Page 5 of The Wedding Cake
Present-day Freya continued to walk closer to the shore. She’d done this a million times in her head but every single visualisation had resulted in grappling with a panic attack that she wasn’t strong enough to overcome. Not today. How could she have let Sid take this freedom away from her for so long? This stretch of coastline was a human right. It connected Europe to Africa. It teemed with magic and the possibility of new horizons. Its waves twinkled serenely or ferociously, forever treating its onlookers to a panoply of blues, greens and greys through sunshine and storms. If only Freya had been brave enough to test the waters (or sand) in real-life before. Now the moment had arrived, everything about returning to the space where she’d been rejected was easier than she’d imagined. She felt completely free, in control, and stronger than ever. And far from being shunned, she felt embraced.
In hindsight she should have known Sid would screw up. The clues had been flying in thick and fast for the longest time. Not so much the classic lipstick on collar or perfume lingering in the air. Not even his weekly business trips, which had been part of the routine since she’d met him; his lofty position with his UK company meant that he could be homeandoffice-based, so he would fly in and out of Malaga airport like the breeze. No, it was the sudden fascination with Monet’s art and Bordeaux wine (no matter how much more expensive it was than the Spanish supermarket’s Rioja); the increasing appearance of Real Madrid football shirts (despite Sid pledging his allegiance to Malaga FC), and the crinkled tickets for Rome’s opera house in his trouser pockets that piqued her curiosity. None of which added up, when Freya knew full well that Sid’s clients were based in the UK and Ireland, the US and Australia.
Freya suspected that theselucky ladieshad all met Sid in similar circumstances to her: a tried, tested and polished mid-aisle collision at a trade fair, followed by a trip to a conveniently close swanky bar. Sid worked in publishing, and when she first had the misfortune of clapping eyes on him, Freya had been in the early stages of promoting and developing her own business: high-end cakes. Bristol-based Sid had had a few business meetings to stay behind for at the end of his industry’s trade show at London’s Olympia (before the venue transformed itself for the food show) and had found himself lumbered with the task of packing up his company’s stand – something that was not the norm for one of his rank. He’d made that abundantly clear during his and Freya’s ‘accidental’ intro when he’d bumped into her, and dropped a mysteriously open briefcase of paperwork all over the floor. But the Martinis he’d later plied her with softened her perception so much that the slick performance was forgotten in a heartbeat. The rest, as they say, is history.
Freya no longer believed in marriage after Sid had humiliated her so badly. Not for herself, anyway. But she did believe in turning negatives into positives. That’s why she’d gone full throttle with the business despite her own personal disaster, more focused than ever on ensuring that everybody else got their special day without a hitch.
Now she’d reached the shoreline. It wasn’t the same section of sand. Her feet, out of her kitten heels, were digging into the cool, damp stretch of Playa de la Fontanilla, while her wedding had taken place on Ventura del Mar beach. Sid had chosen it specifically as it had been the playground of the sixties jet set. Extremely fitting. All of that hedonism, bed-hopping and free love.
Freya didn’t care if she got a soggy bottom. She settled herself on the coarse, biscuity sand (despite all the paradise images of Marbella’s coastline, it was actually nowhere near as enticing as neighbouring Costa de la Luz), swigging champagne from the bottle. Perhaps she should have taken the glass, but she didn’t fancy the waiter chasing her. Although maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad. He was kind of cute! Then she giggled and giggledand giggled. The scant few joggers and dog walkers could knit their brows and frown at her oddball antics all they liked. There really was something rather momentous and magical about today. As if the universe had marked the entry on a calendar long ago as the point in time when the curse would end, when Freya would snap out of her brain fog and open her eyes. It was only a Thursday, and there was never anything very outstanding about a weekday in winter on paper. Yet as the sun dipped beneath the crest of the mountains over her shoulder, Freya knew that when she woke up tomorrow morning, she would be a new woman.
She already was one.
ALICE
It was beyond flash but once that Mervyn Meehan guy had shown Alice the eight-tier showstopper cake, there was no going back. It was River’s doing, really. All that exciting talk of a tour around Spain and Portugal for a honeymoon. Bear with her, and Alice would explain…
Yes, eight layers of cake was far too much for a newlywed couple and their guests to munch their way through – well, in small to average wedding terms, anyway. Even Hayley, their all-things-saccharine-in-vast-quantities friend, would probably struggle to find a home for it. But Alice missed last Christmas’s foodie adventure with River in their retro, racing-green camper van more than words could say. As soon as it had become clear that their new life in Cornwall wasn’t working out for them, the couple had returned to their childhood home of Glastonbury in Somerset, intent on getting to know it and the cute surrounding villages better. It had been an amazing sabbatical in the camper van (if a little chilly) and they’d enlisted the help of friends to supply them with gourmet gingerbread and hot chocolate, which they’d sold to villagers as they’d pootled about the countryside uniting communities and reigniting the previously flagging Christmas spirit. They’d even unwittingly played Cupid to two of their friends in the process. And on the subject of weddings, Alice hoped it wouldn’t be long before Zara and Bruno would tie the knot…
Alice knew River missed every aspect of their wintery escapade too, hence suggesting they spend most of their honeymoon in ‘Twinkle’. All of which meant they could do something similar to their Christmas jaunt, sharing a huge part of their wedding cake and bringing a little community spirit to Spain, handing it out to locals in quaintpuebloson the first leg of their holiday, giving something back to beautiful Andalucía, the vast southern chunk of the country where the finca was located. What better way to start married life together? After a suitably heavy night of passion, of course.
Alice had flinched when Mervyn sent her the quotation for the cake. It was one third of the finca’s rental cost! But this was a one-off day. She did not intend to repeat it and River didn’t need to know the way it had been funded. The other cakes Mervyn had presented via mouthwatering screenshots during their hour-long Zoom chat were delightful too, but something about the showstopper tugged at Alice’s heart and purse strings and wouldn’t let go. She’d just have to cut corners on her dress.
It would be incredibly vain to shout it out loud, but Alice knew she was a natural beauty, such had been her fate since birth. She didn’t need anything pavlova-esque to jazz herself up. Simple would work best in the fashion stakes on her wedding day. In fact, she intended to head to a small business on Etsy and pair up a plain ivory gown with some baseball boots. Similarly, she wasn’t overly fussy about her hair or her bouquet. The areas that deserved to have money thrown at them were those that included everybody’s enjoyment: a finca with as many mattresses as possible for weary heads, perhaps a couple of glamping tents in the garden so nobody had to take out an overdraft just to be there. Then the meal, the wine, the styling of the venue, a Spanish guitarist, churros and ice cream carts, fun things to keep their friends’ kids occupied; a couple of all-expenses paid day trips on a minibus… and, yeah, the cake.
Back home in their small town of Glastonbury, Alice and River were in the middle of converting a caravan park into stables and a café, having been left it in River’s aunt Sheba’s will, along with the old camper van. It had been quite a shock, especially as the bequest had coincided with the moment when River and Alice were wondering what to do with their lives next – aside from spending them together. The campsite had come with the proviso that River could make any changes to the land and its functionality that he saw fit (Sheba would have been the first to admit that the advent of Airbnb had sucked the profit out of her business), as long as her current staff still had jobs, should they wish to stay. Fortunately, every member of Sheba’s workforce had been champing at the bit – pun not intended but appropriate – to help with the equine venture. This was to be a stables with a difference: fair-priced horse riding lessons available to the whole community, not just those born with a silver spoon in their mouth like Alice, hence her own level of proficiency in the saddle. Meanwhile, River’s contribution to the enterprise would be a fair-trade eatery with a cracking view of the paddock and the iconic Glastonbury Tor. The kind of get-up that served local, organically grown produce; showcasing producers in a little farm shop tacked on to the cafe, encouraging folk to switch up their buying habits – at least occasionally. There was still a lot of work to be done but everything was shaping up beautifully and Alice couldn’t feel more excited about married life now they’d put down some firm roots and created a joint vision for the future.
After talking at length online, Mervyn had booked her and River in for a taste test of the gargantuan wedding cake at FOM, baker extraordinaire Freya Ashcroft’s mini emporium. How serendipitous was that! Alice knew from her wedding research, as well as past gloating by Tamara, her older sister, after attending many a society bash in and around Marbella, that securing a cake from Ms. Ashcroft was no mean feat. True, there were any number of cake makers Mervyn could have turned to, but Freya’s company was his number one go-to and he ‘knew her diary inside out and like the back of his hand’. As luck would have it, both the finca and the cake would be available on August the sixth. It was definitely meant to be.
On a dull, grey weekend in February, Alice and River hopped on a plane at Bristol airport, switching humdrum skies for cobalt blue ones.
“I don’t think we’ve been here since our whistle stop tour around the Med,” said River with a happy sigh. He squinted at the sun’s golden rays across the tarmac as they walked to the Arrivals hall at the busy airport which serviced the Costa del Sol. “I’m so excited to see this part of Spain properly. Last time we were here it was with the band to support the Jackson Five at that posh tennis club, do you remember?” Alice winced, recalling how Jermaine had politely declined River’s offer to step in as the fifth Jackson in the late Michael’s place, since he had the same surname.
She went quiet at this point. Glenn, the wooden bit part American actor she’d unfathomably been enamoured with, prior to finally getting it on with the man who had always truly had her heart, had brought her to Spain on numerous occasions since the band’s tour. But hedonistic Ibiza and bustling Barcelona were thankfully a world away from Andalucía, so Alice wouldn’t need to relive any of the memories associated with those tempestuous couple of years. She was here to make new Spanish memories with River.
After a leisurely brunch – and sex – at the gorgeously old-school Parador hotel that River had booked them into in Malaga city, Alice and River caught a taxi to nearby Marbella. They were to meet Mervyn at the orange tree square in the old town for refreshments prior to the all-important cake tasting. It seemed crazy to be focusing on the finer points of the day when they hadn’t even seen the finca in the flesh yet, but Freya could only fit them in this afternoon, and back in England, building work was starting on the second stable block on Monday, so the pair couldn’t extend their visit. Tomorrow Mervyn would take them to the finca, adding on a vineyard stop and two prospective caterers too. Then on Friday they’d go out for a late lunch with Mervyn (crunching numbers and firming up preliminary details) after visiting a potential hairdresser and makeup artist, florist, photographer and churros vendor. It was just as well that the wedding was in the summer because waistlines would balloon over the next few days – even slender ones.
“Dahlings! Over here,” came a mild Irish accent. Alice and River looked all around, but there were so many people milling about they weren’t even sure the call was aimed at them. “Yes, yoo-hoo! I’m talking to you, Al and Riv!”
Alice spun and almost knocked over the older man who had crept up from nowhere behind her. “I’d have recognised your stunning complexion a mile off, my dear,” said Mervyn, tagging on a light chuckle, and Alice tried not to cringe. She could sense River’s hackles rising, especially at such premature name shortening. This was not an ideal start.
“How lovely to meet you after all our correspondence,” Alice greeted Mervyn a little more formally and offered her hand for a shake. “We’re a bit early but we were keen to soak up the atmosphere of the old town before things get hectic with the visits.”
“Oh, I insist that you do,” Mervyn replied, kissing Alice’s cheeks an excessive number of times and then diving in for a handshake with River. “I’ve secured us a table over yonder. Follow me.” Off he tottered with his bling-encrusted hand capping his bling-encrusted cane. Now Alice could sense River recoiling, not wishing to be too closely associated with the curious man, although he certainly didn’t look out of place in the swish environment. Alice and River were in casual shirts and jeans but many of the locals wore seriously expensive-looking suits and dresses, flaunting accessories to match, as if they’d stepped fresh off the catwalk via Tiffany & Co.
Once everyone was seated, their wedding planner ordered them a round of non-negotiable Pedro Ximénez sherry. Alice guessed this little routine was part and parcel of the theatrics: get your clients merry, all the better to sign on the dotted line for all manner of wedding extras. She’d have to be on her guard, although it would be impossible for Mervyn to talk them into upgrading their cake this afternoon. It was FOM’s most expensive and nothing surpassed it.
“We wouldn’t normally touch alcohol in the daytime,” River muttered as the waiter returned at lightning speed with their order. “But thanks, Mr Meehan, I salute your choice. I’m a bit of a connoisseur myself, having set up Glastonbury’s flagship cocktail bar back home.” Hmm, and one utter nosedive of a cocktail bar in Cornwall, thought Alice, although they didn’t tend to talk about that nowadays if they could avoid it. River took an appreciative sip of the light mahogany liquid and further perked up. “The Pedro Manhattan is one of my specialties, as it happens.” He arched a brow.
“The name’s Mervyn… and is it now? How very fascinating. I’m quite partial to a Rob Roy myself,” he said, adjusting his lilac cravat. “I know one of the grape producers up in Jerez rather well. Remind me to give you their card later. Alice mentioned that you’re keen to do a touring honeymoon of southern Spain after the wedding. Such a charming idea. A visit to my pal and his vineyard is a must!”
And relax…Alice could finally shake off the dread she’d been carrying for weeks building up to this trip. These two were going to get on like a house on fire. There was no way River would quibble over the price of the cake today, or the cost of the finca tomorrow, or start calculating all the jobs that could happen at the stables and café with the money instead – the jobs that Alice’s secret windfall was supposed to be contributing to. Another round of sherry, and all of her boyfriend’s financial concerns would dissolve in a puff of Dragon’s Breath (the cocktail, not the mythical creature; wedding planning didn’t need any more unnecessary challenges).
“Excuse me,” said Mervyn, whose mobile phone had buzzed into action. He twisted himself sideways in an apparent bid to be discreet but Alice could still hear his conversation. “Yes, yes of course. Don’t you fret, my dear. We’re all raring to go and as famished as those hippos in that dreadful plastic ball-eating game the grandchildren rope me into whenever I visit. We’ll see you in approximately two minutes.”
Oh, there went the no-cake-price-quibbling guarantee then. What a shame Mervyn hadn’t ordered everyone a double. Alice should have sipped at her own goblet instead of downing it, then she could have topped River’s glass up when he wasn’t looking. It sounded suspiciously like Freya Ashcroft was ready for them now.
“So that was the lady herself,” said Mervyn on cue. “She’s all set up in the courtyard and wants us to head to her for the tasting asap.”
