Louisa George - The Other Life of Charlotte Evans

Margaret Taylor, purveyor of exquisite baking and chief cake fairy, certainly knew her stuff. Dressed in vintage fifties clothes complete with a little frilly pinny tied round her waist, and with a whiff of a Liverpudlian accent, she introduced them to such important issues as whether the cake should be naked – that was without any icing at all – or semi-naked with a thin spread of buttercream, in pastels or bolds, showing some of the cake layers through. Which Charlotte thought was lovely and rustic-looking but not quite appropriate for the semi-formal affair they’d been planning. Ben came from a huge family who, he said, did things right . So it was going to be a big church wedding with lots of relatives coming over from Ireland and a three-layered, fully-clothed cake, and speeches and all the trimmings.

Which would make her side of the proceedings – her mum and a smattering of friends – look a little lopsided. But she couldn’t whip up relatives she didn’t have, or uncles and aunts that didn’t exist, given both her parents were singletons. As was she.

What about the possibility of other relatives, though? Birth ones?

She shut that thought down immediately, having promised her mum she wouldn’t even think about her family history until after the tests and the wedding. She had enough to focus on right now. Namely… cake.

Which was definitely not a hardship. Whether to have thick, jelly-like drips down the layers – that were made on purpose instead of just because of a wobbly hand and too-runny icing, like something Charlotte would have made. Or with metallic icing. Metallic. Who knew? Gold or rose-gold or bronze or copper or silver… Or a tower made of blush-coloured, chocolate-dipped strawberries flecked with gilt. Or… So many choices that Charlotte almost did forget about the lump and start to enjoy herself. And it felt so nice to play for a change and not have to take things seriously.

Finally, they were down to the nitty-gritty choices of ganache, salted caramel, red velvet, white royal icing, carrot, double-chocolate and traditional rich fruit. Every time Charlotte said something was a possibility, Margaret added two morsels of it to a huge silver tray covered in baking paper. Once they’d decided on all possibles, she showed them to a little silver-metal bench in front of an ornate matching coffee table and told them to sit. Then Margaret offered them tea to go with the cake samples and asked whether they wanted milk and sugar.

‘Yes please,’ said Ben, as he squeezed Charlotte’s hand and settled next to her on the overstuffed cushions. So big and broad, and dressed in casual jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked utterly out of place in the twee, nineteen-fifties-decorated shop, surrounded by dainty teacups, tiny vases of single-stemmed purple flowers and white tablecloths covering tables holding myriad cake toppers and cake stands. ‘This is amazing. I thought it was going to be just dry old fruit cake or, what is it my mum makes, Victoria sponge?’

‘I know. My mouth’s watering.’ Charlotte reached out her fork and stabbed the double-chocolate sample first, because… well, it was chocolate , just as Margaret bustled back in with a tray of teacups and sugar bowls and milk. ‘One lump or two?’ she asked Ben.

It was a harmless question. A stupid, simple word. Lump. She meant sugar but, judging by the dark eyes and fixed jaw, Ben had a completely different perspective.

‘Oh… er…’ His gaze flicked between the two women and he looked suddenly out of his depth, which took a lot for a big, strong policeman.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and fixed a smile. A pretend-everything’s-okay kind of smile, and Charlotte realised then that the lump thing was really affecting him too.

Why she hadn’t thought about that before she didn’t know. But of course he’d be reeling – about to marry a woman he might have to look after and then, possibly, lose. Or go through a lot of painful extraordinary stuff when he’d signed up for just plain ordinary. The happy atmosphere seemed to shatter, brittle as it had been. Brittle as everything felt at the moment. He nodded at Margaret. ‘Just one, please.’

‘Excellent. I’ll just leave you two to try them all and have a chat, maybe make some decisions. Here are some files with photographs, and of course we can do any variation on a theme, match the colour of your dress or flowers, etcetera. And this here…’ She heaved another file over, oblivious to the shattered mood. ‘…Is the file of toppers, anything from fun to downright romantic. I know it’s a bit overwhelming, so take your time. No hurry.’ She bustled off into the back room, from which came lovely smells and the strains of easy-listening music, no doubt to stop the growling stomachs and oohs and ahhhs at the deliciousness from filtering through and disturbing Margaret’s cake-decorating prowess.

Charlotte’s fork was still stabbed into the double-chocolate sample, at an acute angle that didn’t look as if it would stay upright for long, but she didn’t feel particularly hungry any more. Did Ben still want to marry her? Was he scared like she was? Scared about what the future held?

She looked at him and saw the dark edges under his eyes. The way his jaw twitched as his teeth ground together. The last week had taken its toll on both of them; lying in bed not touching, just staring up at the half-painted ceiling, not speaking. Sleepless, and listless. He turned to look at her. ‘You haven’t eaten anything yet. Are you okay, baby?’

‘I don’t know.’ Her stomach was feeling weird. This whole experience was getting harder and harder to deal with, raising more and more questions amid the malingering presence of panic.

‘Have some cake, you’ll feel better.’

‘I don’t feel hungry.’ It was better just to get it out in the open, wasn’t it? ‘Do you still love me, Ben?’

He twisted on the cushion to face her, his expression incredulous. ‘What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’

‘It’s just… you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I give you a get-out-of-jail-free card. No strings. Nothing. If it turns out I do have cancer, you can walk away.’

‘Bloody hell. Is that what you think I’m about? Really?’ He pushed the tray of samples away, across the table, edged them up against the files they hadn’t opened. ‘One whiff of something and you think I’ll bail?’

‘No. No. I just don’t want you to think you owe me anything.’

His voice was dark and fractured, but low. A strain to maintain. ‘I owe you a lot. Everything, actually. I’m marrying you, Charlotte, whatever happens. I’ve made promises I would never break. I love you. ‘

‘I know.’ But things had changed; the dynamic between them was different. It wasn’t that she was suddenly needy – she’d never needed anyone before and she’d get through all this on her own if she had to. But she could see the balance between them shifting and that made her feel uneasy. It was probably just the normal ebb and flow of relationships, adjustments to the changing sands of life. But she didn’t like it. ‘You haven’t touched me since you found the lump. Not in any way.’

‘I was giving you some space. The doctor said not to touch it, you told me. I didn’t know what to do… say. I was…’ He scrubbed his hand across his shaking head. ‘I was giving myself some space too, trying to work things out, read up on it. My first thought was cancer. My first thought was that I would lose you and I didn’t know how I’d handle that. I was trying to be strong for you by holding it all in. Stupid, eh? Especially when we have no diagnosis.’