Since You've Been Gone. Anouska Knight

Mr and Mrs Benjamin Day xx

      I pinned the card with the others and looked at the last piece of post in my hand. It was an unusual pamphlet shaped like a teepee with an invitation to Glamp it up in Wales. On the reverse, a string of bunting joyfully held aloft an address panel marked for the attention of Charlie Jefferson. Charlie had fancied us as the glamping types, suggesting we give it a whirl for our first anniversary. We never made it.

      Tea, ovens on, recycling bin, work.

      Within twenty minutes the bakery was in full swing, filled with the happy beat of whatever was playing out on the radio and the wafts of warm vanilla and chocolate. I had four batches in before restocking my mug and switching the laptop on.

      We’d chosen the right name for the shop—we were easy to find online and the email was simple enough. That also meant a reliable pile of virtual bumf from suppliers. I clicked my way down the screen. Delete. Delete. Delete. Penny Richardson Re. Argyll Hollywood cake.

      I clicked over the email feeling a trill of awkwardness. And something else.

       Miss Jefferson

      We require you to provide a birthday cake for an upcoming event.

      Mr Argyll has said that you’ve already discussed flavours with him, recommending the whisky & ginger option.

      Minimum of 300 portions, delivery between 8 and 8.30 p.m. Saturday October 26th. Venue details attached. Forward details of costs and payment will be arranged.

       Penny Richardson

      PA to CEO, Argyll Inc.

      Great. Another evening delivery. And at that time most likely in full eyeshot of already present guests. I hated that, people watching, waiting for something terrible to go wrong so they could upload the blooper.

      I opened the attachment. The Gold Rooms were not somewhere I’d ever been.

      I’d overheard mention of the city’s most exclusive venue when customers had chatted of beautiful people in the gossip mags out front, where some celebrity had been snapped necking with the wrong supermodel, but gatherings at the highly sought after lounge were not usually toasted with cake, not when Moët and Glenlivet flowed so freely. And, let’s face it, at three thousand pounds a booth I was not visiting a place like the Gold Rooms without a cake to get me in. Jesse was going to pee his pants when he knew. Groan.

      I closed the document, leaving the whole thing for him to sort out when he got in. Other than the delivery it was his baby now, nothing more to do with me.

      By the time he got to the shop, the bakes were out on display, I’d replaced the depleted shelves in the bakery with cake cards and drums and had taken delivery of the new, larger tubs of colourants we’d been waiting on.

      All I had to do now was figure out where the fifteen tubs of edible paste colours were going to live. Nowhere up high, that was for sure. I’d knocked one of the old smaller tubs over once without realising. The viscosity of the pastes meant they didn’t spill immediately, rather leaching out at a slow but steady pace. By the next morning, the bakery looked like a crime scene, with blood red goo dripping everywhere. I swear I half expected some psycho to spring from behind the storeroom when I first saw all the mess. That was years ago, and the stain on the worktop was just as angry now as it ever was.

      ‘The king has returned.’ Jesse shouted from out front, barging in through the front door.

      ‘I hope you have food!’ I yelled back.

      ‘I got you an almond croissant, but it is from the golden girls if you wanna pass?’

      I took the bag from Jesse’s hand and inhaled the delights of freshly baked pastries. ‘Damn, they do make good croissants.’

      Jess smiled, watching me take the treat as he knew I would. ‘How are you feeling this morning? After your rocky start to the week?’

      I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started ribbing me again about yesterday.

      ‘Shut up, Jess, and get to work. Speaking of which, you have a job. Email from a Penny Richardson.’

      ‘What is it?’ he asked.

      ‘A headache in the making. And it’s all yours, homeboy.’

      Jess dropped the backpack from his shoulders and slipped out of his hoody before pinnying up and going for the bunker corner.

      He sat down with the laptop and started clicking through the screens. I busied myself clearing space for the new supplies. Wait for it …

       ‘The mutha-funkin’ Gold Rooms!’

      I was grinning as Jess read every detail of the digital flyer, knowing he’d go back over it a few more times to drink in every last bit of it. This cake was going to be obscene.

      ‘Like I said, headache.’

      ‘Headache! You’re kidding me? Wait till I tell the lads that I’ve been in the Gold Rooms! Ah, man! They’re gonna be bummed. I said he was a flash sucka … d’you know, I think he might actually be James Bond.’

      Technically, that wasn’t what Jess had called him, but I wasn’t about to point it out. Those words were never going to leave my mouth again.

      ‘Yeah, well … we’re only delivering, Jess. I’m sorry I know it’s an ask on a Saturday night but I can’t do it alone.’

      ‘Hol, we’re going to The Gold Rooms! I don’t care what night of the week it is, once we’re in, we’re in, girl!’

      I shot Jess a look.

      ‘Hol, come on. You’re not gonna make me leave as soon as the cake’s in, are you? That would be like taking a kid to Disneyland, letting him catch sight of Mickey then taking him home again.’

      ‘Jess, we’re not crashing this party. We don’t know these people, we’re not invited. And to be honest, it’s not exactly my scene. People with more money than sense, all dressed up in designer gear talking about Daddy’s yacht,’ I said, batting at Jesse’s intentions hanging heavy in the air.

      ‘Speak for yourself, it’s totally my scene! I scrub up well, and I love yachts!’ Jess was trying his best to will a change in me he knew he had no chance of.

      ‘Don’t look at me like that. If we were invited, it would be different. But I am no way crashing,’ I said. ‘We don’t even know whose party it is!’ There. Not my fault. My hands were tied.

      ‘All right. But I’ve gotta tell you, Hol, don’t be surprised if I slink off to get changed in the little boys’ room, because if I see anyone famous in there, with or without you, I am crashing the joint.’

      ‘Knock yourself out, Cinders. But the pumpkin and I will be leaving by eight-thirty-five, with or without you. I guarantee it.’

      The rest of the day was as busy as I’d anticipated, and although Jess was unusually quiet I couldn’t be sure if it was because he was sulking with me or mentally planning his outfit. Both probably. When things died down in the afternoon, I left him sketching out a rough design for the Argyll cake. I had to hand it to Jesse, when it came to creativity, there was nothing his hands couldn’t do.

      I’d managed to steal a few sneaky peeks over his shoulder, knowing that whatever he came up with was going to rock. Jesse was probably right. It would be his scene, everywhere was his scene. Effortlessly good looking and funny as hell, there was little for anyone to dislike about him. Both he, and the cake, would be able to hold their own at the party. Sure he was going to be contending with some beautiful people, but Jess could make beautiful, right out of nothing, and that was a talent that couldn’t be bought.

      Before the end of play, Jess had finished sketching up the cake and had emailed the quote over to them. I’d made sure he’d signed it off so that they had a new name to chase. Martha