Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Strawberry millefeuille. Ultimate comfort food. A confection created in heaven by God herself. You can keep your chocolate chip muffins Nigella. It’s millefeuille or the highway. And as I turn the corner into the market square I see another confection of sorts. A flamingo pink van with a fold down counter and “Cake O’Clock” emblazoned on its side in a zany font. I lumber over with my shopping bags to check it out. Adventurous cup cakes, towering muffins, cinnamon rolls, mousse affairs with banana and coconut, and the ubiquitous carrot cake. Sorry, but carrots have no business being in a cake. There’s a sumptuous dark chocolate treat named “Sweet Revenge”. Decadence chocolatified but it’s just not calling my name. Bingo! They have respectable looking strawberry millefeuilles in a glass dome. There’s three layers and it looks like real cream, not that cheap pale custardy crud that some bakers inflict on the unwary. With identifiable pieces of strawberry and the merest dusting of icing sugar to finish off it is indeed ‘Cake O’clock”.
The assistant turns to me. I see his name badge first. It reads “Lex”. As if. What’s wrong with a simple Alex?
“Good afternoon madam. What can I get for you?” He smiles and his hazel eyes crinkle at the edges. My insides go molten. He has lovely teeth. Nice and even. People who research this stuff say that we make up our minds in seconds about someone we meet. A process called thin slicing. And here he is asking me about cake. How appropriate. He’s so good looking that a titter bubbles up inside me and I have to clamp my mouth shut to save myself from embarrassment.
He must be a plant and I’m the unsuspecting victim in a reality TV programme. Where are the hidden cameras? He looks at me expectantly. I realise that I’ve been gazing at him.
“Sorry?” I’ve forgotten the question.
“ What would you like?”
“Er…well….I…er” trying to recover.
“The Sweet Revenge is out of this world if you’re a chocolate lover”, he prompts. That smile, those eyes, be still my beating heart. If only I could prolong this encounter. Pull yourself together Sally.
“Revenge does sound sweet , but I’m millefeuille tragic. So I’ll take one of those thanks”.
I watch as he places the pastry in a white box with greaseproof paper and a dainty fork and deftly ties a knot with pink ribbon. He looks to be in his early 40’s. Short hair, Dirty Blonde I think it’s called. He looks like a Lex. No wedding ring. Nicely manicured nails. Strong, capable hands. Maybe he’s gay. Not that I have a hope in hell. But no, mustn’t think like that. Be positive. Think of something to say quick, I urge myself.
Then as I take the box we both start speaking at the same time. We laugh and shake our heads at the off timing. He’s asking me for the money, and I’m saying “Who thought up the name for the chocolate cake then?” Ouch. Clunky opening line. Dear Ground, please open and swallow me up.
“Sweet Revenge? I did. It’s dark, tempting, forbidden, sinful. It gets people talking.” I gulp and hope he doesn’t notice.
“Is that so?” I say.
“Well, we’re talking now aren’t we?” Touché.
I can’t produce a witty reposte so I mumble something like “That’s true”.
I’m flustered and as I hand over the money I drop my purse and the coins roll under the van. Shit. I feel myself reddening and imagine how he must see me. Bumbling, middle aged and in thrall to treacherous hormones. Stupid, stupid woman.
I bend down to retrieve the contents and he’s out of the van and helping me. He hands me my purse, glancing at the driving licence in the clear pocket at the front.
“Well Ms Sally Forth, it was a pleasure meeting you. Stop by again soon. I’d love to continue our chat”.
I take the purse, balance the cake box on top of my shopping. Is he taking the mickey? I look at him, my bullshit meter in overdrive. I can’t tell any more. I need to go home now.
He turns and climbs back in the van to serve the next customer. Yes, Sally Forth. A hale and hearty, rucksack -on- my -back kind of name. Hate the outdoors. Zero wanderlust. I’ve thought about changing my name, but it’s an enormous faff. If I could be arsed, I would become Ms Fraise Millefeuille. I get home, stuff my face, take the dog round the block, sink a bottle of wine and go to bed.