Zoe May - How

‘Do I really have to pose as work experience?’ Collette groans as we head down the street. Tall slender elm trees line the pavement, making the sunlight flash as we pass under their shadows. ‘I feel like a 15-year-old girl.’

‘It’s the only way, Collette. I’m not meant to be bringing my flatmate along on stories. Anyway, just tell them you’re changing careers or something!’

‘Fine!’ Collette sighs. ‘The things I do for cake. And anyway, maybe I will change careers. If I’m being totally honest, I always thought your job was kind of boring – but being paid to eat cake, I mean...wow!’

I laugh. ‘I can’t believe the girl who spends her days inspecting amoeba thought my job was boring!’

Collette grins. ‘Well you know, you’re always hanging around Westminster, talking to boring old fat men in suits. It’s not exactly the coolest thing ever!’

‘Yeah, they may be fat—’ I laugh, thinking back to a particularly obese politician I interviewed a few weeks back, ‘—but some of them are kind of interesting.’

‘But so’s cake,’ Collette notes as we arrive outside the cake shop. It’s based inside a tall Edwardian building and the frontage is fairly discreet, apart from a white sign above a golden door that reads ‘Esmeralda’s’.

‘Are you ready, intern?’ I tease, as I reach for the doorbell.

‘Oh, I’m ready. I’m ready all right!’ Collette rubs her hands together, licking her lips.

I crack up as I ding the bell. Even though it’s not exactly the House of Commons, I have to admit, there is something pretty special about visiting a world-renowned exclusive French bakery on a beautiful Kensington street. I may still feel a little bit guilty for neglecting the key political issues of the day, but even I can’t deny that this is pretty fun, and I can’t wait to discover what fancy cake paradise awaits us on the other side of this door.

‘Hello!’ A woman dressed entirely in white with tendrils of dark hair framing her pretty face pulls the door open and gives us a smile even brighter than the crisp spring sunshine.

‘I’m Esmerelda and welcome to my bakery!’ She beams.

‘Hi, I’m Sam, from the Daily Post . And this is Collette, she’s on work experience.’

‘Yep!’ Collette grins, a little overenthusiastically. ‘I’m just shadowing Sam. Considering a career change, you know!’ she adds, a little nervously, but Esmerelda doesn’t seem in the least bit put out that I’ve brought someone, her smile plastered over her face.

‘Welcome!’ Esmerelda repeats with a flourish, stepping back and ushering us into a wide hallway lined with shining mirrors in gilded frames. Lilies spill from vases on display tables.

Collette and I exchange impressed looks as she leads us towards two frosted glass doors, through which I can only make out shades of pink, blue and white. She pushes down on a gold handle and opens one of the doors to reveal the prettiest room I think I’ve ever seen in my life. Until now, bakeries to me have been the kind of place you nip into at lunchtime to grab a sausage roll, or, if you’re feeling naughty, a French Fancy, before heading back out into the hustle and bustle of the high street. They’ve been nothing – nothing! – like the absolutely magnificent splendour before my eyes now. Not only does the room have a domed ceiling like the Sistine Chapel, with intricately painted winged cherubs, and a chandelier that must be taller than me dangling from the centre, but everywhere I look there are cakes. And not just your standard apple turnovers or Battenberg, these are dream cakes, the kind of cakes that have been created so artfully that you can barely even bring yourself to eat them. The cupcakes aren’t just cupcakes, they’re adorned with petals intricately crafted from icing. There are fruit tarts with glazed fruit so bright that it glistens like jewels and frosted sponges with seven or eight wafer-thin layers. Everything looks delectable. More than just delectable – beautiful. They’re works of art. In the centre of the room is a ginormous sculpted plinth upon which sits a dome-shaped object draped in a shimmering throw.

‘Ah! I see you’ve spotted the pièce de résistance!’ Esmerelda says, catching my eye. A waiter, also dressed head-to-toe in white apart from a gold bow tie, offers me and Collette glasses of champagne from an ornate tray. I take a glass, thanking him, before returning my attention to the mysterious draped structure.

‘Yes, what is it?’ I ask, before taking a sip of the champagne, which fizzes over my tongue.

‘Well, it’s the wedding cake of course!’ Esmerelda enthuses. ‘It’s absolutely identical to the one I’ll be making for Holly and Isaac’s big day. Seven tiers. Thirty-five layers of sponge. Five hundred hand-crafted frosted roses. One hundred hours of labour and three hundred pounds a slice!’ she adds with a wink.

‘Wow!’ Collette gawps at me. I can’t help gawping back.

‘Can we see it?’ I ask.

Esmerelda raises her eyebrows. ‘All in good time, my darlings, all in good time! But first, let me introduce you to the delicacies of Esmerelda’s!’

She ushers us across the room and through another set of wide open glass doors towards a seating area. But, of course, it’s not just any ordinary seating area. The walls have been painted to resemble a country garden with a rippling river, lustrous grass, leafy trees, blooming flowers, buzzing dragonflies and fluttering butterflies. The room contains half a dozen multifaceted glass tables, surrounded by pretty chairs adorned with thick white satin cushions. I’m distantly aware that the opulence is ridiculous and yet I find myself gazing in wonder and awe at the beauty of it all.

‘Pinch me,’ Collette whispers.

I eye her strangely. ‘What?’

‘I swear I’m dreaming,’ she says.

I laugh. ‘I think we both are.’

‘This way, my darlings,’ Esmerelda says, leading us towards a table in the centre of the room. ‘Take a seat. And let me take your coats.’

Dazed, I shrug off my coat and hand it to her, with thanks. Collette does the same.

‘This is spectacular!’ I say, still taking in the intricacies of the panoramic landscape painting. Details I’d missed earlier become apparent as I cast my eyes around the room once more, like the tiny fairies dotted across the garden scene. ‘Who painted this? It’s spectacular.’

‘A friend of mine from childhood,’ Esmerelda tells us. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But if you think that’s good, wait until you try our cakes. Then you will truly be in heaven!’

‘Thanks you much,’ I say.

‘This is amazing! Thank you!’ Collette adds, wide-eyed.

‘The pleasure is all mine!’ Esmerelda insists before slipping out of the room, her billowing white dress wafting behind her.

‘This is insane!’ Collette says, the moment Esmerelda is out of earshot. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so Instagrammable in my life!’

‘You’re ridiculous!’ I laugh, although she’s got a point. This has to be one of the most Instagrammable places I’ve ever been. Not that it would fit in my Instagram account, which I use to promote posts about social issues for my blog. I sit down on the soft-cushioned chair.

‘Oh my, Collette, this chair is like a cloud!’ I gush.

‘Oh yeah!’ Collette groans in a way that’s borderline sexual as she lets her body sink into the soft pillowy depths.

‘I swear, I am your intern now. Screw amoebas, I’m done. Journalism career, here I come. This is beyond a shadow of a doubt the best day of my life.’

‘We haven’t even had the cake yet!’ I point out, laughing. ‘But trust me, this is not journalism. I’ve had to endure seven years of Westminster to reach this point!’