Chapter 4
I’VE GOT ONE eye trained on the clock and a combination of flour and butter clinging to my fingers as I rub the ingredients together.
I am trying to land my neighbour, Kathleen Beardsley, as a catering client.
She runs Scrabble clubs across multiple community centres and the cafe that used to supply the afternoon teas has shut up shop.
I want that gig, and Kathleen is using her annual gathering of the building’s tenants as my audition.
Each year she drops an invite into everyone’s letterbox and each year a handful of us turn up and stand awkwardly in her floral-themed apartment while she flits about offering cups of tea.
I absolutely loathe making scones. They’re so traditional, so popular, that everyone has their own particular preference for how they should be made and will be quick to tell you if yours are not as good as their grandmother’s.
The clock keeps ticking. I have twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to get these in the oven, change out of the clothes I wore to Pilates and into something presentable, take the scones out of the oven and take the elevator down to her apartment on the first floor.
No sweat.
My apartment door closes behind me with barely a minute to spare and I race towards the closing doors of the elevator.
‘Wait,’ I call out, my arms cradling the tray of warm scones.
I can’t be late. Kathleen is a stickler for punctuality and she still hasn’t forgotten the time I was a wee bit late to feed her menace of a cat when she was out of town.
I didn’t think it was a big deal, but apparently Whiskers adheres to a strict feeding schedule, something I learned when he greeted me with a barrage of hisses and angry swipes when I turned up thirty minutes late.
Kathleen, having witnessed my late arrival and ensuing attack of his claws through her pet camera, was quick to jump on the phone and coo at him (and reprimand me).
And while she forgave me enough to allow this audition, she declined my offer to care for Whiskers during her recent trip to Warrnambool.
While feeding the menace wasn’t technically a job, I definitely felt like I’d been fired when she told me she had it covered.
I fling my leg through the elevator doors just before they come together and step inside. ‘Of course it’s you,’ I mutter when I come face to face with Adam. ‘Are you going to pretend you didn’t hear me this time too?’
His eyes drill into mine, his lips quirking ever so slightly.
This man is taking pleasure in taunting me.
Now, had I not turned up to his apartment with a second apology cake after finding out I had insulted his life’s work and made him numerous offers of apology baked goods at the cafe over the past few weeks, then I would say he has every right to hold a grudge.
However, I’ve tried to mend this broken bridge and his refusal to accept my apologies is on him.
If anyone has the right to bear a grudge it is me.
The guy took that second apology cake from me with a grunt and then closed the door in my face when I helpfully suggested that a plant or two would liven up his apartment.
That’s just plain rude. And then there’s his frequent, and I mean frequent, visits to the cafe where he either ignores me or tosses one-word answers my way when I try to engage in conversation with him.
And now here he is, refusing to hold the elevator for me and my scones.
I have every mind to set Whiskers on him.
We take the elevator in silence and I march ahead of him down the hallway to Kathleen’s apartment.
The scones are a hit. Well, with the five people in attendance.
Six if you count Adam, which I don’t since he hasn’t so much as glanced at the tray.
He has attached himself to Kathleen’s side and accepted multiple cups of tea while nodding as she regales him with her tales.
She loves to tell a story. Stories that have a ton of unnecessary backstory and unimportant details, like how many bathroom breaks she had to make on her way to Warrnambool and what time she sat down for her afternoon cuppa.
The burden of listening to her typically falls on me.
So I should be relieved that Adam is the chosen one today.
But I’m not. That should be me over there wearing a forced smile. He has nothing riding on this afternoon tea. I have everything. And when I tried to talk to Kathleen earlier she practically ignored me and turned back to Adam.
My phone vibrates with a message blinking up at me.
Mum: Did you check with Adam again about England?
Sabrina: I told you, he can’t make it
Mum: What’s his number? I’m sure once I have a chat to him, he’ll change his mind. It’s the family holiday, Sabrina. He should be there.
My stomach sinks. This harmless story of Adam being my boyfriend was supposed to be a simple fix. Had I actually thought it through, I might’ve held off until after our family holiday. Mum’s texts insisting that Adam join us are a near daily occurrence.
I tried fobbing her off with a promise of a visit at Christmas. Obviously that visit will never eventuate because hopefully by then I am in a relationship. A real one.
I stare at Mum’s message and finally reply.
Sabrina: He’ll come on our next holiday
I slide my phone into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.
With a glance over at Adam, who’s still sequestered with Kathleen, I sigh and take my irritation out on my third scone, spreading the silvanberry jam on it with so much vigour it almost crumbles.
‘The cream goes on first.’ Adam’s deep voice rumbles behind me and my knife clatters to the plate, smearing jam along my fingers.
‘It absolutely does not,’ I say and wipe my hands on a floral napkin. ‘Only the most uncivilised person would do that.’
He glowers at me. ‘That’s how my grandmother did them.’
A loud purr draws my eyes down as Whiskers winds himself around Adam’s legs.
There’s a part of me that wants the cat to latch on to Adam’s jeans and sink its claws into his flesh.
And yes, those claws can cut through denim.
‘Careful,’ I say because I’m not a monster who actually wishes harm on others. ‘That cat can be vicious.’
A brow quirks behind his glasses and he bends down to scoop Whiskers up into his arms. ‘He seems harmless to me.’ The cat’s purrs increase in volume as it rubs his head under Adam’s chin.
‘Well,’ I start and then bite down on my lip because I have nothing to say to that. I scoop a dollop of cream onto my scone with a pointed look at him.
‘Sabrina, these scones are scrumptious.’ Kathleen swoops in, filling the air with an intense powdery scent that makes my nose twitch. ‘Adam, dear, have you tried one of Sabrina’s scones?’
Dear? She calls him dear?
‘You know,’ she says. ‘Adam’s grandmother used to make the most delicious scones.
She guarded that recipe fiercely, didn’t she.
’ Kathleen beams at Whiskers, who is now rubbing his head against Adam’s stubbled cheek.
‘He’s very taken with you, dear. Thank you for looking after him while I was away.
Adam made sure Whiskers had plenty of cuddles,’ she says, turning her beaming smile on me.
The sting I felt at being fired from Whiskers duty turns into a deep gash.
‘Oh no, Miriam isn’t using a coaster. And Sabrina,’ she says with a gentle tap to her cheek. ‘You have a little something here.’ As quickly as she appeared, Kathleen is gone, leaving behind her powdery scent.
I turn and find my reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging beside the glass case filled with porcelain figurines that are almost as precious to Kathleen as Whiskers.
There’s a giant streak of flour across my cheek.
Flour that must have been there the entire time I have been in this apartment. And in the elevator ride here.
‘Did you not care to point out that I had flour on my face?’ I ask Adam. I wipe my napkin across my cheek and end up with a streak of jam across my flushed skin. Snatching up a clean napkin I quickly remove it.
‘I assumed it was there by choice.’
I glare at him. ‘Choice? You thought I, what, walk around with flour on my face for fun?’
He shrugs and scratches Whisker’s chin, drawing a string of purrs from him.
‘This is payback for insulting your work, isn’t it? I’ve apologised for that many times.’
He continues to scratch Whiskers.
‘I take back my apologies.’
‘Which means they were never real apologies.’ He glances over at the grandfather clock in the corner. ‘Whiskers needs to be fed.’
He hugs the cat to his chest and, I swear, Whiskers narrows his eyes at me as though I have personally offended him. The two of them leave, thick as thieves, and I’m left standing alone with my half-eaten, correctly prepared scone.
What’s the etiquette around dumping a fake boyfriend?