She gasps. “Oi. That’s Pea-Lime’s suffering.”
“Tell Pea-Lime to share,” I say, biting into it. “Builds character.”
She watches me chew, then smirks. “You look lighter.”
I pause, consider it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I am.”
She nods, satisfied, and takes another reluctant bite of the apple.
“Still hate this,” she mutters.
18
Financial Cold War
Christa
Theo’s coffee shop smellslike roasted beans, sugar, and competence. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel marginally more together just by sitting in it, which is rude when you’ve spent the morning wrestling spreadsheets and eating toast over the sink.
I spot Ivy immediately, perched at a table with her coat draped neatly over the back of the chair, looking annoyingly fresh. She sees me, grins, and waves like we’re not about to retreat to a corner and gossip like Victorian women with secrets.
“So,” Ivy says, eyes bright. “You look like you’ve survived something.”
“I have,” I say. “I have survived a woman with money and a birthday.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Go on.”
“Posh client,” I say. “Upcoming fiftieth. Decided the cake was going to be the emotional centrepiece of her entire existence.”
Ivy snorts. “As it should be.”
“She sent me to ten different cake places,” I continue. “Ten. Not a cake tasting. A cake pilgrimage.”
Ivy stares at me. “You’re joking.”
“I wish. In fact, each one represented a different vibe. Elegant. Nostalgic. Playful. Confident but not loud.”
Ivy presses her lips together. “That last one is not a cake. That’s a LinkedIn bio.”
“Exactly. I had to eat my way through the emotional spectrum of a woman who owns more than one house.”
“What kind of cakes are we talking?” Ivy asks, already invested.
“All of them,” I say. “Lemon drizzle pretending to be humble. Chocolate with a personality disorder. A carrot cake that clearly thought it was better than me. One had edible gold leaf, Ivy. Gold. Leaf.”
Ivy’s eyes sparkle. “You poor thing. Insert sarcasm.”
“I had to take notes,” I add. “Actual notes. On texture. On mouthfeel. On whether the icing was celebratory or trying too hard.”
“And you lived.”
“Barely,” I say. “By cake seven, I was questioning my life choices and, by cake ten, I’d lost the will to chew.”
Ivy sips her coffee. “So,” she says. “Which one are you recommending?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Theo’s. Obviously.”
