Page 25 of The Cake Fairies
Polly giggled and Annabelle howled.
And that view was on display here again. It was really was growing on her – so long as she put horses’ blinkers to the right of her field of vision. And though she loathed Ferris wheels, the London Eye really did look sensational. It twinkled its ruby orbit in the dark, the outside lights further illuminating its presence, while the Houses of Parliament peeped above the lime-green and hazelnut-brown flora of the trees, before autumn completed their transition.
Like an impatient child in a museum, next Annabelle was dragging her into what could only be described as a conservatory. Olive trees lined the walls in their terracotta pots – ha, Kitty Withers wasn’t the only one who ‘did The Med’ these days. And then Polly remembered that actually, she kind of was, since they were on a whole different timeline.
But no matter.
“What I’d pay to see a certain chief of the WI’s face right now,” said Annabelle, reading her mind.
An idyllic cluster of regal-red cushioned seats invited them to rest their legs, taking in yet another panoramic view of the Thames, and beyond that, London’s iconic skyline.
“I can see why she brought us here,” Annabelle hiccoughed her revelation. “It’s cosy… if a little on the large side.” She daringly stretched out her legs on the expensive-looking coffee table that was probably nearer the size of a cocktail bar. “Makes London feel a little more village, a little less daunting.”
“I’m not sure I agree, looking out at all of that.” Polly bit her lip at Annabelle’s legs, as she contemplated the bill for damages to fixtures and fittings, as well as thinking how close they must be to the rich and powerful decision-makers of the land. “On your feet, young lady,” she detected the drooping of Annabelle’s eyelids, and she was too curious about the rest of the place to entertain the notion of a catnap; not to mention she wanted to view at least a couple of these twenty-first century foodie television programmes. “If we lounge here any longer, you’ll start snoring.”
A fabulously furnished guest bedroom, a storage room, a ‘wet room’ (aka the most gigantic shower Polly had ever laid eyes on), and a small library brought them full circle around the first floor.
“Up the spiral staircase we go!” Annabelle cried, and Polly gestured for her to take the lead; best she cushion any potential tumbles and bring up the rear. There was much to be said for the volume of cake she’d scarfed today. It’d lined her stomach, providing her own cushion, as far as all the alcoholic bubbles were concerned.
They looked down over the mezzanine at the plush place beneath them. It really was a sight to behold. And upstairs didn’t disappoint on the eye-popping front either. Three spacious bedrooms spread themselves out across the upper echelons of the penthouse, and, at the foot of each of their king-sized Egyptian cotton-sheeted beds, there were giant flat screen televisions!
“Hmm, Amber Magnolia’s being slightly hypocritical,” Polly smirked as she ran her fingers along the top of one of them. So much for no screens!
A sumptuous bathroom with raindrop shower, roll-top bath, fluffy white dressing gowns with matching slippers, and every possible Chanel toiletry known to woman and man, completed the apartment like an extortionately pricey gift wrapped in a red bow.
***
Moments later and Polly was curled up in a ball hugging the gold silk damask cushion adorning her bed. Meanwhile, Annabelle sorted out the technicalities of the television and ‘antiquated’ video recorder, which looked thoroughly modern enough to them both, pressing every button mentioned on Amber Magnolia’s list and hoping for the best.
An image of a claret-lipped woman in a figure-hugging black dress and cropped denim jacket pinged onto the screen. So life-like she was, you could almost reach out and touch her.
“This is Nigella?And she’s how old?” Polly was staggered.
“Fifty-something according to A M,” Annabelle wriggled up next to her, nonplussed.
“Pfft,” Polly shook her head in disbelief, since fifty-something where they’d come from meant practically dead. “I want to know her secret. Can you even imagine Fanny in that ensemble? Not that we can technically talk… ’cos we’d be like, late eighties, had we arrived here without a little help.”
Colour television, a luxury that barely anybody in thrifty Middle Ham had upgraded to, really did bring all of the ingredients to life, and Polly and Annabelle cooed in delight at the fusion of everything Nigella was flinging into her posh kitchen mixer to whip up her salted caramel chocolate tart. Certainly, they had a well-used version of the very same model in their bakery kitchen, but this one looked infinitely snazzier and far more capable than their beloved ‘Bertha’. Despite having eaten her bodyweight in cake, once again Polly found herself drooling, imagining the fun and frolics they’d have when they attempted something similar in their kitchen with their own appliances.
“Just look at her twinkly fairy lights! No wonder she’s always smiling,” she squealed. “I’m head over heels in love already. I mean ‘beautiful earthy rubble,’” Polly copied Nigella’s words, letting them roll sensuously off her tongue, not before yawning. “It just works, doesn’t it? And then a bit of chirpy background music, and a view of London not so very different to ours. Ooh, maybe she lives in the same apartment block?”
“I seriously doubt it,” Annabelle let out a snort. “But with phrases like ‘satiny lusciousness,’ it’s small wonder she’s the twenty-first century’s doyenne. She certainly doesn’t beat about the bush when it comes to flirtation… or the amount of cleavage on display.”
Nigella merged intoThe Great British Bake Off, which left their heads in even more of a tailspin and enveloped them in a reassuringly nostalgic Middle Ham-style embrace all at the same time. And, as Big Ben struck one and the small hours beyond, it was no exaggeration to say that Polly’s dreams were decorated with layer cakes bearing kooky woodland animal biscuits, rose petal and crushed pistachio nut trails; giant white marquees, burnt meringues, soggy bottoms, a glamorous elderly lady biting down as elegantly as anybody of a certain age possibly could, to sample a corner of slightly-too-hard shortbread, and handshakes from a curiously good-looking male with fiery azure eyes that matched the heat of his quick quips.
***
Next morning, Cecil’s incessant ringing cruelly woke them with a start, their short-term memories taking several seconds to kick in as their new surroundings momentarily baffled them, followed by the fresh panic that was “Nigel’s taxi meter must be running!”
“No, no. He won’t be here for a while, thank goodness.” Once again Polly detected a bitter note as Cecil rapidly changed the subject. “Amber Magnolia suggested I send the resident chef over to whizz you up eggs Benedict and Buck’s Fizz this morning – all washed down with lashings of coffee. She thought you might not have had your usual quota of sleep – and you will need as much energy as possible for the day’s duties.”
As alarmed as Polly should have been that their officious new friend Amber Magnolia seemed to have a permanent spying porthole into their lives, somehow the woman’s vigilance only served to keep her feeling grounded and anchored; stopped her from freaking out at the fact that they were very much still here, cocooned in this unfathomable boon, light years away from everyone and everything they knew; stopped her from scratching her head at the slightly worrying detail that she couldn’t remember a shred of discomfort surrounding her journey to get here – well, Annabelle’s outburst in the café to one side. She’d heard similar things said about childbirth; that if a woman could pinpoint the exact feeling of the pain, she’d never do it again. She guessed time travel was the same.
After a morning of computer and Internet tuition from Cecil, most of which Polly surprisingly managed to retain, and joyous shrieking at the contents of her ‘capsule wardrobe’, amidst howls of critique from Annabelle, unimpressed at her own, the cousins mulled over their daily instructions with a posh coffee – Amber Magnolia having explained it was pretty damned essential they try to convert themselves from the ‘cheap thrill of instant to the heady charms of fresh beans,’ if they were to bake successfully with 2019s finest varieties.
Three short, sharp blasts of the apartment phone, and multiple beeps from the street below, signalled Nigel’s arrival at 2 p.m. sharp. Polly and Annabelle, as un-trusting of the precarious nature of lifts as they had ever been in the sixties, hot-footed it down the stairs to reception, ready for their first outing.
“He won’t come in to escort you.” Cecil sniffed at this apparent lapse in etiquette, nodding through the glass window at a giant white car, which Polly guessed was theirs, although it could’ve seated an army. “May I say how in keeping with the latest fashion you both look today, though… yes, rather fitting for such an upmarket excursion,” he added with a wink.
