‘I hope he does show up, because I’m going to kill him,’ she threatens.
‘Before Al goes to prison for the rest of her natural life, shall we do the cake?’ Michael holds a platter aloft and perched on top is the strangest-looking cake I have ever seen in my life. And as someone who happens to be very talented at guessing if something is real or cake, that is a bold statement.
‘What the heck is that?’ I ask as Bryn lights the candles that have been jammed into the long, brown, hopefully chocolate-covered thing.
Michael lowers the platter and presents it for my approval, turning it around until I am staring into a very confusing white chocolate face.
‘Mia, please meet British icon, Colin the Caterpillar. Birthday party staple since I have no idea when. While you’re in the UK, you’re legally obliged to eat at least one on your birthday.’
‘On everyone’s birthday,’ Jenna clarifies. ‘Meaning you’ll be putting away a conservative estimate of about ten Colins a month while you’re here. Let’s hope you like it.’
‘This is why travel is so culturally enriching. Imagine if I had survived another day of my life without knowing about this.’
Party hat on my head, gifts hanging from my arm and my heartfull to bursting, I grin at my new friends. ‘Thank you, I can’t believe y’all did all this.’
On Jenna’s cue, they all start singing the happy birthday song and I don’t know where to look that won’t end in me bursting into happy tears. So, I look at Colin. His white chocolate face, his milk chocolate eyes, and tiny pink stuck-out tongue. Exactly the kind of attitude that’s going to get him eaten.
I’m on my second slice of Colin, no regrets and zero shame, when Oliver appears, crossing across the grass, guitar on his back. We’ve been lucky with the weather, sunshine only, and the picnic has been decimated – Marks & Spencer’s finest picky bits according to Alice. With all of us stretched out on a patchwork of enormous picnic blankets, Bryn is passionately defending the latest season of some TV show about a British gangster that I’ve never seen, and Michael and Jenna are fighting over the last chocolate caramel shortbread cookie.
‘Watch out.’ Alice wedges her Porn Star Martini in a can between a tub of rocky road bites and a bag of sweet chilli chips, and pushes up the long sleeves of her shirt. ‘Here comes the wandering minstrel.’
‘Alice, chill.’ I climb to my feet, brushing crumbs from my sweater and hoping I don’t have chocolate cake all over my face. ‘Attendance to my birthday is not mandatory.’
‘Attendance to all birthdays is mandatory,’ she says, scowling.
‘Spoken like a true Leo.’ Jenna tosses a grape across the blanket, smirking when it bounces off her friend’s head. ‘You can’t schedule these artistic types, Al, they have to be free.’
‘Free to turn up to parties two hours late without a present?’ Alice raises her voice just enough for Oliver’s smile to waver as he comes near. ‘I’d be so embarrassed, I’d throw myself in the river and be swept out to sea. Please say that’s why you’re here. I can help you tie your hands behind your back if you like?’
She bats her eyes in his general direction, but Oliver doesn’t bite.
‘Happy birthday, Mia.’ He leans in towards me, hands on my shoulders, his lips grazing my cheek. ‘I would’ve been here sooner but there was something of a family emergency.’
Immediately, I feel horrible. Even though I didn’t say anything, I sure wasn’t thinking nice things.
‘Oh no,’ Alice says flatly. ‘Not a family emergency. Did someone forget to polish the silver before lunch?’
‘Is everything okay?’ I move in front of her to block the death stare she’s levelling in his direction. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be, everything is fine. And you’re allowed to be upset if you want to be, it’s your birthday.’
‘Who would want to be upset?’ Jenna muses loudly behind us.
‘Plus, there was one other reason I was a bit later than planned—’
‘Two whole hours!’
‘Two hours later than planned,’ he amends. ‘Thanks, Alice. I wanted to give you this.’
Setting down his guitar, Oliver pulls an old-looking pocket tape recorder out of his bag and hands it over. I cradle the archaic thing in my hands, confused.
‘You’re giving me a tape recorder? What is this?’
‘It’s a Dictaphone, I always carry it with me in case inspiration strikes and I need to record something,’ he explains, ‘and I’m lending it to you so you can listen to my gift. It’s a song. “Mia’s Song”.’
Holy shit. I clutch the Dictaphone to me, holding it like the most precious thing in the world.
‘It’s something I’ve been working on for a while,’ he says softly. ‘Something clicked last night and I knew it was ready. I was up until dawn recording it.’
