Page 83 of The Cake Fairies
“You didn’t ask.”
Cecil sank back on the creaky leather reception sofa, somehow still retaining every inch of his majestically linear stance even as he lowered himself.
“We’re brothers,” he muttered wearily.
“Say what?”
For a moment Polly couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“But you don’t even look alike.” Annabelle contorted her features in disbelief.
“I’m not sure who gets off the hook in that case,” he demi-snorted. “Look closely enough and the resemblance is plain to see.”
Polly supposed he was right. They’d never seen the men standing side by side, and now Cecil came to mention it there might well be something similar about the hitch of their lips, the deep set of their grey eyes, the slight hook of their noses; Nigel’s even more disfigured by an ungainly rugby bump.
“I’m the oldest. I don’t think you need me to tell you that. My father,our father, paid for me to have elocution lessons, one ofmanyspends following a giant football pools win… a nest egg he didn’t take long to fritter away completely on booze and private members’ clubs – not to mention the girls.” Cecil remembered sadly. “I’m afraid Nigel didn’t get a look in. By the time he took his first breath in this world, the money’d long gone. I was eighteen, feet securely on the rungs of the career ladder to positions in castles, posh hotels, yachting sojourns at the whim of the rich and famous. And now here. When you reach a certain age it’s the agile and combat-ready that bag the jammier jobs, so to speak. Still, overseeing this place does me nicely. I’m nowhere near ready to hang up my doorman’s ensemble just yet. Once one retires, it’s a fairly short walk of the plank to the grim reaper.”
“Blimey. I knew there was something going on between you, but I’d never have guessed it was this,” Polly gabbled.
“So, although you’re both in service to others,you’vehad all the privileges,” Annabelle added, and Polly couldn’t help but detect the trace of a condescending sneer.
“Yes, and no,” Cecil scrunched his brow as if guilty as charged. “Look, I’ve tried to be fair to my brother. I know he struggles to make ends meet; that the limo is nothing but a glorified taxi service it’ll take him donkey’s years to pay off, if ever. I’ve tried countless times to offer him money. But his pride won’t allow it. I can’t say I blame him. I’d likely be the same in his shoes.”
Upstairs in the flat, Polly couldn’t help but reflect on how sad the busted brothers were. It seemed especially poignant in light of her near-miss of an estrangement with Annabelle at the festival. It also rather helpfully gave her something to keep her mind off her shambolic love life.
“We have to try to get them back together.”
“Surely if that was our duty, Amber Magnolia would have suggested it?”
“Some decisions we need to make for ourselves, Annabelle. We’re already paying the price for my lack of action. I can’t watch the same thing happen twice.”
***
“The forecast seems to suggest wet weather this weekend. We thought perhaps we’d take a stroll around some of the sights we’ve yet to see. In your trusty opinion, I was wondering if we could chance that without an umbrella?”
Polly swallowed down her forbidden fit of giggles as she kept Cecil chatting, luring him to the far side of the vast reception, trying in vain not to let her thrill at the sight of the gleaming triple-tiered brandy snap cake in the background give Annabelle’s current antics away.
“Well, it rather depends what you want to do. Even if you’re planning a Madam Tussaud’s visit—” frankly Polly couldn’t think of a more mind-numbing excursion, given she wouldn’t recognise a single wax dummy “—you’d still need to queue outside… and they do report probable drizzle. Not a bad location for a future cake drop…”
“Thanks, you’ve been most helpful.”
So had Nigel, whose timing was impeccable.
“Erm… what about the Tower of London? I expect you were once Head Beefeater,” Polly tittered as she saw their plan take splendid shape ten metres over Cecil’s left shoulder and into the store cupboard. Annabelle had placed the cake there, calling Nigel across to the tiny room on account of the fact she was concerned she’d absent-mindedly picked up his limo chamois, accidentally dropped it in reception, and Cecil ‘had possibly been his classic pernickety self and tidied it away in the lost property box’. It was the biggest stretch of the imagination, but it seemed Nigel had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Polly watched excitedly as Annabelle corralled him into the room, knowing it was her move next in this chess game. Although in contrast to yesterday’s refractory rook, today she was playing pixie pawn.
“Well, sort of. I was considered for the position, but in the end, my line of duty took me to one of the lesser royal’s residences. Of course, I can’t disclose any more than…”
“Ohemgee! Sorry to cut you off so rudely, but somebody’s broken into the store cupboard over there. Quick!”
She didn’t need to ask Cecil twice. He practically skated across the foyer on his sparkly Saville Row loafers.
Polly charged behind him as fast as her legs would carry her. Meanwhile, Annabelle had delivered a neat dosi-do, escaping from the cupboard so that between them they could gently push Cecil further inside and slam the door before Nigel caught wind of the way he’d been spectacularly duped.
“Hoax!” the women cried amidst peals of laughter, locking the door.
“Annabelle, ANNABELLE!” came an instantaneous Fred Flintstone series of raps.
But Annabelle remained as defiant as Polly. “Eat some cake, talk some talk, and we’ll let you out in about half an hour,” she glanced at an invisible watch on her wrist.
