Page 59 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Twenty-Six
ANNABELLE
They arrived in Tunbridge Wells on a dark horse of a Wednesday. It involved more specialist G and Ts than Annabelle had ever thought her body could handle. But, as with any number of temptations that 2019 had to offer, this was another she simply couldn’t refuse: rhubarb and ginger-infused gin, limoncello gin, Seville orange gin, and the revelation that was chocolate gin.
Chocolate. In a gin!
Actually, they’d arrived inRoyalTunbridge Wells, to be precise. And this time Amber Magnolia revealed a new kind of home for the duration of their stay – however long that might be. A hotel. Not just any old hotel: the Vicky Palace; a quirky and homely hug of an establishment, lined with Laura Ashley wallpaper; the coving in every room rivalling the piping of the most beautifully iced Christmas cake in Fortnum and Harrods combined. This kind of manna would do very nicely indeed. No wonder Queen Victoria had allegedly made it her home-from-home whenever she was in town.
“Do you feel guilty?”
Annabelle splayed herself in a starfish shape on the sumptuous bed. She tried to push aside the slightly darker reason she was so conscience-stricken. Last night she’d woken after a nightmare about Alex and the abhorrently awful scenario she’d singlehandedly cooked up in that trashy whore’s raincoat, like some kind of wicked witch from the west. It was one thing to never pass Polly’s messages on. It was quite another to make her very own pass at the guy.
“For being here?” asked Polly, snapping her out of the hideous reverie.
“Sometimes I think it doesn’t seem right,” Annabelle made snow angels on the duvet, as if that might remove every trace of the boy, wrinkling up the perfection of God only knew how much ironing in the process. “We’re here living in the lap of luxury – mission or not – and everyone else is struggling on in a 1969s time warp.”
“Except they’re not, because time’s standing still. For them and for us.” Polly reached over to rub her arm affectionately. “You’re pining for Aunt Jemima and Uncle Bert, aren’t you? That’s what all this strange behaviour’s about.” She sat up straighter next to her, concern etching her forehead. “You can let your guard down with me, Annabelle. We’re family, remember? It’s natural that you’re missing them. But we’re only taking a year’s sabbatical. Try to think of it that way and you’ll feel a whole lot better. We’re into October already.” Her voice lilted at the fact they’d almost chalked-up a milestone.
But better was something Annabelle didn’t deserve to feel. No matter how much she’d imbibed, the fact that they’d completed almost a month in London put her head in an instant spin. Where had the days gone? The capital – paired with a certain woman’s instructions – had provided a whirlwind of culinary chaos. There had been cake drops in bandstands at Hyde and Regents Park, each occurring right before the orchestras were due for their weekend gigs. Hardly appropriate, and Polly and Annabelle swore the excess cream in the seven-tiered red velvet marshmallow cake did not do a thing for the voice boxes of the accompanying choirs, who’d been much quicker off the mark in snatching up the offering, unencumbered by heavy brass and strings of their backing groups.
Had it really been enough to prise the attention of audiences and passers-by from their phones, though? Surely a band and its sunny-side-up repertoire, or a choir singing numbers from modern-day musicals, would easily command the attention of all who’d parked their backsides on Victorian repro striped deckchairs anyway? Annabelle failed to see how the cake made a scrap of difference. Indeed, it proved impossible to know how any of their weekly park endeavours had changed humanity – especially when they were camped out so far in the distance behind low bushes, or lime-green weeping willows fringing boating lakes.
When they weren’t providing parties in the park, they were being deposited by Nigel and his limo outside malls and department stores with boxes housing chocolate and custard sponge spectaculars, or butternut squash and praline skyscrapers – the latter tasting infinitely better than it sounded. Yet, even in the perfume and cosmetics floors of London’s finest establishments, people of all ages clung resolutely to their specific brands of technology. Annabelle would have loved to sneak a glimpse inside, to watch a blemish-riddled customer receiving a foundation makeover, or a contouring session, as had now become in vogue. How a make-up artist inserted their tools between face and screen, she’d no idea.
But the hardest thing about those drops was the sin she felt around the homeless. They sat in shop doorways, ignored by the many, spared a penny or two, and on the rare occasion perhaps as much as a chunkier coin or a note, by the vital few. But they might just as well be ghosts. Much rarer was the personal touch; the ‘hi, how are you todays?’ and the ice-breaking chit-chat surrounding the current weather. Those who did drop their charity, well, they dropped it and ran.
While Annabelle and Polly could hardly claim to have been poster girl Good Samaritans in the past, it felt like a privilege and a wake-up call to talk to these people; folk who had once had the luxury of a roof over their head, clothes on their back, food on their table, but were now fighting to survive. Knowing each day would only bring them face to face with more people in need of a helping hand, the Fairies did the only thing they could; they baked as many additional miniature masterpieces to add to their daily drops as time would allow.
And just for a snatch of time, all this made Annabelle think twice about her own prior acts of selfishness. She had much to be thankful for, both in the sixties and the new millennium. So why was she intentionally hurting her cousin?
It already seemed like they were a million miles away from London. Even if Tunbridge Wells had been a relative skip and a hop on the train. Nigel had been ‘lumbered with airport runs’ the day they’d changed locations; although Amber Magnolia’s written words assured them that he’d be their ‘chief form of transportation’ as of tomorrow, when the nationwide tour officially kick-started. More time with the world’s grumpiest limo driver.
With a hangover.
Annabelle shifted her stare from the fleur de Lys curtains, their imprint reappearing before her eyes so that the walls were now plastered with a bizarre – and vomit-inducing – melange of patterns.
“None of this seems natural… or ethical, Pols.” She cringed inwardly, remembering how much her cousin hated to be called that. It was Ray’s favourite go-to moniker, especially when he was causing her grief, which was most of the time. “And can we really trust what Amber Magnolia says?”
Annabelle chewed at the stumps of her fingernails, sitting bolt upright on the king-sized bed a little too quickly, while Polly changed position and threw her body backwards, head bouncing on the giant pillow. Annabelle brought her hands to her temples and winced. “What if she’s playing some kind of sick and twisted game, taking us for fools, and we’re actually stuck here in limbo forever?” In her sober state, she knew this could never truly be. She’d temporarily lost her inhibitions; that was all. She’d read about gin making you weepy, and now she could add paranoid to the mix. “What if she made a mistake and there’s no way to send us back? Oh my God,what if she dies? It’s not as if anybody else knows where we are and can come to our rescue.”
“I think somebody’s tanked.” Polly hiccoughed, and Annabelle tried not to be annoyed that her cousin’s composure was faring better. Once again, the modern era seemed to favour Polly, while treating Annabelle harshly. “What choice do we have but to go with it?” She stretched out her arms and let out a sleepy yawn. “We can’t remember where we came from in the beginning and we have no idea where we’re going in the end. The only reason I’m so calm is because the alternative is a never-ending fight. Maybe Dave, George and Ray have taught me that much, in each of their annoying ways? If I stop believing in ordinary magic, I’ll stop believing in Santa… and you know how much I believe in Santa.”
Annabelle charged at the nugget of sweet relief as if it were a lifeboat.
“That’s a bit deep. You really are a puzzle, Polly Williams,” she tittered, unable to let go of the sides of her head. She felt like that modern-day phenomenon, Lady Gaga. She’d watched her pop videos, incredulous over the unfathomable fashion and dance moves of the era. She could only hope that her own poker face came across as convincingly. “Seems you’ll believe in every kind of magic, except when it comes to the power of love. Now I know Alex stood you up,” she slurred. “But you mustn’t let that tarnish any budding romance.”
And then the more sensible side of Annabelle’s conscious mind took over. She jumped at the way her words were flying out, betraying Polly, betraying herself when she was so intent on relegating his name to the depths of hell, especially after everything her cousin had said. All she was doing tonight was digging a deeper and deeper hole that would rival the excavation Ivy had walked into. She needed to sleep this off – and quick. She cursed Amber Magnolia’s lack of thoughtfulness for the umpteenth time. Why grant them plush separate rooms in that luxurious London pad, then expect them to coop together in a hotel; a hotel which admittedly served irresistible gin.
Polly blanked her and Annabelle followed her gaze, which remained unbendingly fixed on the mini crystal chandelier.
And, as much as she wanted to slap the woman lying beside her for being so evasive, she realised she more than deserved it. Heck, she deserved a slap herself.
“There’s more to snubbing A through to Y – and now almost Z – than meets the eye though, isn’t there, Pols?”
Off she went again, her mouth miles ahead of her rational mind. She’d have to call reception and insist upon a separate room. If she carried on like this, she’d reveal every sordid detail of her betrayal and lose her cousin forever. Being marooned in 2019 was only do-able with Polly.
But her inquisition was met with the stoniest of silences. “Oh, why can’t you tell me what’s up? Why can’t you tell me what’seatingyou up?”
And those were the last words she remembered whispering as her head hit the marshmallow mattress; the last words she remembered when she woke in the morning, cheek encrusted in an inelegant pool of pillow dribble.
