I stir in eggs and vanilla flavouring, and then fold in flour. ‘I overshared the rest earlier. I thought that cosy family tearoom would be my life. Never really considered that I would do anything else, and then when Nan died and it had to be sold, I found myself adrift. I’ve been adrift ever since.’
When the batter is smooth, I spoon it into cake cases. ‘And when I heard about Lilith and the tearooms, it sparked something inside me, and I wanted to bake again… and then I couldn’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says gently. ‘It sounds like you’ve had a rough few years. Enough to make anyone lose their spark…’
‘Alice has always been my comfort book. When I was little, my mum used to read it to me, and after she left, I was drawn to it again. I escaped into Wonderland. In my real life, nothing made sense, and reading a book where nothing made sense made it better somehow. Alice felt as lost as I was. I identified with her. I longed to wake up on a riverbank one day and discover it had all been a dream. Alice made me believe it was okay if things didn’t make sense and that things would be better soon, that one day I’d find the exit to my confusing, spiralling world too. I feel more like me than I have for years at The Wonderland Teapot. I’m finally doing something that would make my nan and mum proud, something that was meant for me, I want to make the things they used to make using our family recipes, and…’ I trail off. There isn’t any point finishing the sentence. He knows as well as I do that this is only ever going to be temporary if I can’t pull myself together and actually remember what those family recipes were.
The oven heats up in record time and I slide the baking tray into it while Bram loads the equipment I’ve used into the dishwasher and then invites me into the living room to wait.
‘I’m going to stay here and keep watch. Things go wrong when ovens are on.’
‘Okay.’ Without a moment of hesitation, he sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of the oven.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Keeping watch.’
‘Bram…’
‘There’s a David Attenborough documentary on the TV that I’ve seen several times before. This is far more interesting. It’s like The Great British Bake Off but I get to be Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith, minus the interesting jewellery choices. All we need now is Noel Fielding making bad jokes.’
I can’t help looking at him as he sits there, his elbows on his knees, his hands steepled under his chin with his head resting on them. ‘You don’t need to—’
‘You know what they say – good things come to those who…’
‘Wait?’ I offer.
‘…Make sizeable donations to the right politicians, but both are correct.’ He’s got a familiar cheeky grin on his face when he looks up at me with a one-shouldered shrug, and it makes me laugh much harder than it should do.
I sit down beside him and cross my legs under me. I’m intending to watch the cake batter start to rise in the lit-up oven interior, but I find my gaze being drawn back to the man beside me. I’ve sat close enough that my knee is touching his. Usually he smells of citrusy aftershave, but tonight it’s just shampoo and laundry fabric softener, and only the swish of the dishwasher and the fan of the oven fills the silence between us.
‘So, magic, huh?’ It sounds sharp and awkward and it’s increasingly obvious that in my two years of avoiding life, I’ve totally forgotten how to talk to other humans.
‘It’s just an oven.’ He holds a hand out in front of him, indicating the glass door we’re both looking through. ‘A mix of certain ingredients produce a chemical reaction when exposed to heat and do that thing known as “cooking”. Science, not magic.’
‘Oh, you’re a riot tonight,’ I mutter, even though I’m fighting not to laugh. At work, I think he’s trying too hard and I try not to find him funny, but tonight everything about him seems natural, and he’s hilarious without intending to be. ‘You know what I meant. I’ve never met a magician before… how long have you been doing magic?’
He looks over at me curiously, like he’s trying to work out if there’s an ulterior motive behind the question, and I feel bad again that this is the first time I’ve actually asked him anything about himself. It’s the first time I’ve needed to, because at The Wonderland Teapot, he keeps up a constant litany of chatter, and I’m always wishing he’d shut up, and definitely not encouraging him to talk more.
‘I started when I was twelve,’ he says eventually. ‘I didn’t have the easiest time growing up, and an uncle bought me one of those children’s magic kits for Christmas one year, and… it was everything I didn’t know I needed. It spoke to me. Back then, they were just basic tricks like balls under cups and linking and unlinking steel rings, the kind of thing that anyone could do, but I focused on perfecting those tricks and while I was concentrating on them, I forgot everything else that was going on. I learned harder and more difficult things. It was the first thing I really connected with. The first thing that made me feel like me. Magic gave me a sense of place in the world. I went from being too shy to put my hand up in class when a teacher asked a question to performing magic in front of school assemblies. It’s an ice breaker. I learned to separate the tricks from myself. I was awkward and terrible at communicating. I was always frozen by crippling shyness and if I bumbled my way through meeting someone, I was too embarrassed to ever talk to them again, but if I did a trick, I could tell myself that if they hadn’t liked my trick, that didn’t mean they didn’t like me, and it did so much for my confidence. It changed my childhood completely. It takes a lot for me to feel like I’m good at something, but I knew I was good at magic.’
I’m surprised by his passion and openness, and by the emotion in his voice. He’s obviously very good at what he does, but it had never occurred to me that it means that much to him, or that it could have such an enormous effect on a child.
‘Now I’m still shy and awkward and haven’t got a clue how to talk to people, but magic is an ice breaker.’ He holds his hand out, inviting me to shake it, and when I do, his long fingers curl around mine and he shakes my hand like we’re meeting for the first time. ‘Nowadays I don’t have to walk up to people and say, “Hi, I’m Bram, the least memorable human in the history of the world and you’ll have forgotten me before your next blink.” I can do a trick instead and make an impression, whether good or bad.’
I stifle another snort. Of all the strange things he says, that has got to be one of the strangest. ‘You? Shy? You, the Mad Hatter who yaks all day? You struggle to talk to people?’
‘Yes, actually.’ He lets go of my fingers and pulls his hand away like I’ve hurt him. ‘Is that really so hard to believe?’
I didn’t expect his sharp response, and I realise what’s just happened. He’s opened up to me, told me something that I doubt many other people know, and I’ve done exactly what he expected me to. ‘In the shop, yes. Tonight… no, it isn’t. I’m sorry. I try not to judge people based on their appearance, but I’ve been doing that since I met you.’
‘You know what they say,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Never judge a duvet by its cover.’
It’s his squeaky Mad Hatter voice again, the one he uses while playing the character, and it makes me wonder how much deeper this goes. More and more, I get the feeling that he plays a character in public to hide very real insecurities.
‘The one thing you’re not is unmemorable.’ I bite my lip. ‘You make an unforgettable impression on everyone you meet.’
‘Hatter does. The alternative-type magician I’ve played at the carousel does. But me? I don’t stand out in any way. I’m quiet. I like watching nature documentaries and reading books. I play video games. I’m not into sports. If I go out, it’s for a walk in the countryside. Sometimes the highlight of my day is a nice nap.’
I laugh even though I didn’t intend to because it feels like a serious moment. ‘If it helps, while Hatter has his good points, I think this side of you is the most intriguing one yet.’
I probably shouldn’t, but his knee is right there, next to mine, and I reach across and touch the back of my hand to it, his jogging bottoms well-worn and soft under my fingers.
He looks down at my hand and then his dark eyes flick up and meet mine. ‘Thank you.’
We hold each other’s gaze. I’ve become terrible at eye contact lately, but for once, I don’t want to look away, I want him to know that I see him tonight… and he’s nothing like I imagined he would be.
My hand is against his knee and he hasn’t dropped my gaze, and everything around us has gone very still and quiet and it’s like a magnet is pulling me towards him. It’s a tingle I haven’t felt for a very long time and I let out a breath, and in the stillness that was so fragile, it’s enough to break the spell.
He blinks and looks away. ‘You should check the cakes.’
‘Cakes! Yes!’ I scramble to my feet. God knows what I’m thinking, looking into Bram’s eyes and feeling tingles. He might be different than I thought, but just getting out the door every morning is a hard enough life achievement at the moment, without thinking about adding further complications. I don’t do things like looking into people’s eyes any more. That only ever leads to trouble.
He’s got to his feet too and he hands me an oven glove and a skewer, and I open the oven door and slide the skewer into one of the cakes. It comes out clean and they look the right shade of golden brown, so I get them out.
‘And you say you can’t cook.’ Bram elbows my arm gently as we look at the steaming tray of cakes on the unit. ‘They look amazing.’
Maybe it is just a kitchen issue after all. Maybe every previous disaster has been down to bad luck or fluke coincidences that couldn’t have been avoided in any set of circumstances, and a beautiful modern kitchen is the key to unlocking my potential. ‘Maybe you’re my lucky charm.’
