PIECE OF CAKE - Chapter 1
It was an unseasonably hot spring afternoon when Mabel Cherry found herself sagging under the weight of a cake box. She’d carried it on her lap during the short drive from home, and now that she and her mother had reached the wedding venue, the true weight of the three-tier chocolate mud cake was making itself known. Mabel somehow managed to keep it upright while her mother sped around corners and accelerated up the long driveway to The Bluff.
“I’ve never been late with a cake delivery,” her mum said. “I’ll be damned if Amber Hasnick’s is the first. Her family knows everyone in this town. My reputation would be ruined!”
Mabel was worried her mother’s cake-making reputation wasn’t the one everybody liked to talk about. She’d heard a few whispers around town, but at least people weren’t saying nasty things to her mum’s face.
“We should have left earlier,” Mabel said, her arms aching from trying to keep the cake level. The box had tall cardboard sides and an opening at the top so she could keep her eye on it. For the millionth time, Mabel wished they had enough money to fix the car’s air-conditioning. Her English rose complexion was becoming blotchier by the second.
Her mother leaned as far forward in the driver’s seat as her pregnant belly would allow. She was scanning for a place to pull over, but the parking area for The Bluff was full to bursting. The old stately home was surrounded by shiny Mazdas and oversized SUVs, all seeming out of place against the Victorian facade. Then again, so did the gold balloon arch and helium-filled letters spelling out Mr & Mrs.
“I had to fix the figurines, sweetie,” her mum said. “The groom’s top hat was crooked and the fondant was damp. Everything sweats in this weather.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mabel could feel damp patches spreading in the armpits of her fluffy white cardigan. She refused to take it off because her dress was sleeveless and she felt self-conscious about exposing her upper arms and shoulders.
Her mother glanced over, then down at her own very swollen belly.
“Try being the size of Ollie the Octopus,” she said, referring to the fibreglass sculpture on the town’s foreshore. It was a humungous thing, painted yellow with blue rings, long tentacles draped over a sign announcing Welcome to Leftover Bay. “I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know I could.”
Mabel winced. “At least you have better legs.”
“Huh?”
“Than Ollie the Octopus.”
Her mum’s face broke into a smile and she gave a raspy chuckle. “Well, there is that I suppose.”
Mabel scanned around nervously for wedding guests. She was told they would remain down on the beach after the nuptials until around five-thirty, then they’d make the short walk up to the venue along the gravel path that cut through the sand dunes. The event manager said the cake must be delivered to a smaller dining room off the kitchen so it wouldn’t get in the way of the catering staff. And preferably before any guests arrived so as not to spoil the big reveal.
Mabel glanced at her Minnie Mouse watch. It was already twenty past five. They were cutting it close.
“I’m pulling up over there,” her mother said, heading straight for the balloon arch. Their rusty Toyota bumped over the lip of a garden bed as it came to a stop. Mabel gripped the cake box for dear life.
“Stay put,” her mum added. “I’ll help you out.”
She yanked up the handbrake and struggled with the driver’s door. It clunked open like it might fall off its hinges into the agapanthus. Mabel often wondered whether clients saw this car pull up and expected their cake to be as dented and shabby as the delivery vehicle. But Cherry Cakes creations were always impeccable works of art. Every time her mother completed one, Mabel felt a rush of pride and admiration.
She watched her mum waddle around to the passenger side, arching her back to counterbalance her beach ball belly. Even at eight-and-a-half months pregnant she wore a mini skirt and wedge espadrilles like she was heading out to ladies’ night at The Esplanade Hotel.
As for Mabel, there was simply no elegant way of exiting the car. Once her mum opened the door, she shuffled sideways on the seat, carefully placing one foot on the ground, then slowly rotating her body so her other foot could follow. A gusty sea breeze billowed beneath her dress, flipping it upwards to her thighs.
The cake box tipped momentarily as she rocked forward onto her feet.
“Whoa nelly!” her mum said. She grabbed the box’s front corners. “Do you have it? Is it straight?”
Mabel peered into the top and saw the fondant bride and groom staring back at her. Such intricate work. Her mum had spent hours on them. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Do you want to grab the berries? And my bag, please?”
With a couple of grunts and a whole lot of effort, Mabel’s mum leaned into the car’s passenger side to retrieve the insulated cooler bag and daisy-shaped handbag from the floor. Mabel’s yellow dress was decorated with daisies too, as were her necklace and earrings. When she was obsessed with something, it became her mission to track down every matching accessory. Her mum thought it was all a bit much, but considering the amount of animal print she owned herself, she really wasn’t one to talk.
The two of them made their way up the ramp into the venue instead of using the stairs since they were both having trouble seeing their own feet. Mabel couldn’t help picturing a pair of emperor penguins in a wildlife documentary, swaying and shuffling their way across the ice. Once through the heritage building’s dim entry hall, they paused inside the doors to the function area, not least because it was right below an air-conditioning vent. The reception room sprawled out before them, circular tables arranged around a parquetry dancefloor, all dressed with crisp white tablecloths and flower-draped candelabras. Wait staff buzzed around like bees, delivering final touches to the place settings.
Mabel’s mother tried to catch the attention of a woman in a charcoal skirt suit who was clapping her hands to hurry staff along. She appeared very much in charge, and with her silver-grey pageboy haircut and crimson lipstick, more than a little intimidating.
“Cake?” she asked when she spotted them hovering. She peered at them over the top of rimless glasses and didn’t bother coming over.
“Yes,” said Mabel’s mum. “I—”
“Follow the hallway past the restrooms,” the woman said, indicating towards the back of the function room, “and you’ll see a door on the right leading to the Tea Room off the kitchen. Don’t put it in the kitchen, please. It will only get in the way.”
Mabel’s mother held up the cooler bag containing fresh berries. They needed to be kept cold and added shortly before serving so they wouldn’t stain the icing. That was Mabel’s job. “We just have to—”
“Down the hallway. To the right,” the woman repeated. She forced a curt smile that told them she was losing patience, if she actually had any to begin with.
Mabel and her mother exchanged a glance.
“Okie dokie,” her mum murmured with a subtle eye roll.
They found the Tea Room as instructed, a dimly-lit formal dining space with lacy curtains and a long mahogany table. The dining chairs were covered in burgundy velvet, the same colour that was pin-striped through the faded wallpaper. At one end of the room was a swinging door into the kitchen, and at the other, a large blackened fireplace with a carved timber mantel. It was a complete contrast to the bright and airy renovated function space, more in keeping with the original features of the 1902 house.
“Feels creepy in here,” Mabel said. She peered up at the painting of a horse in a gilded frame above the fireplace. Her voice echoed around the room’s shadowy corners, and she could almost imagine it was haunted or cursed.
“At least it’s nice and cool,” her mum said. “Perfect for the cake.”
They peeled off the tape holding the sides of the box together and carefully slid it out from beneath the cake board. Mabel felt a rush of pride again to see the cake in all its glory. It was elegantly classic, three tiers with smooth white icing. Mabel would add the blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries around the edge of each tier and dust them with icing sugar about fifteen minutes before serving. The white fondant figurines were six inches tall and smooth as porcelain, finished with hand-brushed highlights in edible gold leaf. It was all very classy. Probably too classy for the likes of Amber Hasnick. Mabel had heard that Amber belched the alphabet at her own twenty-first birthday party last year before falling into the pool fully-clothed. When her father tried to drag her out of the water, she slapped him away and called him a see-you-next-Tuesday in front of all of their friends and relatives.
And now he was throwing her an expensive wedding.
“I know, I know,” said Mabel’s mum, as though reading her mind. “Amber will barely notice the time and effort that’s gone into this. Her parents and guests on the other hand …” She pulled a stack of business cards from her handbag. “I’m going to find somewhere to leave these while you put those berries into the fridge.”
Mabel grabbed the cooler bag and meekly made her way into the kitchen. It was a large commercial workspace gleaming with stainless steel surfaces. A few hints of the Victorian architecture were still present in the wall tiles and light fittings, and especially in the large decorative ceiling rose overhead. Like the function room, it was a hive of activity. The catering staff zipped back and forth from the prep counter to the cooktop, from the ovens to the plating area. It was a symphony of chopping, stirring, and blending. Mabel hung back near the door, not wanting to get in the way.
“Umm … hello?” she said, barely loud enough for anyone to notice. She waved her hand at one of the caterers dressed in a black box hat and apron, but the woman stared right through her. Mabel immediately curled in on herself like she was taking up too much space.
She scuttled over to three large refrigerators with clear glass doors, choosing the one closest to the Tea Room. The upper shelves were full of the catering company’s ingredients, but the lower half of the fridge was empty. Mabel placed the plastic containers of berries and a packet of icing sugar on the lowest shelf before slipping out of the kitchen again like she was never there. “Quiet as a bunny rabbit,” her grandfather used to say. “But if she doesn’t make some noise she’s going to get stepped on,” her stern grandmother always added.
Mabel found her mum by the large windows that stretched the full length of the function room. They provided views out across the sand dunes towards the ocean. A set of French doors at one end opened onto an elevated deck, where wooden steps led down onto a gravel path that ran along the back of the building and out to the beach. Guests were starting to trickle in this way, looking rather harassed and windblown. Not only was it a warm afternoon, it was blustery too. Not the best combination unless you wanted chapped lips, sand in your hair, and a touch of sunburn.
“Found you,” said Mabel’s mum. She pointed at a framed seating chart propped on an easel inside the doorway. Mabel was seated at table fourteen, right up the back near the hallway she’d just come from. It was a smaller table of only eight place settings instead of ten like all of the others.
Her mum turned to her and straightened the shoulders of her fluffy cardigan. “I know you’re here to work, but remember – it’s a wedding! Enjoy yourself!”
“It feels a bit weird. We barely know the Hasnicks.”
“The photographer is a dinner guest as well,” her mum said. “So is the DJ. If this is how the Hasnicks want to splash their money around, you may as well enjoy their hospitality.”
Mabel thought it was her mother who deserved a fancy three-course meal, though she did seem genuinely keen to get home to an evening of Netflix and Thai takeaway. Soaking her swollen ankles in a bubbly foot spa probably had something to do with it.
“Maybe you should lose the hair bow, sweetie,” her mum added. “It makes you look a lot younger than seventeen.”
“I like it. Don’t you think it’s cute?”
“Of course! I think you’re adorable. It’s just … there may be some eligible young men here.”
Mabel sighed. “I’m not here to find a boyfriend, Mum.”
And anyway, what was wrong with how she dressed? Her mum may have favoured dark colours and a snug fit, but Mabel much preferred loose, bright, and comfortable.
“I’m just saying—” her mother reached over and tucked a strand of copper hair behind Mabel’s ear, “— you could look a little more grown up if you wanted to. That’s all.”
Not this again. Mabel had recently overheard a conversation between her mum and Val, their neighbour at Sandy Shores Caravan Park, as they hung washing outside the communal laundry. Her mother was worried Mabel would be ‘left on the shelf’, as though she was a toy no one wanted to play with. “You should be grateful you have a good girl,” Val replied. Her own daughter had run off to live in Melbourne with a forty-year-old musician who rode a Harley. “Let her be a child for a little longer.”
Mabel felt insulted by that. She liked her hair bows. She liked her sparkly ballet flats. She liked pastel colours and her unicorn onesie and Disney memorabilia. Why did any of it have to change simply because she wasn’t a kid anymore? And why did it mean she wasn’t seen as grown up?
“Ooh, check it out.” Her mother’s face lit up and she nudged Mabel in the ribs. “Someone’s sitting at your table already. And he’s cute!”
As much as Mabel refused to encourage her mother’s matchmaking, she couldn’t stop her tummy fizzing in anticipation. There was something special about weddings and the possibility of locking eyes with someone across a crowded room. It was easy to be swept up in the romance of it all.
Or maybe she’d just watched one too many Disney movies.
Mabel followed her mother’s line of sight to the smallest table at the very back of the room. A guy was slouched in a chair, scrolling on his phone, his black shirt, black tie, and black pants more suited to a funeral. She recognised his profile straight away – the dark coiffed hair, the long nose and sulky mouth – and her shoulders slumped.
“Mum, that’s Luca Martelli,” she said.
Her mother squinted in his direction. “Paolo Martelli’s son?” Her features settled into something like pleasant surprise. “Well, hasn’t he grown up?”
“Not really,” Mabel muttered.
In fact, not at all. In recent months Luca Martelli had been strutting around Leftover Bay Secondary College like he owned the place, snarking at the students and teachers in equal measure. Last week he’d called Mabel a ‘Flamin’ Hot Cheeto’ because she’d caught a bit of sun the previous weekend. Which, of course, made her go even redder. Mabel was glad they only had one year of school left together. She actually couldn’t wait to see the back of Luca and his horrible friends.
“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind them. Mabel turned to see a family of four edging inside the glass doors from the deck. An attractive brunette who appeared slightly older than Mabel’s mother was trying to peek at the seating chart. She seemed anxious, like she really needed to figure out where they were sitting. A fair-haired man with a deep tan, possibly her husband, hung back, glancing at his watch like he didn’t want to be there. Mabel had seen him around the caravan park, though she’d assumed he was living there alone.
“Go for it,” said Mabel’s mum, stepping aside.
Mabel recognised the woman’s two daughters, who were currently mid-squabble. The younger one was in the year below Mabel at school and the older one had already graduated and now worked in the lighthouse’s gift shop. Their surname was Dupont or Duchamp, something French-sounding from memory. Or maybe it was their first names that sounded French. Either way, they resembled the quintessential beach babes you saw in Aussie tourist campaigns: sun-kissed hair, bronzed skin, big blue eyes, a dusting of freckles. For some reason Mabel found pretty girls unnerving, as though they were a different species she didn’t know how to relate to. She imagined they moved through life very differently to her, more easily and confidently, too busy having fun and being adored to have any hang-ups.
“Pad Thai is calling my name,” said Mabel’s mum. She took the cooler bag from Mabel’s hands and handed her the daisy handbag, then dug around in her pocket for the car keys. “Have fun, sweetie. Call me when you want to be picked up.”
She leaned over to give Mabel a kiss, then started making her way through the maze of tables to the exit. Mabel had to fight the urge to beg her to stay. Her mum could easily socialise in a room full of strangers. For Mabel it was slightly terrifying.
As though sensing her hesitation, Mabel’s mum turned at the exit to find her still standing awkwardly by the seating chart. She pointed at table fourteen and made a walking gesture with her fingers before mouthing the words, “Go and mingle!”
Mabel took a deep breath and headed over to her table.
