The Little Brooklyn Bakery. Julie Caplin

she smiled to herself. This was not the most glamorous way of spending Friday night, but it beat not having anything to do.

      Half an hour later, Sophie had just about finished when Bella came hobbling down the stairs clutching a bottle of wine and two glasses.

      ‘What’s the damage?’ asked Bella wearily as she stood on the last step. ‘I brought vital supplies.’ She held up the bottle.

      With a frown, Sophie indicated the tray to her left on the hall console table. ‘Ten can be re-done. But the rest are goners, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Sheesh, that bad. It’s gonna be a late one. Although dinner’s sorted. As much as you can eat mashed-up cake.’ She grabbed one of the cakes. ‘If you scrape the dust off.’

      Sophie grinned. ‘I already ate, but for wine, I’m happy to stay, help and be your sous chef.’

      ‘Are you sure? It’s Friday evening and the night’s still young. I’m plain sad, there’s no need for you to be too.’

      Sophie responded with a shrug and a half-laugh. ‘It’s not like I’m doing anything else tonight.’

      Bella gave her a narrow-eyed stare. ‘Sorry I’ve been mega-busy. I should have been more neighbourly and been in to say hi. You’ve been here two weeks. I can’t believe that. But it’s gone so darned fast. Come on.’ She waved the bottle and glasses and led the way through a side door. ‘This takes us straight into the kitchen. I keep thinking that maybe I should have gone into catering. Someone said to me last week that’ – she bookmarked with her fingers – ‘“Cupcakes are so last year and wedding cakes are too specialised.” There’s more money in general catering – you know, finger food and buffets. But seriously, what would you rather have? A great big sugar-kiss delivered in a little work of art in a cupcake case, or a chicken drumstick in sesame and soy? No one ever said, Let them eat chicken, did they?’

      Sophie laughed. ‘True.’

      ‘And there’s something about a cake. It says love. It says sugary yumminess. It’s like a tiny hand-held hug. Cakes are for Christmas, celebrations, holidays and birthdays. Weddings. For happy, happy days. That’s why I love making them. The world needs more happiness.’

      Sophie smiled, thinking of Kate and their friend, Eva, back home. ‘Someone once told me that things taste better when they’re made with love.’

      Bella clapped her hands together. ‘I love that. It’s so true. Especially when you’re making a wedding cake. Cutting the cake is the first thing a married couple do jointly. It symbolises their partnership.’

      ‘I’d never thought of it like that. That’s lovely …’ Sophie paused, trying not to let the familiar sense of bitterness take hold. It was a constant presence lurking on the edge of her consciousness, just waiting for a chance to dig in and take over. ‘If it works out.’

      ‘Oh dear. Are you divorced?’

      ‘No, single. Very single. And staying that way for the foreseeable future.’

      ‘Bad break-up?’ asked Bella, wincing sympathetically.

      ‘Something like that,’ sighed Sophie.

      ‘I’m not sure what’s worse. Having someone to break up with or not quite getting there.’

      Sophie raised a quizzical eyebrow.

      Bella looked stubborn for a minute. ‘There’s someone I’m interested in but he’s too stupid to live.’

      Sophie flinched and took a sudden interest in the kitchen work surfaces. She wasn’t sure she could cope with anyone else’s emotional distress at the moment. Thankfully Bella didn’t say any more and turned her attention to the wine bottle, pouring two hefty glasses of white wine.

      ‘Gosh, this is lovely.’ Sophie turned around.

      Opposite her there was an oak dresser which was filled, no not filled, rammed with a massive variety of different china plates. There was no discernible theme to the display of plates on the narrow upper shelves, which featured umpteen different shapes and a dazzling array of styles: retro fifties block patterns, vintage florals, stark contemporary designs – all bundled together in a rainbow of colours where emerald green rubbed shoulders with peacock blue, vivid pinks, pristine white and scarlet. There were more plates in teetering stacks on the open shelves below.

      Following Sophie’s gaze, Bella shrugged. ‘I collect plates. You never know what you’ll need for a display.’

      Next to the dresser was a floral sofa that looked as if, once you sat in it, it might be hard to escape from, a wooden coffee table piled with papers and magazines, and a couple of plain pink velvet armchairs.

      All this should have looked incongruous against the stainless-steel benches and modern glass-fronted fridges on the opposite side, but those were also filled with colour and shape, so the two sides worked together. Bella clearly liked a bit of colour. The benches were dotted with bright utensil pots filled with china cake slices, wooden spoons and whisks.

      Sophie felt herself relax. Kitchens were good places to be. You knew where you were in them. There was something safe and reassuring about knowing that when you were baking, if you added the right quantities and the right ingredients, and did the right things, you’d know what you’d get. A well-stocked and well-resourced kitchen like this was like coming home.

      ‘Cheers,’ said Bella, holding up her glass.

      ‘Cheers.’

      They chinked glasses.

      ‘Thanks, Sophie. I really appreciate this.’

      ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

      ‘Aside from cleaning up. And offering moral support.’

      Sophie looked around the kitchen. ‘So, what would you like me to do?’

      ‘First, I need to get cracking on making a new batch of cakes. So, if you can be my go-to girl on weights and measures and weigh out all the fixings, that would be awesome. My basic recipe is here.’ She pointed to a laminated sheet pinned to a pin-board. ‘Scales over there. Sticks of butter in the fridge. Dry goods in the pantry. Eggs on the shelf. Thank goodness I stocked up this week.’

      Thanks to her crash course in conversion over the last two weeks, Sophie had got a handle on things and knew that a stick of butter equated to half a cup of butter or four ounces in English measurement, so she set to following Bella’s swift instructions to assemble all the ingredients beside a professional Kitchen Aid.

      ‘I’ve got one of these at home,’ said Sophie, stroking the smart red enamel like a pet.

      ‘Silly me, I completely forgot you’re a foodie. You can cook then.’

      ‘Just a bit,’ said Sophie, laughing.

      ‘You can make the batter, while I mix up a new batch of frosting and re-ice these ones.’

      ‘I was going to ask you if I could watch you one day. I’m working on a feature on afternoon tea, English style, and I wanted to make some cupcakes and come up with some autumn, I mean fall, themed toppings.’

      ‘Ooh, I’d love to help. Fall leaf colours would be good. I could do a seasonal display. I’d have to think flavours.’

      ‘Ginger. You could make parkin cakes.’

      ‘Parkin?’

      Sophie explained what it was. Soon the two of them were bouncing cake recipe and ideas back and forth, and by the time the first batch of cakes came out of the oven they’d drunk most of the bottle of wine.

      When the second batch of cakes went in, they sank to the floor, clutching their glasses with the very last dregs of the wine. In tired silence, they watched the cakes in the oven slowly rise and turn golden.

      Sophie sighed and took a last sip of wine. ‘There’s nothing quite like that moment when the cake