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‘They’re not mine,’ she’d snapped at him. ‘I’ve never worn an open-toe heel. Open-toes are for sluts.’
A cake in the shape of a delicate male region wasn’t the weirdest request we’d had in Cake, but customers weren’t usually so … aggressive.
We were instructed to put one of the shoes, specifically the heel, right through the thick of a testicle. She said she wanted the cake to look painful. Like marriage.
She’d been a particular woman, used to things a certain way no doubt. Even the delivery had its own set instruction—the cake had to be at Hawkeswood Hall, eight-thirty sharp, where a Mr Fergal Argyll was to sign for it personally. Not a member of the house staff, but Mr Argyll himself. I’d had the distinct impression Mr Argyll wasn’t a very popular man; this cake didn’t exactly look celebratory.
I felt into the top of my bag for the delivery sheet. No signature from Fergal Argyll would mean I forfeit the remaining half of the money, a condition Jess had told me I shouldn’t have let her bully me into. I’d reminded him that with the summer wedding season drawing to a close we could do with more cash in the till.
‘Don’t worry, Fergal will like you,’ she’d said, looking us both over. ‘But I wouldn’t send your friend here, they’ll eat him alive.’
I looked at Jess and wondered what she had meant by that. From the cornrows peeping out from under his beanie to his size twelve hi-tops, he didn’t look like someone who couldn’t take care of himself. But then he’d certainly look out of place at Hawkeswood, we both would.
‘Madam … your shoes!’ I’d called after her as she’d strode out through the door.
‘Keep them.’ She’d smiled coldly. ‘The slut will have to source her footwear elsewhere from now on.’
The van growled as I tried to shift from third to fourth again. It stuck sometimes, and you had to double-pump the clutch. There was no place for heeled shoes in my life. I’d gotten married in wellies, the one day of the year, Martha had vehemently told me, I was traditionally obliged to make an effort with my footwear. So I did, and bought myself a brand new pair of Hunters to match Charlie’s. Mum’s lip had twitched at least twice over their appearance in the wedding photos.
Between the glow of burning lanterns Hawkeswood Manor Hall was regally announced with a sweeping gated entrance off the main road. It wasn’t usually all lit up like this, there must be some kind of function on tonight. Figured. Where there’s a cake there was usually a function to go with it. I took the bend slowly so as not to jostle the delicate consignment in the back. I’d modelled the Dior shoe, a near enough perfect likeness for the real deals left behind in the shop. Jesse had made the main body of the cake, seeing as he had more physiological understanding of that area.
The van began to judder violently and I felt a flush of momentary panic. As if this van needed cattle grids to negotiate.
Finally, smoothly, the approach led me through opposing stone pillars and into Hawkeswood’s courtyard. The intricate detailing of the gothic priory before me was stunning set in the warm glow of numerous uplighters nestled in grassed borders. There was something special about Hawkeswood, something more than just its beauty. It wasn’t the grandest place I’d seen, although it was certainly grand, but it differed to other stately homes I’d visited. It was lived in, and there was something about a home that a venue simply couldn’t emulate. Life maybe. Not just in its Sunday best.
I parked at the end of a row of cars, and pulled my phone from my bag. I had a little while yet, it was only a quarter past, so I sat wrestling the window back into place.
There was movement underneath the archway of the main entrance vestibule, where a young guy appeared leaning casually against the wall beside him. He looked over at me sat in the front of the van, and it was enough to make me leave the window until he looked away again. I went back to watching the time on my phone until a shock of red drew my eye back to him.
The woman looked as though she’d just stepped from a movie screen, a Nordic goddess dripping in elegance and a blood red evening gown Martha would die for. She was stunning. No one would be looking at my clothes with women like her here; I could easily have gone with the PJs.
Her almost white-blonde hair was tied back from her neck in a bun too, but it was far from scruffy. It was perfect, she was perfect. So striking, in fact, I was finding it hard not to look at her. If the man thought so too, he was playing it very cool. The blonde lit herself a cigarette and leant in towards him. I watched as he repositioned himself. A lovers’ tiff maybe? Ah well, we all had those, even the beautiful people it seemed. Hopefully they would move back inside before I had to haul the cake in past them both.
Eight-twenty. I’d just sit here quietly then, minding my own business for a few more minutes.
Eight-twenty-three and they were still there, her still drawn to him, him still reluctant.
An absurdly loud and rigorous ringing cut through the hush in the courtyard. It made me jump out of my skin and the dream couple both snapped their heads around to stare at the source of the racket, blaring from my open window. ‘Damn it, Martha,’ I hissed, frantically trying to hit the right button, any button, to shut the noise off.
‘Hello?’
‘Hol, where are you? I’ve been ringing,’ she said, relief in her voice.
‘I’m working, Martha, where’s the fire?’ I glanced over at the couple under the archway. The goddess threw her cigarette and stalked back inside, the boyfriend was still looking on.
‘No fire, I was just worried when you weren’t at home.’
‘I’m not always at home, Martha, I do have other things to fill my days you know.’ We both knew that was a skinny truth. ‘Look, I’ll call you when I’m home. I’ll be about an hour. Don’t freak out until at least ten p.m., OK?’
‘OK,’ she said, and already I felt guilty.
‘OK, love you.’
‘Love you, bye.’
The call ended and, thankfully, the boyfriend had gone.
The doors into the lobby were left open, revealing a grand welcome to the Manor with timber panelling to the walls and a huge staircase climbing at least two floors above me. An attractive brunette somewhere around fifty approached me with a smile. Her smart white blouse and black pencil skirt suggested she was staff of some sort.
‘Hello, may I help you?’ she said.
‘Hi, yes. I have a delivery for Mr Argyll.’
The cake was too tall to use the box lid, and her smile faltered when she caught sight of the cake.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘And which Mr Argyll is expecting this?’
‘I was asked to deliver it at eight-thirty sharp to a Mr Fergal Argyll.’ I smiled.
The lady nodded. That made sense to her.
‘Well, Mr Argyll’s in the games room, just through the double doors at the end of this corridor if you’d like to go through. Let me take your bag for you, dear, you have enough to carry.’
I wasn’t sure why I’d brought the bag in with me. It was unlikely anyone here would want to break into the van for it.
‘Thank you. I just need to get the delivery sheet for Mr Argyll,’ I said, rummaging through my bag.
‘Well I can sign that for you,’ she offered.
‘Oh, that’s OK. Mr Argyll needs to sign for it in person.’
The hallway was long, giving me more time to fathom how I was going to open the heavy double doors when I reached them. A nervous looking gentleman in a dull suit stepped through one of the doors, hurriedly stepping into the hallway.
‘Could you hold the door, please?’ I asked, before he could scurry off. The gentleman obliged, allowing me and my armful of cake to slip through unobstructed into the hubbub of the voices on the other side.
‘Good luck,’ he declared in an educated voice as the door closed between us.
Inside, I found myself standing in a room every bit as impressive as any I’d been in, bedecked with richly illustrated tapestries and wallpapers hanging against the warm tones of even more antique panelling. At the far end of the room a huge stone fireplace took up most of the wall there, others occupied by row upon row of books. It was a library-cum-games room, and smelled as it looked: cosy, old and vibrant. Charlie would have gone nuts for a room like this.
None of the twenty or thirty men, most in formal dress, slowed from their card games as I fumbled the cake onto the nearest surface. Laughter throbbed around me, along with cigar smoke and general merrymaking. This was very definitely a boys’ club, not a place for girls.
Which one is Fergal Argyll? I wondered, scanning the room for a face to match the name, or maybe the cake. Over at the fireplace, the colour of danger caught my attention again. The only other woman in the room, the goddess’ presence put me at ease instantly. I looked at her across the smoke and laughter and smiled that smile of sisterhood women have for one another. She lifted her chin and looked away, and like that I was on my own. I watched as she waltzed past her admirers to the loudest gentleman in the room.
He was raucously shouting at his fellow card players, rising to his feet when the goddess-cum-ice maiden approached his table.
‘Watch out, boys, here’s ma lucky charm,’ he declared in a gentle Scottish accent. His hand rested where her gown dipped at the small of her back. He was handsome, in his jacket and kilt, and suited the vibrancy of his surroundings. I’d put him somewhere around the fifty mark, although something about him seemed both younger and older.
The ice maiden accommodated him with a smile and then looked over at me, her gaze leading his.
‘What do we have here?’ he asked ‘Another gift from the dragon, perhaps?’
It was him. It had to be. ‘Mr Argyll?’ I said.
‘At your service, sweetheart. What can I do for ye?’ His short neatly cropped greying beard gave him the look of a laird, whilst darker hair falling forward over serious eyes were more the edge of a backstreet boxer.
‘I have a delivery for you, could you sign here, please?’
Argyll approached the table and peered down at his cake. The boom of his laughter made me jump for the second time tonight.
‘I take it this is te celebrate ma divorce papers?’ he asked, a look of contentment in his dark eyes. ‘I have te hand it te her,’ he ruptured, ‘she’s got a streak all right that woman. Have a look at this boys,’ he growled heartily, grabbing the cake from its box and spinning it around to show his company. ‘She always told me I got by not on the size of ma brain, gentlemen, but on the size of ma balls!’
He turned from his audience of dinner jackets and rested serious eyes heavily on me. He was a handsome man, if not flamboyant, and smelled of a heady mix of cigar smoke and brandy.
‘You, miss, have got the size of me about right.’ He grinned, looking to the pair of testicles in his hands.
‘Glad you like them, Mr Argyll. Would you mind signing for them?’
He put the cake back down on the table next to us and I held my pen out for him. His eyes still hadn’t left mine.
‘Ye don’t look convinced, darlin’. Here … Let me prove it to ye.’ I watched him cock his head, smiling, before my brain could register what was coming next. The ice maiden disappeared from view as Argyll’s kilt rose high into the air between us. His beard wasn’t the only thing greying. My eyes darted upwards, focusing on his huge hands. He had worker’s hands, years of hard graft ingrained in the set of his knuckles, like Charlie’s and my dad’s.
It was time for me to leave.
I left the delivery sheet alongside the cake and calmly turned for the way out. I didn’t need Mrs Ludlow-Ballbreaker’s money that badly. Jesse would have to lump it.
The ice maiden’s boyfriend stood watching, his eyes following as I crossed the room towards him. I hadn’t felt enough embarrassment to blush until I saw him watching me closely. It was no wonder Fergal Argyll was so sure of himself—judging by his son, he must have had a youth full of women clamouring for his attention.
A Scottish accent followed me out through the doors, slipping from the mouthful of cake Argyll was chomping on. ‘No wonder the ladies love me, boys. I never knew I tasted so good!’ It was safe to smile here, I was nearly out.
Charlie would have laughed his ass off. He gravitated towards men like Argyll, Jack-the-lads with big personalities.
The entrance lobby was deserted when I made it there. I should have just left my bag in the van. I peeked around the staircase listening for signs of life. Nothing. Behind me, I heard the doors to the games room open and close again. I didn’t look, not even when heavy certain steps grew slowly closer.
Daintier taps of a woman’s feet came at me from the opposite side.
‘Did you find him?’ she asked. You had to love house staff, they were just so efficient.
‘Hi again, yes, thanks. Could I get my bag, please?’
‘Ah, of course. Just a minute, dear.’ And the friendly lady disappeared again.
Argyll junior had moved casually along the hallway and settled himself against one of the decorative pillars near the foot of the staircase. He was sharply dressed in a well-cut dark grey suit, his ice-white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He was sharp all right, but less formally so than his father, and every bit as certain it seemed.
I tried not to fidget as I waited for my bag’s return.
‘Working late?’ He was being polite. I hadn’t expected it.
‘Yes.’ I smiled, knowing that it didn’t quite reach my eyes. I let them fall away to the intricate tile work of the floor.
‘I’m sorry if Fergal embarrassed you,’ he said in a smooth and certain voice holding only a fraction of his father’s Celtic lilt. I smiled again. I used to feel more awkward about uncomfortable silences, but I’d survived a lot of them and I didn’t feel the need to fill them the way others did.
‘He gets carried away with cake.’ His eyes narrowed with the quip.
‘He didn’t mean any harm,’ I offered, looking off to the doors the lady had disappeared through.
‘You’re right, he doesn’t,’ he said, pulling my eyes back to him again. His hair was a little longer on top than his father’s, but fell forward slightly in nearly the same place.
Out here, without the clouds of cigar smoke, there was nothing to compete with the scent of the rich wooden panelling, the preparation of savoury foods somewhere off in the house and, over that, the subtle sweetness of the more polite Argyll’s cologne. It wasn’t like the bottle I slipped under Charlie’s pillow every Christmas Eve, not quite so familiar. This had a sweeter edge to it, the difference between flowers and berries.
‘Nice cake, by the way,’ he said, trying again for polite exchange. ‘I haven’t seen one like that before.’ He smiled then, it was a good smile, but his didn’t reach the eyes either.
‘Ciaran, your father’s ready,’ the ice maiden purred, sashaying along the corridor to us. I hadn’t heard the doors that time. This close I could see she’d made her blue eyes colder with smoky makeup.
‘Here you go dear.’ The friendly lady smiled, approaching us again.
‘Thank you … Goodnight.’ I smiled, taking my bag from her.
‘Goodnight,’ Ciaran Argyll called as I reached the cool of the evening air outside.
I looked back over my shoulder to the perfect couple and gave him an acknowledging smile.
Moving into him, to mark her territory, the ice maiden gave me nothing.
CHAPTER 4
I couldn’t feel the bite of the freezing waters around me, only the urgency to swim further out into them. He was here, I knew that, waiting for me to find him. To bring him home.
Behind me on the jetty, the life ring hung idly against the timber post. Why hadn’t I brought it with me? A sensation of unease deep in my chest tried to dig a foothold.
‘Come on, Hol! Catch up, it’s warmer here!’ Charlie laughed, water sloshing against his face. The unease disappeared.
‘I’m coming! Hang on!’ I laughed, trying not to splutter. It wasn’t easy swimming and laughing at the same time, but Charlie managed.
Over the sounds of water, slipping in and out of my ears, another voice found its way to me.
‘Holly! Holly, come back!’ Martha and Dave were on the jetty. She’d thrown the ring into the reservoir but it bobbed around without validation. I threw my hands above myself and waved at her.
‘It’s OK, Martha! We’re just swimming! Look, I found him! I found Charlie!’ I turned back to see if Charlie had waited for me, but he was twice the distance away now. Still laughing.
‘Charlie! Wait!’ I called, the unease digging down again.
‘Holly!’ Martha called worriedly. Can’t she see? I’m with Charlie.
‘Charlie? Charlie?’ The unease became heavier, like lead in my chest. ‘I can’t see you. I can’t see you, Charlie!’
‘Holly?’ Martha called, but I was swimming away from her.
‘Come on, Hol,’ Charlie called, ‘catch me up!’ I’d found him but he was further away again.
‘Wait for me, Charlie, you’re too fast!’ I called, but still he swam. Why won’t he give me a chance?
Martha’s voice grew nearer.
‘Holly? Holly?’
Swim harder, Holly. You can get there.
‘Holly? Holly honey, wake up.’
Martha was gently rocking me, concern etched into her face. My heart was still thudding, not realising the trickery yet.
‘I’m awake,’ I whispered. Please go now. I could still get to him, he was still there, still within reach. I wasn’t ready to give him up yet, not ready to accept the day.
‘Are you OK, honey?’
Already I could feel him slipping. Now I’d never get him back.
I’d expected more dreams, it was coming up to that time. But not those ones. Not like the dreams that had plagued me last year.
That was when I’d stopped drinking with the girls. So that I wasn’t spending my weekends waking up after midday not only with a hangover but fewer hours to pull myself together again. It’s hard enough nursing an aching heart, an aching head helps nothing.
Don’t cry. You’ll upset Martha. Be grateful.
‘Hol? Were you having a nightmare?’ I didn’t think she would go, stationed eternally on the jetty.
In place of my self-imposed ban on girly nights, Martha instigated a non-negotiable scaled down version. For the two years since the accident, Saturday nights had been dedicated to the emotional well-being of her kid sister. She didn’t realise that staying here every week, eating with her and Rob, sleeping in their guest room—it didn’t take the edge off my loneliness as she hoped it would, it defined it.
‘Hey. No, I’m good.’ I sent her the lie with a smile. It worked and she sent one back. I preferred Martha with her dishevelled morning look. Before she perfected her makeup for the day and set her hair flawlessly in place, she was the most beautiful girl I knew I’d see all day. But it was pointless telling her. I’d heard Dad try when Mum was out of earshot. Gilding a lily, he’d called it.
Really, she didn’t need to gild anything. Martha had inherited all the good stuff, which was probably for the best as it would have been wasted on me. She had a respectable inch on my five-foot-six, that was without the heels, her eyes were more decisive as to the shade of hazel they wanted to be and she was bestowed our mother’s rich blonde waves. I, on the other hand, had taken after our lovely dad—less polished and less blonde, with that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde colouring that could have been either had I ever decided which way to go with it.
But despite our differences, and the things I kept hidden from her, there was no question that we were tight.
Martha was a good sister, the best even. But this staying over every Saturday night was really about her emotional well-being more than it was mine. She needed to feel that she was doing some good, and I loved her enough to go each week as a spectator in her blossoming family life. It was the least I could do for her, she lost Charlie too.
‘Rob’s making breakfast,’ she chirped. ‘He’s breaking the big guns out. Full English?’ I wasn’t a breakfast person, but Martha was hell-bent on taking care of me for the entirety of the time she was allocated each week. She was weeks away from giving birth to their first child and, happy as I was for them, I couldn’t help but think of my impending niece or nephew as a welcome distraction. Maybe then I could have breakfast-less Sunday mornings in my own home again.
Downstairs at the breakfast table Rob had spared no efforts in his quest to fatten me up. He was just shovelling the last of the scrambled egg onto an already mountainous pile when I bypassed him for the coffee pot.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, busying himself with the next bubbling saucepan. ‘Beans or tomatoes? Or both? I’m having both.’
‘You are not, you’ve got enough on your plate already,’ Martha warned him.
Rob leaned in to me and whispered, ‘She’s got that right.’ I stifled a smile while Martha scowled at him. ‘What? I’m a growing boy, I need my energy,’ he protested.
‘Rob, we aren’t going to fit in the bed if you carry on.’
Rob looked at his beautifully rotund wife and then threw me a collusive look.
‘Sorry, my love. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have half a grapefruit next Sunday morning instead. Hol will hold me to it, right, Hol?’
‘You got it.’ I grinned into my mug. Martha made good coffee. ‘Anyone else have a headache this morning?’ I asked, sitting down to survey the man-sized portion waiting for me. It smelled good, actually.
‘Only from Rob’s snoring. You two were the only ones drinking last night.’
‘Was that you snoring, Rob?’ I asked, biting into a triangle of toast. ‘I thought someone was firing up a Harley outside.’
Martha smiled over the top of her Sunday Journal.
‘Do you want some ibuprofen?’ she asked, already setting the paper down. It was pointless stopping her, she’d only fuss until I’d swallowed a few painkillers. ‘Didn’t you sleep too well last night?’
‘No, I slept fine.’ Memories of my dream made me wonder what Martha might have heard through the night while Rob snored on. Change the subject. ‘It’s been a grueller in the shop this week. I’m probably just a bit highly strung. You know what it’s like, as soon as you stop, it all piles on top of you.’ One of the reasons I kept myself busy.
‘Yes, Martha was flapping when she couldn’t get hold of you Friday night. How come you were working so late?’ Rob said as he chewed his way through a sausage. It was difficult to look at Rob without smiling. He reminded me in some ways of Dave, a little obedient maybe, but loyal to the core and utterly dependable. They were the gentle giants in my life, but whilst Martha’s tolerance flexed for her husband, it didn’t stretch to Dave. I guess Rob slobbered less. Just.
‘I had to deliver to a gentlemen’s evening, over at Hawkeswood.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Rob mumbled, a forkful of hash browns meeting its doom.
‘I use the term gentlemen loosely. Dave has better manners.’
‘Hawkeswood’s the property tycoon’s place now isn’t it, Martha?’
Martha settled back behind paper. ‘Hmm?’
‘Hawkeswood. Didn’t you do something there years ago with Parry & Fitch?’
Martha loved to talk about her work. It was a shame Parry & Fitch Interiors had to scale back, but the UK property market had taken a big hit over the last few years and most people we knew had been affected in one way or another.
‘Did you, Marth? What did you do there? I only got as far as the games room and that was impressive.’
Martha had taken voluntary redundancy, slipping into her new life as a domestic goddess with ease. But all that extra time meant she’d stepped up her attempts at finishing the decorating at my place.