‘Hmmmpf,’ the bouquet said again. This time a little more loudly.
Charlotte ran over to relieve the bearer of the flowers, but Lissa beat her to it, saying breathlessly, ‘I think you’ll find they’ll be for me. Channing’s obviously got word I’m available and he’s probably trying to woo me. It won’t work. Alas, my heart’s given over to the Cumberbatch now. Hopelessly.’ She grinned, taking the bunch, which was almost as big as her, and tugging out an envelope from deep within the stems and leaves and flounces of pink ribbon. ‘Shoot. Fancy that, it’s got your name on.’
‘It says…’ Charlotte ripped open the paper. This was a first. No one ever sent her flowers. ‘Meet me outside in ten minutes. It must be from Ben.’
‘Yep, you’d better hope so, because if there’s any secret admirer lurking around he’s got my name on, not yours. That just wouldn’t be fair.’
It had to be her fiancé, who else would it be? Bless. ‘But flowers? And ten minutes? I’ve got a lesson to teach, he knows that.’
Lissa restarted the music and said, ‘And that is why I’m here. Right? Intermediate is my jam; they can all count to four. Easy peasy. So, go get changed or freshen up or something. Let me know what the big secret is tomorrow. Because we never have secrets. Okay? I know things have been crazy, but I don’t feel like we’ve had a good chat for ages. Sunday doesn’t count, because I had to share you with the rest of the hens. Let’s make some time – okay? We need to catch up properly.’
‘Definitely. Soon.’ And that had the guilt ricocheting across Charlotte’s chest. Because she hadn’t told Lissa anything about the lump, and she was going to need her more than ever if there was going to be treatment involved. But now wasn’t the time.
Nine minutes later, Charlotte stepped out of the studio with her arms full of fragrant blossoms, blinking into the early-evening light. Ben was leaning against his trusty old red Astra. ‘Hey, pretty lady, fancy a ride in my car?’
‘My mother always told me not to get into cars with strange men.’ She threw him a look, over the blooms, that said get over yourself, gorgeous. ‘Thanks for the flowers, they’re stunning. But…’
‘But what?’ His eyes narrowed.
They were supposed to be saving up. He’d made a spreadsheet. In fact, he had a lot of spreadsheets detailing their five-year plan – mortgage repayments, career-advancement plans, and finally… when they could afford it, a family. Breast cancer was not factored in. Or flowers, for any occasion other than their wedding. Frivolous and Ben were never mentioned in the same sentence, so this was more than a surprise; it was a personality transplant.
Which meant he loved her. Or felt sorry for her. Or both. ‘Thank you. They’re stunning. And just a huge surprise, that’s all.’
‘Can’t a man surprise his woman every now and then?’
‘Yes. Yes. Always.’ She leaned sideways and gave him a leaf-filled kiss. ‘So, what’s the occasion? Why am I leaving work early?’
Taking the bouquet, he opened the car door and gestured for her to get in. Then he tucked the flowers in through the rear door, filling the vehicle with delicious fragrance. ‘It’s a magical mystery tour.’
‘Oooh… to where?’
‘If I told you it wouldn’t be a mystery, would it?’ After he started the engine he took a left onto Westbourne Grove, then a couple of twists and turns, across Notting Hill Gate and down to Kensington High Street, before pulling into a tiny side street and parking a few feet away from The Cake Fairy. It was close to six-thirty on a Thursday evening.
‘The cake shop? Won’t it be closed?’
‘Nah.’ He grinned. ‘I booked us a late-night slot. Thought it might take your mind off… you know.’ His eyes dipped to her cleavage and then his expression turned sad and he didn’t even try to hide it. ‘We need to make a decision about our wedding cake and have some fun. Because, I love cake. And I want to eat all the samples. Feed me.’ He beat his chest in a poor attempt at a caveman impression, which had her laughing, but not quite taking her mind off… you know.
Even so, it reminded her of all the reasons she’d fallen for him in the first place. ‘Well, you’re just revelation after revelation.’
‘Indeed. I aim to please.’
‘You do. Very much.’ She’d been planning on looking up wedding cakes on Pinterest but hadn’t quite got round to it, and so now she could do this and cross something else off her list. She leaned over and gave his unshaven cheek a kiss and told herself to be happy regardless of everything pulling her down. And to be grateful. All the websites said that; be grateful for things, even if you didn’t feel like being anything other than pissed off and angry. And be happy for cake too, because there were very few circumstances where cake couldn’t be enjoyed. ‘Thank you, Benjamin Niall Murphy. Now, let’s go in. I’m starving.’
Margaret Taylor, purveyor of exquisite baking and chief cake fairy, certainly knew her stuff. Dressed in vintage fifties clothes complete with a little frilly pinny tied round her waist, and with a whiff of a Liverpudlian accent, she introduced them to such important issues as whether the cake should be naked – that was without any icing at all – or semi-naked with a thin spread of buttercream, in pastels or bolds, showing some of the cake layers through. Which Charlotte thought was lovely and rustic-looking but not quite appropriate for the semi-formal affair they’d been planning. Ben came from a huge family who, he said, did things right. So it was going to be a big church wedding with lots of relatives coming over from Ireland and a three-layered, fully-clothed cake, and speeches and all the trimmings.
Which would make her side of the proceedings – her mum and a smattering of friends – look a little lopsided. But she couldn’t whip up relatives she didn’t have, or uncles and aunts that didn’t exist, given both her parents were singletons. As was she.
What about the possibility of other relatives, though? Birth ones?
She shut that thought down immediately, having promised her mum she wouldn’t even think about her family history until after the tests and the wedding. She had enough to focus on right now. Namely… cake.
Which was definitely not a hardship. Whether to have thick, jelly-like drips down the layers – that were made on purpose instead of just because of a wobbly hand and too-runny icing, like something Charlotte would have made. Or with metallic icing. Metallic. Who knew? Gold or rose-gold or bronze or copper or silver… Or a tower made of blush-coloured, chocolate-dipped strawberries flecked with gilt. Or… So many choices that Charlotte almost did forget about the lump and start to enjoy herself. And it felt so nice to play for a change and not have to take things seriously.
Finally, they were down to the nitty-gritty choices of ganache, salted caramel, red velvet, white royal icing, carrot, double-chocolate and traditional rich fruit. Every time Charlotte said something was a possibility, Margaret added two morsels of it to a huge silver tray covered in baking paper. Once they’d decided on all possibles, she showed them to a little silver-metal bench in front of an ornate matching coffee table and told them to sit. Then Margaret offered them tea to go with the cake samples and asked whether they wanted milk and sugar.
‘Yes please,’ said Ben, as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand and settled next to her on the overstuffed cushions. So big and broad, and dressed in casual jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked utterly out of place in the twee, nineteen-fifties-decorated shop, surrounded by dainty teacups, tiny vases of single-stemmed purple flowers and white tablecloths covering tables holding myriad cake toppers and cake stands. ‘This