Page 57 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Twenty-Five
POLLY
4:01 p.m.: But that was okay. Scandinavians were probably like Parisians, thought Polly. Understatedly cool and fashionably late for everything.
4:02 p.m.: If he’d already been seated and she’d had to strut with the grace of a catwalk model to the table, amidst the lilt of refined piano music in the background, she’d probably have tripped and fallen into the cake trolley, greeting him with Eton Mess plastered over her face. She was relieved she’d arrived first. He’d done her the biggest of favours. Ever the gent.
4:10 p.m.: Reading the menu for a third time was a good thing. It wasn’t every day that a girl went out for posh nosh in London town. The culinary choices she made today were of the utmost importance.
4:11 p.m.: Royal Blend, China Phoenix,Bloody Mary?So many teas in this place! What would pair best with a cornucopia of cake? Because the last thing she wanted was to coat her tongue in something too herby or spicy, and tarnish the upcoming Teacup Fancies…
4:12 p.m.: He’d stood her up, hadn’t he? How could she ever think they’d be a love match? She wasn’t so much Pretty Polly (as he’d referred to her, in some sort of spiteful self-centred subterfuge to get her to complete a scary dare), as a Plain Jane.
Hot tears of frustration pooled in her eyes, but no way would she give Alex the satisfaction of a public meltdown. She’d root herself to her chair, and she’d jolly well enjoy this experience. It might now be painfully obvious that she was the only singleton in the room – everyone else was paired up with sisters or mothers or daughters or friends or husbands, and yes, loathsomelovers– but she refused to let that dampen her thrill. But then the pianist parked his arse on his stool andNew York, New Yorktinkled out. Her mother’s favourite song. Not that Mum had ever really set foot outside the village. Not that she’d ever heard it anywhere, except gently swirling around the kitchen, via the ancient petrol-blue wireless.
Polly battled down another surge of impending blubbering, sticking it firmly on the backburner until she was safely in the confines of her bedroom, and determined to select her tea. Jasmine would do nicely. The telepathic waiter appeared from nowhere, presenting her with a treasure chest of infusions. She stuck resolutely to her floral selection before moving swiftly on to the menu, where resistance was futile, the intriguing medley of lemon curd and scones won the day.
Jasmine and lemon: It sounded like perfection before she’d even tasted the fusion.
Could she use it in a cake?
Why, oh, why hadn’t she brought a book along for the ride?
What was it with that irksome couple over there. And their blatant pity for her solitary status? And more to the point: why in the name of all that was holy, were they adding the jam to their scones before the cream?
The questions flapped and flew at her as the jasmine did something wondrously cleansing to her palate, preparing her for the imminent queue of taste sensations.
4:20 p.m.: Alex was officially a sod of the highest order.
4:21 p.m.: Would said irritating couple ever have their fill of gawping, or should Polly perch on their table with one of those blessed selfie sticks, so they could take home a souvenir of her bog-standard mug? If that was what it took to get them to bugger off, then she’d even raise her teacup to them. This was beyond embarrassing, to the point she was actually embarrassed for their embarrassment. She’d never known a pair of strangers so smitten with her.
4:22 p.m.: she berated herselfoncefor putting herself down (again) and constantly using the extremes of her cousin and her mother as a benchmark for her beauty. She was Polly. And that was good enough. And thentwicefor mistaking Alex for a chunk of coffee and walnut cake. Nothing could be further from the truth.Thricefor being so paranoid.
Mercifully, the nosey parker duo in matching fawn linen suits left the tearoom then. Polly let out a mammoth sigh of relief, the trace of a smile on her lips. Now she could concentrate on the act of self-love anew.
The clotted cream and lemon curd-smothered scones were a revelation, reaffirming her idea of pairing them in a cake with a hint of jasmine. And then came the pomp and ceremony of the tea trolley, rivalling every one of The Toadstool’s frankly paltry efforts. She didn’t think she’d be able to eat again for a month.
“May I suggest one of our doggy bags, madam? You do appear to be struggling there and it would be a shame for all of this to go to waste.”
This might be the most prestigious establishment she had ever frequented, but for some unknown reason, every single waiter in her dual timelines had the uncanny ability of approaching her for a conversation at the most inconvenient of moments. Mouth full of macaron, she nodded encouragingly. How ingenious! And this goodie bag would be way more enticing than one from a kids’ birthday party.
She stopped herself from attacking another morsel, amidst visions of the waiter rolling her out of the door like Humpty Dumpty, and managed a slow saunter home; the former hint of a smile reappearing on her lips, eyes crinkling at the corners with an emotion she supposed was glee. She swung her upmarket Fortnum’s bag proudly, for it could’ve contained an exclusive twenty-pound jar of royal jelly for all the passers-by knew. She couldn’t have been prouder of herself for sparing the pavements and Tube stations her tears. Remarkably, they just wouldn’t come. The moment had passed.
And so had Alex’s chance.
The clue had always been in the name, hadn’t it? Alex was an A, on the furthermost end of the alphabetical spectrum; the ridiculous myth dispelled at last: opposites categorically did not attract.
***
“Won’t be a minute!” A flash of what appeared to be an olive-coloured raincoat raced up the stairs. Yes, it was. Polly caught sight of it again bounding along the mezzanine toward her cousin’s bedroom.
“Annabelle? You mean to tell me you spent some of your money in that upmarket charity shop on a mac?”
That sounded a bit too practical to be true! Next thing she knew, Annabelle would be sporting a pair of duck-yellow wellies and wheeling one of those tartan old lady trolleys behind her.
“Well, you know, London is supposed to rain a lot… and…” Annabelle sounded remarkably out of puff, as if she were in a desperate rush to throw on a new outfit, and any old new outfit at that. “Amber Magnolia didn’t really deck us out with coats… unless you count that, um… hideous faux-fur stole thing that looks like a dead leopard lurking in the back of my wardrobe. I swear you’re her favourite.” Annabelle’s tone faded in and out.
A raincoat, over the chance to ‘bling it up’ with a little imitation fur? Now that didn’t sound like the girl she knew and loved at all. But Polly shrugged and gave it no further thought. The turn of the century had changed them both in big and small ways already, which was totally inevitable.
