Confetti & Cake Read online

  But somehow, I’m not feeling quite as good as I was. As I watch Violet whisk the icing, I wait for the feeling of joy that I get watching the separate parts meld into one substance, impossible to separate, like they’ve always belonged that way. It doesn’t come.

  When the dough is rested, Violet and I knead it a second time. We fold and punch, fold and punch. It’s energetic, but fun.

  And then, from the other side of the wall, I hear voices and thunking bags. The wall that separates Rosemary’s Kitchen from our kitchen isn’t very thick. I can tell it’s Mum – she’s been out shopping with my sister, Kelsie. ‘Help me bring in the rest of the stuff,’ I hear her say, sounding stressed and irritated.

  ‘Mum’s home.’ I keep my voice low, hoping that I won’t be asked to ‘babysit’ my sister before we’ve finished. I punch the dough even harder.

  Violet scans the recipe. ‘If we put them near the cooker, they’ll rise quickly. Then they’ll need to bake for fifteen minutes. I’ll ice them when they’ve cooled.’ She scoops the white glaze out of the bowl and into a piping bag. She also sets out two pots of edible glitter – pink and purple. Let’s just say, with Violet doing the decorating, we get through a lot of edible glitter!

  We both put more flour on our hands and start moulding little balls, sticking them next to each other on a baking tray so that they’re almost touching. Then, we cover the tray with a tea towel and leave the buns to rise.

  ‘How are the two lovebirds?’ Violet says. ‘Any word on when you’ll be getting a new dad?’ She cocks an eyebrow. ‘Emory Kruffs MP.’

  ‘He’ll never be my dad,’ I say, a little sharper than I mean to.

  ‘Oops, sorry. I meant stepdad.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say after a moment. Part of me wants to tell her all about my dad and why I don’t like to talk about him and am glad he’s out of my life. But I’m not sure I feel like putting it all into words. ‘It just sounded weird when you said it.’

  ‘The whole thing is kind of weird, isn’t it?’ Violet giggles. ‘I mean, I just can’t see him . . . I mean – or your mum . . .’ The giggle turns into a full-on laugh. And I want to laugh too because I know what she means. Mum and Em-K do make an odd couple. I mean, he’s an MP – a totally prim and proper upstanding member of the community. And Mum, well, she’s anything but prim and proper – she’s all over the place. But at the end of the day, they seem so happy together – which is what really matters.

  Violet’s laughter fades when I don’t join in. ‘Sorry,’ she says again. ‘I guess I’m out of line.’

  Her purplish-blue eyes have a dark, bruised look about them now. For the first time, I realize that it’s not just today – actually, she’s had that look a lot lately. I feel like I haven’t been a very good friend. I pick up the baking tray and put it in the oven, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

  ‘Hey, come on.’ I go over to her and give her a quick hug. Her hair smells of sugar, and apple shampoo. ‘Let’s take a break and I’ll make some hot chocolate.’

  ‘Yes, please!’ Instantly, she brightens, grabbing the milk from the fridge. I get out the cocoa powder, pausing to check on the hot cross buns, opening the cast-iron door a crack. Through the gap, I can see the dough rise and change shape as it bakes. I shut the oven quickly, before the heat can escape. How much easier things would be if I had a recipe for all the changes happening in my life – good and bad.

  But since I don’t, I settle for the next best thing – making a pot of frothy hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows, coloured sprinkles and a dusting of cinnamon on top – something which always seems to make life just a little bit better.

  The candidate

  ‘Scarlett, can I have a word with you?’

  Em-K rakes his black hair off his face, and for a second, he looks like an overgrown schoolboy. His face and nose are kind of thin and longish, his eyes the same cornflower blue as his aunt Rosemary’s were. When I first met him, I thought he looked kind of stern – like a really strict old-fashioned schoolmaster who’s just waiting to smack your hand with a ruler. Now I think he just looks normal – and I like it when he smiles. But I still don’t see what Mum sees. She and her friends giggle – actually giggle! – that he’s very good-looking.

  ‘’Course,’ I say. ‘Would you like a hot cross bun? Violet and I made them earlier.’

  Em-K came to check on his aunt’s house just as Violet and I had finished the last batch of hot cross buns and she was getting ready to go home. He found us in the kitchen, cleaning up. I remember the first time he found us there – over six months ago – we were using his aunt’s kitchen as the meeting place for The Secret Cooking Club when she was in hospital. He’d been super angry at first – especially when we accidentally set the kitchen on fire.

  Luckily, things have moved on since then. We’re allowed to use Rosemary’s Kitchen as long as there’s an adult around at my house – which is most of the time since Mum works at home.

  ‘Do they have raisins?’ he whispers behind his hand.

  ‘We used dark chocolate instead.’

  ‘Ace!’

  I smile at Em-K’s attempt to sound cool. As he sits down at the table, Treacle jumps up on his lap and starts to purr. He strokes the cat’s velvety fur and I get him one of the hot cross buns. For a grown man and an MP, there are quite a lot of things that Em-K doesn’t eat. Raisins being one, and nuts being another. I don’t really mind – there are so many things out there to make, and practically endless ways to combine ingredients and put a new twist on old recipes. Not that I’ve got that much time right now to do that. But that’s another story. And actually, Kelsie doesn’t like raisins either, so it’s no big deal.

  ‘They’re pretty,’ he says, smiling. ‘Very . . . uhh . . . pink.’

  I laugh. Earlier, after we’d finished our hot chocolate, the oven had started beeping. Violet had stood on one side of the oven, and I on the other, for what has become sort of a ritual between us. We’d each put a hand on the door and opened it together. It’s one of my favourite parts of baking – the warm air escaping, hitting my face, bringing, in this case, the scent of cinnamon and warm, dark chocolate into my nose. The buns really had looked like little bunnies nestled together, the dough light on the bottom and darker on top.

  After the buns had cooled, Violet had got on with the decorating. As well as putting a shiny glaze over the bun and piping the icing cross over them, she’s sprinkled pink and purple edible glitter and added a crystallized violet – a real flower covered with sugar – in the middle. They do look very ‘pink’, but special too.

  Em-K takes a bite. I watch his face as he tastes the different flavours. ‘Delicious!’ he says. ‘I’ll have another if there are any spare.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, pleased that he likes them. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Love one!’

  I make him a cup of coffee from the little espresso machine next to the sink. Em-K takes his coffee black with no sugar. I think that says something about him, though I’m not quite sure what. Dad always had his with half milk and three spoonfuls of sugar . . .

  The coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup, burning my skin.

  Dad? Where the heck had that thought come from. I never think about Dad, and now it’s been twice in one day.

  Wincing, I put the coffee on the table and run my hand under the cold tap. How do I even know how Dad – my father – takes his coffee? It’s been almost five years since he left, and I wasn’t exactly at an age where I thought about how adults took their coffee. I’ve seen him since, of course – he sometimes comes to town on whirlwind visits, and takes Kelsie and me out for a curry – I must have noticed his coffee then. Before I started the blog, the main contact we had with him was a card at Christmas and birthdays with a fiver stuck inside. Kelsie always begs Mum to take her to Poundland or the supermarket to spend her fiver, whereas I’ve kept every one of mine – shoved into a little ceramic fish piggybank that came in a paint-y
our-own kit I got once for a birthday. I do the maths – five years of Christmases and birthdays – I must have round about fifty pounds. Maybe it’s time I smash the piggybank with a hammer, and get the money out once and for—

  ‘You’re not having anything?’

  I realize that Em-K is staring at me. What is it with me lately?

  ‘Um . . . Violet and I ate a couple that burnt around the edges. So I’m not hungry.’ To make him feel better, I pour myself a glass of water.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  Something in the way he said that makes me pause. I place my glass of water on the table and sit down.

  He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again like his tongue is tied in a knot. Sometimes if he’s trying to make a point, Em-K will choose to be silent. But I’ve never seen him at a loss for words.

  ‘I know we haven’t known each other long, Scarlett,’ he says, his voice halting. ‘But these last few months have been the best of my life.’

  ‘Whoa!’ I say. ‘Shouldn’t you be telling this to Mum?’

  He looks at me in surprise, then we both start to laugh. Treacle scrambles off Em-K’s lap.

  ‘Was it very lame?’ he says.

  ‘Awful!’

  We laugh some more. I decide that I will have a hot cross bun after all.

  ‘So?’ I say, sitting back down at the table.

  ‘I think you’ve guessed the plot, haven’t you?’ he says. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. I think about drawing it away, but decide to leave it. ‘I want to ask your mum if she’ll marry me. But just so you know, I’m not going to do anything until I make sure it’s OK with you.’

  ‘Like, you’re asking me for my blessing, is that it?’

  He smiles and gives my hand a squeeze, then withdraws it. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  I take a bite of still-warm hot cross bun and let the flavours of chocolate and spices melt on my tongue. ‘What if I say no?’

  He sits up a tiny bit straighter. ‘I’m a politician, so I always try to please as many people as I can. But I know that I can’t please everyone.’ He stares down at the crumbs on his plate. I take pity on him and give him the other half of my bun. ‘So if you say no,’ he continues, ‘then I guess I’ll have to start a full-on campaign. Try to win you over. Unless there are any other candidates I should be worried about?’

  ‘No.’ I grin. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘And after tomorrow night, I’m hopeful that I’ll have one supporter at least.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a light blue velvet box. ‘Look.’

  He opens the box. Nestled inside cream silk is a single diamond set in a silver-coloured band. The stone catches the light and glints in a million rainbow colours. I can’t take my eyes off the ring. He closes the box. ‘Will she like it?’

  ‘I’d say we’d better start planning your victory party – isn’t that what you call it?’

  His face lights up. ‘So I can count on your vote?’

  I cross my arms. ‘There will be a few conditions to this . . . what do you call it . . . coalition? But hopefully we can work that all out.’

  ‘Brilliant! I’m sure we can!’ He jumps up and tries to hug me. I put my hand up in front of me.

  ‘Starting with, no gushy hugs and stuff,’ I smile.

  He sits back down. ‘No gushy hugs. Tick.’ He draws with his finger in the air. ‘What else?’

  Spaghetti Bolognese

  ‘Seriously, he actually asked for your blessing?’ Violet gushes. ‘That’s so . . . I don’t know . . . weird!’ It’s Easter Sunday and Violet has come over to help me hide some eggs for Kelsie.

  ‘Weird? I thought you were going to say “nice”. Or – what’s the word? – chivalrous.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she giggles. ‘It’s just so Em-K. Is he going to do the whole down-on-one-knee-with-diamond-ring thing as well?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We talked about where he should take her. I said he should take her to Bernini’s – that new Italian restaurant. She loves Italian food . . .’ I hesitate for a second. ‘And, it could be their place, you know? Somewhere she’s never been with anyone else.’

  ‘You mean like your dad—’

  ‘Yeah,’ I cut in. ‘That’s what I mean.’

  I try to change the subject, chat about the new term starting on Tuesday, and about how I’m hoping we can bake a few more batches of hot cross buns tomorrow, and maybe some miniature strawberry tarts.

  But Violet only wants to talk about the wedding. ‘You’ll be a bridesmaid!’ she says. ‘I’m so jealous – I’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid. And Kelsie – I guess she’s too old to be a flower girl. She can be a bridesmaid too. You can wear a fab dress and have your hair and nails done – maybe even go to a spa! And we can all help make the wedding cake. I’m sure your mum will have loads of people. We’ll need, like six tiers with different flavours—’

  ‘Six!’ I say, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. ‘Come on, I mean, it’s Mum’s second time around. Does she really need a huge wedding with all those people? She had that when she married Dad – I’ve seen the photos. Maybe this time, it might be more romantic to keep things small?’ It’s like I’m pleading with Violet to agree with me. I’m so not into wearing fancy dresses and having to bother with things like my hair and nails. But it’s more than that. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but for some reason, the idea of Mum having a big wedding kind of scares me. All those people, and everything having to be perfect . . .

  Violet rolls her eyes. ‘Small sounds boring.’ she says. ‘And, from what I’ve seen, it doesn’t sound much like your mum.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I shrug, not wanting to give Violet the satisfaction of knowing that she’s absolutely spot on.

  That night I lie in bed staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. They were here when we moved into this house a few years ago, when Mum’s blog started taking off. I suppose someone’s dad – or maybe their mum – put them up years ago, maybe because they were into Star Wars or something.

  In our old house, my room was painted pink with a Disney Princess wallpaper border that Dad put up when I was about four, and completely mad for Ariel, Belle, Snow White and Cinderella. He also used to come home from work just in time to put on the video, and I watched the princesses over and over again. Back then, I bought into the whole ‘ride-off-into-the-sunset-on-a-white-horse-get-married-and-live-happily-ever-after’ thing. When did I stop believing in it?

  Obviously, by the time Dad left Mum and they got divorced, I was over it. And for ages before that, I remember coming down before bed for a goodnight kiss, and finding them fighting.

  And as for Dad himself – I really don’t think about him that much. He worked, he went to the gym, he came home and put on my video. Sometimes he’d watch the video with me, but mostly he’d disappear into his study and do his work or surf the internet on his BlackBerry. He spent most weekends with his friends, and otherwise, it was always just really Mum who was around all the time – yelling at me to do my homework and to put my dirty kit in the wash. Taking me to the doctor to get cream for my eczema, pushing a screaming Kelsie in the shopping trolley at the supermarket to stock up on fish fingers, ketchup and frozen pizzas. Crying late at night because her marriage was falling apart and all her daughters could do was complain about the fact that the chocolate had all been eaten and Mum wouldn’t let them play on her phone and all she did was yell and cry . . .

  Spaghetti bolognese. A sudden taste comes into my mouth. Tomato, oregano and garlic. A long-forgotten memory. Sitting around a table – me, Kelsie, Mum and Dad. It must have been a weekend. And something else. Dad – he was the one who cooked it. In fact, he even made the pasta fresh from scratch. It wasn’t fancy or complicated, but it tasted good. And he was proud of it. Because he liked to cook but didn’t usually have time . . .

  The stars blur before my eyes. A tear has appeared from nowhere. Was that even a real memory? It must have be
en because I couldn’t have just made up something like that about Dad. What else might I have forgotten?

  Not that it matters. Instead of thinking about Dad, I think about Em-K – the best thing that’s happened to our family for a long time. Sometimes it annoys me when he and Mum act all goofy and lovey together, but it’s better than having them shouting at each other and someone leaving. The thing about Em-K is that he’s like a rock – we can all lean on him and feel safe. And he and Mum love each other, that’s the main thing. I picture the light blue box and his earnest face. Down on one knee at Bernini’s gazing up into Mum’s gold-flecked green eyes; one by one, conversations stop and heads begin to turn. Mum’s wearing a black jumpsuit that she bought in the sales from Phase Eight. She looks slim and elegant. Her unruly brown hair is held back from her face in a tortoiseshell slide that I lent her.

  And Mum – what is she thinking, as the waiter brings over a chilled bottle of champagne? She’ll say yes, of course, and everyone will clap. I hope she can appreciate the moment and how Em-K makes her happy. Happy in a way that her Mindfulness for Mums blog doesn’t make her, her kids don’t make her, her independence doesn’t make her. Happy, that for this moment, she’s got the white horse (or, at least a big black Mercedes) and that she can finally call the builder in to start knocking out the wall between our house and the one next door, like they’ve joked about for ages.

  Happy that for her it’s a new start – maybe for real this time. And she can have the white dress, the bridesmaids, the wedding breakfast, the honeymoon in the Canaries and the new husband who was listed in The Telegraph as number three of ‘Ten MPs that are going places’.

  I close my eyes and turn over, blocking out the neon green of the stars by burying my face in my pillow. Because despite the list of ‘conditions’ I gave Em-K, and the fact that I REALLY AM HAPPY FOR BOTH OF THEM . . .