Page 44 of Playing the Field
‘I was just waiting for my moment,’ I tell him. ‘And now I’ve had it, I might just stop so I can go out on a high. And so you can make it up to me for taking the piss out of me.’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. There’s a really nice gastro-pub up the road. Do you fancy that? My treat?’
I pretend I’m still offended. ‘That’ll do for starters. Let’s see what else you can come up with while we’re eating.’
‘What about a romantic night away after the fundraiser next weekend?’
I’d been thinking more along the lines of what we could do back at his place later, but if that mini break back at the vineyard is what he’s suggesting, I’m a hundred per cent there for it.
23
It’s my turn to have a giggle at his expense the following Friday, the evening before the fundraiser, when I propose we both make an entry for Marge’s cake competition. We pick up all the ingredients we might need and lay everything out on his kitchen counter. He’s chosen to do a Crawford shirt, while I’m planning to recreate a football pitch.
My past baking experience mostly involves cornflake cakes, while Ben admits the only thing he’s ever baked is a potato. But when we look at a how-to video on YouTube, it doesn’t look too taxing.
With music on in the background, we sing along and dance around the kitchen while cracking eggs and sending flour flying all over the place. Ben has definitely got rhythm– thanks to a brief dalliance with breakdancing as a teenager, he tells me– but it would be fair to say he probably wouldn’t have been asked to join the choir, so I’m already taking the mickey out of him by the time our cake tins are in the oven.
‘Face of an angel, voice like a rusty nail scratching down a window,’ he admits.
‘Maybe next time you advertise something, it should be noise-cancelling earbuds,’ I tease.
‘So I can block out your sarcasm?’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Touché.’ At least what he lacks in melody he makes up for in wit.
He winks at me before we turn our attention back to the carnage we’ve created on the countertop. There are utensils, discarded eggshells and gloops of cake mix everywhere.
‘We’ve made such a mess!’
He points at the jars of food colouring sitting to one side, waiting to be added to our icing. ‘And the fun hasn’t even started yet. Let’s get this lot in the dishwasher, ready for round two.’
When the oven timer pings I think it’s a surprise to both of us that our rectangle sponges both look to have turned golden and risen perfectly.
‘I was expecting to have to nip back to the supermarket and buy a ready-made cake base,’ Ben confesses.
‘It smells so nice, I could eat it just like this.’
He proposes we have a slice when it’s cooled down and he’s cut out his shirt sleeves.
We pass the time out on the terrace with a bottle of wine, reclined on the loungers and talking about everything from our expectations for tomorrow’s event to our favourite sweets as kids– fizzy cola bottles for him, Smarties for me– as well as whether Ben should take singing lessons.
‘I think I’m beyond help on that front. Football was definitely the right choice for me.’
‘To be fair, you probably wouldn’t have ended up in a boy band.’
He laughs. ‘Not even busking in an Underground station.’
‘I would have chucked you a quid.’
We’ve finished the wine by the time the cakes are cool enough to ice. I’m not sure it helps Ben with cutting his base into a shirt shape.
‘It’ll be more obvious once the colour’s on,’ he says, not sounding overly convinced.
I mix up my butter icing and add enough food colouring to make it bright green, then smear it over my sponge, using a fork to rough up the top to make it look grass-like. They didn’t have any purple colouring at the shop, so Ben mixes red and blue with icing sugar and water to try to recreate the Crawford indigo.
‘Is that after a few too many hot washes?’ I mock, looking at the plum-coloured concoction in the bottom of the bowl.
‘I see what you’re saying, but it’s going to look fine once the writing is on,’ he insists.
