The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 1

Well, this is awkward. And surprising. And extremely mortifying.

This is also rendering me speechless. Well, externally I am speechless. Internally there are many words running through my brain. But they are running so fast that they are running together.

I squint to make sure I see what I think I can see.

Yep.

I am sure.

It’s him. Next to a her, who I assume is his fiancée. Pippa. Chris and Pippa. All of my communications, up until this very vital moment, have been on a first name only basis. It never occurred to me that serendipity could have such a twisted sense of humour.

And I never thought that the Chris of ‘Chris and Pippa’ would be my Chris, of ‘Chris and Paige’.

Pippa is a very fitting name for the coiffed blonde standing in front of me. I recognize her from the thumbnail photo attached to her email signature. Except that she is even more beautiful in person. She has very delicate features (with the exception of her nose), a bit of a one-sided smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and a perfectly tailored outfit. Not a hair is out of place.

I turn my attention back to him. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him in the flesh. I’ve even stopped taking purposeful peeks at his social media. Sure, sometimes stuff pops up – the photos of his sister’s baby were a particular highlight. That forehead was so large it was definitely closer to a five. But I had missed this item. I would have thought such a Big News Item was impossible to miss. I didn’t even know he was dating anybody.

Thank god I washed my hair this morning. It’s the afternoon so I have definitely rubbed all the makeup off my face, but at least my hair is clean, even if it won’t ever be as voluminous as hers.

I feel a little bit of glee as I look at his face. His face, a face that I know very well, having dated him for almost three years, looks panicked. Maybe not as panicked as mine, but still panicked. At least until it transitions to smug. It also still looks undeniably handsome. Call me shallow, but it wouldn’t be quite so hard to feel nothing if he weren’t quite so beautiful. When we first started dating, I felt like I had bagged The Guy. The Guy that everyone wanted to bag for life.

Before I can think of a reason to shut the door in their faces, he speaks.

‘Hello.’ He holds out his hand. ‘You’re Paige, the wedding cake baker?’

Too off-balance and surprised that he might actually want to continue this interaction, I can’t help but nod, although I don’t quite manage to take his hand. Instead, I leave it there. Hanging. Eventually he lets his hand fall back down by his side.

‘Great. This is my fiancée, Pippa.’ He shoves her forward a bit. She doesn’t seem to mind. Her hand I manage to shake, and the movement jolts me out of my panic. I realize they are still standing in the doorway.

‘Yes, Pippa. Lovely to meet you. Please, come in.’ I move to the side and plaster on a happy face. My voice sounds like it hasn’t been used in a while, patchy and squeaky. Kinda like I’m a teenage boy who’s just about to hit puberty.

Pippa enters first, followed by Chris, who still looks smug.

Fine. If he wants to continue pretending that I haven’t seen him naked and had his penis inside me on multiple occasions (and inside multiple locations, even if one was supposedly purely accidental), I can do this. If he wants to pretend that he didn’t heartlessly abandon me when I needed him the most, I can do this too. It’s fine. I’ll take his lead.

Fuck. Why do I always take his lead? Sure, once upon a time, it was easier to let him. He was so sure of himself at an age when everyone else seemed to falter. When I would falter. But now? Well, now I know what I do and do not want, and am confident enough to fight for it. I think.

On his way past he puts his hand just above my hip. Right in the nook. Right where it used to belong. He used to put it there when we were walking together down a street. Or when he would pass me on the way to go get drinks at the bar. I can’t help but warm slightly beneath it. It used to give me comfort and security; it used to keep me steady. Maybe he doesn’t want to pretend that he doesn’t know me, but he does want to hide it from Pippa.

He removes his hand just before she turns around.

I take the opportunity to hide my face and collect my thoughts when I go to close the door. I scream a silent ‘fuuuuuuuuck’. At what, and for what purpose, I don’t know, but sometimes swearing is therapeutic.

Turning back and looking at the two of them, I’m surprised to find that I actually feel a little bit sorry for Pippa. She doesn’t know what she’s walked into. And if she did, I’m sure she wouldn’t have come. If she did, I’m sure she wouldn’t be marrying him. I wonder if I should warn her against him. Or at least make sure that she is confident in her choice of life partner. Flaws and all. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. All that jazz.

‘You found the place OK?’

This time Pippa pipes up. ‘Yes, it was easy to find.’ She pauses briefly. ‘Although we don’t usually come this far east.’ This does not shock me. They look like west London people. ‘It smells like sugar in here. How lucky you are to be a baker.’

Everyone (who isn’t a baker) always says this. If they saw the long hours at below minimum wage, regular weekend working, the customers who don’t understand or appreciate how much work and time goes into each cake, the heavy sacks of flour and chocolate callets and sugar, not to mention the staggering amount of washing up, they might rethink.

But instead of bursting the bubble, I nod. ‘Yes, I am. It’s a great job to have.’ Agreeing is the only acceptable answer. Especially during appointments that are meant to be full of happy wedding chat. Colour schemes. Bridesmaid dresses. Flowers. Possibly even a wedding monogram. That kind of thing.

She’s now taking off her jacket, but Chris is wandering around, jacket still on. He won’t do anything unless he wants to. And he takes up so much space; I had forgotten how imposing he is. He’s always the biggest personality in the room, and it has an influence over everything and everyone else in the room. Simply standing next to him can make you feel bigger. It can also make you feel teeny tiny too. He’d make a great politician. I just wish he would stop touching things. Picking them up and putting them down. Looking at the bottom of random objects. It’s like he thinks he has a claim on me, a right to touch all these things that are mine.

He doesn’t, not any more, but I still feel very on show. The only rooms of mine that he has seen are my childhood bedroom and the scabby bedroom I lived in when I first moved to London. Apart from that, we lived together. In a house of his choosing. In a bedroom of his design. This room might only be my working space, but it reflects me more than any of those bedrooms ever did. However, although I love this room, it’s not fancy. It isn’t filled with nice things and it hasn’t been painted in Farrow & Ball colours. I don’t want him to think that he has won the competition over who is doing better following a break-up.

My mum’s mum, my nan, moved me into the apartment upstairs – her apartment – after living with my own family began to chafe. And eventually I took over the baking business, when she couldn’t run it any more. Luckily, by then she had already passed on all her knowledge and taught me all of her skills, at least those related to baking. Other skills eluded me. Her piano, for example, sits upstairs, unused, collecting dust and ornaments. I’m good with cakes, but I’m terrible with rhythm, no matter how hard my nan tried. Looking around, I still feel extreme guilt. She gave me so much and I definitely didn’t give her back the same amount.

And yet here I am. Her business name on the door, but me, impostering in a space that used to be hers. Her tools are now my tools. Her table is my table. Her worn chair in the corner is now my worn chair in the corner. It is an extremely comfortable chair, an original Parker Knoll, covered with a patterned yellow velvet that is very worn on the arms. I only sit in it occasionally. I don’t want my butt imprint to take over her butt imprint.

Pippa motions towards Chris. ‘And this is Chris. Although you already know that.’

I freeze. Fuck. Again. Have I read this situation completely wrong? Does she somehow know that we have a history? I look at Chris, the question clearly visible on my face.

He shakes his head, just a bit, and I know to stay quiet. It dawns on me: I could know he is Chris from our email exchange.

I nod in his vague direction and squeak out, ‘Hello.’

He smiles one of his most dazzling smiles before speaking. ‘So … how long have you been making wedding cakes for?’ Unlike mine, his voice is completely calm. It makes me want to scream.

I look around the room. I look anywhere that isn’t his face. His eyes. I must avoid them at all costs.

‘Well, I took over the business when my nan passed away two years ago, but I had been an apprentice of sorts for a couple of years before then.’ This isn’t the whole story, even Chris knows this couldn’t possibly be the whole story, but it’s the one I share with customers. And for the purposes of today, the two people in front of me are customers. Nothing more and nothing less.

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Were you two close?’

Part of me, a big part, is loath to share any personal information with him. The overarching, client-friendly business background is fine; I share that with everyone, and it doesn’t tell even a minutia of the story. But this? This is bordering on personal, and I don’t want to go there. If I go there, it feels like I’m offering him some kind of forgiveness. And I don’t want to forgive him. But he always has a way of weaselling whatever he wants out of people. And I’m a natural people pleaser. It’s a dangerous and destructive combination.

‘We never used to be.’ At least not in the Chris years. My nan and my mum were very different, which meant interaction was limited for most of my life. ‘But we became close.’ I wish she were here with me to help me through this; she would know exactly how to handle this situation. But me? I am clueless. ‘She taught me all I know about cakes. I owe everything to her.’ And because I can’t quite resist a mini dig: ‘She really helped me when I needed her. She’s the only person I have ever been able to rely on. To trust.’

I worry that there might be some unexplainable tension between the two of us, and I don’t want Pippa to notice. I look over at her. Luckily, I seem to be so far beneath her that she remains unfazed.

I look at Chris. He’s nodding away, totally oblivious to the jab.

I don’t know why I expected him to react. And I don’t know why he is pretending to care. He never showed a huge amount of interest in my life. He only cared that I could fit easily into his. I think that was part of my appeal.

I sigh. I can’t help it. Today had been going so well. All of my other couples were great. We had laughs and cake and tea and good times. It’s karmic that my last appointment of the day should be this. I had been too cavalier and optimistic about how well my other appointments had gone. But now that feeling of optimism is a distant memory. The tension I currently feel is slowly but surely fusing my neck and jaw together.

He goes to sit down on Nan’s chair.

‘Would you like to try some cake?’ I ask this in a louder-than-indoor voice.

Like a lollipop lady, I use my arms to motion towards the table that has cake on it, the table that is surrounded by wooden chairs that are devoid of sacred butt imprints.

I exhale in relief, my cheeks puffing out, as they both move towards it. Nan’s imprint is safe for another day.

We sit. I take the seat as far away from Chris as possible, and start my usual cake monologue. At least in this I feel confident.

I motion at the plate of cake in front of me. ‘These are just a selection of flavours to give you an idea of the quality of cake. I don’t think you requested any specific flavours, so I have three of my most popular options, and three seasonal options. But if there is something you really want that isn’t here, I’d be more than happy to make it for you.’

Pippa’s face remains emotionless as she says, ‘Gosh, they all look so good. And so perfect.’ To the untrained eye, they do look perfect, but I can see that the sponge in the pistachio and chocolate flavour is a little smaller than the others. They won’t notice, but it’s making me twitch. ‘Are they all for us to have?’

‘Of course! I wouldn’t be much of a cake baker if I didn’t give you cake, now would I?’ The fake joy in my voice is totally at odds with the discomfort I feel. The look on Chris’s face tells me that I’m not fooling anybody, or at least him. But he does know me very well. Scrap that, he did know me very well. ‘But don’t worry, if you don’t manage to finish them, I can send you home with a box.’ Pippa has a silk scarf tied around her neck. She doesn’t look like the kind of person who eats much sugar. The fact she could smell it on entry would suggest it isn’t a frequent ingredient in her cooking. Or her life.

I, myself, have been acclimatized to sugar for many years.

I go ahead and pour the tea whether they want it or not. I can’t help but make Chris’s just the way I know he likes it. He’s very particular, and he doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way. No sugar and just a hint of milk. It’s disgusting. I should have known he wasn’t the one for me. To distract from my deep insider knowledge of Chris’s tea preferences, I blather on about their wedding.

‘I know that your wedding is under three months away, which doesn’t give us a huge amount of time to develop a design.’ Having now met Pippa, I can see that she’s probably the type of person for whom cake features low on the list of wedding priorities. ‘But have you had any thoughts? I assume that you’ve already seen the kind of look I lean towards. That said, I always think the cake should complement the rest of the day, so if there are colours, flowers, themes, etc. that you would like to incorporate I’m very happy to do so. We can come up with a design that is totally bespoke to you and your wedding.’ Happy, happy days. I smile the brightest smile I can muster. Chris almost chokes on his mouthful of sponge, and I know that it’s not because it’s dry.

Ironically, for a wedding cake baker, I myself have waved goodbye to the idea of marriage. I’m all for other people having traditional, culturally acceptable happy endings, but this isn’t my fate. My fate lies more in the ‘ready meals for one’ category. And so now I’m an anti-wedding enthusiast stuck in the body of a wedding cake baker. But I learnt a while ago that couples don’t want their wedding cake to be made by a disillusioned (I like to think enlightened) person who doesn’t want to get married. They worry that my own thoughts and feelings will taint their wedding cake and infect their own happy ever after. Should I have found a different occupation? Probably, but the irony of it is, I’m pretty good at what I do.

So instead of finding a different occupation, I’ve developed a cake baker persona, kinda like Beyoncé and her stage personality, Sasha Fierce, except I’ve called her The Mad Batter and she isn’t half as cool. For example, instead of coming up with new dance moves and empowering songs, she experiments with new sponge recipes and the best way to line baking tins. And right now she is out in full force. Or at least she is trying to be.

At this point Pippa inhales deeply, pretending to contemplate the design. I pride myself on being able to determine what kind of cake look a couple, normally the bride, wants to go with. And I am pretty sure I have Pippa pegged.

‘Oh yes, I mean, I love the look of all of your cakes.’ I know she thinks she sounds genuinely complimentary, but she doesn’t. There is a scary lack of emotion in every word. ‘I think they are all so beautiful. I love the modern look of them. And I really like a simple, but still beautiful, wedding cake.’ I’ve never been more certain in a prediction; I know exactly what her next sentence is going to be. For the first time I am almost enjoying this meeting. ‘I just love a semi-naked cake with fresh flowers.’

I close my eyes and nod. Of course she does.

She is smiling at me like she has just said something revolutionary. It’s the first emotion she has shown.

‘Yes, that is a popular choice.’ Semi-naked is the beige of wedding cakes. It’s a cake that requires little skill and absolutely no imagination. But as much as I hate the design, it might just prove to be my saviour in this horrible situation. I don’t want to prolong our reunion of sorts, and I can’t imagine Chris does either. This one meeting is enough, and Pippa’s cake preference gives me the perfect out. I put on a faux-apologetic face. ‘To be honest, it’s not a design I normally do, and it’s really important that you choose someone who you are completely comfortable with to make your cake, so I completely understand if you end up deciding to go with a different baker.’ There’s an awkward pause as I wait for Chris to take the escape route. But he doesn’t, at least not yet, and so The Mad Batter goes on, a little more stilted. ‘That said, normally, after this initial meeting I’d send you a quick email to confirm that you are interested in my services, and if yes, then I’d draw up a couple of designs, keeping the overall look aligned with your own ideas and’ – I can’t quite bring myself to say the words ‘semi-naked’ but I do choke out the word – ‘preferences, send them over, and then if you like any of them, you can let me know and I can get you booked in once the deposit is paid.’ These last words I throw out as fast as I can. I always feel uncomfortable talking about money, but I feel particularly uncomfortable asking Chris for money. He always subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) lorded it over me that he was better off than I was. ‘Obviously, we can tweak details, and decide flavours, and, well, then that’s pretty much it.’

When I have finished talking, Chris puts a hand on Pippa’s knee. He used to do that to me. It used to be a signal between the two of us, like a secret language. I used to like it. ‘That all sounds great. Doesn’t it?’

Pippa nods. She seems unsure, but it might just be her inability to emote. She looks at him, and tentatively reminds him, ‘We are seeing some other cake bakers before we make our final decision.’

Chris scoffs. ‘Well, I don’t think we need to. This cake is delicious.’ He gestures at the not-even-half-eaten tasters and my mouth falls open. He hasn’t taken the out.

I look between the two of them, but this time Chris’s face doesn’t give anything away. Why is he so keen for me to make their cake? Guilt? Awkwardness? Politeness?

I could really do without the drama that will come with making their cake, so I aim my next comment at Pippa, willing her to stand up to him. ‘Well, you don’t have to decide today. Feel free to speak to the other bakers and just let me know.’

‘Fabulous.’ He slaps his thighs, startling my attention away from Pippa and back to him. ‘I think I quite fancy being in charge of the cake. So if you give me your email address, I’ll be in touch directly.’ He looks at Pippa.

Pippa shrugs in reply and he turns back to me, smiling.

I smile too, even though I would rather not have to speak to him ever again. ‘Great. That’s just … great.’