mistake of complimenting the customer on them.
‘They’re not mine,’ she’d snapped at him. ‘I’ve never worn an open-toe heel. Open-toes are for sluts.’
A cake in the shape of a delicate male region wasn’t the weirdest request we’d had in Cake, but customers weren’t usually so … aggressive.
We were instructed to put one of the shoes, specifically the heel, right through the thick of a testicle. She said she wanted the cake to look painful. Like marriage.
She’d been a particular woman, used to things a certain way no doubt. Even the delivery had its own set instruction—the cake had to be at Hawkeswood Hall, eight-thirty sharp, where a Mr Fergal Argyll was to sign for it personally. Not a member of the house staff, but Mr Argyll himself. I’d had the distinct impression Mr Argyll wasn’t a very popular man; this cake didn’t exactly look celebratory.
I felt into the top of my bag for the delivery sheet. No signature from Fergal Argyll would mean I forfeit the remaining half of the money, a condition Jess had told me I shouldn’t have let her bully me into. I’d reminded him that with the summer wedding season drawing to a close we could do with more cash in the till.
‘Don’t worry, Fergal will like you,’ she’d said, looking us both over. ‘But I wouldn’t send your friend here, they’ll eat him alive.’
I looked at Jess and wondered what she had meant by that. From the cornrows peeping out from under his beanie to his size twelve hi-tops, he didn’t look like someone who couldn’t take care of himself. But then he’d certainly look out of place at Hawkeswood, we both would.
‘Madam … your shoes!’ I’d called after her as she’d strode out through the door.
‘Keep them.’ She’d smiled coldly. ‘The slut will have to source her footwear elsewhere from now on.’
The van growled as I tried to shift from third to fourth again. It stuck sometimes, and you had to double-pump the clutch. There was no place for heeled shoes in my life. I’d gotten married in wellies, the one day of the year, Martha had vehemently told me, I was traditionally obliged to make an effort with my footwear. So I did, and bought myself a brand new pair of Hunters to match Charlie’s. Mum’s lip had twitched at least twice over their appearance in the wedding photos.
Between the glow of burning lanterns Hawkeswood Manor Hall was regally announced with a sweeping gated entrance off the main road. It wasn’t usually all lit up like this, there must be some kind of function on tonight. Figured. Where there’s a cake there was usually a function to go with it. I took the bend slowly so as not to jostle the delicate consignment in the back. I’d modelled the Dior shoe, a near enough perfect likeness for the real deals left behind in the shop. Jesse had made the main body of the cake, seeing as he had more physiological understanding of that area.
The van began to judder violently and I felt a flush of momentary panic. As if this van needed cattle grids to negotiate.
Finally, smoothly, the approach led me through opposing stone pillars and into Hawkeswood’s courtyard. The intricate detailing of the gothic priory before me was stunning set in the warm glow of numerous uplighters nestled in grassed borders. There was something special about Hawkeswood, something more than just its beauty. It wasn’t the grandest place I’d seen, although it was certainly grand, but it differed to other stately homes I’d visited. It was lived in, and there was something about a home that a venue simply couldn’t emulate. Life maybe. Not just in its Sunday best.
I parked at the end of a row of cars, and pulled my phone from my bag. I had a little while yet, it was only a quarter past, so I sat wrestling the window back into place.
There was movement underneath the archway of the main entrance vestibule, where a young guy appeared leaning casually against the wall beside him. He looked over at me sat in the front of the van, and it was enough to make me leave the window until he looked away again. I went back to watching the time on my phone until a shock of red drew my eye back to him.
The woman looked as though she’d just stepped from a movie screen, a Nordic goddess dripping in elegance and a blood red evening gown Martha would die for. She was stunning. No one would be looking at my clothes with women like her here; I could easily have gone with the PJs.
Her almost white-blonde hair was tied back from her neck in a bun too, but it was far from scruffy. It was perfect, she was perfect. So striking, in fact, I was finding it hard not to look at her. If the man thought so too, he was playing it very cool. The blonde lit herself a cigarette and leant in towards him. I watched as he repositioned himself. A lovers’ tiff maybe? Ah well, we all had those, even the beautiful people it seemed. Hopefully they would move back inside before I had to haul the cake in past them both.
Eight-twenty. I’d just sit here quietly then, minding my own business for a few more minutes.
Eight-twenty-three and they were still there, her still drawn to him, him still reluctant.
An absurdly loud and rigorous ringing cut through the hush in the courtyard. It made me jump out of my skin and the dream couple both snapped their heads around to stare at the source of the racket, blaring from my open window. ‘Damn it, Martha,’ I hissed, frantically trying to hit the right button, any button, to shut the noise off.
‘Hello?’
‘Hol, where are you? I’ve been ringing,’ she said, relief in her voice.
‘I’m working, Martha, where’s the fire?’ I glanced over at the couple under the archway. The goddess threw her cigarette and stalked back inside, the boyfriend was still looking on.
‘No fire, I was just worried when you weren’t at home.’
‘I’m not always at home, Martha, I do have other things to fill my days you know.’ We both knew that was a skinny truth. ‘Look, I’ll call you when I’m home. I’ll be about an hour. Don’t freak out until at least ten p.m., OK?’
‘OK,’ she said, and already I felt guilty.
‘OK, love you.’
‘Love you, bye.’
The call ended and, thankfully, the boyfriend had gone.
The doors into the lobby were left open, revealing a grand welcome to the Manor with timber panelling to the walls and a huge staircase climbing at least two floors above me. An attractive brunette somewhere around fifty approached me with a smile. Her smart white blouse and black pencil skirt suggested she was staff of some sort.
‘Hello, may I help you?’ she said.
‘Hi, yes. I have a delivery for Mr Argyll.’
The cake was too tall to use the box lid, and her smile faltered when she caught sight of the cake.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘And which Mr Argyll is expecting this?’
‘I was asked to deliver it at eight-thirty sharp to a Mr Fergal Argyll.’ I smiled.
The lady nodded. That made sense to her.
‘Well, Mr Argyll’s in the games room, just through the double doors at the end of this corridor if you’d like to go through. Let me take your bag for you, dear, you have enough to carry.’
I wasn’t sure why I’d brought the bag in with me. It was unlikely anyone here would want to break into the van for it.
‘Thank you. I just need to get the delivery sheet for Mr Argyll,’ I said, rummaging through my bag.
‘Well I can sign that for you,’ she offered.
‘Oh, that’s OK. Mr Argyll needs to sign for it in person.’
The hallway was long, giving me more time to fathom how I was going to open the heavy double doors when I reached them. A nervous looking gentleman in a dull suit stepped through one of the doors, hurriedly stepping into the hallway.
‘Could