Before the Dawn (9 page)

Mr. Sheepish suddenly looked anxious.  “Do you think she’ll like it?  A cake, I mean?  Perhaps flowers, or jewelry...”

“Well, I am a bit biased,” I said with a jaunty smile.  “But flowers are too ordinary, and jewelry?  Might it be a bit early for that kind of thing?”

“You’re right, of course.”  He shook his head, laughing.  “Sorry, I must sound mad.  Cake it is.”

I nodded, wishing I had someone to worry whether I would like a cake or not.  Actually, if he knew me at all, he wouldn’t be worried. “When did you want to pick it up, then?”

“Can you have it ready by a week Friday?”

“No problem.”

He gave me his name and details.  Kevin Hutchinson.  He lived right in town. “Do you work around here?” I asked curiously, and then hastened to explain myself.  “I wondered how you heard about my shop.”

“I walk by it every day,” he replied with a grin.  “I manage the hardware around the corner.”

I watched him walk down the street with regret.  Of course all the good ones were taken, and they wouldn’t look at me anyway.  A lifetime of baking cakes had taken its toll... even if I hadn’t actually eaten one in years.  Five years, to be precise. 

Ever since my mum had made her lay-off-the-cakes comment, I’d gone off them a bit.  Well, no, actually, I hadn’t, I’d still eat cake three meals a day if I could.  But who wouldn’t?

I did stop eating  them, though. Naturally, I have to taste my creations, and a dollop of icing does not go amiss.  But as for gorging on a really large, decadent piece of heaven... well, I haven’t done that since my sister got married.

By that time I’d been enduring the cake comments for awhile.  Of course, Mum and Dad loved my baking.  Mum looked at me as her own personal, not to mention free, caterer.  But when it came time to cut me a piece, she’d pause, cake knife hovering in the air.

“Did you want a slice, Sherry?” she’d ask, as if she couldn’t remember.

And after awhile I’d smile stiffly and shake my head.  “No, thank you.  You just go right ahead.”

Then Karen got engaged.  Well, of course they wanted me to make the wedding cake.  Something different, Karen said, not a stodgy old fruit cake. 

So I came up with a magnificent creation, three different tiers of vanilla, milk and dark chocolate, separated by mousse layers and decorated with large shavings of white and dark chocolate and glazed raspberries on top.  It was magnificent. 

I was bridesmaid at the wedding, in a size fourteen that my mum insisted would fit me, even though I’d told her I was now a size sixteen.

“Sixteen? No, you can’t be, Sherry...”

So I ended squeezed into a dress that was unflattering to begin with (does anyone look good in a corset style dress?). I’d come to accept by then that my figure was always going to be on the generous side, cake eating or no.

Karen wore a strapless dress of raw silk and had to wear a padded bra to keep it up.  That gave me some small comfort, but the fact remained I was miserable.

It was towards the end of the reception, when I was cutting slices of cake for the guests to take away, hidden by those magnificent chocolate layers (or was I just invisible?) that I overheard my uncle, dancing with Karen. 

“You look stunning, Karen.  Really beautiful.“  A dry chuckle.  “I didn’t realize your sister was so heavy.  I suppose you got the skinny genes, eh?”

“She certainly didn’t get them,” Karen trilled.

“Oh well.  There are worse things than being fat... or having a fat sister.”

They whirled away, and I stood there, cake knife in hand, unable to believe that my own uncle had called me fat. A fat sister.  That’s all he saw me as.  That’s all Karen saw me as, or even my parents. I’d known they were obsessed with looks, I’d known they thought I needed to lose weight, but really... it suddenly occurred to me that that was all they saw.  They didn’t see me as a person, with thoughts, ideas... dreams. 

In a daze, I finished cutting the cake, saving the small top layer for Karen and her husband.  I wrapped it up in wax paper and was planning to pack it in a hamper that they were taking with them on the drive down to Cornwall, for their honeymoon.  I was, I swear I was.

But somehow I ended up in the powder room of the posh hotel, all plush seats and real cloth hand towels.  The top layer of the cake was still in my hands.

Slowly I unwrapped it and stared down at it, the chocolate shavings and glazed raspberries, my masterpiece.  I sat on a toilet seat and continued to gaze at it.

And then I ate it.  Methodically, without thinking, my mind a blank, I ploughed through the cake, eating with my hands.

Just as I finished and sat there, stunned and sated, who walked in but Karen.  She was in a size eight striped trouser suit that made her look like a silk candy cane.

“Oh my God.”  She stared at me in horror.  “What have you done?”

I gazed down at myself, my sticky hands, my dress smeared with icing.  A glazed raspberry had nestled itself in my cleavage.  Then I looked up at her and shrugged.

“I’ve eaten your cake.”

“Our cake?  Our wedding cake?”  Karen’s voice came out in a squeak.

“It’s not like you were going to eat it.”  Karen hadn’t touched a dessert since puberty.  “And anyway, isn’t it what you’d expect of your fat sister?”  My voice choked, and I got up, smeared dress and all, and left the powder room.  “By the way, it was good,” I said over my shoulder.  “It was really good.”

I wish I could say that I felt satisfied and avenged, but instead I felt sick and pathetic.  I grabbed my coat to hide the ravages of my cake-eating binge, and snuck home without even saying goodbye.  And never ate a cake again.

Perhaps I should have left the whole industry altogether.  It can be hard, faced with cakes day in and day out, to harden my resolve. But I love baking, and I love cakes.  I wasn’t going to let my family’s despair of me destroy that.

That night I sighed as I looked in the mirror.  Perhaps if I dropped two dress sizes Kevin Hutchinson would take another look at me... that was, if he wasn’t already dating Miss Gourmet, who’s probably a size six.  Who knows, perhaps she liked cake.  She must, if he was buying her one.

I made Kevin Hutchinson’s chocolate tiramisu.  It was Friday, the day he was supposed to pick up my creation, no doubt for a special birthday celebration that night.  I was expecting him at his lunch hour, although hadn’t said, but he didn’t come.  I watched the door most of the afternoon, waiting.  He didn’t come.

What happened, I wondered.  Did he forget?  I normally closed the bakery at six, so at quarter to I rang the hardware.  He’d already left work, so I expected he’d be on his way here soon.  I didn’t know why, but I was disappointed.  Why didn’t I want him to pick up the cake?

Six o’clock came and went and still I wavered, wondering whether to flip the sign in the door to closed or not.  I felt torn... part of me wanted to see him again, even if he was buying a cake for his girlfriend.  The other part, all right, the mean, petty part, wanted him not to come... wanted something to go wrong with the girlfriend I’d constructed in my mind, Miss Thin and Perfect.

At six-thirty I finally closed the shop. Outside the high street was just coming to life... as much life as our high street had, that is.  The sound of tinny music came out of a pub, and the few restaurants that served dinner were filling up.

A light rain was falling, and I wished I’d brought an umbrella, or at least a coat. I shivered in the early spring chill and headed for the bus stop.

“Wait... please, wait!”

He hadn’t forgotten.  Kevin Hutchinson ran up to me, breathless and damp with rain.  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I thought you weren’t going to come.”

Kevin smiled.  “I wasn’t.  But then I thought... well, it looked like a very nice cake, in the photo. And you’d gone to all the trouble of making it... not to mention I’d already paid for it! Do you mind opening the shop again?  Am I keeping you from somewhere?”

“No, it’s all right.”  It was raining quite hard now and we both hurried to huddle under the striped awning of the bakery.  I fumbled with the key.  “Why weren’t you going to come, then?  Did something happen?”

“We broke up.... my girlfriend and I.”

I turned off the security alarm and flipped on the lights. “I’m sorry.” I tried a smile, saying lightly, “did she not like cake?”

I was rewarded with a dry chuckle.  “No, actually she likes cake fine. She didn’t like me.” 

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so I just murmured, “I’ll go get the cake, then.”

I’d left it in the fridge, in one of my made-to-order cake boxes with gold lettering.  ‘Sherry’s Bakery’.  It still made me proud.

“Here you go.”  I put the cake on the counter top so it rested between us.  “Perhaps you could give it to your mum?”

“Well...” Kevin grinned.  “Actually, my mum doesn’t like cake. She’s one of those no-pudding people.  That’s what I call them anyway.”

“No pudding people?” I queried with a lifted eyebrow.

“Women who won’t eat anything but a lettuce leaf.  I hope you’re not like that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.  “Can’t you tell that I’m not?”

“You look pretty good to me.”  Kevin flushed and I gently nudged the cake towards him.  “Well... enjoy.  With whomever ends up eating it.”

“How about you?”

A tingle ran through me, like getting a pleasant shock.  “Pardon?” Although I thought I knew what he meant. I hoped.

“You made it, so you must know how good it is.  I don’t have anyone to share it with now, and frankly...” he shrugged, spreading his hands and smiling.  “I’d like to share it with you.  If you’re not busy.  Is someone expecting you?”

“No. No one. But...” I paused, not wanting to explain that I didn’t eat cake anymore.  I didn’t want to confess that, not to the first man who hadn’t eyed me with a perhaps-you-should-try-a-diet look. 

“Please?”

All I saw in Kevin Hutchinson’s eyes was warmth and genuine appreciation.  Of me.  “I’ll get the forks.”

I opened the lid of the cake box and stared down at my masterpiece.  “I should get a cake knife...” I murmured but Kevin simply dug in with his fork.

“Why get a cake knife?”  he said with a grin.  “We’re going to eat the whole thing, aren’t we?”

I opened my mouth to protest.  No one ate entire cakes!  Except that once, anyway.  But before I could say a word, Kevin popped his forkful of cake into my mouth.  Instinctively I closed my eyes and savored the taste.

“Is it as good as it looks?” he asked.

“Better.”  I opened my eyes to see him gazing at me in a way that me tingle all the more.  “Did I mention I like chocolate?”

“I think I could’ve guessed by the way you ate that piece.”  Kevin took a bite and grinned.  “Superb, of course. By the way, if you ever look at me the way you looked when you ate that cake... I’ll consider myself a lucky man.”

I laughed, blushing, and took another bite.   All of a sudden the fears, the insecurities, and even the hurt melted away.  They were inconsequential, opinions of people who didn’t matter. Smiling, Kevin took another bite, and then we really dug in, alone in the bakery with the rain falling outside and chocolate smeared on our faces. 

And yes, we ate the whole thing. It was wonderful.

COMFORT

I am just drifting off to sleep when I feel your hand on my back.  Sleepily but with infinite tenderness, you rub my lower back, your hand moving upward to caress my neck, your fingers sliding along the base of my skull... the lovely, leisured movements causing me to emit a sleepy moan.  These nightly back rubs are absolutely delicious.

My thoughts drift as you continue your ministrations.  I'm a lucky woman, I know that.  How many husbands of nearly twenty years still give back rubs... and almost every night too?  It's as if you sense my tension spots.  You know them by heart.  The knot under my shoulder blade, the sensitive skin behind my ears.

As the curtain of sleep begins to fall, I suddenly find myself thinking about Leslie.  Leslie has been my best friend for nearly thirty years, since we were girls in school pinafores.  We've lived through the tired years of babies and toddlers, the tough ones of teenagers.  We've always been there for each other.  Until now, perhaps.

"There's nothing between us anymore, Mags."

I pause in the buttering of my scone and glance at Leslie over the tea table.  We've kept a weekly 'appointment' at The Copper Kettle since our children were in nappies.  "Between who?"

"Me and Hugh, of course."  Leslie pushes her teacup around in her saucer, spilling the liquid over the rim.

I bite into the scone and watch her thoughtfully.  "What's happened?"  Something, obviously.  Leslie is as jumpy as a cat, her eyes darting around nervously.

"The problem is, nothing has happened, for years,"  she retorts, with a hint of venom.  "He comes home from work, disappears behind the newspaper, and then it's up to bed with a sleepy 'Goodnight then, love.'  That's it.'

This night time ritual sounds uncomfortably like the one in my own house.  "After twenty years, you can't expect..."  I begin.