Thin Girls Don't Eat Cake (15 page)

Cole stood behind the old-fashioned glass fronted counter surveying the — at last — empty space in front of him. Screwed up patty pans overflowed from the rubbish bin near the door and cake crumbs littered the counter where customers had been taking advantage of the free samples. Inside the display cases, a few lonely cupcakes decorated the paper-lined shelves. Only a few. Unbelievably, they’d sold out of nearly every single cake in the shop. A week’s worth of baking had disappeared quicker than you could say ‘frosting.’ Cole supposed he should be happy about this but he was so knackered all he wanted to do was sit down with a beer and fall asleep in front of the telly. Opening the shop was meant to be a new start, a pulling back on the pressures of life, but right at that moment, the only thing he felt was an overwhelming tiredness. Oh, and a massive urge to tell those reporters who’d set up sleeping bags across the road to bugger off. Jesus, he wished they’d go back to the city and leave him in peace.

It was 6.25pm and Cole and Adelaide were supposed to shut up shop an hour and a half before but Cole, never one to turn down money when it was being thrown in his face, had been unable to turn the customers away. The hands on his watch had ticked over, announcing 5pm but the footpath outside had still been three rows deep with women wanting cupcakes. And when he’d calmly made his way though the sea of perfume and hair products to close the doors, he’d been met with a type of abuse he’d never before witnessed from a lady. Those women not only wanted cupcakes, they were not leaving until they got them. One slightly irate customer had gone so far as to wedge her wedge heel into the door so he couldn’t lock it. For a cake.

He’d created a nightmare.

But now they were gone and he and Adelaide were left to tidy the mess they’d left behind.

They worked in a sort of stunned silence for a while, both unable to believe what had happened on only their second day of trading. Then Adelaide, who’d been wiping down the counters, stopped mid swipe and looked over to Cole, who was staring out the window with a goofy look on his face.

“Reliving your day of glory?”

“I don’t understand, Addie,” Cole said. “Those women were feral today. It’s like they’ve never seen a cupcake before.”

Adelaide finished wiping the counter and put the spray back in the cupboard. She tossed the dirty cloth into a plastic tub to be washed later on and delved into the fridge, rummaging in the tubs of fondant and butter cream icing Cole had premade.

“You have no idea, do you? Today wasn’t about cupcakes.”

What the devil was she on about?

“I know you make the most stupendously delicious cupcakes in the world and the new flavours you’ve been working on sold faster than I could unpack them from the trays. But those women didn’t come to sample your cakes, Cole. They were after a lot more than that. One look at their lust-crazed eyes was enough to confirm it. The word’s gotten out about the hunky guy in the cake shop and every single woman in the district came to check you out. The cupcakes were an added bonus.”

“Adelaide!” She had to be joking.

“It’s a small town, Cole. News travels fast. I mean look at what happened with those shorts of yours,” she said, producing a bottle of champagne and two chilled glasses. “Want one?”

Cole hoisted his bum onto the counter. It felt good to be off his feet at last. Even if it was only a brief rest before they finished the last of the cleaning for the day.

“But the reporters? Where the hell did they appear from? Not that I’m knocking a bit of free publicity, but I don’t understand. I thought we were rid of them.”

“I overheard one of them saying it was something to do with Phoebe being the Telethon child. They were following up on her story. I guess you being a good looking, manly man adds another dimension to the fact that you’re making cake for a living and fulfilling your daughter’s dying wish.”

Cole nodded. She was probably right. Not about the good-looking part but the bloke baking cakes in honour of his daughter’s memory was a twist on a story. If people were still thinking of Phoebe that was a good thing.

It had started after Phoebe’s diagnosis at age nine. Being a gorgeous looking kid with a great smile and intelligence to boot, she’d caught the eye of the people who ran the Telethon foundation and in the year she went into remission was asked to be their special ‘kid’ for the season of fundraising. Phoebe had become the subject of ads, she’d been interviewed on TV, had her photo taken at fundraising events where she spoke about how Telethon helped kids like her who were ill and their families. Cole had never expected that her flippant comment about wanting her dad to start a cupcake shop would ever be remembered. But it seemed Western Australia hadn’t forgotten Phoebe and now they were coming to see if Cole had granted his daughter’s wish.

“So they didn’t remember me from the ad, then?”

“Oh, they remembered. You Tube is a powerful medium.”

Shit. Cole wondered if he could contact them and have that video taken down. It was practically pornography.

“Mum said she overheard them discussing it when she went out to the bank. They’d been wondering what happened to the Reno King.”

Jesus. This was a nightmare. Was there no place he would be able to have a nice quiet life?

Adelaide handed Cole a glass of champagne and he took a rather large gulp. It wasn’t a beer but it’d do. It was cold and wet and alcoholic.

“What’s this in aid of, then?”

“I was going to give it to you yesterday, seeing as how it was the grand opening, but I figured we should get our heads around things first. I wanted you to enjoy the moment.” She handed him a card. On the front red cartoon letters jumped around the page reading, “CONGRATULATIONS.”

Cole regarded Adelaide quizzically. She wasn’t the card type. He leant over and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “Thanks. But you did a fair amount of work too.”

“It’s not from me.”

Curious, Cole opened the card. “You’re simply the best, better than all the rest” sang a group of chipmunks from somewhere hidden inside it. When he’d finished laughing Cole began to read.

Dear Daddy,

By the time you get this I’ll be no more than a star winking at you in the sky so I wanted to say a big ‘WELL DONE’ on making our dream come true. I wish I was there. I would give you the biggest hug ever. But I’m watching you from Heaven and eating cake, too. I love you more than the universe.

Your best daughter ever,

Phoebe xoxoxo

PS: If the reporters come back give them an interview and tell them to go away.

“She got it ready a month or so before she died,” Adelaide said. “She threw a tantrum until I drove her to the bottle shop. I helped her pick out the champagne but she paid for it with pocket money she’d saved. She made me promise not to give it to you until today. Apparently, we’re now meant to toast her for giving you the idea.”

Cole sniffed back a tear. “That’d be like her. Cheeky little minx.”

They raised their glasses to the small-framed photo that Cole had mounted on the back wall of the shop. It was in an inconspicuous spot, because even though he knew Phoebe would have hated it and would have wanted to be the talking point of the place, he didn’t want his deceased daughter on show. It was bad enough that he’d called the shop by the name she’d chosen before her death. Bloody macabre, when you thought about it — a tribute to his dead daughter having the word ‘death’ in the title. But that had been Phoebe. She was probably laughing at it up there in Heaven.

“Here’s to you, Phoebs. I’m sure you’re up there giggling at the antics that have gone on today and I’m only going to say this once. You were right. To the best daughter in the world.” He drank the champagne down.

“To Phoebe,” Adelaide echoed.

Cole put the glass down and turned to the small commercial kitchen out the back. “Right. Enough of that. If we’re going to open up again tomorrow, I’ve got a shitload of cake to bake.”

“I’ll go and get us some takeaways from the pub,” Adelaide said as she grabbed her handbag from under the counter and pulled out her wallet. “You can’t work on an empty stomach and you’re not having cupcakes for dinner.”

Like he’d want them. Right about then, Cole was wishing he’d never opened a cupcake shop.

“Should I give the reporters one last interview?”

“It might get rid of them. Do you want me to send them over on my way to the pub?”

“I guess. If I do it, it’ll be done for another year. Then we might be able to have a bit of normality around here.”

“I doubt that will ever happen. The women aren’t going anywhere in a hurry.”

As Cole stood for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb and mulling over the day, his eyes went out the window and over the road to Olivia’s shop. Phoebe would have loved Olivia and he was positive Olivia would have loved Phoebe. Now that the shop was open and things were less hectic, maybe it was time to tell her how he felt. Olivia, that was. He loved his daughter but he wasn’t in the habit of talking to dead people.

Scrubbing mud and cow poo from the floor was not exactly my idea of a fun way to spend my after work hours, but there I was, at half past six at night, doing that very thing. Other than my interview with the reporters — it turned out I knew one of them and boy did he have some gossip about Graeme — it had been a crappy day. Mr Evans’ cocker spaniel had been uncooperative resulting in one of his ears being trimmed considerably shorter than the other and a rather unhappy Mr Evans. The women who’d come in to shelter from the rain while they waited to get into Death By Cupcake had left crap all over shop. Anyone would think they’d never heard of a rubbish bin. But the most tiring part had been resisting the urge to join that line; the urge to go and see what the fuss was about. That had been absolute torture. So, rightfully, I was feeling a teensy bit peeved at the new shop owners over the road.

At last, I switched off the lights and prepared to lock up for the day and as I was doing so I looked up to see that the shop across the road had cleared. There was a lone light shining from the back and two figures were behind the counter. One of them was waving at me.

Oh, what of it, I thought, deciding to do the neighbourly thing. In hindsight, and after I’d checked the takings for the day, I’d concluded it wasn’t their fault the shop was a huge success. And the extra people in my own shop had resulted in a few sales and bookings, despite the fact that people had to climb over the reporters outside the door and had left mess everywhere. I raised my arm and returned the wave. I couldn’t behave like a right bitch forever. That shop wasn’t going anywhere, so I supposed I’d have to find a way to live with it.

Then a second figure raised a champagne glass in my direction. Male. That one was definitely male.

Now, who would be waving to me like that? And who could that man be?

*****

“So, next Friday night’s fine, then?” Mum asked, as she handed me a serving of low fat chicken curry with basmati rice that was small even by my new eating standards.

“Is that it? I’m on a diet not a hunger strike.”

“You’re beginning to look so trim, it’d be a pity to spoil it now.”

I ignored the comment and concentrated on making every last bite — which amounted to about three — of my miniscule dinner enjoyable. And enjoyable it was, until my mother dropped the bombshell.

“So next Friday’s okay?” she repeated.

I swallowed the mouthful as slowly as I could, letting the taste linger on my tongue. God it was nice. Since I’d gotten over the whole Mum and Connor fiasco, my tastebuds seemed to have taken a turn for the better. They’d begun to long to vegetables, of all things, and savouries.  I hadn’t wanted a cake for days. It was like that binge had been the final one.

“For what?”

“For the date.”

Date?

“Did I agree to this? When did I agree to this?” I know I’d been preoccupied but I had no recollection of any engagements the following Friday night.

“Yes. I asked you the other afternoon.”

I cast my mind back to the last time I’d seen Mum. Thursday. The shop had been chockers with people and I’d caught one of those cupcake women trying to make off with a dog lead and collar by sticking them down the back of her jeans. I hadn’t exactly been on top of my game. I remembered Mum muttering something about a man or a date but I hadn’t paid a great deal of attention. Seemed like that had been an error of judgement.

“So who is this date with?”

“Gerry. He’s a lovely boy. I know you’ll adore him. He’s an accountant.”

Bring on the party.

I gave myself an internal slap remembering I was trying to be positive in my love life as well as my diet. “And I agreed?”

“I double checked on the phone yesterday.”

Where the hell had my head been yesterday?

“You said it would be fine. I think you’ll like Gerry. He’s very handsome. Pecs like rock… At least, that’s how they looked when we met in the free weights.”

God, if my mother had met this Gerry at the gym he’d more than likely have ‘roid rage or something. Mum’s taste, before Connor, had notoriously run to men with hairpieces and hideous orange tans. There was little hope he’d be below the pension age.

“You don’t have to do this, Mum. I’m fine with you and Connor. Really I am. You don’t have to set me up with every Tom, Dick and Gerry that lobs into town. I won’t throw myself into a vat of cake mix if you have a man and I don’t.”

“But I confirmed it with you. You said it was fine so I told Gerry. You can’t back out now. It’d be very rude.”

I could feel a migraine coming on. “When and where?”

“Friday next. I told you. Six o’clock at Tom’s Tavern.”

“You told him I’d meet him at Tom’s? Mum.”

Nobody was ever seen at Tom’s unless they’d been barred from the other two pubs in town. Tom’s bar staff were under the illusion that spirits were something that went bump in the night. The only drinks they knew how to mix came in a can, laced with mountains of sugar and were popular with underage drinkers. I couldn’t have a date there. Gerry would have formed some preconceived idea about me before we even met. If my mother hadn’t already supplied him with one.

“Can’t you ring him and tell him I’ll meet him at The Merrifield Hotel? At least they have carpet from this century and wine that comes in a bottle.”

Mum gave me a look. “I don’t know when you got to be so picky. You’re going on thirty, possum. You don’t want to be left on the shelf. You should be grateful you even have a date on a Friday night.”

“Yes. I’d be more grateful if the venue was changed, though.”

Mum forked a chunk of chicken and began to furiously chop it into even smaller pieces. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And I won’t be eating dinner with him. One drink. That’s it. I don’t want to waste my food points on alcohol.”

Besides, if it were only a drink, I could beg off if we weren’t suited saying I had a prior engagement. There had to be contingencies for this sort of silliness.

“Any other conditions, Your Highness?”

“Nope. I think we’re done. Now tell what me you’re planning for this wedding. Am I going to be a bridesmaid because if I am you have to wait until I can fit into a size 12 again.”

Which hopefully would be sometime in the next few months.

*****

After dinner, I helped Mum to rinse the dishes and pack the dishwasher. As was the usual routine, I went to switch on the coffee machine to warm up but before I had a chance Mum’s thin spidery hand flew out of nowhere to stop me.

“Ah, no. No coffee tonight,” Mum said, hurriedly.

“What? Why?”

“Um, I’m tired. I’m having an early night.” Her eyes darted about the room like balls in a pinball machine unable to meet mine.

“But it’s only quarter to eight. You can’t be going to bed now.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m super tired and I have to be up at five to go to Boot Camp.” As if to prove the point, Mum began to wilt. It was as if someone had let the wind out of a balloon in front of me.

“So Connor’s coming over for a booty call and you’re too afraid to tell me.”

“No.”

I shook my head. “You’re a worse liar than he is.”

Having hung the tea towel over the handle of the oven, Mum went to gather my things. Dumping them in my arms, she raced me down the hall.

“I mean, it’s not like I don’t know he’s coming over,” I said. “I’m quite capable of having a conversation with him without ripping his head off, you know.”

I wouldn’t enjoy it but I was capable of it.

“I know, darling, but Connor’s feeling self-conscious about the whole thing. I’m sure you understand. Now, pop off home and think about what to wear for that date. Don’t forget to wash the Spanx before you wear them. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

With that, I was bustled out the door and the door slammed promptly behind me. My family was weird. Utterly weird.