‘I don’t…’ I say slowly. Are there preservatives in them? I’d never even thought about it.
‘I’m just wondering why you’d want to pump freshly baked cakes full of chemicals when they’re intended to be eaten on the same day and not, oh I don’t know, just as a wild example, sit in packages on shop shelves with a best-before date approximately three weeks from now.’ He fixes me with a pointed look and one dark eyebrow pings into an arch.
The cake I was eating turns to rock in my mouth. I don’t say anything because one wrong word is going to give my secret away, and I have a sinking feeling that he knows anyway. By sinking, I mean drowning.
‘The jam in this’ – he lifts the slice in his hand like he’s making a toast and then takes another bite. Apparently preservatives aren’t enough to deter him from cake – ‘is packed with artificial sweeteners, which jam has no need for, and these cakes have got enough additives in them that you could dig them up in three-thousand years’ time and they’d still be edible, like that honey they found in the Egyptian pyramids.’
‘You’re full of… something a lot less pleasant than three-thousand-year-old honey.’
‘I can also taste the E numbers…’ He clears his throat and pulls something from his pocket. A card to read from? No. It’s something that rustles, concealed in his palm.
‘There are no E numbers in the cakes.’ I speak over him as he rattles off the list of E numbers.
‘Oh, come on, Cleo.’ He sighs. ‘I know.’
‘Know what?’ I’m not falling into that trap and giving myself away. That’s a trick as old as time – bluffing about knowing something to fool someone into admitting something they weren’t ready to admit.
He places his palm down flat on the counter, the rustling thing underneath it, and pushes it towards me before lifting his hand off with a flourish. On the counter is a list of ingredients on a cut-out piece of plastic packaging. Familiar plastic packaging that I’ve been stripping off ‘my’ bakes every day.
‘While I appreciate your environmental conscience when it comes to recycling, when unwrapping supermarket-bought goods and trying to pass them off as your own, might I suggest that when you recycle the packaging, you put it in a recycling bin at home rather than out the back here where anyone else who also enjoys recycling may see it should they go to put something in said recycling bin?’
Oh, sweet mother of missing socks. I was so unprepared for sharing a workspace that I hadn’t even thought of that.
‘Who enjoys recycling?’ I go for deflection instead of admitting to anything. I’m trying to ignore my suddenly pounding heart. The whirlpool of panic has turned into a tidal wave. This is it. Now everyone is going to know I’m a fraud. Everyone is going to know that I took on a tearoom when I’ve forgotten how to bloody bake. Mr Hastings is going to—
‘Why shouldn’t household jobs be enjoyable?’ He sounds like his usual cheery self, but there’s a look of steel in his brown eyes that suggests he isn’t going to let this go. ‘If you can have the time of your life while hoovering, you can conquer the world.’
He laughs, looking like he’s expecting me to do the same, and then sighs when I don’t. ‘What I don’t get is why you’re trying so hard to hide it? You’re not doing anything wrong. I’m sure lots of cafés and tearooms do the same, even without the fancy decoration that you add. Why won’t you tell me? I know I’m a bit much sometimes, but what have I done to make you think I’m some kind of enemy?’
‘How long have you known?’ I say, instead of answering properly. The fact he knows he’s a bit much punches me in the chest because he sounds sad and resigned, like it’s something he’s been told many times before. He hasn’t really done anything – it’s me. I’ve become someone who only expects the worst these days.
‘Since the first day. The first bite – I’m a connoisseur of shop-bought bakes. I recognised it instantly. I didn’t say anything because I hoped that I wasn’t so offensive to you that you’d tell me. It was only today that I came across the packaging and thought it was time to lay my cards on the table, so to speak.’ He clicks his fingers and a playing card appears between them, and he holds it out to me. An Ace of Diamonds.
‘An ace up the sleeve – very clever.’ It was obviously stashed inside his jacket sleeve or somewhere. It didn’t just appear out of thin air, even though that’s what he was going for.
He sighs when I don’t take it, and then leans over to tuck it into the teapot display with the others. ‘I’m not your enemy. I’m a bit of an amateur baker myself, maybe I can help?’
I don’t intend to scoff quite so harshly, but I do it so violently that it hurts my throat, and he looks remarkably upset, and I feel guiltier again. ‘You have a direct line to the council, Bram. Like you’re not going to report back on me.’
His face falls and, for the first time since I met him, the Hatter’s mad grin is a thing of history. ‘Oh. That.’
‘I can’t let them find out about this. At the interview, I got these cakes from a bakery on the way, and I didn’t intend for them to think I’d made them, but that’s what they thought and I didn’t correct them. I’ve always wanted to run a tearoom and I’ve always wanted to do something to share my love of Alice, and this was my one chance. If they find out now, they’ll fire me instantly.’
‘Is that why you hate me so much? Because you think I’m going to report back to them?’
‘I don’t hate you.’ I feel a stone of dismay settle in my stomach again. I hate the fact I’ve been so wrapped up in prolonging this lie that I’ve made him think that. ‘How could anyone hate you, Bram? You’re…’
We keep running into this problem – sentences with too many possible endings, and almost none of them are going to go well. What is he? He’s talented. Quick-witted. Charismatic. Delightfully bonkers. He’s holding my gaze and I feel like he sees every option flicker past before I settle on redirecting the sentence. ‘You work here. You’ve worked here for years. You’re obviously thick as thieves with the council. Why wouldn’t you tell them that I’ve deliberately misled them?’
‘Because I’m not like that, maybe?’ He sighs when I don’t reply. ‘Cleo, this place is amazing. The last thing I’m going to do is try to undermine you. I phoned Mr Hastings because he’s—’ He sighs and shakes his head before continuing. ‘I’m an employee here, just like you.’
‘I wasn’t supposed to be an employee. This business was supposed to be my own.’
‘And it will be. But the council are fiercely protective of Ever After Street and they have to make sure every establishment betters the area as a whole. Do you know how many requests they get to rent premises here? Some of them are terrible. One of them was a Disney-themed sex toy shop! There were Dumbo-shaped… you-know-whats with the ears and the trunk.’ He makes a phallic shape with his hands. ‘I mean, fun in its own way, of course, each to their own, but certainly not suitable for a place where children come to believe in magic. We try to keep scarring for life to a minimum.’
‘The point is, Bram, that you know that. I do not know that. Marnie doesn’t know that. Mr Hastings is one of the most intimidating people I’ve ever met and you’ve got a direct line to interrupt meetings. By reporting me, you’d have a one-way ticket to getting on his good side.’
‘Ever After Street wouldn’t be the same if anyone who wanted to monetise this place was given free run. Everyone starts with a three-month trial unless they own their own shops, like Sadie in The Cinderella Shop, or rent from a private landlord like Marnie used to. I started on a three-month trial run at the carousel. I was constantly monitored to ensure I didn’t make any small children cry or take any wooden horses out for joyrides. We all have to go through it. I’m no different.’
No different. Here is a human who is different in every way.
‘Yes, Ever After Street is an amalgamation of different shops, but it has to work as a whole. It’s a business – it has to attract visitors and make money. Either way, that’s nothing to do with me and not something I’d be involved in. And if it was, I’d say The Wonderland Teapot is a perfect fit for Ever After Street, no matter where the cakes come from.’
‘And I’ve pretended to be a good baker when I’m clearly not any more. You’d certainly get brownie points for telling them that the brownies themselves come from a supermarket.’ I down the rest of my tea, ram the remaining fairy cake down my throat, and march through to the back. ‘Excuse me, I have work to do.’
The unit is piled high with dishes and they clatter and clink as I plunge my hands into the hot water and wash each dish with such force that I might as well be trying to scrub the pattern itself off.
This is exactly what I was dreading. He’s going to have a field day with this. He must think it’s hilarious. The woman who’s opened a homemade tearoom despite not being able to bake and not having a home. He’ll have a whale of a time telling his council buddies about that, won’t he? And then everyone will know. The other shopkeepers who I’ve grown to love and respect will know I can’t be trusted. Mr Hastings will sack me instantly. There’ll probably be some kind of mark on my CV for the rest of my life. I didn’t think things could get any worse than the last time I got close to fulfilling my tearoom dream, but this will beat it hands-down. The emotions of that day come rushing in all at once, and the thought that history is repeating itself makes tears well up, and the more frustrated I get with myself for getting emotional, the harder it is to push them down.
Bram appears in the doorway.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, just go away. You weren’t supposed to be here. I didn’t want you here. This wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t here.’
‘Oh, if you knew how many times I’ve heard that in my life.’ For just one second, something sad flickers across his face, lingering for long enough to intrigue me before he covers it with his Mad Hatter grin. ‘I’ll dry.’
He picks up a tea towel and comes over to the sink where he prises the very, very clean plate from my rigid fingers and wipes it up. I hear his sharp inhale when he catches sight of the tears I’m desperately trying to stifle, and I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t say anything. I’ve always been weak in the face of help with household tasks, so I carry on washing up, piling soapy plates and cutlery on the draining board for him to dry.
‘Cleo, you didn’t get this job because of the cakes. You got it because your idea was outstanding. It stood out by a town mile.’
