The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 10

It’s hard to critique a cake design that doesn’t exist yet. But even with this knowledge, the paper in front of me remains blank. I have started drawing squiggles in the corner, just to make me feel like I am doing something.

I’m sitting outside a local café waiting for my mother, sketch book and pens out and ready. Since the breakfast meeting yesterday, my pen has been poised for excellence. Sadly, my mind and imagination have not. I knew it would be pointless to bring my drawing things with me, but I was forced to by a crushing sense of guilt. Unsurprisingly, looming lunch with my mother is not exactly an environment conducive to creativity. Our relationship has always been a bit strained. I have never been her favourite child, but things have definitely deteriorated even more in recent years, particularly since I stopped wanting what she wants me to want.

The café is not fancy. It’s not a choice my mother would have made, but it is perfect, at least from my perspective. It has a simple but hearty menu, which is great, as procrastination and a lack of progress make me starving. None of the options take long to prepare, and unless you are completely numb to peer pressure and social etiquette, you have to move on quite quickly after you’ve finished. They’ve been known to take your plate away before you’ve even finished chewing.

With any luck we will only have to be in each other’s presence for about thirty minutes. See? Perfect.

I look up, sensing danger. I spot her immediately. She’s coming towards me. She’s one of those people who always walks in a straight line, assuming other people will move for her. And she is not wrong. Even now people are moving out of her path. It’s like she is surrounded by an invisible team of security men pushing back the crowd. This is not a trait that she has passed on to either me or my brother.

I hurry to put away my blank sketch book. Before my recent pivot we had ten cake designs that we would offer for weddings and fifteen for other events. You could change things like the colours, the flowers and the flavours, but that was all. We didn’t do what I am now doing: bespoke cake designs. My mother knows the only thing I ever attempt to draw is cakes (most of the designs were of my creation), but I know that any words she might have on the subject aren’t likely to be encouraging. Growing up, she would earn her pocket money by helping out a bit in the shop, meaning she obviously knows everything about sponge and understands the cake business inside out. Added to the fact she is very resistant to change, to anything that could upset the balance and make her knowledge null and void, she’s never exactly been supportive of any of my ideas.

‘Hey Mum.’ I half stand for a hug; the chair makes a horrible noise as it scrapes along the pavement and the dodgy-footed table wobbles more than I and the two glasses of water are comfortable with.

‘Hello darling.’ It’s a term of endearment, but she uses it out of habit instead of feeling. She sits down, cleaning the table with a disinfecting wipe before she touches it. Even then she does so only when absolutely necessary.

‘Thanks for coming to see me.’ Although I don’t know why she bothers. We get on better when we are apart. I breathe in and remind myself to be nice. She did make the effort to come into town to see me. And it’s not a super convenient trip for my mother to make. She has to take two different forms of public transport. ‘How are you, Mum?’

She puts on her reading glasses and looks at the menu. I don’t know whether she has heard me, but if I ask again, I risk offending her, so instead I stay quiet and pick at my nails.

She sighs, puts down the menu and pushes her reading glasses up so they are caught in her hair. She looks effortlessly elegant. ‘I think I might just get a coffee.’

Despite my hunger, this works for me. Coffee will take even less time than eating, and although I’ve only been in my mum’s presence for less than a minute, I can already feel the strain.

‘So what have you been up to? Anything new?’ In an effort to counteract how uncomfortable I feel, my voice is overly chirpy. Most of my mum’s social life comes from her local choir and bridge club, so I imagine the answer to this question is going to be ‘no’.

‘Well, I have been trying to organize a lunch for Alex’s birthday.’ I nod. She is always conveniently out of the country for mine, but that’s my fault for being born in the height of summer. My brother’s birthday, on the other hand, she would never miss.

‘Great. When were you thinking?’

‘I’ve booked a table for the twenty-first of May.’

I open the calendar on my phone and scroll forward two weeks to the twenty-first, just to check what I’m pretty sure I already know.

‘Mum, the twenty-first of May is a Saturday.’

She puts down her glass after almost taking a sip but deciding against it. ‘Yes, it is. Is there a problem with that?’

For four out of the last five years, I have had to work every Saturday from the beginning of May through to the end of August, and although I’m far from being at full capacity this year, the twenty-first of May is still in peak wedding season. She knows this. Plus, his actual birthday is on the Sunday. A small part of me wonders if she is doing this just to be annoying.

‘The table is booked at lunchtime?’

‘Yes. I already said this. Is there a problem?’ She looks at me down her nose. Challenging me.

‘Well, I would love to come, but I have a cake to deliver and set up on the twenty-first of May. I won’t be able to make a lunchtime reservation.’ I lighten the tone. ‘Unless by “lunch” you mean 4 p.m. at the earliest?’ She isn’t saying anything, but just as I could sense her nearing, I can sense her anger.

‘The table is booked for 1 p.m.’ She sighs. She goes acutely still when she is angry, and right now no part of her body is moving. ‘Honestly, Paige. Alex’s birthday is on the same date every year, and every year we have this problem. Why can’t you get someone else to deliver the cake? There are hundreds of couriers in London. Just pay one of them to do it.’

The idea of handing over one of my creations to a courier brings me out in hives. They aren’t known for driving carefully. My cake would be delivered in a million pieces.

And she knows this.

‘I can’t really do that, but I would like to be able to come to lunch.’ My nail picking gets even more intense. ‘Could the time of the booking be changed?’

I love my brother. I would like to go to his birthday.

She tuts at me from across the table. She is the only person I know who actually tuts. ‘I suppose I can try. But he does have a child to think about you know. It’s not easy for him to organize his life.’

She’s right, children do make things more complicated, but he doesn’t organize his life. His wife, Meg, does that for him. I hope Mum has apologized to her for raising an utterly useless human. ‘Thanks Mum. I appreciate it.’

Her responding ‘hmm’ would suggest she doesn’t think I do, at least not to the extent that I should. I decide to change the subject to something safe.

‘Can I make him a cake?’ I hope this offer might ingratiate me with her.

‘Oh no. Don’t be silly. He’s too old for cake.’

Personally, I think the older you get the more cake you should be able to eat.

‘Is there an age limit on cake?’

She doesn’t answer my question, but instead fires one back.

‘Speaking of which, how is business this summer?’

I sigh. I shouldn’t have mentioned cake. ‘Yeah. Fine.’ Unfortunately, beyond family, cakes are the only common ground we have. I want to avoid talk of how clogged my ideas are and how much I am struggling financially, but if I shut this conversation down completely, I don’t know what else we would have to talk about. So instead, I do what I always do and decide to mention something innocuous. ‘I thought I might add some desiccated coconut to the coconut and passionfruit cake.’ But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

She barely breathes before she responds. ‘I think that is a horrible idea.’

Sometimes I think conversations, no matter what you say, are always destined to go wrong. This conversation is a prime example. This whole lunch is a prime example. This is why we shouldn’t meet in person. At least if this conversation were happening over the phone, I would be able to hang up, or stop listening. But I am here now, so instead I rub my eyes in despair and frustration, both at her and at myself. I will never learn.

‘You don’t think this is a good idea?’

‘It’s a terrible idea. People don’t want funny textures in their sponge.’ Her displeased face is staring back at me. It’s the face I see whenever I suggest something new, or something that goes against her own wishes for me. The worst was when I told her I didn’t want children.

It’s tricky because I want to stand up to her. She hasn’t worked with cakes for decades, but sometimes, for an easy life, I think it’s best to keep quiet, even over something as ridiculous as desiccated coconut. So I do. But I also decide that I will add the desiccated coconut anyway and not tell her. She’ll never know.

I search my brain for a different topic of conversation, one that doesn’t involve cakes, and come up blank. I look around me for inspiration, but sadly, the only thing that grabs my attention is a nearby pigeon that’s picking at a piece of rubbish on the floor. I open my mouth to discuss the weather, but I’ve taken too long.

‘I saw you drawing before I got here.’ Mum’s face is still pinched as she says this. ‘Are you thinking of updating the designs?’

Shit. She saw. ‘Maybe.’ This isn’t a total lie, but I still squirm.

‘I’m glad.’

This is a surprise. ‘You are?’

‘Yes.’

I remain still. Shocked that she is showing support for a change. I wait for the catch.

Turns out I don’t have to wait long. ‘I’ve always thought you should offer semi-naked cakes.’ She looks at me, and I can tell from her eyes that she honestly thinks she could do a better job of running the business than I am. And for a moment, remembering my blank sketch book and my empty bank account, I agree with her. She goes on, unaware of my inner turmoil. ‘It’s such a great design. I’m sure it will be very popular with couples.’ And a few years ago, it was a great design. But now it’s stale.

Chris’s face pops into my mind, and I try to keep my expression blank. ‘Indeed.’

She cocks her head to the side. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? It is a popular design, isn’t it?’

I nod, very slightly. ‘Yes, I have one couple this year who would like a semi-naked cake.’

Mum’s responding smile is the first genuine one of the afternoon. ‘I knew it. They must have great taste.’

She looks at me and, despite my best efforts to remain expressionless, reads something in my face.

‘Oh. Who is it? I sense a story here.’

There is no point in lying. She will be able to tell and will just keep attacking me until I spill the beans. ‘It’s actually for Chris.’

Her eyes grow wide and light up.

‘Chris? Your ex-boyfriend, Chris?’

I nod. I’m here now, so now I must make the best of this bad shituation. ‘Yep. One and the same. Small world, huh?’

I hope she drops the subject, but also know my hope is less.

‘He is such a wonderful boy. I was so sad when you two broke up.’ She stares into the distance as if it was her relationship that ended. Her life that changed. She then says the thing that maybe everyone in her position would think, but the one thing she really shouldn’t say. ‘If only you had done things differently, it could be you getting married to Chris.’

The only good thing about today’s lunch was its short duration. Everything else hurt.

Which is why, sitting on my couch many hours later, I plan on taking two recreational night-time paracetamols and getting an early night. It’s only 8.30 p.m. but I’m ready for today to be over. I need today to be over. My mind is going around and around in ever decreasing circles wondering about all the useless what ifs.

A ping of my phone momentarily stops me circling. In a welcome break from reality, the message is from Noah. Our messages have been very casual, but they’ve also been consistent. More consistent than I’m normally comfortable with, but I trust Mika’s assessment of him. And besides, the messages are entertaining. Following on from the waffles vs pancakes discussion we have been comparing and contrasting an array of foods. It’s not exactly flirty, but it is fun.

Tacos. It has to be tacos. Burritos are too big and difficult to eat. Plus with tacos, you get more variety, and variety is the spice of life. Broccoli or green beans? And are you free tomorrow?

Of course he would choose tacos. It’s not a surprise he needs variety in more than just his sex life. I should have known this.

Broccoli. Always broccoli. Beans make a squeaking noise when you eat them. It’s just weird. And maybe. Why? What did you have in mind? ;) x

Despite the winky face, the last thing I feel like being right now is seductive, but I also don’t want to close off the option of seeing Noah again, no matter how confused Chris is making me feel. I’m hoping my ‘maybe’ will give me a little more time to decide if I feel up for a rendezvous.

A knock on my door makes me jump. I live a solitary lifestyle. Visitors, especially unexpected ones, are not common. My lights are on, so I’m going to have to answer it, even if I don’t want to. I just hope it isn’t my mother.

‘Paige. Open up. It’s me.’ I can tell by the voice that it’s Sara. I frown in confusion. It’s a Friday night. Friday nights are usually rubbish for her to get away. It’s normally the day Nick comes back from working away during the week. I hope she’s OK.

I open the door and let her in. She rushes past me, clearly riled up about something.

‘Are you OK?’

It’s been raining, and she’s leaving little puddles wherever she walks. But on her cheeks I can see tears mixed in with the rain drops.

‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be OK?’ She sniffs.

I look at her, wondering if this is a trick question, if maybe I have done something wrong and I don’t know it. But I should know it.

‘I don’t know.’ It comes out as a question.

She sighs and looks just a little less tense.

‘Sorry, I’m just so …’ She huffs. ‘Angry! Nick was being so annoying but not in a way that means I can shout at him. No, he has to be annoying in a way where he’s not really doing anything bad at all, which makes him even more annoying!’ She starts to pull at her hair. I walk over and take her hand to make her stop. It’s never quite recovered, and I know that no matter how angry she is she would be really upset if she damaged her hair even more. She looks at me. ‘Thank you.’

I blink and half nod an ‘of course’.

She puts down her hands but starts pacing. I feel bad. As rooms go, it doesn’t have a big enough footprint to pace in a gratifying way.

‘I am always so … available. I know that I am so lucky, so lucky, for so many things. And he was so good, he had to be so good, for so long. He had to do everything because I couldn’t do anything. And I am so grateful. But it feels like I have to be grateful and have to thank him for the rest of my life. I feel like I can’t ask any more of him than he has already given. I feel like I can’t even go out on a Friday night because he might want to do something. Or he might be late travelling back so can’t take the kids. Or he might want dinner, so I’ll need to make that for him. But Friday is the first night of the week that I can get a break from the kids. He’s been free from them all week. And I am just so angry because, yes, he was great, but it was me, it was me who was sick, and now it is me who is constantly doing nothing but showing my thanks. And it seems so petty to be angry about the fact I can’t go out on a Friday, but what’s the bloody point of being alive if I’m not bloody able to go out on a Friday night?!’ She sits down. ‘And then I feel guilty for not wanting to be with my kids, and I can’t get angry at him about anything because he never gets angry at me, so I can’t be angry back. It’s infuriating.’ She clenches her fists and I think she might actually draw blood.

At this point she looks at me. I don’t know why. I don’t have the answers.

‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ Deflection works almost as well as distraction.

‘No.’ I’m relieved to see her hands relax. ‘What would I say? “Thanks for being the best person ever when I had cancer, now can you just give me a little more?”’

I sit down too. She might not find me being close very comforting, but I do. It’s upsetting seeing her upset. ‘I don’t think that’s the story though.’

She sighs. ‘Maybe not.’

‘But you’re here now?’

‘Yes. I told him I had plans and ran out the door. I didn’t give him the option to stop me. Not that he would have. He probably would have smiled and let me go even if he didn’t want me to.’

I inhale and straighten. ‘OK.’ I give her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Don’t get mad, but I’m going to text him to let him know you’re here. Just so he doesn’t worry.’

She doesn’t say anything, but she does nod.

After sending Nick the message, I turn back to Sara.

‘Can I get you a glass of wine? And some food?’

She nods and smiles a sad, but thankful, smile. Her lips are all shiny from the tears.

Baking cakes all day means I can rarely be bothered to cook any actual meals, but I do always have snacks. And cake cut-offs. They aren’t pretty, but they taste great. I get things out of various cupboards and drawers and fridges and hope that together, this odd mix will suffice. Frankly the only thing that really matters is the wine. The food is just there as a safety blanket.

‘Here.’ I hand her a healthy glass of white wine and sit back down next to her, my own glass within easy reaching distance.

‘I’m not a relationship expert, and I don’t really know Nick, but I think you have to talk to him.’ She looks at me, pleading. I backtrack slightly. ‘Not right now, and I don’t know how long you have felt this way, but I doubt he wants you to keep walking out, and I don’t think you do either. You might be frustrated with him, but you still love him.’

Her only response is a shrug, but her tears finally start slowing down. She has always been a great crier. Sometimes I think it looks cathartic. I give her a hug.

When we break apart, she picks up the old semi-naked drawing that I repurposed for Chris.

‘Is this a semi-naked cake?’

‘Maybe.’ It says ‘Semi-naked’ in big letters at the top.

‘You hate semi-naked cakes. I thought you weren’t going to do them any more.’ She looks confused, and focuses in on something, bringing the drawing right up to her nose. Her eyes go narrow and then very, very wide. ‘Is this how much you are charging for cakes these days?’

I grab it from her and sheepishly look away. ‘My charging is flexible.’

She glares.

‘It’s for Chris.’

She glares some more. ‘So you are going to do their cake?’ This is exactly what I mean when I say we always end up talking about me and my issues, even when Sara’s are much more important.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I thought I would price it really high; that way I will either get a good pay day, or I will never have to see him again.’ It’s been almost two weeks since their tasting session, and I couldn’t sit on their email any longer.

She sits back in her chair. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this.’

I’m not sure either, but I hit send earlier this afternoon.

‘He would be a fool to say yes.’

In her eyes, he is a fool either way. So am I. It’s written all over her face.

‘Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.’

She spears a bit of cake with her fork. ‘I don’t know what you ever saw in him. I know I’ve never met him, but it seems like you had a lucky escape. Personally, I think you are better off without him. And without his cake. I hope at least he had a lovely penis. If he didn’t, I really don’t understand why you went out with him.’

Most of the time I agree with her – not about the penis, as it was actually not that great, but the other bit: I am better off without him. But unfortunately, at the moment, all the reasons for our break-up seem a little feeble. I can’t even really remember what they were.

‘I can see you softening.’ I don’t know whether it is the cake or the tears, but Sara is unusually vocal this evening. ‘He didn’t even have the balls to break up with you. He forced you to break up with him and then started dating someone else a month later.’

‘It’s not that easy.’

Sara scoffs, but I stick to my point of view.

‘It isn’t.’ Cancer has a way of invading more than just your cells. It also invades your relationships. And the way you view things. And how you act. And your priorities. It wasn’t his fault that we broke up. It was mine. It was the cancer’s.

‘I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but you need to move on.’

‘I have moved on.’

‘Have you? You are my breast friend’ – a term of endearment that we have shared since first meeting, and a term that now only gets used when we are about to say something meaningful, or potentially painful, so that we know whatever is about to be uttered comes from a place of love – ‘but from where I’m sitting it doesn’t look like you have.’ She pauses. ‘Let me ask you this – if you have moved on, properly moved on, why is his re-entry in your life bugging you so much?’

I open my mouth to say something, but close it again when I realize I don’t have an answer.

I take a sip of wine. OK, more than a sip, but less than the whole glass.