The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch
CHAPTER 30
I lied and told Sara that the earliest appointment I could get was for the following Wednesday. I could have seen them on the very day I called my oncologist with my worries, but I needed to finish this cake off to the best of my (distracted) ability. This is important to me too. I’ve given up a lot for cancer. I don’t want to give up this cake. Besides, five days won’t make a difference. I don’t think. And if it does, I’m fucked anyway.
My car is back, which I am grateful for, even if my bank balance isn’t, so I travelled to the venue all by myself, as per usual. The journey had never felt so lonely. All the way there, and even before, when I was loading my car with the cake and her entourage of travel essentials and emergency supplies, my mind kept flitting from one worry to another. The cake. Sara’s disappointment in me if she finds out I lied to her. Whether the outfit I am wearing today is acceptable (I had to dress up – Mika asked me to drop the cake off whilst the guests are having dinner, making a smarter outfit a requirement in case of accidental run-ins with the guests). Whether the price I sent off yesterday was too high. Or too low. If I left my curling iron on. If Noah will still be on the same page if I once again lose all my hair and appetite and ability to laugh.
But now, at the venue, looking at the almost complete cake, I’m glad of my decision to keep going with the cake and delay the biopsy. I am nobody if I am unable to do the things I love. And I love making cakes. Each one is unique. Each one is a little different. Each one has flaws and imperfections. But each one is perfect.
The venue itself is absolutely stunning. It’s very rare that a venue is brighter inside than outside, especially when it’s a sunny day, but this venue proves to be an exception. It’s an old bank in the centre of town, but it isn’t old-fashioned at all. It has been beautifully renovated. It has all the staples you would expect – even an antique safe – but with an interesting, fresh twist. It has high ceilings and huge windows. It has sweeping staircases, and so many chandeliers. The statues aren’t of old men or cherubs; they are of mythical creatures and plants. The paintings on the walls aren’t of religious scenes or previous owners; they are abstract and modern and colourful. The walls and floors aren’t dominated by wood or dark colours or old patterns; they are all white, or very light grey. Clouds of white flowers are suspended from the strikingly high ceilings. Everything smells like roses and cedar. I might be in a dream.
In a way, I am relieved to have my lump to bring me back down to earth. Otherwise, I might be crushed by the desire for the cake to be perfect. At least cancer helps to put things in perspective.
She isn’t completely set up yet, but she is getting there. If I didn’t like Mika so much, I would have refused to set the cake up when guests are already around, especially one that has so many delicate elements to it. There is nothing worse than setting up a cake with people watching. Everyone secretly thinks they could do better themselves. They don’t see the hours that go into even the simplest cake. They don’t see the struggle behind the scenes. The person behind the sponge. To counteract my nerves, I pretend I have blinkers on and focus in on the cake, and only the cake.
Putting a cake together is a bit like seeing a newly redecorated room for the first time, when all the elements are combined. You never quite know what it will look like. But I’m relieved to see that, despite the occasional, and newly established, fear-tear that escaped when I was making her, this beast of a cake looks glorious. She is five tiers tall, and totally, completely white. I added a hint of grey, to make the white a little softer, and I am glad I did. But even though she is all one colour, she is far from one-dimensional. She is very striking. She is like nothing I have ever seen before, which is quite something in the world of cakes, where most ideas have already been tried and executed (better and by somebody else). There is so much added texture from all the detailed piping, nougat paper, meringue waves, rice paper and delicate white sugar flowers that she looks alive. And the more you look, the more you see. She has been placed in the middle of the back wall, so guests can’t miss her when they come in.
I take a step back and look at her. She does look beautiful. The sun is coming through the windows, and the ruffles are thin enough to let the light shine through. The effect makes it look like she is radiating the light herself, and somehow the shadows make her look alive.
‘Did you make the cake?’
A woman with a camera is standing beside me. She must be the photographer. Her question brings me out of my box, and I can see quite a few of the guests looking at the cake. I panic, until I realize that they all have smiles on their faces.
I turn back to the woman with the camera. ‘I did.’
She snaps a quick photo and then looks at it through the screen. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
I look at the floor as I say, ‘Thanks.’
‘See, look.’ She then shows me some of the photos she has taken. Whenever I take photographs of a cake, I never manage to capture its character. But she has. She keeps scrolling, and as she goes further back, I notice that I am in some of the shots.
‘Oh gah! I didn’t realize you were taking photos when I was setting up.’
She smiles. ‘I could tell. I’ve never seen someone so focused.’
She keeps scrolling and I turn away. I don’t want to look, but at the same time it would be weird if I asked her to delete them.
Eventually, she lets her camera hang, reaches into her bag and pulls out a card, giving it to me. I would reach for one of my own, however as per usual I have three spatulas on me but have left my business cards at home.
‘I’m doing a series on art in unexpected places, and I’d love to have you involved. It would mainly focus on the cakes, but also a bit on your own story.’ She shoves the card a little further under my nose. ‘Email me?’
I take it. ‘Sure. Sounds fun.’ I try but fail to rally a huge amount of enthusiasm for this. Obviously, I am not one to share my story. I look down at the card. Reading the name at the top, I realize with slight horror that the woman I have shown a total lack of enthusiasm to is none other than Annabelle Cole. Renowned photographer Annabelle Cole. She’s not known for weddings; she’s better known for her portraits. She is also a lot younger than I imagined her to be.
‘I didn’t know you did weddings.’ The words are out before I can stop them. In an effort to appear cool, I have gone straight to casual.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind. I imagine people are awestruck in front of her quite frequently. She’s probably used to it.
‘I don’t normally. Well not any more, although once upon a time they used to be my bread and butter.’ She looks around the room. ‘I’m doing this more as a wedding gift, but it makes quite a nice change. Although I’m only taking a few photos. My assistants are doing all the heavy lifting.’
I nod. I love Sara but I wouldn’t say no to having Annabelle Cole as a friend as well.
She gestures back out towards the room. ‘Well, I better get back, but it was really great to meet you. Make sure you email me, and well done on the cake.’
I smile back at her. ‘Thanks so much.’ And then, because I am not totally devoid of manners, ‘It was great to meet you too.’