The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 8

Sara and I have decided to meet up at the gym. We do this on a semi-regular basis when our diaries align, although we always try to make them align on Tuesdays. There is an early-afternoon spin class that is taught by a really cute instructor, as long as you can forgive him for wearing Lycra shorts. We call him Chip because his chipolata is always on display.

In a shocking turn of events, I got here even earlier than usual, having finished off my morning baking and admin tasks quicker than planned. Sadly, my speed had little to do with efficiency, and more to do with the fact that I totally failed to complete any of the things on my to-do list, in particular coming up with cake designs for Mika.

Breakfast club is the day after tomorrow, and every pore of my being is aware that I should have an update for her. But my motivation has flown right out the window. And also my confidence. In a misguided attempt to find some inspiration, I went on social media. But instead of inspiration, all I found was people doing amazing things, things that made my own things look pathetic and pedestrian and unworthy of praise. Certainly unworthy of being featured in a Mika wedding.

Her business and support could be huge for me. Every week without fail, at least one of her weddings gets coverage in one of the big blogs or magazines. Even this morning I’ve spotted two new posts. It’s a competitive world out there, and it’s this kind of coverage that sets you apart, that gets you noticed. That gets you clients. That helps you pay your bills.

I sigh. But only if I can come up with a winning design. At the moment every cake I draw ends up looking like a hat. I always think they look like hats, but most of the time I can also see cake. Not this time though. I’ve never been very good at the drawing-up of the designs. A lot of the time when I send them off, I have to qualify the terrible drawing with a note saying that the cake will come out looking a lot better. I even made an artist friend of mine teach me how to draw them properly. It helped, but not as much as I needed it to. It’s the worst part of my job. Sometimes.

I’m fully aware that no matter what, I always find the task I’m currently doing the worst part of my job, and at the moment, drawing up the designs is definitely the worst part of my job. Especially when I can’t even think of anything to draw. It’s so frustrating because regardless of how much time you have, if you don’t have any ideas, it doesn’t matter. You might as well take a nap instead. Which is exactly what I did this morning. Unfortunately, I can’t say that I felt any better for it.

It’s at times like this that I wish I was a romantic person. I imagine romantic people are bubbling over with creative energy, probably from all the sweet, rosy, cheery thoughts that come with being romantic, kinda like a buy-one-get-one-free situation. The only design I managed to complete was the one for Chris and Pippa, and only because all I had to do was copy and paste my previously used semi-naked cake drawing, along with the other totally vanilla designs I send along to couples who lack imagination and individuality.

But I can’t cut and paste the designs for Mika.

Often the only thing that helps when I am stuck is walking away. Literally. So that’s exactly what I am doing, except I am on a stationary machine.

The fact Sara is on the treadmill next to me makes the situation slightly better. I feel less alone with her by my side, but I don’t have to actually engage. It’s the ideal situation. We don’t even talk to each other. In fact we barely acknowledge each other’s existence.

She’s running, but I’m not a keen exerciser. At school, the only sports game I excelled in was sleeping lions. So instead of doing anything strenuous, I am listening to a true crime podcast whilst walking at a fairly leisurely pace. I have the treadmill on a slight incline, but I won’t be breaking a sweat. Do I feel guilty for walking inside when I should be walking outside? Yes, but if I have learnt one thing from listening to too many true crime stories, it’s that you should never wear earphones outside. Outside you must always stay alert. Here, it is the opposite. Here, earphones are encouraged. Here, I work to ignore the noises around me. Like the grunting men and anxiety-inducing dance music. I once came on a Friday night, and there was an actual DJ performing a set from the middle of the gym floor. I felt very confused and out of place.

Neither Sara nor I spend enough time in the gym to warrant spending much money on our memberships. Instead, our gym is one of those budget ones, the type that has an overly aggressive colour scheme and no soap in the changing rooms. The type where, if you decide to risk showering, you need to wear flip flops. Even so, I definitely don’t make the most out of my membership, but I don’t want to get sucked into taking personal training sessions. Questions would definitely be asked about my diet, and I would have to remember to substitute the word ‘quinoa’ for ‘cake’. The only reason I would be tempted is so I could learn how to use the pull up machine; I have a fear that some day someone will push me off a cliff and I won’t be strong enough to pull myself back up. I have mitigated my fear by never going near cliffs, and so far this plan has worked just fine. But still, it would be good to have a back-up plan.

Realizing I haven’t paid attention to my podcast for the last ten minutes, I decide to rewind it back to the beginning of the episode.

But just as I pick up my phone a message pings in, causing me to almost drop it. Only my outdated earphone cable saves the thing from smashing on the rotating belt. I know the sender can’t see you, but I worry, just for a moment, that they can. The timing of the text is too much of a coincidence. And it would not be a good look. It would be a typical triple chin scenario.

I look at who the message is from. It’s an unknown number, but this time it’s genuinely unknown, not just tried-to-be-forgotten.

You should have stayed on Saturday. I scrub up well. X

The message is accompanied by a picture of Noah in his scrubs. I snort slightly through my nose. I have enough experience to know that men like him find women who are too keen annoying at best, and repellent at worst so I won’t reply straight away. But I do smile. I’m glad he’s got in touch.

‘What are you laughing at?’ I turn to see Sara. She has stopped running quite so quickly and is instead looking at me.

I minimize the message as quickly as possible. ‘Nothing.’

‘OK.’ She slows to a walking pace, and I fear I haven’t got away with my lie. ‘Who is Noah and why do you care about his black shirt?’

If I didn’t rely so much on Google Maps, I would much prefer to go back to the days of the Nokia 3310. That screen was far too small and dim to read from a distance.

I put my phone down in the little well and take off my earphones so I can hear better. ‘He’s just someone I met at the party I went to on Friday. And I don’t care about his black shirt. I just needed a way to remember him.’ This is a lie, and I know that Sara doesn’t believe me.

‘Well, I’m just glad it’s not Chris that’s messaging you.’

At the mention of his name I have to look away. She might have let the one lie go, but this would be a step too far. It doesn’t make a difference.

‘Oh Paige. Please don’t tell me that you are going to do his cake.’

‘OK. I won’t.’ The silence and my lack of denial hangs in the air.

She sighs. ‘I can’t stop you, but I would like it to be noted that I think this is a bad idea. A very bad idea.’

I keep my reply short and nod once. ‘Noted.’ I haven’t made up my mind yet. My finances scream ‘do it’ but the rest of me screams ‘don’t’.

I look at the garish clock on the wall. It’s almost time for our spin class to start.

‘Shall we head in?’ Sara nods before we both stop our machines and gather our gym paraphernalia.

We are the first people in the studio, but I always like to get there competitively early. It is the only race I frequently win. This way we get the good bikes, the ones that aren’t right at the front, but also aren’t right at the back, and can also take our time adjusting our seats. The potential of sustaining rather epic minjuries is quite high on these bikes, so all available precautions must be taken. After my first class here I feared she would never recover. Now she has at least built up a little bit of a resistance.

Almost as soon as our bikes are ready, our instructor comes in.

‘Hi guys!’ He is, as you would expect, animated and energetic. The rest of us nod in silence and avoid his gaze, although I accompany my silence with a half-smile because I do feel for him. He jumps on to the bike and clips into the pedals. I can’t help but wonder what the male equivalent of the minjury feels like. I imagine it’s quite unpleasant. And I would have thought something thicker than Lycra would be beneficial. Poor Chip.

‘OK. Are we ready for a high-energy class?’ He smiles at us, and I dial up my own just a touch in response but remain silent. Yes, we are ready for high energy, but we are also still awkwardly British. I see that the woman opposite us has taken the avoidance thing a step further and is wearing earphones. The music starts, and so do his legs. Today he has even opted to wear a Britney mic. ‘OK, great. Let’s have a good class!’ He turns the music up. ‘Set your intentions.’ This always seems like bollocks. ‘Whatever you are frustrated about, angry at, or need to let go, now is your time!’ He seems really into it today, and I can’t help but also feel a little more energized than normal. Spinning is definitely not as gentle as walking slowly on a treadmill, and I am already sweating, but it feels good to run away a little faster. Chip turns the lights down, and I ignore everything around me. But without anything else to think about, one image stays in my mind.

Their stupid cut-and-paste semi-naked wedding cake.