need to do what I’m good at.’
‘I’m so happy.’ She shook my hand around like she was a granny at a family reunion. ‘For you, I mean. Not that I’d knock back some free cake, you know.’
‘It’s completely different to cooking at that bloody school, you know. Packet mix this and deep fried that.’
‘We all know your talents are wasted there,’ Zoe said, straightening in her seat. ‘Are you going to stay there? Please don’t, some of those mums are awful, awful women.’
I shrugged, setting the mixing bowl into the Kitchen Aid and pulling frozen cakes from the freezer. ‘Who knows? I’m hoping to score the promotion, but we’ll see.’
‘Why the freezer?’ Zoe asked. ‘Is it fresh?’
‘Yes, it’s fresh,’ I said. ‘Keeps the cake moist.’
‘Oh, nice. It’s no secret Richard thinks you are the sunrise, so I would say you’ve got it in the bag.’
‘Richard?’ I asked. ‘The principal?’
‘Adores you.’ Zoe over-exaggerated, eyes wide and head thrown back for good measure. ‘I’m talking, take you behind the bike sheds for a spiritual rendezvous type of adore.’
‘He does not.’
‘I have it on good authority he does.’ Zoe yanked the door of the pantry open. ‘Also, I’ve seen him perving. Have you got any biscuits?’
‘Eye level, back left.’ I waved a hand. ‘He hasn’t been perving on me.’
‘Crumbling, crumbling gold,’ she mumbled, pulling the plastic container down. She’d shoved two in her mouth before she made it back to her chair. ‘Did you make these? They’re incredible.’
‘And how are you?’ I asked, acutely aware we’d been aboard the SS Lucy for far too long. That, and I wanted to get well away from the subject of school principals and bike sheds. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Peter is a dickbag, and I have four kids and a mortgage bigger than post-birth haemorrhoids.’
‘That doesn’t exactly sound like fun.’
She shook her head, another biscuit in her mouth. ‘Can’t say it is.’
‘Anything you, you know, want to talk about?’
Zoe scrunched her face up. ‘Nah, not really. It’ll work out in the wash, right? We had words this morning, hence my elongated trip out to check on the progress of the cake. I’m also apparently going into town to confirm the jumping castle, but I just called and did that, so it’s all good.’
I looked at the varying colours of fondant spread along the bench, all wrapped in cling film to prevent drying. Outside, the sun was dipping below the skyline. ‘Well, the cake is going wonderfully.’
‘Will it be ready for tomorrow? It looks a little naked.’
‘If I have to stay up all night to get it done, so be it.’
Zoe slid from the stool. ‘I should probably go feed the family. Plus, I’ve got my own stuff to cook.’
‘Do you want me to make anything else for tomorrow?’
‘Gosh, no, the cake is more than enough.’ She grabbed another handful of biscuits and made for the front door. ‘See you in the morning.’
With not much more than a palette knife and a sprinkling of patience, Thomas was soon covered in smooth, sharp-edged buttercream. Divots were filled and scratches buffed out before I started on the fondant. There were coloured pieces cut and scattered across the bench and ready to be worked onto the cake. A knock at the front door and a familiar silhouette had other ideas.
Coffee cup in hand, I shuffled to the front door, pushing the screen door open to reveal a sheepish-looking Oliver. My good mood vanished like a cheap candle at the sight of him in jeans, sneakers, and a paint-smattered T-shirt.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been thinking.’
I leant forward, clapping my hand to his forehead. ‘You do feel warm.’
The beginnings of a smile. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘Correct.’ I shuffled my feet. ‘What for?’
‘For being a self-centred jerk, for leaving. In hindsight, that was very wrong.’
‘Very?’ I took another sip of coffee. ‘Surely there’s a word stronger than “very”.’
‘If there is, you’d know it, not me.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I know all of this is an awfully long time coming, but I have a lot of regret over the way I handled things with us. Seeing you last night just drove that home like a freight train.’
I settled in for the long run, leaning in to the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Continue.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’ His licked his lips. ‘What I did was selfish and, truthfully, had I put a bit more thought into it, we’d likely still be married … together. Whatever.’
‘And?’ I rolled a hand about in front of me. I certainly didn’t want to stop him while he was in the mood to talk.
‘Hey?’
‘You’ve got a lot more grovelling to do yet.’ I drained my cup. ‘Hang on, I need a refill for this.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No, can’t say you can.’
‘Right.’ Oliver looked around, scratched at his upper lip. ‘Can I interest you in a walk, then? I thought we might at least talk about a few things.’
‘Talk about a few things?’ I grinned, a little lopsided. ‘Now he wants to talk.’
‘Come on, Loo, for old time’s sake?’
Going for a walk had always been code for one of us being frustrated. At this point, I suspected we both were. Whether it was the endorphins created by incidental exercise, or simply the fact we were out in the crisp night air, we would walk, we would talk and, eventually, we’d solve our problem, before moving on to exciting things like world domination.
All the restaurants, cafés, and takeaways we were going to own were conceived and aborted on our late-night jaunts. Yet, given the way our last phone conversation had ended eighteen months ago, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to follow him anywhere, even with his “Please love me” face. But curiosity will kill the cat. I snatched up my house keys, abandoned my coffee cup, and pulled the door shut behind me.
Our first few minutes were spent in silence. Nothing but the crunching of loose bitumen under our feet.
‘It’s good to see you.’ In the warm night air, under the bright fuzz of a streetlight, Oliver did his best to avoid eye contact, at least for now.
We walked side-by-side, his hands still buried in his pockets, me with my arms wrapped around me in some wayward attempt at a security blanket. There was a fire of synapses and past life experiences as I tried to decide whether I felt the same about seeing him. I was too tired for an argument.
‘It is?’ I asked.
‘It is.’ He studied my face for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t want this to be awkward.’
‘It certainly feels incredibly awkward.’ My admission wasn’t as grounding as I hoped it would be, but it gave us a few moments of silent contemplation.
‘Are you well?’ Oliver asked finally. ‘How’s Conor McGregor treating you? Does he like your cake?’
I snorted. ‘We broke up.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m