up; how are you feeling about Tuesday’s date?” Annabelle quizzed quickly, stunned at her own thoroughly mean mind games.
“Excited, opening up to the possibility that maybe he could be letter Z, nervous as hell, curious about the cake – and yes, dithering like mad about what to wear.”
Annabelle grabbed at her wine glass to wash away her guilt. Once Alex sawherchoice of dress at 4 p.m. next Tuesday afternoon, Polly would be history.
