13 | let them eat cake

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Louise wasn't sure what was worse: the insomnia, or the weird dreams.

She stared into her cup of black coffee. After Vienna's birthday party, she'd had the strangest dream; she'd been at her favourite bar with Sebastian — who'd been wearing Spiderman face paint — and he'd leaned in to kiss her. The kiss had been good. Addictive.

Only when Sebastian drew back, she realized it wasn't him; it was Ben. He'd been looking at her with that hungry expression in his green eyes, his mouth swollen from kissing. His hands had been around her waist. And—

"Louise?" a voice asked. "Louise, are you listening?"

Her head snapped up.

Arabella was frowning. She was dressed in a pink baby doll dress, ruffled at the skirt like icing on a cupcake. The bakery table between them groaned under pastries: a lemon-and-raspberry cake, a chocolate-whisky "naked" cake, champagne-and-strawberry fairycakes...

"No fondant," Louise said. "You find it too sweet." She uncapped a pen. "Got it."

"And no buttercream."

"Right."

"I want whipped frosting," Arabella added. "Or a cream cheese, depending on the cake. Absolutely no royal icing."

Louise scribbled this down. "How do you feel about ganache?"

"Stunning."

Arabella continued to chatter away, using a tiny dessert fork to indicate the different cakes. Louise dug her nails into her palm. She was trying to pay attention. She really, really was. It was just...

Ben.

Why did she have to have that dream?

Louise tapped her pen on her notebook. Alright, Ben was attractive — so what? She also found Italian castles and chicken nuggets attractive, and she didn't want to shag either of them. The pen tapping increased. She might find Ben Langford fit as hell, but it didn't mean that she had to act on it.

She wasn't going to shag Ben.

She wasn't.

"Louise?" Arabella asked.

The bride-to-be was holding a half-eaten slice of lemon-and-raspberry, the fork raised halfway to her mouth. Louise blinked.

"Sorry," she said. "Did you like the cake?"

Arabella lowered her fork. "Are you alright? You seem distracted."

Louise stared. Firstly, because Arabella had noticed her anxiety, and secondly, because she seemed to care. "I was up late with the kids."

The fork clattered. "You have children?"

"Sort of," Louise said. "They're my sister's children. She passed, recently."

The words still tasted odd in her mouth, bitter as a shot of gin. Arabella set down the cake. She reached up to adjust a pearl barrette.

"Ah," Arabella said. "How old?"

"Three," Louise said. "And six."

She dropped her hand. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"Goodness." Arabella shook her head. "You're so young. And your sister agreed to leave them with you?"

Louise shifted. She supposed she ought to be offended, but really — just look at her. When she'd first met Arabella, she'd exited a club, changed into a pencil skirt, and rocked up at the café twenty minutes later, smelling of tequila and sticky floors. Clients chose her because she was good at her job, Louise reflected; because she found people underwater wedding venues and blood lilies.

Not because she was the model of decorum.

Louise turned over her notebook. "Well, I have joint guardianship. With my sister's brother-in-law, Ben. We live together."

"What's he like?" Arabella asked.

"He's..." She capped the pen. Uncapped it. "Ben's hard to explain. We don't get on, really."

"Ah."

Part of Louise couldn't believe that she was telling a client this. Arabella, of all people. It seemed inappropriate, even for her, so Louise changed the subject.

"Right." She leaned closer to the cakes, "What do you think of the cakes based purely on aesthetics?"

Arabella pointed. "The naked one."

"Noted."

Louise scribbled down a few notes. Arabella crossed her feet at the ankles.

"Did you want kids?" she asked. "Before, I mean?"

Louise didn't look up. "No."

Arabella smoothed a hand over her skirt. "Jack doesn't want them, either." She paused. "Well, that's not quite true. He does. But he's a big environmental tech guy, you know? How would it look if he starts contributing to global warming by popping out a dozen kids?"

There was something sad about her voice. Almost wistful.

Louise looked up. "What do you want?"

Arabella toyed with her pearl necklace. "The strawberry-and-champagne, I think."

Louise closed her notebook. That hadn't been what she meant; but then again, she suspected that Arabella knew that. "You don't want to consult your fiancé first?"

"No." Arabella folded her hands in her lap. "He makes enough of the decisions."

"Right." Louise rose. "I'll speak with the pâtissier."

"Thank-you," Arabella said.

They gathered their things: an umbrella, hat, and empty green juice cup for Louise, and a sleek Chanel handbag for Arabella. Her client kissed her on both cheeks, smelling of expensive floral perfume and wool. She turned for the door.

"Arabella?" Louise asked.

Her client paused. Turned.

Louise shifted her weight. "I hope you don't think that I'm overstepping, but I've worked with a lot of couples before. Seen a lot of weddings." She adjusted her large purse. "The ones that make it — the couples that are happy — are the ones that communicate."

Arabella's face was half in shadow. "Thanks, but Jack and I are fine."

"I'm glad to hear it," Louise said.

Arabella inclined her head. "I'll see you next week, Louise."

She watched as Arabella slipped through the door, disappearing into the manicured London garden and the rumbling city beyond.


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