“Sarah, not everyone wants to live the same whorish existence as you. There’s nothing wrong with Reilly wanting to meet someone to settle down with. Some people want it all: marriage and kids. A happy ending,” Thea counterargues, very much in the camp of 'true love'.
“I’m surprised you feel like that, after the arranged marriage incident.” Sarah snickers, sinking back the last of her drink. I might need to cut her off soon as well.
“It was not an arranged marriage.” Thea rolls her eyes. “Just my parents being hopeful for a union between two families. I declined. They accepted my wishes.”
My two best friends are polar opposites, but I can’t deny they share a passion for their willingness to find a hill and die on it.
“It was a shame Albert Abbot-Dupont What’s-his-face wasn’t for you. Mummy and Daddy would have been so thrilled,” Sarah says, with a fake posh accent that might be a little on the mean side of friendly banter.
“Bertie is a good man. Just not for me, and I am not for him. Mummy and Daddy were fine with it.” Thea’s eyes shine and she bats the moisture away before we can question her on it. She dreamed of finding herself a husband but she has her work cut out for her with finding someone to please her family. They were sure Bertie would be a home run, but after three months of dating between here and London, they both decided they weren’t right for each other. We were insanely thankful. He was a sweet man but a little dorky in a rich-boy-Benedict-Cumberbatch sort of way.
Sarah rests her head on Thea’s lap, aware she had pushed it too far. “I know, hun. I’m sorry.” Thea gently strokes her hair, accepting her apology.
Both my girls have strong stances on how their lives will pan out. Me, not so much. I have a goal: my bakery. And looking after Mum.
Chip jumps on my lap. He’s the fourth member of our little group, and the girls wouldn’t have a night without him. My little Border terrier cross. I picked him up from a shelter two years ago. They weren’t sure of his breed, but he definitely has the size and wire coat of a Bordie. His original name was Edward. I hated it, and Chip loved me enough to let himself be trained out of it. “The only man in my life from now on is Chip. I don’t need anyone else. I’ve got my friends, my mum, my dog and my baking.”
“That’s a little sad.” Thea gives me a wry smile.
“I have a dream, and it isn’t to be the little wife in my husband’s kitchen. It’s to be the boss in my own kitchen, in my own bakery. I need to find the perfect place. I’m not opening one in Bournemouth city centre. Bleurgh. If I’m doing this, I want to do it right. Westbourne Arcade or on the seafront.” I’m standing now as I declare to the universe my intentions in a class-A power pose. Maybe I need to cut myself off as well.
“The sex, though – good?” Sarah can’t help herself. I slump back on the sofa.
“The best. I’ve never had a man give me that. He worshipped my body. I didn’t know it could be that … enlightening.” Painstakingly true words.
A man like Elton would be a god of sex with all the practice he probably gets. I’m shocked that such a man who gives so much in the bedroom would be so selfish outside of it.
FIVE
Elton
“Jeeves, I need to find cupcakes for Neive,” I shout to the front of the car. I’ve been on a conference call for the last forty minutes and, luckily, Jeeves took the initiative to drive around aimlessly until I was done. He deserves another raise. The backseat of my Jeep is somewhere I do an impressive amount of work, like now with my laptop and paperwork spread out over the seats. I’m stretching myself thin, and soon something will give. But if I’m going to make this work for Neive then sometimes work is going to happen in the back of the car, especially when I’m doing the odd six-hour round trip into London to be home in time for dinner.
He nods at me in the mirror as he taps on Google maps, checking our location.
It’s Neive’s thirteenth birthday today, and I desperately need cupcakes. MJ would always make homemade ones, when she was sober enough to do so. Now she’sin rehab, all this is down to me. Except I can’t bake, and neither can my housekeeper, Claire. In her words, “Why in God’s name would I need to bake cupcakes for a single playboy?” Something I would need to address at some point. Claire’s been in my life for five years. She started as a temp at Fox Industries, in the admin department. She was crap, but I took a liking to her, with her short temper and no-nonsense attitude. She’s motherly, something I’ve always gravitated towards. I wanted to keep her but no one could decide where she should go, so I asked her to help with my life at home. She has become indispensable, and my house wouldn’t be the home it is without her. My staff work hard, but I reward them well.
Claire and Jeeves have taken care of most of the presents and organised a meal with Neive’s new friends from her new school, but I want to do this bit myself. Show her how loved she is, and show her that everything is okay despite life as she knows it falling apart.
“Elton, there’s a bakery around the corner, or there’s a few in the city centre.”
I wave my hand in indifference. That’s what’s great about having your oldest friend work for you. Little communication is needed. This is going to be a long and painful day, packed with meetings squeezed between Teams calls. I run my hands through my hair, counting down the hours until I can be outside by the firepit with a beer.
Jeeves parks right out the front, before getting out and opening the door for me. He knows I hate it when he does that. So naturally, he continues to do so. I raise my eyebrows at him and tell him to leave the car running. I’m going to be in and out.
The old-fashioned shopfront isn’t exactly screaming award-winning cakes, but I don’t have time to find anywhere else. The paint around the door handle peels off as I pull it open, letting a bell ring above my head. Old school, I like that, it might notbe so bad here after all. “One minute,” a sweet voice calls from the back.
The inside is a slight improvement on the outside – clean but outdated, redeemed by a selection of brightly coloured cupcakes, biscuits and cookies filling the displays. The radio plays quietly in the background, giving a relaxing mood.
But a smell of burnt confections fills my nose as someone yells, “Fuck!” along with the sound of crashing pans coming through the backroom door.
A short woman steps through the doorway, brushing flour off on her apron. “Sorry about that. How can I help?” Her red hair is tied into a mess of a bun on her head with a couple of pens sticking out of it. I’d recognise those curls anywhere – I had them splayed across my bed and now I see them in my dreams every night. With a smear of icing on her chin and bits of batter in her hair, she’s a far cry from the goddess I had under me a few weeks ago, but still she’s a striking woman.
Her face drops. “You!” she seethes, her words dripping with disdain. She’s pissed off with me? What did I do?
“Reilly. What? Erm … why? You work here?” I stumble over my words.
“Clearly,” she states, one hand on her hip and the other waving at her yellow apron withSunshine Cakeswritten across her chest. The sass and feistiness coming off her in waves stirs something inside of me. She is not pleased to see me, and I can’t help but smirk at her ire.
