Just for the Season

Chapter 1

FRANKIE

Finally.

I’ve never wanted a cake so much in my life.

I’ve been waiting for what feels like days and days and days (I mean, definitely well over fifteen minutes) to get to the front of this queue. And finally I’m here. Thank feck.

Simon, the very lovely café owner at whose counter I am now standing, is a good friend of mine and is beaming at me. I’m going to have to go through the formalities of saying hello, I realise.

I am so not in the mood. I just want to yell give me the cake and run.

‘Gorgeous Frankie.’ Simon’s beam is widening to face-splitting proportions. ‘I didn’t know you were coming down this weekend. So lovely to see you.’ He suddenly frowns and peers at my face. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, very good, thank you,’ I lie. ‘How are you?’

He leans over the counter. ‘I’m good. But you?

Are you really okay?’ He does a circular motion with his right forefinger in front of his own eyes, clearly indicating that there’s something wrong with mine.

I’m guessing they’re red, from crying all the way down the A303 from London to Dorset (apart from when I was swearing).

‘Yes. I am extremely well,’ I say firmly, and then – because Simon is looking like he’s about to go into full dog-with-a-bone mode – I mouth, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

We’re in Milbury Bay, the Dorset seaside village I grew up in, and this afternoon Milbury’s only café is rammed, with both pumpkins, fir cones and the like (Simon loves his seasonal décor), and people. I’ve already lost count of how many times I’ve been greeted since I’ve been in the queue.

The café door opens and a woman I recognise only very vaguely immediately swoops on me.

‘Frankie!’ she says, aiming kisses in my direction. ‘How are you? And how’s your gorgeous fiancé?’ She has definitely never met Rick. ‘Have you set a wedding date yet?’

I mumble a nothing and turn back to Simon, thinking exactly; this is why I’m not saying anything now.

Gossip is basically the life blood of the village, and if anyone in here hears me telling Simon about the triple whammy of life disasters I got hit by this morning in one fell swoop, my grandmother will know about it within the hour, and I don’t want her to worry about me.

‘Got it,’ Simon says. ‘So what can I get for you?’

‘The carrot cake, please.’ It’s topped with a sugary mascarpone layer of culinary heaven and decorated with edible purple flowers, and has a layer of butter icing running through the middle, and, having eaten it before, I know that it’s deliciously moist and sugary, with the perfect hint of cinnamon, and I cannot wait to share it with my cousin Ellie.

‘Sorry, but I need that cake,’ says a deep voice from behind me.

What?

I freeze for a second before pivoting slowly round to face the man who just spoke.

He’s tall, wide-shouldered and extremely handsome, precisely the kind of man who expects to get his own way just because he has a movie-star-level smile, which he is directing at me now.

It’s open and frank, and it contains just a smidge of self-deprecation.

I’m sure that smile often does get him what he wants, but not today.

The carrot cake is not available to him. I got here first.

‘I’m really sorry, but I need it,’ I tell him, before turning back to face the counter and my cake. It’s the exact thing I need right now. Literally nothing else will do.

‘I have what I’d have to describe as a cake emergency.

’ The queue man has injected a little hint of a laugh into his voice.

I roll my eyes. He’s labouring under a huge misapprehension if he thinks I can be won round by a handsome man exhibiting a (probably fake) sense of humour.

Being won over by a handsome man is exactly why I’m in the mess I’m in now, and I won’t be won over again by such a person, for life, cake or any other kind of matter.

‘I’m sure you’ll understand that I need it. ’

I do not understand. I have my own cake emergency, which is that I have had the day from hell and I want and need carbs and sugar in the shape of that specific carrot cake.

‘I’ll take the cake,’ I say firmly.

Worryingly, Simon, who is normally as in-your-face confident as it’s possible for a person to be without you wanting to slap them, has the air of a panicking puppy. His eyes are swivelling between my face and the queue man’s.

‘Ummm,’ he says.

I frown and then decide to ignore his panic and focus on completing my order. I’ll get an extra couple of things for Ellie and her son Jack, because now I think about it it’s highly likely I’ll eat the entire carrot cake myself.

‘I will also take…’ I begin, before I’m very rudely interrupted.

‘I’m happy to pay for your order,’ says Queue Man in the most ridiculously high-handed manner. ‘Anything you like. Every other cake in the shop if you like. But I do need that one.’

Simon gives me a very uncharacteristic face-half-scrunched, pleading little smile.

I consider, fast. If the man hadn’t patronisingly offered to buy me every other cake in the shop, if he hadn’t been so high-handed, if he hadn’t been so rude, if he’d bothered to explain why he wants the cake, and, crucially, if I hadn’t had a spectacularly bad day, I might have considered his offer.

‘No,’ I state. ‘I got here first and I want the carrot cake.’

‘Or,’ suggests Simon pleadingly, ‘take all the rest of the cakes in the shop instead? I’ve gone extremely autumnal with my specials this week.

Look at this pumpkin and mixed spice one, finished with apple icing.

It’s delicious, even if I say so myself.

’ He does jazz hands towards a green-topped cake.

‘Marcus—’ he indicates Queue Man ‘—means it. You can have them all.’

‘That’s right,’ agrees Marcus.

And then, unbelievably, he reaches around me and picks up my cake.

I whip round to face him and, as I go, my (currently very full) tote knocks his arm, and the cake sails into the air before splatting mascarpone-icing-side down onto the floor.

‘Nooooo,’ I moan.

‘No,’ yells Marcus.

We both stand and stare at the cake, and then at each other.

‘That was entirely unnecessary,’ Marcus tells me.

‘What? Do you actually think I did that on purpose?’ I ask. ‘Why would I do that? It was an accident. What was entirely unnecessary was you stealing my cake in the first place.’

‘It was an accident,’ Simon confirms. He’s come round our side of the counter, brandishing a dustpan and brush, some Dettol spray and a sponge.

‘Noooo,’ I scream, as he bends down to sweep my cake away. ‘I can still eat it.’

Simon stands up slowly and looks at me with concern. ‘Honey, no, you can’t.’

‘Give me a fork and spoon,’ I say, remembering the Friends episode with Chandler and Rachel and the cheesecake. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll eat it off the floor.

‘No.’ Simon shakes his head like I’ve gone mad.

‘Get. The. Cutlery. Please,’ I say, my voice pure steel. I should not be messed with any further today.

Simon scrambles back round the counter before returning with a fork, spoon and a plate.

‘You can scoop it onto there,’ he says, ‘but you are not eating it off the floor. Health and safety. I could get closed down.’ He suddenly looks panicked, and says in a loud voice, like some Health and Safety inspectors might be hovering at the back of the café, ‘I would like to make it very clear that my floors are thoroughly cleaned at least once a day.’

I’m not fully paying attention because I’m busy dolloping all the cake that didn’t touch the floor onto the plate.

Marcus is standing watching me, hands on hips, shaking his head.

I smile at him, magnanimous in my victory, and ask Simon if I can have a takeaway box.

‘I am prepared to share the ruined cake. Half each,’ Marcus says. ‘Final offer.’

Final offer? Is he mad? I’m the one with the power here, because I’m the one holding the cake. Plus, it’s my cake. I got here first.

‘I have carrot cupcakes, also iced,’ Simon says, sounding a lot more reasonable than Marcus.

‘And, Frankie, remember you love my lemon drizzle and my raspberry and pistachio cakes. I have both available.’ He does jazz hands again, in the direction of the counter, and then squirts Dettol at the floor.

I consider. I could share. I could eat half this carrot cake mess (which will taste divine no matter how squashed it is, even without the mascarpone layer) and Ellie could take her pick from some of the other cakes.

However. I don’t want to share. I can’t think of any cake emergency that Marcus could possibly be having that could top mine.

And I am over being Mrs Nice Guy. So, no.

Simon manoeuvres himself so that he’s in front of me with his back to Marcus and whispers, ‘Please. He owns the lease on this building and we’re renegotiating.’

I sigh. A very big sigh. I love Simon and obviously I can’t be the cause of his rent suddenly being hiked.

‘Fine,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Only for you.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ he says, still whispering.

‘Half each,’ I confirm to Marcus.

‘Thank you,’ he says, sounding the exact opposite of grateful.

I smile at him. When you’ve had a day like mine, you really, really don’t care if a random stranger in a cake shop gives you the evil eye. Frankly, I’m just impressed that I can still smile at all, about anything.

I suddenly realise that Simon is on his hands and knees sorting out a mess I made (well, it was entirely Marcus’s fault, but my bag was involved).

‘Simon, let me do that.’ I crouch down next to him.

‘No, no, all good.’ He’s actually already finished.

‘You’re good,’ I say, impressed.

‘I am. Always remember that.’ Simon grins at me and I hug him.

Thank goodness for friends. Maybe I will be able to get through the complete fuck-up that my life has suddenly turned into.

Then he stands up and begins to fill a large takeaway paper carrier bag with boxes containing my half of the squashed carrot cake plus several other cakes.

‘So you’re paying for all of this, Marcus? ’ he asks.