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Extract 7

I’ve taken the morning off work for the cake-tasting meeting with Robyn, but our appointment’s not until ten. So after Luke’s gone I slowly pad around the apartment, making myself some breakfast and thinking about what I’m going to say to Elinor.

The thing is to be direct. Firm and direct but pleasant. Grown-up and professional, like business people who have to fire other business people. Stay calm and use phrases like ‘we chose to go another way’.

‘Hello, Elinor,’ I say to my reflection. ‘I have some­thing I need to say to you. I have chosen to go another way.’

No. She’ll think I’m becoming a lesbian.

‘Hello Elinor,’ I try again. ‘I’ve been bouncing around your wedding-scenario proposal. And while it has many merits...’

OK, come on. Just do it.

Ignoring my butterflies, I pick up the phone and dial Elinor’s number.

‘Elinor Sherman is unable to take your call...’

She’s out.

I can’t just leave her a message saying the wedding’s off. Can I?

Could I?

No.

I put the phone down hurriedly, before the bleep sounds. OK. What shall I do now?

Well, it’s obvious. I’ll call Robyn. The important thing is that I tell someone, before anything else gets done.

I gather my thoughts for a moment, then dial Robyn’s number.

‘Hello! Do I hear wedding bells? I hope so, because this is Robyn de Bendern, the answer to your wedding-planning prayers. I’m afraid I'm unavailable at present, but your call is so important to me...’

Robyn’s probably already on her way to meet me at the cake-maker’s studio, it occurs to me. I could call her there. Or I could leave a message.

But as I hear her bright, chirruping voice, I suddenly feel a pang of guilt. Robyn’s already put so much into this. In fact, I’ve become quite fond of her. I just can’t tell her it’s all off over the phone. Feeling suddenly firm, I put down the phone and reach for my bag.

I’ll be a grown-up, go along to the cake studio and break the news to her face to face.

And I’ll deal with Elinor later.

To be honest, I don’t really like wedding cake. I always take a piece because it’s bad luck or something if you don’t, but actually all that fruit cake and marzipan and icing like blocks of chalk makes me feel a bit sick. And I’m so nervous at the thought of telling Robyn it’s all off, that I can’t imagine eating anything.

Even so, my mouth can’t help watering as I arrive at the cake studio. It’s big and light, with huge windows and the sweetest, most delicious, sugary-buttery smell wafting through the air. There are huge mounted cakes on display, and rows of flower decorations in trans­parent boxes, and people at marble tables, carefully making roses out of icing and painting strands of sugar ivy.

As I hover at the entrance, a skinny girl in jeans and strappy high heels is being led out by her mother, and they’re in the middle of a row.

‘You only had to taste it,’ the mother is saying furiously. ‘How many calories could that be?’

‘I don’t care,’ retorts the girl tearfully. ‘I’m going to be a size 2 on my wedding day if it kills me.’

Size 2!

God. I’ve been here long enough, but I still get freaked out by American sizes. What is that in real life? Size 6

Size 6.

Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.

‘Becky!’ I look up to see Robyn, who seems a little flustered. ‘Hello! You made it.’

‘Robyn.’ I feel my stomach clench with apprehen­sion. ‘Listen. I need to talk to you. I tried calling Elinor but she was... Anyway. There’s something I need to... tell you.’

‘Absolutely,’ says Robyn distractedly. ‘Antoine and I will be with you in a moment, but we have a slight crisis on our hands.’ She lowers her voice. ‘There was an accident with one of the cakes. Very unfortunate.’

‘Miss Bloomwood?’ I look up to see a man with grey hair and twinkling eyes in a white chefs outfit. ‘I am Antoine Montignac. The cake-maker of cake-makers. Perhaps you have seen me in my television show?’

‘Antoine, I don’t think we’ve quite resolved the probem with the... other client...’ says Robyn anxiously.

‘I come in a moment.’ He dismisses her with his hand. ‘Miss Bloomwood. Sit down.’

‘Actually, I’m not sure I really want to...’ I begin. But before I know what I’m doing, I’ve been seated on a plushy chair at a polished table, and Antoine is spread­ing glossy portfolios in front of me.

‘I can create for you the cake which will surpass all your dreams,’ he announces modestly. ‘No image is beyond my powers of creativity.’

‘Really?’ I look at a photograph of a spectacular six-tier cake decorated with sugar tulips, then turn the page to see one in the shape of five different butterflies. These are the hugest cakes I’ve ever seen in my life. And the decorations!

‘So, are these all fruit cakes inside?’

‘Fruit cake? Non, non, non!’ Antoine laughs. ‘This is very English notion, the fruit cake at the wedding. This particular cake...’ He points to the butterfly cake. ‘It was a light angel sponge, each tier layered with three different fillings: burnt orange caramel, passion fruit-mango, and hazelnut souffle.’

‘If you like chocolate, we can construct a cake purely different varieties of chocolate.’ He turns to another page. ‘This was a dark chocolate sponge layered with chocolate fondant, white chocolate cream and a Grand Marnier truffle filling.’

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