Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
I don’t see Horatio on Monday or Tuesday.
He’s up and out at the gym or the office or wherever he disappears to before the crack of dawn each morning, way before I’m awake and have dragged myself from my bed.
And each day, he fails to return to his flat before I’ve stumbled back to my bed and fallen asleep.
However, on Monday morning, I do find a flask of coffee sitting on my doorstep, along with a little note.
I’m assuming that you are now a coffee addict,
the note says, in neat, orderly handwriting.
And as I feel responsible for this addiction, I thought it only fair to supply you with your poison.
Horatio.
There’s no “love from”, no little kiss. My heart does a little skip anyway, until I remind it that not only is Horatio my fake boyfriend, but any feelings he may be harbouring are also fake.
Still, in between potion brewing, I can’t help baking a fresh batch of brownies, which I cut up neatly, placing them in my best Tupperware dish and leaving it on his doorstep with a little note.
I’m assuming you are also now a sugar addict, and as I feel responsible for that, here’s your supply.
Molly
PS. I added a little coffee kick to these!
No loves, no froms, no kisses. We’re just friends. That’s all.
Tuesday morning, there’s a brand-new cafetière on my doorstep, as well as a bag of expensive-looking ground coffee beans. There’s another note.
An addict ought to know how to brew their own,
it says, followed by some detailed instructions on how to make the perfect cup of coffee. He signs it this time with just an H. Plus a little squiggle that might – just might – be a kiss.
I tell my heart, and all those butterflies in my stomach, to behave, and carry everything inside, brewing myself a coffee while I cut up ingredients for a new batch of anti-snoring potion.
In the evening, I rummage through my cupboards for brownie ingredients, weighing them all out, tipping them into different containers and labelling them, and then writing out the recipe for Espresso Brownies for him along with a little accompanying message.
You should also be able to bake yours.
M.
X
On Wednesday morning, I find my Tupperware returned with another note.
I gave it a try, it says. What do you think?
H.
And this time, a most definite kiss.
I carry the different-sized boxes inside my flat and peel back the lid of the largest, finding ten little brownies inside. They aren’t the best. They wouldn’t win any cookery competitions. They’re a little too flat and a tad on the dry side. But they taste divine.
I flip over Horatio’s note and find another message on the other side.
P.S. Don’t forget the birthday drinks. Looking forward to seeing you there, Sugar Booger.
Shit. His birthday. I made him cook brownies for his own birthday. I almost face-plant my head into my palm.
Abandoning all my potion-brewing plans for the day, even though my bank balance won’t forgive me for it, I decide I’m going to bake him a birthday cake instead.
A real girlfriend would do that. She’d bake her boyfriend a birthday cake to take to his birthday drinks.
And as his fake girlfriend, I can’t let the side down.
I flick through my grandma’s old recipe book, one I stole from my mum’s house several years ago, looking for the perfect cake.
I try to remember if Horatio has ever told me what his favourite cake is, but I swear that until he started hanging out with me a few days ago, he was probably avoiding sugar altogether.
Eventually, I decide that classic and simple is what’s called for. A Victoria sponge. You can’t go wrong with a Victoria sponge. Everybody loves one. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t.
And seeing as I have a secret weapon – my mum’s homemade jam, made with berries picked from the enchanted forest where she lives – this cake is going to be the best cake Horatio and all his civilian friends will ever taste. No bewitching or hexing necessary.
Unfortunately, it’s stopped raining in London, and instead the weather is once again sweltering, which means I’m back down to my undies as I beat, whisk, and bake.
Damien arrives halfway through, screeching and covering his eyes when he finds me in my underwear.
“Do not be so dramatic,” I tell him, struggling to unscrew the lid off the jam jar. “You’ve seen all this about a million times before.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to see it again. Where are your clothes?”
“It’s too hot for clothes.”
“Ugh,” he says. “You humans and your poorly regulated and designed bodies.”
“Just because you can stand the fires of Hell does not mean the rest of us can.”
He frowns at me. “You know I haven’t been down there for centuries and centuries and centuries.
And actually, it’s a nice temperature today,” he adds, hopping up onto the counter, taking the jam jar from my hands and easily removing the lid.
“So, what exactly are we doing?” He sniffs the air. “Doesn’t smell like a potion to me.”
“I’m baking a cake,” I explain.
He tips his head. “Are you feeling stressed out? Remember, tomorrow is another day.”
“No. No, it’s for Horatio’s birthday,” I mumble.
Damien blinks and taps his claws against the countertop.
“It’s the anniversary of the human’s painful propulsion into the world through his mother’s vagina?” I flinch. “A special day?” Damien inquires. Birthdays are another thing he doesn’t quite understand.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s his birthday. A special day.”
“Which you’re planning to spend with him?”
“Not quite,” I explain. “He’s having a party tonight at the Nightjar.”
“And you’ve been invited as his special guest?”
“Tiggie and Prim are going too!” I exclaim, trying to play down this whole thing.
However, my words cause Damien to jump right down from the counter, his eyes flaring crimson and his tail whipping through the air.
“And what about me? Am I not invited?”
“You didn’t spend a weekend with Horatio.”
“But I’m your best friend. I’m the woman he’s in love with’s best friend. I should be at the birthing-day party too.”
“Birthday,” I correct.
I dip a knife into the pot of jam and lather it across the now-cooled vanilla sponge cake.
“You really want to come?” I say, praying he says no.
I love Damien. He is my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
But he’s not exactly subtle. And we’re going to be surrounded by civilians – civilians I’m already going to have to lie to about my relationship status with Horatio, and who I’m already going to have to guard against Tiggie and Prim, who are never quite as careful in revealing information as I am, because they hardly spend any time in the civilian world. They’re just not used to it.
Damien is going to be a whole different kettle of fish. Or a whole different demon-on-the-loose in an overly crowded bar.
“Yes, I want to come,” he growls. “Or is this how it’s going to be from now on?” He tosses his mane of hair. “I’m not good enough for your prim and proper boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I point out. “He’s just in love with me because I bewitched him with that potion. And you, Damien, are good enough for anyone.”
This seems to pacify my friend. He walks over, dips his finger straight into the pot of jam and licks it off.
“Revolting,” he says. “You humans and your food. Revolting.”
“But if you’re coming,” I say with a little annoyance, “you can’t go around saying things like that. You have to be on your best behaviour. The place will be crawling with civilians.”
“You know me, Molly. I’m the very epitome of subtlety.”
My best friend is currently wearing a leather catsuit. It’s bright pink with spots. And today his horns are polka-dotted too.
“Just maybe tone down the outfit a little,” I suggest.
“You don’t like my outfit?” he says, raising his hands in the air and giving me a spin.
“I love your outfit. But maybe tone it down just a little.”
“I’ve reconsidered my suggestion from the weekend. You shouldn’t change for a man, Molly,” he tells me, narrowing his eyes. “What are you wearing? Don’t tell me, you went and invested in that twin set and pearls.”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m going to wear my usual outfit.”
Which maybe I wasn’t planning to wear. Maybe I was going to go for one of my more moderate dresses.
One my mother would approve of. An outfit that would help me to blend in with Horatio’s friends.
But Damien is right. It’s never worth sacrificing who you are – not even for hot men and ‘feelings’.
I am who I am and I’m not changing that for any man.
* * *
Damien hangs around while I finish off the cake because he wants to make sure I don’t have a change of heart about my outfit.
When he discovers I’m opting for the tight little black dress we bought in the shops last week, he is satisfied and pops off to find an outfit of his own, promising me, with a cross of his heart, that it won’t be too outrageous.
I have to make him do this five times in a row because he keeps crossing his fingers and his toes.
“I don’t know why you don’t trust me,” he says in a huff as he vanishes from sight, and I finally think I’ve got him to make a truthful pact.
“Because you lie all the time,” I call out to the space he’d just inhabited a second before. “Also,” I mumble to myself, “you insisted that we meet at the bar, which tells me you’re totally going to renege on this promise.”
McGruff looks up at me.
“Yes, yes, yes, I’m talking to myself,” I tell him. “Let’s not pretend it’s the first time.”
My dog shakes his head and slumps off to his basket, leaving me to shower, remove the hair that’s started to sprout from my legs, and wash my hair.
Usually I just rough-dry my hair, opting for the messy, just-got-out-of-bed look. Today, I go for something slightly different, drying it smooth and adding some curls. Then I go to town on my eye makeup, adding dark smoky eyes and a complementary blood-red lip, before yanking on the black dress.
I swear it’s ten times tighter than it was in the shop cubicle. And when I do a little swivel, I realise not only is my bra showing, but my knicker line too.
I weigh up my options. Then I’m pinging off the bra and sliding off the underwear. Luckily the dress has enough support, and as I do another little swivel in front of the mirror, I have to admit, I look pretty damn hot.
I spot McGruff in the corner. He’s lifted his head from his paws, his face tilted to one side, and I can tell he’s judging me.
If I’m honest, I’m judging myself. I haven’t paid this much attention to my appearance or gone to this much effort for a long time, and clearly there’s a reason.
“I know I’m playing with fire,” I tell him. “But can’t a girl have a little fun?”
McGruff tips his head to the other side.
“Don’t I deserve some fun?” I add. “I’ve been such a good girl, McGruff, such a good girl.”
He growls and barks, probably reminding me that I hadn’t been such a good girl in my flat, when we’d done all that kissing. Or at the back of the hotel when we’d almost kissed again. Or in the hotel games room when Horatio had kissed me somewhere totally inappropriate.
“Look, let’s be honest, I’ve always been a bad girl at heart. It’s nothing new. You can’t complain.”
I trot over to him, not able to take big strides because this damn dress is really freaking tight. Then I crouch down, give him some ear tickles and some kisses to the end of his nose.
“Will you be okay on your own?” I ask him.
I’ve left him a full bowl of food, plus several treats and a chew. Yes, it’s bribery, but I don’t think McGruff is going to complain about that.
He gives me another woof and then lays his chin on his paws.
I give him one last kiss and then consider my footwear.
I could go for the heels again but considering I’m going to have to manoeuvre through public transport, it might take me three hours just to get to the bar.
So I slide on a pair of socks and pull on my boots, then grab my leather jacket, my handbag, and the Victoria sponge, and head off towards the bar.
Ten minutes into my tube journey, I’m wishing I’d forked out for an Uber instead. It’s baking in the carriage. I can see the cream melting in the centre of my cake, and a fine line of sweat pools at the base of my neck. I’m pretty sure my makeup is melting down my face too.
All that time and effort wasted. All that time and effort for nothing. I’m going to rock up at this bar looking like a sweaty mess.
I sigh and follow the lead of everyone else in the carriage, using a discarded free newspaper to fan my face in desperation.
The old man seated next to me on the bench leans forward and peers into my cake box.
“Victoria sponge?” he asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
“Looks good,” he says. “Did you sift the flour?”
“Of course.”
“Added real vanilla essence and not that cheap supermarket stuff?”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” I assure him.
Everyone’s a baking expert these days. You can’t make a cake without everyone quizzing you on your technique. I realise this is how my evening is going to go and wonder if bringing this birthday cake was such a good idea.
“I like a woman who can cook,” the old man says, winking at me.
I shuffle away from him, while informing him, in no uncertain terms, that I’ve baked the cake for my boyfriend – my very tall, very big boyfriend.
“He’s one lucky man,” he says, winking again.
Two stops later, I’m relieved to escape the oven of the carriage, make my way up the escalator, and into the fresh air.
It’s a warm evening, but it’s several degrees cooler than the tube, and I groan in relief.
Plucking a tissue from my handbag, I dab at the sweat at the back of my neck and take a peek at my face in my compact mirror.
There’s definitely a little bit of mascara smudge.
I try my best to patch up the damage, then walk on, weaving my way through the bustling pavement, dodging elbows, shopping bags, and tourists, gripping my cake with both hands, cradling it to my body like a child I’m trying to protect, and finally reaching the bar.
It’s already full. I take a deep breath, lean my shoulder against the door and step inside.
I’m hit by a wall of noise almost immediately, and my gaze is drawn right over the heads of all the people inside, colliding with the dazzling blue eyes of my fake boyfriend, Mr Horatio Hottie.