Confetti & Cake Read online

  ‘Thanks, Poppy,’ Mum says, smiling. ‘Me too.’

  Still standing close to Mum, the producer sniffs the air. ‘What’s that I smell – did your daughter cook you one of those fantastic gourmet meals I’ve heard so much about?’

  ‘We had McDonald’s,’ Kelsie says.

  ‘Well, uh, we were in a hurry to get here,’ Mum covers. She flashes my sister a glare. ‘Besides, Scarlett’s been busy baking and trying out all sorts of recipes for the wedding cake. Right, darling?’

  ‘Ouch!’ I cry out at the poke in the ribs. ‘Uh, right.’

  ‘Great . . .’ the producer looks at me, the enthusiasm ebbing from her face. ‘Well, anyway, we’ve got some great dresses picked out for you to try on, Claire. It’s going to be such fun! Now, let’s get you to make-up.’

  ‘Right!’ The producer links arms with Mum and takes her off to a little table set up with a huge make-up kit. Any worries about what the ‘best people’ do and any questions about whether Kate Middleton would have done some price comparison shopping at The Bridal Centre seem to have gone right out the window.

  ‘Let’s have a look around,’ I say to Kelsie. ‘Looks like we’ll be here for a while.’

  I follow my sister over to the food table where she pockets a handful of biscuits and shoves some strawberries into her mouth. I take some grapes and a bottle of water. The other customers in the shop walk past us warily. Maybe they’re wondering if they ought to recognize Mum – or her kids. Wondering if we’re ‘the best people’ – in spite of the fact that we just look normal.

  Kelsie makes a beeline over to the jewellery section and starts trying on tiaras. ‘I just love weddings,’ she says. ‘I want to get married so many times – just like Mum.’

  ‘Um, I don’t think that’s the point,’ I say. A shop assistant gives us a look. I try to take the crown off Kelsie’s head but the combs get tangled in her hair. With a shriek, she pulls away and runs over to the shoe section. She takes off her sandal and shoves her foot into one of the white satin display models. ‘Look, it’s my glass slipper!’ she says, parading around.

  ‘Kelsie!’ I hiss, but just then, one of the cameramen comes over.

  ‘Hey Jed, let’s get a shot of this. Can you put that tiara back on?’ he says to my sister.

  OMG. As if one second-time bride and TV-star wannabe wasn’t enough for one family, now I’ve got two!

  Ignoring the protests of the shop manager, my sister puts on another of the display shoes (both left feet), grabs a few ropes of pearls and puts them around her neck, and starts dancing around and singing ‘Let It Go’ at the top of her lungs.

  There’s only two good things about the afternoon. One is that Mum actually has to try on some dresses. She quickly rejects the puffy, lacy, Fat Gypsy-Wedding-type dresses (upon the recommendation of the TV stylist) and tries on a few more sensible straight and A-line dresses. She’s short and thin, and even the white satin heels can’t do much to change that. But when she tries on the wedding dresses, with Kelsie fawning over her and me standing silently in the background nodding or shaking my head, she does seem younger – and happy. It’s nice to see. And the camera doesn’t seem to make her nervous at all. But after she’s tried on about fifteen dresses, the ‘hitch’ comes.

  ‘Can we get some footage of your daughters trying on bridesmaids’ dresses?’ Poppy, the producer, asks.

  ‘Oh can we, Mum?’ my sister yells.

  Mum does a second twirl in front of the mirror in a tight-fitting silk dress with a ‘mermaid’ tail. She checks her watch. ‘Maybe one or two,’ she says. ‘Then we’ve got a dinner engagement.’

  The knot inside me tightens. The second ‘good’ thing about the afternoon, is that it’s not this evening – when we’re supposed to meet up with Dad.

  ‘What are your colours?’ the producer asks. She and Mum natter together about lilac versus lavender and pink versus peach. I slip out and over to the rack of bridesmaids’ dresses to try to do damage control – pick out something that won’t be too hideous. I flip through the racks as two of the stylists come over to me. ‘It’s OK dear,’ one of them says. ‘Come over to make-up and we’ll get you sorted.’

  By the time it’s over, I feel like my face is about to crack from faking a smile, and trying to act like the whole thing is not completely horrendous. It’s worse than the days of the blog – much worse, in fact. The camera makes my skin crawl, and thinking about people watching me parading in around in the awful dresses Mum chooses – lilac, peach, lavender, pink – makes me feel like throwing up. Luckily, my sister was ‘a natural’ in front of the camera, and my only hope is that they’ll focus on her. If not, well . . . I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

  I’d just finished changing back into my jeans and T-shirt when Producer Poppy cornered me on the way out of the dressing room.

  ‘Now Scarlett, before you go, we must speak about the wedding cake film shoot.’

  ‘Um, yeah,’ I say, wishing the salmon pink carpet of the changing room area would open up and swallow me whole. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘There’s a lot to do in a very short time – we’ve all really got to get our skates on,’ she says. ‘So how about I have my assistant give you a call in the next day or two to arrange things? Her name is Annie.’

  ‘Um, yeah,’ I repeat. ‘Sounds good.’

  She gives me a worried glance, but just then there’s a loud clatter and thunk. I turn towards the fitting rooms and see that another bride-to-be has exited the fitting room to parade around in front of the mirror, and her huge skirt has swished into one of the huge lamps that the cameramen are using and knocked it over. The light is so hot that the lace and ruffles start to singe and smoke, until Producer Poppy rushes over and throws a jug of lemon water on it.

  I take advantage of the distraction to go back out to the main part of the shop to wait for Mum.

  By the time we finally leave The Bridal Centre, I’m exhausted, and I can actually feel my skin breaking out under all that make-up. But right now, I can’t even think about that. Not when dinner with Dad is looming in my mind.

  Happy families

  Mum is frazzled and irritable as we leave The Bridal Centre. ‘I’m so glad that’s over,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’ I say, surprised. ‘But you liked the dresses, right? I mean, you looked good.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just tired. And you, young lady . . .’ she glances at my sister in the rearview mirror, ‘need to learn to behave.’

  Kelsie barely looks up from the game she’s playing on Mum’s phone. I wish I was as easily distracted as my sister. We pull into the car park of the restaurant. Bernini’s – I realize with a sinking heart that it’s the same restaurant where Em-K proposed to Mum. At the time, I’d thought it was ‘romantic’ that Mum had never come here with anyone else. Obviously, she must not see it that way.

  I get out of the car and go round to the boot to get the cake. Before getting out, Mum checks her make-up and hair in the car mirror. To me it seems a little weird that she’d care what Dad thinks. Though Alison would probably say that it’s normal to want to impress your ex. She’d know – she’s had a few boyfriends before.

  The plastic cake container feels heavy as a brick as I lift it out. In the end I covered the whole cake with buttercream icing and sprinkled blue, yellow and pink hundreds and thousands over it. I didn’t put any writing on it, or even ‘happy birthday’. It’s the most joyless cake I’ve ever made.

  Kelsie runs on ahead into the restaurant to look for Dad.

  ‘Come on, Scarlett.’ Mum’s tone makes it sound like I’m dragging my feet. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  The restaurant is dark and noisy. The tables have red-and-white chequered cloths on them with drippy wax candles set in wine bottles wrapped in straw. As I enter, Kelsie makes a beeline for a round table near the back of the restaurant, practically knocking down a waitress carrying a tray.

  ‘Daddy!’ she yells.

  ‘Hi
Kels Bels!’ a familiar voice replies. Dad stands up and she runs into his open arms. He’s a big man with dark blonde hair like mine, and blue eyes like my sister’s. His face is open and warm.

  Mum edges through the tables towards them. I follow behind with the cake, feeling like a party pooper.

  Dad leans over and kisses Mum on the cheek. ‘Claire,’ he says. ‘You look wonderful.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she says. But her cheeks flush a little at the compliment.

  ‘And Scarlett.’ Dad gives me one of his winning smiles. For a second I think that he’s going to hold out his hand to shake mine. But then he opens his arms. I stand there, frozen for a second, my mind racing. I could end this whole silly scene right now by refusing to give him a hug. I glance at Mum and my sister. It would ruin their night and poke another pin in my relationship with Mum, like mother-daughter voodoo dolls.

  I step forwards and let Dad hug me.

  The good thing is, I don’t have to talk. Mum seems to revive once she’s sitting down at the table with a drink in her hand. They chat about the restaurant – when it opened and how it has, in Mum’s opinion, the best food in town. She doesn’t mention that Em-K proposed to her here. Then Kelsie starts blabbering away, telling Dad every detail of our wedding-dress shopping trip, and all about the filming, including her star singing performance.

  ‘It sounds fantastic, Kels,’ Dad says. ‘And I’m so glad you’re still such a great singer. Because as it happens, I’ve got you a little present.’

  He reaches down to the floor behind him and pulls out a big box. Kelsie oohs and ahhs, and Mum tuts and says ‘oh, you shouldn’t have,’ and Dad replies that ‘yes, I should – she’s my princess’. I stare into the flickering candle hoping that he hasn’t got me a present too – it’s his birthday after all, not mine.

  Kelsie’s present is a brand new Wii U system with a Disney dance disc, song collection and microphones. Mum tells her not to, but she still takes everything out of the box, tearing off the plastic wrap, fingering the discs, and getting cords everywhere. The waitress comes over and Dad orders for us. It’s complete chaos, and I’m sure Mum is going to get annoyed at Dad, but instead, she leans towards him and smiles.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to get you, Scarlett,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I jerk my head around to look at him. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t need anything.’

  He crosses his arms, looking at me like a big, friendly bear. ‘Now Scarlett, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?’

  ‘It’s not my birthday,’ I say.

  He turns to me as Mum is fussing with Kelsie and the Wii stuff that’s spread everywhere.

  ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you, Scarlett,’ he says in a low voice. ‘And I’m not asking you to accept me overnight – I know that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I so don’t want to be having this conversation, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But maybe,’ he adds, ‘we can start to get to know each other better – when you’re ready, that is. I find that sometimes, writing things down is easier than saying them in person.’

  I nod uncomfortably.

  ‘I asked your Mum, see, and she said that you have her old laptop. I’ve read your blog – it’s fantastic. We discussed it, and decided that it might be time you had an upgrade.’

  He reaches down again behind his chair and pulls out a big, white bag. My heart does a flip. It’s from the Apple store.

  ‘No, really . . .’ I say, but my hands betray me and reach out to take the bag.

  I pull out a long, thin box. It’s a brand new Macbook Air. My mouth drops open. Mum doesn’t even have such a nice computer, and she’s been blogging for years now.

  ‘Your mum and I thought this one would be perfect.’

  I look over at Mum. She nods.

  ‘It is perfect.’ I press my lips together. ‘Thank you . . . Dad.’

  Dad goes on to ask Mum about the filming and the wedding preparations. The fact that the conversation is so normal makes my skin prickle. It’s like everyone’s pretending that Dad never left and Mum isn’t marrying someone else, and we’re all having a nice dinner out on an ordinary Saturday night. It’s too weird.

  Luckily, the food comes – a big family-size pizza with half pepperoni and extra cheese for Kelsie and me, and half ‘The Works’ for Mum and Dad. Mum finally manages to get Kelsie’s gift back in the bag, and I put the Apple store bag at my feet, so that it’s touching my leg and won’t get nicked.

  ‘The pizza looks fantastic,’ Dad says. ‘Let’s dig in.’

  The pizza does taste good. Dad launches into an account of his neighbours below his new flat – and I even find myself laughing once or twice. That’s OK, I decide. Just because I’m laughing and enjoying the pizza and the thought of the new computer doesn’t mean that I’m back on side as far as Dad is concerned. But the truth is, I’m tired of being miserable.

  In the end, I stop overanalysing everything, and even start to relax. Although we’re all stuffed with pizza, Dad calls the waitress over. She leans in as he hands her the Tupperware with the cake. As she takes it away to the kitchen, he turns to me.

  ‘That was such a nice idea, Scarlett,’ he says. ‘And the cake is beautiful – just perfect. I’m so glad you’re inherited your mum’s thoughtfulness.’

  ‘Um, yeah . . .’ I start to laugh, thinking he must be joking. But he’s smiling at Mum, and she’s smiling at me, and she leans over and pats my hand.

  The waitress comes out with the cake on a tray, lit with candles. Following her is what seems like the entire kitchen staff. They begin a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ in three-part harmony. Kelsie joins in at the top of her lungs, Mum sings off-key, and I mouth the words. With the cake set before him on the table, Dad takes a deep breath and blows out the candles with a loud bellow. The waiters and even some of the other customers in the restaurant all start to clap, and the waitress snaps a picture of us on Mum’s phone.

  I don’t ask to see the photo, but I can guess what image the camera has caught. The illusion that we’re some kind of loving, happy family.

  The Dark Side

  Late that night, I sit on my bed staring at the white bag from the Apple store. My heart tells me that I should go downstairs and give it to Mum – tell her it’s not right that I take it. She can work out how to return it to him, or keep it herself – that’s up to her. But my head . . .

  I lie back on the pillow and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars that someone else’s dad or mum put up on the ceiling that’s now mine. Ever since Dad left I’ve tried to be strong – not to think about him, or miss him. And for the most part, I’ve done it. I’ve tried to be a good daughter, a good sister, a good student and a good friend. And for the most part, I’ve done all that too.

  And I really have tried to cope with the changes: Mum’s blog, and the damage it caused our relationship, followed by my meeting Mrs Simpson and then losing her. And then there’s The Secret Cooking Club – and all the new experiences, friends and joy that it’s given me – but also the fear that those things could be snatched away. And to top everything off, there’s Mum’s wedding, the TV thing, my new stepdad-to-be: Em-K, and the new life that we’re going to have together.

  I know I’m lucky – on balance, my life is amazing and I have so much to be grateful for. In the back of my mind I’ve always known that, sooner or later, I’d have to come to grips with the ‘Dad situation’, and the hurt it caused me. And I’m not going to be bribed by a new computer or anything else. But if it makes him feel better to give it to me, than who am I to complain?

  I take the laptop out of the box and run my hands over its sleek, white lid. Inside, the computer is silver with a black keyboard. I power it up and follow the set-up prompts, amazed at how fast and sharp it is, and the fact that it actually belongs to me. It’s perfect – and so much more than I ever dreamt of.

  The screen prompts me to set up my default email account. I type in my addre
ss and password and open the mail icon to access my inbox. There’s a ‘welcome’ message that I delete immediately, and one other message.

  It’s from Dad.

  For a second, I hover the cursor over the delete icon. But deep down, I know that’s not the right thing to do. I’ve turned on the computer, personalized it – gone over to the Dark Side. Now, I guess I owe it to Dad to see what he has to say.

  I click on the email and read through it.

  Dear Scarlett,

  I said at dinner that I thought you might find it easier writing to me than talking to me, but the truth is, it’s me who finds that easiest. You may not believe it, and I may delete this sentence after I write it because it sounds like a cliché – but the truth is that not a day goes by when I don’t think about you and your sister – and your mum – and wish that things might have been different. That I might have been different.

  But regrets are two-a-penny and I’m sure you’ve heard enough about my excuses and how sorry I am. So I’m going to draw a line in the sand and pretend that we’re starting over, you and I.

  I want to be part of your life, Scarlett. No – scratch that – I want to DESERVE to be part of your life. I know that I’ve got a mountain to climb – and I wish I could say I was strong enough to do it. But in truth, Scarlett, I’m not very strong, or very good – and I think you know that. But I’d like to try. Please – don’t delete my emails. Just give me a chance.

  Your Dad

  By the time I reach the end, tears are rolling down my cheek fast and furiously. It’s as if the skin has been ripped off my chest and my heart exposed, beating and raw, to the open air. I close the message. I know I should delete it – what business does he have coming back into my life just when things were going in a whole new direction?

  But instead, I file it in a new folder that I create: ‘Dad’.

  The next level

  24 April