‘Awwwww.’ He reaches out to take a cake. ‘Now that’s definitely the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
‘Oi! You can’t have one yet, they need to cool down and be iced!’
‘If you think I’ve sat in front of an oven for twenty minutes just so I can wait another hour for decoration, you’re as sorely mistaken as my glutes are after sitting on the floor for so long. Besides, it’s a fact of life that nothing will ever taste as good as when you’re burning your mouth on it, mere seconds after it comes out of the oven.’
I want to be annoyed but I appreciate his enthusiasm, and there are sixteen of them, so more than enough for us to sample one now and then decorate them later. My head is filled with visions of tomorrow being the very first day that I serve customers genuine homemade cakes, lovingly made from scratch and exquisitely decorated. It will be the start of what I wanted to do with the tearoom from the beginning.
He’s already peeling the cake case off, and he keeps shifting the cake around and shaking his fingers because it’s too hot, but as I’m coming to learn, there’s not much that can deter Bram from cake.
I take one too and flap my hand to disperse the steam, and I can’t help watching as he takes a big bite of his.
‘Oh my God,’ he says around a mouthful.
‘That good?’ I can feel my face light up as I get the case off mine and take a bite too. ‘Oh my God.’
I echo his words but it is not the good kind of ‘oh my God’. What the heck is that? Because I’ve eaten many cakes over the course of my life, and that doesn’t resemble any of them.
Bram’s face shifts to revulsion and he speaks with his mouth stuffed. ‘I’m going to need a crowbar to prise my teeth out of this.’
It does tend to take to your teeth and form a bond with them, a bit like denture fixative in edible form. I’m trying to inch it out of my mouth without taking any fillings with it, and he’s trying not to gag as he leans over to spit the unfortunate bit he’d bitten off into the bin.
‘Crikey, that was like eating an armchair.’ At least he’s laughing as he throws the remaining cake into the bin too. ‘What did you do to this?’
‘I don’t know!’ I say helplessly. ‘I followed the recipe! You watched me!’
‘Was one of the ingredients Polyfilla? Did it call for butter, sugar, and four tablespoons of wallpaper paste? When you went to buy your ingredients, did the shop have a big sign saying “B&Q” outside?’
He makes me laugh even though I want to cry. How can a simple cake go so very, very wrong? ‘I used to be able to do this with my eyes closed.’
‘Did you have your eyes closed? Because that could explain a lot…’ He takes another cake and pokes at it. ‘I’m actually very impressed that anyone can make a fairy cake go that horribly wrong. That’s a skill in itself.’
‘Maybe they’ll be better when they’ve cooled down?’ I say hopefully.
‘When they’ve cooled down, you’ll be able to send them to warzones and substitute them for cannonballs.’
He’s being kind there.
‘Place them very gently in the bin, lest they crack the floor tiles and go straight through to the magma of the earth’s core.’
I make a noise of frustration and drop my head into my hands. ‘I did exactly as it said.’
‘Never mind. We’ll try again. Come over tomorrow night and I’ll help, see if we can figure out where you’re going wrong. At a guess, I’d say you got to the part where it says to fold in the flour and then accidentally transferred it into a cement mixer…’
‘This is hopeless,’ I mutter without lifting my head. ‘This is what happens every time I get near a kitchen now, and it’s so disheartening. Everything comes out tasting like this – or worse.’
‘There’s no such thing as hopeless.’ He reaches out to give my shoulder a squeeze. ‘You know what they say – practice makes better. Frustrated, but ultimately, better.’
For once, his habit of getting sayings wrong actually makes sense. ‘Not perfect?’
‘I don’t think anyone’s perfect, are they?’
I lift my head and look over my shoulder at him. ‘Very insightful.’
He’d been leaning on the unit too, and he pushes himself up, sweeps the remaining cakes into the bin with a comment about not recycling anything so potentially hazardous to public health, and heads for the kitchen door. ‘I’ll come to the supermarket with you to choose tomorrow’s Wonderland options. There’s one ten minutes away from here. It’s good to mix it up, make sure you don’t arouse suspicion in your regular one by buying enough baked goods to feed an army every day.’
‘Bram, you don’t have—’
‘I want to.’ He cuts off my protest. ‘Come on, we can take my car, we’ll be there in a jiffy. And when we get back, you can help me make another batch of those blueberry flower tarts, so at least there’ll be something homemade to offer tomorrow.’
‘I didn’t want to get you involved in this.’ I follow him out into the hallway. There’s something lovely about how easy-going he is and how he takes everything in his stride.
‘It’s okay. Between us, we’ve got customers to feed and entertain, and a bit of crossover never hurt anybody.’
At the front door, he shoves his feet into well-worn trainers and I tug mine back on, and watch in fascination as he steps over to a mirror and pulls on a grey knitted beanie hat, and tucks his hair underneath it, pushing the blue locks up and pulling the hat down until every strand of hair is hidden. He takes a baseball cap and pulls that on over the top.
‘It’s not that much of an incognito mission.’
‘I know.’ His eyes flick to mine in the mirror. ‘But having blue hair makes people look at you and sometimes I don’t feel like being looked at.’
Now that I understand. My extrovert Hatter is more of an introvert than I imagined.
He picks up a set of car keys and opens the front door, and I step out and stand aside as he locks up.
‘You’re really different than I thought you’d be,’ I say as we walk down the steps.
And right on cue, he jumps off the steps from the third up, lands with a pirouette and a splash of gravel under his feet and spins around. ‘I’m still going to drive you up the wall at work tomorrow.’
I meet his eyes and smile. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.’
