“It’s the first time I’ve done this.”
He waves his hands. “You’re doing a better job than I could. I would be using a spoon right now.”
I get a fresh piping bag and cut off a smaller amount of the end. This time, the nozzle fits just right. Next, I cut the end of the cling film icing sausage and put it into the bag.
“You certainly look like an expert,” Euan says.
I poke my tongue out and gingerly hold the bag over a cupcake. “Then the idea is you squeeze gently in a spiral and… Voila!” I stare at the crooked, not even remotely neat spiral of icing on the cupcake. “It looks a bit like a unicorn took a shit.”
Euan laughs. “It looks great. Better than I could do.”
I grin. “Let’s find out.” I hand him the piping bag.
“I think I’d rather let you handle the icing.”
“No chance. We’re making these cakes together.”
“We have no idea if they taste nice.”
I hum. “True. Maybe we should try one.”
“We didn’t make any extras.”
“Also true. But do you think the boys would miss one cupcake?”
He scratches his jaw. “Probably. But you’re right. We should taste-test one.”
“At least one. In the interests of quality assurance.”
He chuckles. “Quality assurance, huh?”
“Yes. It’s very important.”
“Well, the one you iced looks half-decent. So we can try the one I’m about to put icing on.”
I fold my arms and tut. “Pessimist.”
“I prefer to call myself a realist.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a drama teacher. You should be an optimist.”
“Where’s the logic in that?”
“Because theatre involves suspending imagination. Believing in the magic of what you’re seeing on stage. Creating something out of nothing.”
He stares at me, his expression unreadable.
“What?” I ask.
“Your eyes lit up just then. They were—” He blushes and looks away.
What was he going to say?
He takes a deep breath and squeezes icing onto a cupcake. It’s more of an artistic dollop than a swirl. He ends up with three times as much icing as cake.
“As I said, things that look easy when experts do them rarely are,” he says.
“I think you did an awesome job.”