a straight run to Hawkeswood Manor Hall, about half an hour’s drive from the cottage, less if I didn’t detour around the forest. Which I would. I didn’t use that road any more, not since flowers had appeared tied to the trees.
Once out on the road, I relaxed, as the ride became a much easier one. Smoother, but definitely not much faster. Charlie had said that not managing more than fifty before the engine started screaming in protest was all part of the van’s charm. Charm had a lot to answer for around these parts. The van was just one more in a long line of Charlie’s daft ideas, like adopting a dog who ate more than we did, and driving into work on his day off when he should have been eating breakfast with his wife.
A car approached from the other direction, giving me a chance to check the cake when their lights fell across the van. There were no streetlights here as the forest began to thicken out along the roadside.
All good so far, Hawkeswood was about another fifteen minutes away.
At the week’s start, Jesse and I had just begun the Monday morning ritual of divvying up jobs for the days ahead when the first customer of the week, a Mrs Ludlow-Burns, had walked into Cake.
‘Testicles,’ she’d said tartly from the other side of the counter, ‘on a plate. If you’re up to the job?’ Her cool grey eyes had deviated then, first inspecting the displays around her, then giving all of Jesse’s six-foot-something of male glory a considered once-over. Wide and athletic, he towered over the woman, but despite the pearls and tweed she was by far the more intimidating of the two. Outside, a chauffeur had stood waiting dutifully beside a Bentley, which shone more violently than the sun. ‘And I’d like for them to be large,’ she’d added, holding up two gloved hands to make her point.
‘Human?’ I’d asked. It was all I could think to say.
She’d gone on to produce a pristine shoebox, Dior set in gold against the crisp white of the lid, inside a pair of brand new black patent leather peeptoe heels, as shiny and new as the Bentley.
Jesse’s sister was as shoe-crazy as mine, and knowing what the shoes had probably cost, he’d made the mistake of complimenting the customer on them.
‘They’re not mine,’ she’d snapped at him. ‘I’ve never worn an open-toe heel. Open-toes are for sluts.’
A cake in the shape of a delicate male region wasn’t the weirdest request we’d had in Cake, but customers weren’t usually so … aggressive.
We were instructed to put one of the shoes, specifically the heel, right through the thick of a testicle. She said she wanted the cake to look painful. Like marriage.
She’d been a particular woman, used to things a certain way no doubt. Even the delivery had its own set instruction—the cake had to be at Hawkeswood Hall, eight-thirty sharp, where a Mr Fergal Argyll was to sign for it personally. Not a member of the house staff, but Mr Argyll himself. I’d had the distinct impression Mr Argyll wasn’t a very popular man; this cake didn’t exactly look celebratory.
I felt into the top of my bag for the delivery sheet. No signature from Fergal Argyll would mean I forfeit the remaining half of the money, a condition Jess had told me I shouldn’t have let her bully me into. I’d reminded him that with the summer wedding season drawing to a close we could do with more cash in the till.
‘Don’t worry, Fergal will like you,’ she’d said, looking us both over. ‘But I wouldn’t send your friend here, they’ll eat him alive.’
I looked at Jess and wondered what she had meant by that. From the cornrows peeping out from under his beanie to his size twelve hi-tops, he didn’t look like someone who couldn’t take care of himself. But then he’d certainly look out of place at Hawkeswood, we both would.
‘Madam … your shoes!’ I’d called after her as she’d strode out through the door.
‘Keep them.’ She’d smiled coldly. ‘The slut will have to source her footwear elsewhere from now on.’
The van growled as I tried to shift from third to fourth again. It stuck sometimes, and you had to double-pump the clutch. There was no place for heeled shoes in my life. I’d gotten married in wellies, the one day of the year, Martha had vehemently told me, I was traditionally obliged to make an effort with my footwear. So I did, and bought myself a brand new pair of Hunters to match Charlie’s. Mum’s lip had twitched at least twice over their appearance in the wedding photos.
Between the glow of burning lanterns Hawkeswood Manor Hall was regally announced with a sweeping gated entrance off the main road. It wasn’t usually all lit up like this, there must be some kind of function on tonight. Figured. Where there’s a cake there was usually a function to go with it. I took the bend slowly so as not to jostle the delicate consignment in the back. I’d modelled the Dior shoe, a near enough perfect likeness for the real deals left behind in the shop. Jesse had made the main body of the cake, seeing as he had more physiological understanding of that area.
The van began to judder violently and I felt a flush of momentary panic. As if this van needed cattle grids to negotiate.
Finally, smoothly, the approach led me through opposing stone pillars and into Hawkeswood’s courtyard. The intricate detailing of the gothic priory before me was stunning set in the warm glow of numerous uplighters nestled in grassed borders. There was something special about Hawkeswood, something more than just its beauty. It wasn’t the grandest place I’d seen, although it was certainly grand, but it differed to other stately homes I’d visited. It was lived in, and there was something about a home that a venue simply couldn’t emulate. Life maybe. Not just in its Sunday best.
I parked at the end of a row of cars, and pulled my phone from my bag. I had a little while yet, it was only a quarter past, so I sat wrestling the window back into place.
There was movement underneath the archway of the main entrance vestibule, where a young guy appeared leaning casually against the wall beside him. He looked over at me sat in the front of the van, and it was enough to make me leave the window until he looked away again. I went back to watching the time on my phone until a shock of red drew my eye back to him.
The woman looked as though she’d just stepped from a movie screen, a Nordic goddess dripping in elegance and a blood red evening gown Martha would die for. She was stunning. No one would be looking at my clothes with women like her here; I could easily have gone with the PJs.
Her almost white-blonde hair was tied back from her neck in a bun too, but it was far from scruffy. It was perfect, she was perfect. So striking, in fact, I was finding it hard not to look at her. If the man thought so too, he was playing it very cool. The blonde lit herself a cigarette and leant in towards him. I watched as he repositioned himself. A lovers’ tiff maybe? Ah well, we all had those, even the beautiful people it seemed. Hopefully they would move back inside before I had to haul the cake in past them both.
Eight-twenty. I’d just sit here quietly then, minding my own business for a few more minutes.
Eight-twenty-three and they were still there, her still drawn to him, him still reluctant.
An absurdly loud and rigorous ringing cut through the hush in the courtyard. It made me jump out of my skin and the dream couple both snapped their heads around to stare at the source of the racket, blaring from my open window. ‘Damn it, Martha,’ I hissed, frantically trying to hit the right button, any button, to shut the noise off.
‘Hello?’
