he phoned he sounded quite poorly, so Mum and I ended up googling illnesses and sending him links.
He and Nicole were only together for a year before they got married, and he works pretty hard in IT, so I didn’t know Drew that well at the wedding last year. But I’ve spoken to him so much on the phone since he’s been away, I’ve got to know him far better. He’s got a great sense of humor and I can see why Nicole married him. Although I can’t see why she hasn’t gone to Abu Dhabi with him. They must have yoga courses there, surely?
“Oh, Nicole, did you get my message?” I say, remembering. “I spoke to Drew last night and apparently it’s not malaria.”
“Oh, good,” says Nicole absently. “Isn’t this great?” she says with more animation, holding up her garland. “I’m putting it on Pinterest. It’s like, it’s …”
I wait for her to finish—then realize that she has. Nicole quite often drifts away into blankness while you wait there politely.
“Amazing,” I say. “Where’s Jake?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“But he said he was on his way to the house to help Mum, what, two hours ago?”
Nicole shrugs and takes another photo of her garland.
“So who has been helping Mum?” I know I sound accusing, although the truth is, I feel defensive. I should have come home to help Mum, not gone shopping, let alone stopped at a coffee shop.
“I have!” says Nicole, sounding injured. “I’ve been doing decorations!”
“Right,” I say carefully. “But I meant the food and tidying up and everything?”
“I need an artistic outlet, OK? I’m coping with a lot of stress right now, Fixie.” Nicole shoots me a baleful look. “My husband’s on the other side of the world, in case you’d forgotten. I’m experiencing separation anxiety. I need to look after myself.”
“Well, I know, but—”
“My yoga teacher says if I don’t find ways to self-care, I might end up with mental-health issues.” She throws the phrase out like a trump card.
“Right,” I say after a pause. “OK. Er … sorry.”
I hurry on to the kitchen and push the door open to find Mum bent over the kitchen work top, just as I guessed she would be. She’s still in her apron and jeans, her graying hair pulled into a scrunchie, laboring over a sheet of pink sugar paste with a plastic cutter. She has a smear of icing on her earlobe and her usual daytime makeup look—i.e., none.
Has she taken some time out, washed her hair, or applied a face mask? No, of course she hasn’t. I shouldn’t think she’s planned what to wear either. The challenge with Mum’s birthday party every year is getting her to actually go to the party.
“Hi, Mum!” I greet her, but she cuts me off, her brow creased with concentration. She’s naturally beautiful, Mum, with high strong cheekbones and a thin vibrant face. You can see where Nicole got it from. “Can I help?”
“Shh! Wait!”
All her attention is on crafting a peony out of sugar paste. Painstakingly, she winds the cut-out shape into a flower and attaches a green sugar-paste leaf.
“Beautiful.” I applaud.
“It works, doesn’t it?” Mum pops the peony on a frosted cupcake, then taps the plastic cutter. “This is good. Well priced too. I think we should stock it.”
Mum is never knowingly under-tasked. Right now not only is she preparing cupcakes for her own birthday party, she’s simultaneously trying out a product for the shop. Mum would never stock a product unless she believed in it. So every pan, every food storage container, every fancy culinary gadget, has to pass the Mum Test. Does it work? Is it good value? Will our customers actually use it?
“Vanessa will love this,” she adds.
“Definitely.” I nod, smiling at the thought of Vanessa, with her patchwork waistcoats and red raincoat and boundless enthusiasm. Vanessa is one of our most regular customers and a member of the Cake Club, which we run every Tuesday evening. Morag does demonstrations at a portable cooking station and everyone shows off their own efforts. We’ve got a customer board in the shop, filled with photos of cakes, plus an Instagram page. It’s one of the things that makes Farrs so special: our community.
“I’ll take over in here,” I say now, seizing my chance while Mum has paused. “You go and get ready.”
She looks up for the first time—and her face drops.
“Fixie, what happened to you? The weather’s not that bad?” She glances out of the window at the light summer