Devil's Food Cake [✓]

16 | rosemary & banana cake

'So, let me get this straight,' I stated, staring down at my notepad, in which I'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to jot down whatever Mrs Griffin had rattled off at full speed like an old-fashioned steam train on its last wheels.

Some days she actually came in her mobility scooter. She was so bossy that I had to keep warning myself not to say something rude.

I felt like a priest sometimes.

'Yes dear!' Mrs Griffin's trembly voice echoed down the phone and I heard the clatter of cutlery or crockery. Presumably, she was preparing tea. I was surprised she could do two things at once and still sound so sharp and headmistress-y.

That was another thing about Mrs Griffin. She used to be a headmistress back in the day. Left over from that bygone era (the 1950s or 1960s) was her adherence to strict rules and formalities. She wasn't the type of elderly woman who appreciated people talking down to her or treating her like she was an OAP.

I wasn't sure if I liked her, but then again, the world would be a boring place if you liked everyone at first sight. I mean, look at Zachary, he was such a spoilt, arrogant so-and-so.

'You'd like us to change the original order to something else now—'

'That's what I said!' She sounded a bit huffy like she was prepared for a confrontation.

I took a deep breath and imagined something relaxing and soothing. I really couldn't wait to end the call.

Dad was sitting at a table sipping from a mug of tea, shoulders bent over the accounts. He had a pen between his teeth and his brows furrowed. Sensing my apprehension, his eyes looked up and his mouth drooped downwards and he pointed his thumb at the paper walk as if to reassure me that I wasn't the only one struggling here.

I smiled sympathetically. Dad pretended to wipe away some tears as if he were miming a sad clown. I rolled my eyes, familiar with his tricks. He placed a hand on his heart as though wounded by response. My dad liked to pretend he was a 20s silent actor. The Charlie Chaplin of the bakery world.

I had absolutely no idea how my mother dealt with him, but that's probably one of the reasons why she fell for him.

I wouldn't have gone as far as saying he didn't take life seriously, but I guess he enjoyed being around people, making them laugh. Dad was a people's person. Unlike myself. I mean I liked being around people, but sometimes they caused no end of stress like the woman on the telephone line adamantly insisting that she knew best.

When Mrs Griffin paused for a split second, I seized the opportunity to politely give her a piece of my mind.

'So you would like custard layers within a rosemary and banana sponge? It's a creative idea, but I'm not sure it would all mesh together if we chose to do it—'

I heard a loud slurping sound and the smacking of pursed lips. 'Oh what would you know, dear!'

'I've baked a lot of cakes. With respect, I think I'd know what works, Mrs Griffin,' I said flatly.

Rosemary and banana sponge? The idea was enough to make my poor tastebuds shudder. In this case, the customer didn't always know best.

'I'm sure you do, Carlotta.'

Who was Carlotta? A wry smile passed across my lips as I was reminded that each time she visited Mrs Griffin would call me another name beginning with 'c'. I didn't really mind. I was fine with being given a new identity. Besides, a name said by someone you didn't particularly like didn't exactly sound sweet. However, someone else, say, a person whose company you actually enjoyed, it was enough to make your name sound like birdsong.

I liked the way Jonny said my name. With him, their were so many inflections he could put into it.

Yesterday night had been good night — If you'd asked me why I decided to sleep with him on the first date, it just sort of happened.

We were having a conversation about his roommate's snoring and how Jonny was contemplating committing a very bad deed to rectify the situation. I burst out laughing. And he stared at me like I was the one who was nuts. I think I started to hiccup soon after. He teased me about it, saying that he shouldn't have allowed me to have a soda because I clearly couldn't handle it. It was one of those really stubborn hiccuping sessions — the ones that make you feel helpless.

He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me squarely on the mouth.

The shock of his lips on mine did the trick. And it was lucky his roommate was away for the weekend, because if he'd had occasion to hear us, he'd have woken up from his snoring and we'd have been given a hell of a telling-off. Not that Jonny would have cared.

He'd have considered it just revenge for all the sleepless nights.

'Mrs Griffin, may I ask you a question?' I said, cutting her off mid-sentence because I knew she'd talk a sow's ear off given the chance.

'Be quick about it,' she replied imperiously.

'We'll be happy to take you new order,' I said sweetly, 'but might I ask why your set on this particular creation?'

Why not something a tad normal? Say, chocolate and rhubarb cake? Honey and lemon drizzle cake? Or even Victoria sponge as a safe choice?

There was pause at the end of line. A thwack of a what sounded like a newspaper on a kitchen table.

Soon after, I heard what sounded suspiciously like the tapping of quick fingers across a rattling typewriter.

I expect Mrs Griffin was partaking in her favourite hobby — writing letters to The Times.

'A childhood favourite, Cassandra. When I was a little girl in Milford-Haven, my Aunt Eunice used to prepare cake every time I spend my summer hols back in the country. Does that satisfy your curiosity, only I have a very important letter to write about that awful runway..."

'How lovely!' I trilled, happy that the conversation was nearing a timely interval. 'We will do our best. Thank you very much, Mrs Griffin. Have a wonderful day.'

The elderly woman grunted something intelligible caught up in her writing. I looked at the list of sensible, perfectly delicious cake options I'd written down by her name... and crossed them out.

'Rosemary and banana sponge it is,' I muttered, swivelling around.

On seeing him, my fountain pen dropped onto the floor and rolled away from me.

'Candice, you're looking normal for once!' Zachary crowed.

He was savouring the confusion and embarrassment which passed quickly across my features.

The way he said my name didn't sound anything like a sweet birdsong; instead it sounded like the self-satisfied cawing of a magpie.