The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch
CHAPTER 17
My car is still unwell, so I’ve had to deliver today’s cake via public transport. Yes, I could’ve ordered a taxi, but after many hours of overthinking, I voted on the tube. To be honest, it was nice to overthink about something comparatively mundane. Recently my mind has either been full of Chris and my relationship failings, or my still-impending financial doom. As of 7 a.m. this morning, all I’ve had from Mika is an email saying she will call me in a couple of days.
However, one thing I didn’t think about when considering my mode of transport were the awkward conversations with my fellow tube passengers. An avid avoider of public transport on the weekend, I had forgotten that weekend travellers live by different rules to those observed during the week – people talk to each other, and as soon as people see that you’re carrying cake, they immediately think you’re a friendly person.
In my case, this is categorically untrue, especially if I have just been doing a lot of introspection. People with delicate sponges and even more delicate emotions don’t want to stop and chat. We want to get to where we are going and get there as efficiently as possible. And no, the cake is not for you, you cannot have a piece, and yes, they will notice. I’ve had to avoid a lot of eager eyes this morning.
One thing I am grateful for is that I opted to put on the leggings with pockets so I can easily reach my phone, my card, my keys and the remainder of my sanity. The day before dropping off a cake, I always tell myself that I will make an effort to look good when out on delivery. That way I will appear professional and mature, and blend into the background should guests arrive early. Of course, I never end up dressing up because I’m always too anxious about getting the cake there in one piece, meaning comfort and function take higher priority than style. Plus, my bum bag, a vital part of any delivery outfit, doesn’t look great paired with a dress.
I’ve even opted to wear my orthopaedic shoes. My nan used to swear by them, and I used to mock her until I tried them on. Now I wear through at least three pairs a year.
Today’s cake is one of the most bizarre and open-ended requests I have ever received, with Luke, the groom, simply telling me that they like birds and being outdoors. Not one for novelty cakes, I have taken this brief and made it within my own aesthetic boundaries. I hope they like it, but even if they don’t it’s far too late to do anything about it now. At least once the wedding is over the cake will be destroyed. This is one of my favourite things about being a cake maker. All your mistakes get eaten. Could you imagine if you were in publishing? All your mistakes would be printed out, in pubic, for the whole world to see.
And even if it isn’t one of my favourite designs, I was glad to have a cake to think about this week. It might be a small cake, but the decorations were very time-consuming to make, and they gave me a good excuse to avoid answering any messages or looking at my emails. For the most part it’s been quite liberating, even though I’ve found myself feeling a bit guilty about not replying to Noah, another sign that I’ve gone too far. I’m on the precipice and I need to turn back before it’s too late. Although it would be some kind of shitty karma if I finally wanted to date someone, and that someone was a serial shagger.
I’m finally, finally nearing the venue. I can see it in my sights, and not a moment too soon. My arms are aching from carrying the big cake bag. I’m having to swap hands increasingly frequently to avoid pain, and the tears that come with it. As I near, I get a bit nervous. I’ve never delivered a cake here before, so I’m unsure of their procedures. It’s a pub, a nice pub, but still a pub. But no matter what the venue is, you’d think something like the cake would be an easy thing to deliver. Alas, no. Not so much. Everywhere is different. Some people like you to be there to dress the table. Some people want you to piss off. It’s always different and you can never tell which way it’s going to go. I hope that today they want me to piss off. I am not in the outfit to hang around. I want to avoid people. And people are the most people-y when at a wedding. They are full of squeals of happiness and smiles of joy. There is nothing worse than being around people-y people when you don’t want to be around people.
I open the door with my free hand. The only good thing about seeing so many weddings is the flowers. Seeing them. Smelling them. Looking at them and feeling bad about how many of the names you don’t know, and pondering about exactly where they are grown. And today is no different. The flowers are lovely. If I could, I would sit in a flower garden all year long.
I take a moment to inhale deeply and close my eyes. I might be terrible at recognizing or naming flowers, but I can definitely smell a rose.
‘Hello?’
Startled out of my inhale, I open my eyes, and see someone smiling at me in a friendly way. Although I imagine it is mixed with a healthy dose of humour.
‘Hi. Hello. Yes. Sorry, the flowers just smell so amazing.’ Unlike me, she has dressed for style over function. Although it looks like she might be one of those people who can pull off both at the same time. ‘I’m here with the cake.’
She nods in recognition. ‘Perfect! The plan is for the cake to be downstairs, so it’s ready for the party. Dance fuel, you know.’ She shimmies her chest in a way that I would never be able to do. She even manages to still look cool.
‘OK, great. Are you happy if I set it up now?’
‘Sure, of course. The guests will be arriving soon anyway.’
‘Really?’ Shit. I should have worn a dress. Bum bag be damned.
‘Yeah. If you follow me, I’ll take you to where it needs to go.’ She starts walking away, impressively quickly given the shoes she is wearing. ‘There was a bit of a mix-up with the celebrant. She had to be across town for another wedding, so timings have all been a bit squished.’ One of the benefits of doing the cake is that, most of the time, the timing is your own to control. I could never be an event planner. Too many unknowns. Too many things to go wrong. Too many fires to put out.
I nod in response, unable to speak and only just able to still hold on to the cake bag. It’s as if my arms know they are almost free from the weight and are about to give up.
It’s so dark downstairs, I immediately regret not getting a nice photo of the cake in my kitchen. It is so disheartening when your cake gets shoved in the corner. If you don’t want a cake, don’t have a cake. But don’t have a cake and then shove it in the corner.
She directs me to the back table and smiles. ‘Here we are.’
‘Great.’ Nothing I can say will change the layout. ‘It’s quite dark down here, huh?’
‘Yes, perfect for dancing.’
Indeed. Perfect for dancing, terrible for edible art.
‘Do you need anything or shall I leave you to it?’
Light and a good table would be nice, but instead I say, ‘I’d love to wash my hands – is there a bathroom?’ Looking around, I will still wear my handy latex gloves as extra protection.
‘Of course.’ She points away from me and down the hall. ‘It’s just down there on the left.’
‘Great, thank you.’ I put the cake down carefully and head towards where she pointed, stretching my arms as I go.
In the loo, I can hear the dulcet tones of David Attenborough. I always find it odd when places play narrative recordings in their toilets, and David is an extremely popular choice. But why? Why choose someone who famously narrates nature programmes? It makes me wonder if the day will come when he will narrate the goings on in the ladies’ loo.
As I wash my hands, I attempt a David Attenborough voice. ‘And now, we will observe a timeless ritual. The creation of fleeting sisterhood. The bonds that are made within these hallowed walls are formed quickly and are often accompanied by drunken confessions of love. They also frequently lead to social grooming, a practice that is common amongst many primates.’
I laugh to myself, mainly out of pity, and look around, double checking that I am indeed alone.
I dry my hands and take an extra helping of paper to use as protection against the door handle. Before the door closes, I crumple the paper up, turn around, aim for the bin and throw. It’s a swish. It doesn’t even hit the sides. This is not an Olympic sport, but if it were, I would stand a chance of gold. And mini wins like this are important. Tennis players and cake bakers alike are known to be extremely superstitious. Any time I leave a cake unattended, the devil on my shoulder tells me stories of how it has been smashed, stepped on or crushed, so this mini win can be taken as a good sign. A sign that things will go right today.
As I head back towards the table, I’m relieved to see that the cake seems to be exactly where I left it. Next comes one of the most nerve-racking moments – taking the cake box out of the bag. You have to put both on the floor, and kind of dive into it. It’s a manoeuvre that ensures my butt is totally on show. Cake baking is not the glamorous profession some think it is, but eventually I manage to get the cake out and on to the table. Next comes the unboxing. This is quick, but it is also the time when transport casualties are discovered; broken sugar flowers, dislodged top tiers, lost sprinkles. When the box is off, I sigh a sigh of relief. The cake and all the decorations appear to be intact. I knew that the swish was a good omen.
Finally, I reach into my bum bag to pull out my gloves and put them on. They always make me feel so professional, and like I could be in forensics. My only regret was bulk-buying them in white, when two days after they arrived I saw them available in black. My cool Russian cake idols use the black ones. It’s probably a good thing I don’t. I am not good enough to be a cool Russian cake idol. Or cool enough.
Now is the moment. This part of the process is one that I always try to plan out so as not to drop the cake. Something about it being out of its box makes it seem more delicate. And although it isn’t, the fact I think it is, is enough to increase the risk of me dropping it. I use my mini spatulas to create some space under the cake base, lift the cake and plop it on the cake stand. Their choice of sponge and all the decoration on top means that the cake is going to be heavy, even though it is only two tiers. I exhale and test out my arms. The brief break has been good for them, but they will definitely be tired tomorrow.
Above me I can hear the guests arriving. I need to do this quickly so I can escape relatively unseen.
I wiggle the mini spatulas, manoeuvre my fingers under and lift. I have many mini spatulas, more than I need, but these two are my favourites. They were my nan’s. The handles are worn from her hands. Every time I use them I feel like she is right there beside me, cheering me on.
The noise of the guests coming downstairs, probably looking for the loo, breaks my concentration. The cake lunges slightly to the left as I have a little gander. Is that …?
‘Noah?’ I say it quietly enough so that only the cake can hear me. I put the cake down on the stand before I risk dropping it again, and hide behind the wider bottom tier so I can double check from the shadows that it is him. It’s dark down here, but I can see that he’s wearing dark blue-grey trousers and a white shirt, top buttons undone. Maybe I am struck by the contrast to the last time I saw him, but he looks extremely handsome. I wish I had been his plus one.
Shit.
I really shouldn’t have stayed at his house the other night. It’s thoughts like this that I try to avoid. Unhelpful thoughts. Thoughts that can only lead to disappointment.
Someone, a girl, an annoyingly beautiful girl, touches him briefly on the elbow. He turns towards her. It was the briefest of touches, but I’m already hooked. I can’t turn away. I have to keep watching from behind the bird-themed cake. There’s a hint of irony in the fact I have turned into something akin to a twitcher. His back is turned to me, so I can’t see either of their expressions or read their lips. I strain to hear his voice, but I can’t isolate it amongst the din of the other guests. I’m not sure I need to. Whatever they are discussing, it looks intense; he is talking very animatedly. His hands are going everywhere.
I feel a rush of mixed emotions and my heartbeat quickens.
I’m trying to be rational. There is no reason why he shouldn’t be talking to someone else. But I am irrationally angry: I feel like he has taken me for a fool, even if we were just a casual thing. And I’m confused: even if we were very casual, I didn’t expect this. I didn’t think he had a girlfriend, and it’s clear from the way that they’re talking that they’re more than just friends. They’re gesticulating so passionately. This must be why he so easily loses interest. We are just the half-time entertainment. And I am also rationally angry: he has made me into a mistress, a paramour, without my knowledge. I puff out my chest and straighten my shoulders. And finally, I am self-righteous: I have a moral obligation to tell her what has been going on between the two of us.
My shoulders deflate.
I am also absolutely gutted.