‘Is it a masterpiece?’ I followed her into the utility room, cradling my own mug, one I’d made at a pottery painting café when I was 6.
‘Now, I wouldn’t normally do a practice run for a wedding cake …’ She gently lifted the protective covering from a three-layer creation. ‘But quite frankly, I’ve never felt this nervous about a cake in my whole career. Not even when I was asked to do one for that influencer.’
I held my breath for the reveal, my suspicions about what was under the covering confirmed.
‘Ta-da!’ Mum backed away from the cake, which was gorgeous.
The bottom layer was covered in a soft pastel pink buttercream, which ombre-ed up the cake, getting lighter and lighter by tier until you reached the top. There was gentle gold foiling, and a tiny fondant Joe and Isla on top, balancing on a swing set. They were in their wedding outfits, bar a scrub cap sticking out of Joe’s pocket, and a flower behind Isla’s left ear. It was beautifully simple, and utterly them. It was incredible.
‘Mum, this is the best cake you’ve ever done, without a doubt.’
She smiled, spurred on by the validation. ‘This bottom layer is Joe’s, the jam sponge. Then this one in the middle is the white chocolate for Isla.’
I could smell the white chocolate from where I was standing. If it was a practice, surely we could have a slice? I said as much.
‘Not a chance. At least, not yet.’
‘What flavour is the top layer?’ I resisted the urge to swipe my finger through the white buttercream.
‘They gave me free rein on that one, so I’ve tested a coconut and lime. And judging by the batter, I have a feeling we’re onto a winner.’
I gently reached out and touched the top of the swings. ‘Isla is 100 per cent going to cry when she sees this.’
‘That’s why she absolutely can’t see this one. They both need to wait until the big day.’ Mum started covering up the cake again. ‘Besides, this isn’t perfect. I could do much better with the foiling, and Joe’s nose looks a little bit too much like when he broke it playing football …’
She rambled on, covering the cake and pointing out its imperfections. I placed my hand over hers, steadying it.
‘You did a great job, Mum.’
And, watching how much love she’d poured into this project, into the two of us growing up, I wasn’t just talking about the cake.
27
I was no stranger to an early wake up. My alarm went off like clockwork at 6.30 every morning, ready for me to dive into the shower and bagsy the first bathroom slot. But 5 a.m. was too far. I registered my phone ringing somewhere in the back of my mind (I was deep into a dream about winning the Apple Design Award), but chose to ignore it. Whoever it was could wait. The phone stopped, and I snuggled further into my duvet. Thank God for that.
There was a blissful minute of silence, and then it rang again.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
I dragged myself out of bed, rearranging my vest top (why was it that you went to bed with both boobs firmly secured, and then you woke up the next morning with them on opposite sides of the room?).
‘Hello?’ I picked up, glad that it had at least sounded like a greeting and not what I really felt like saying: ‘Piss off’.
‘Penny?’ It was Rory.
Immediately, my brain reeled off a long list of potential panic-worthy scenarios.
‘What’s happened? Who is it?’
‘Nothing, nothing. Sorry, I should have led with that. Everyone is fine.’ I could hear him pacing, imagining him doing laps of his tiny living room.
‘So what is it then?’ Rory was not like me; his alarm usually went off at 7.30, a whole hour later, ready for him to rush his shower time and cram some cornflakes in his mouth before running out the door. I literally shuddered at the thought.
‘It’s Level.’
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Level. Of course it was.
‘I woke up about ten minutes ago because my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.’ Rory sounded audibly stressed. ‘There’s been some kind of security breach on the app.’
Shit. In all fairness to Rory, his 5 a.m. call was justified. For app developers, this was a worst-case scenario.
I started moving whilst we spoke on the phone, lining up an outfit in the pitch black. ‘How bad is it?’
We’d put so much work into making it watertight. Or so we’d thought.
‘I can’t tell yet.’ I could tell he was also rushing around on the other end of the line. ‘I think someone managed to get past our identity verification system.’
I inhaled deeply. This was not good. Yes, there was a TV programme called Catfish that, for all intents and purposes, made a joke of the whole thing. Yes, it was funny to joke to your friends that the guy they’ve been talking to might really be under five foot with a mullet. But actually, catfishing could be dangerous. And we’d prided ourselves on being a safe dating app, with a foolproof method of setting up a profile. I swore.
‘Can you get into the office early? I think we need to do some damage control. I’ve already texted Ella and Harriet.’
I ran to the bathroom to brush my teeth. ‘I’m on my way.’
***
When I arrived an hour later, I was second into the office. Ella lived just outside of Wimbledon, and had already texted to say that the Northern line was experiencing severe delays. Harriet lived outside of London (as families tended to do, once the parents decided that it wasn’t a viable option for their kids to not know what grass felt like) so would be a while. Rory was standing in the kitchen, stirring a coffee and looking into space. It had spilled over the sides, leaving a tiny puddle on the worktop.
‘Ror?’ I waved my hand in front of his face.
