Since You've Been Gone

‘The games room was original while we were there. Did you see the Orangery at the back of the main house? The views over the countryside are a-ma-zing. Who are the current owners?’ she asked.

‘The property tycoon, like I said. What’s his name, Martha? Andrews or—’

‘Argyll,’ I helped, trying to reduce the stack of mushrooms.

‘That’s him, Argyll. He’s been in some scrapes the last few years. I work with a chap who used to be with Scargill’s. They represent his company … that’s them, Argyll Inc. He keeps Scargill’s in a steady stream of work.’ Rob shook his head and carried on his assault on the food.

Why did that not surprise me? ‘Is Fergal Argyll the head of the company?’ I asked, reaching for more coffee.

‘That’s him. Fergal Argyll. He’s the big dog. Worked the whole empire up from scratch and then nearly lost the lot. Do you remember, Martha?’

‘He seems to be doing OK now,’ I said. ‘What does he do exactly?’ I asked, struggling to understand how a man like Fergal Argyll would have built anything but a dodgy reputation.

Rob finally took a breather between mouthfuls. ‘They’re a property company. I’m not sure, but I think he started out in construction. Small scale, extensions, that sort of thing, and then I think he got lucky and bought a bit of land while the prices were good. If I remember correctly, these days Argyll Inc. shoot for large scale property investment, developments, that sort of thing. But as with most of the construction industry, they’ve had their pain over the last few years. Didn’t he marry into the aristocracy for good measure, Martha?’

Martha lifted her nose from the paper, and gave Rob a considered look.

‘The hunky playboy!’ Martha yelped. ‘You mean this guy?’ she said, shuffling through her paper. Martha split the paper open revealing a small thumbnail of the young Argyll and the ice maiden.

‘Yeah, that’s his son,’ I said, examining the picture. He was a handsome man, but there was a melancholy about him, and melancholy knew its own reflection. On the page opposite, computer-generated images of starter homes, soon to be built on recently sold forest land, made my stomach flip over.

‘Hel-lo Ciaran Argyll. He’s utterly gorgeous, Hol, don’t you think? A womaniser, but gorgeous. I can’t believe that they live around here!’

Charlie had worked tirelessly to protect the forests from sale.

‘Keep your knickers on, my love. I think your hormones are playing up.’

Martha swatted Rob with her paper.

‘Rob? I can’t eat any more. Please may I be excused?’ I asked wryly.

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘You’re washing up.’

‘Er, you’re washing up, Rob. You made the mess, you ate it, you’re cleaning it. Hol and I are going to talk colour swatches.’ Martha lifted a handful of binders onto the table in front of her. Inwardly, I groaned. ‘So I was thinking, and feel free to say no, but—’

‘No.’

‘You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,’ she countered.

‘I do … you’re going to say, Holly, it’s nearly October, and then it will be Christmas and before you know it, your lounge and hall and wherever will have been left whitewashed for nearly three years, and—’ The look on Martha’s face was enough to stop me mid-flow. Damn it, why can’t you just leave this alone?

Six months after the accident, she’d talked me into letting her finish the bedroom for me. She’d made a beautiful job of it, all soft greys and dusky blues against the deep stain of our antique furniture. She’d made my bedroom look as though it belonged to a boutique hotel. The problem was, Charlie had never been in that boutique hotel with me, and so I couldn’t picture him in it. It wasn’t our bedroom any more, it was just mine. I couldn’t tell Martha that was the reason for fobbing off her offers to decorate the rest of the house for me when she was so desperate to. It would have devastated her that I felt that way about the room she’d already finished for me.

‘Look, Martha. I’d love you to come help me, but I’m absolutely rushed off my feet in the shop and—’

‘Well that’s what I was going to say!’ A smile filling her eyes again. ‘Rob has some time off before the baby’s due, but I’ve already sorted everything out. I’ve decorated the nursery, put the crib together, packed my hospital bag, written my birth plan, A and B actually. I’ve even vetted both of the nurseries we’re thinking of using.’

‘You’re thinking of nurseries?’ I said. ‘Already? When will the baby start nursery?’

‘When they’re three.’

‘Months? Are you going back to work?’

‘No, years. Well, I want to be prepared, Hol.’

I knew it. I’d always known it. My sister was a domestic android. ‘So, Rob can come and do some DIY-ing for you.’ I looked at Rob, who looked about as enthused as I was.

Lie, lie, lie.

‘You know what, Marth, I would really love that. But I kinda have a more pressing problem, if you guys wouldn’t mind helping me out?’ I knew how to reel Martha in. I had a childhood’s worth of practice under my belt. ‘The shop’s due an inspection some time in the new year, and it could really do with some TLC.’ Rob’s face dropped, he thought we were a team. ‘Nothing drastic, just a few maintenance issues, maybe a little painting. It’s just too big a job on my own. If you could spend a few days in the shop, Rob, I’d appreciate it.’

Martha didn’t look convinced, but then Martha’s sole wish was to do what she could for me and I was at least offering her an inch in place of her mile.

‘Um, OK. But what about the house? I have some ideas I think you’ll like, Hol.’

The guilt twisted in my stomach.

‘Well let’s see them then! If Rob moves his ass quickly enough, we might get started on the back bedroom before junior arrives.’ I could keep Rob busy at the shop for as long as I needed to. All I had to do was keep Martha sweet until the baby was born, then she wouldn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to pimp my house any more. That was my grand plan.

Martha, instantly gripped with excitement that I was showing interest in her ideas, left the kitchen for yet more magazines. Rob fixed beady knowing eyes on me.

‘Don’t worry, big guy. You can eat cake all day and we’ll just splash a little paint on your face before we send you home.’

CHAPTER 5

Things were only going to get quieter until Christmas fever kicked in.

It was Monday, I was tired, and thanks to Dave’s eating habits, I was late.

Jesse, reliable wingman that he was, had opened up and made a start on the freshly baked cupcakes and cookies we offered alongside the bespoke services. It wasn’t big money but it was consistent, and when the brides thinned out the lowly cupcake paid Jesse’s wages and kept us going. We didn’t open to the public until ten each day, largely because few people wanted to munch on cupcakes much before noon but it also gave us a good three hours to get the fresh bakes out and on display, ready for the lunchtime rush.

There were only a handful of people milling around on the cobbled high street when I parked up and walked the hundred yards or so to Cake. I didn’t like to park directly outside unless I needed to load up, preferring for passers-by to see the fantastical cakes Jesse and I had on display in the two huge windows. This morning, someone had already parked there anyway.

Hunterstone was a nice town. Too expensive to buy a house in, unless you were like Martha and Rob, but nestled halfway between the big city and the national park, everything you could want was in reach. The castle pulled in a reasonable flow of tourists and the clean leafy Georgian streets housed a nice selection of eateries, galleries and shops to keep the tourists there a little longer.

We’d put a lot of effort into fixing the shop up, but the architecture of the building had helped make us the perfect place for a visit by beautiful brides between champagne dress fittings and floral consultations. Charlie had painstakingly finished painting cream all the fiddly nooks and crannies of the typically Georgian decorative façade after I’d gotten fed up with it. He’d also added the topiary outside, making our little shopfront every bit as tempting as the cakes inside. A swinging vintage sign was the only thing to throw off the symmetry of the frontage, declaring in burgundy and gold the nature of our business. Cake.

I skipped up the two stone steps to the doors and pushed my way in with a jingle overhead. It was already nearly eleven and Jesse would be about ready for a refuel. He ate more than Rob and never gained an ounce.

‘Hey! I’ve got bagels and posh coffee,’ I called from the showroom as I threw a few new bridal magazines next to the sofa. I reached the counter and could already hear the drone of the mixers in the bakery out back. He wouldn’t have heard me probably.

I took Jesse’s breakfast through to where he was busily piping several trays of cupcakes in pale lilac buttercream, before finishing each one off with a sugar-frosted violet.

‘They look great,’ I called, wiggling the warm paper bag in my hand. Jess left the island worktop and moved over to shut the mixer off.

‘Hey, Hol, how’s Dave?’ Jesse took the bag from me as I set the coffees down and hung my things in the far corner.

‘He’s OK; he has a bad tooth. I’ve left him moping in the garden. Mrs Hedley will throw him treats over the fence all day no doubt.’ I wondered if that was part of the problem. She’d been the same with Charlie, making him second lunches when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Jesse came over and started digging into the bagels as I slipped an apron over my head and started the first of a hundred hand-washes. I dried off and went to grab a bagel for myself but he pulled the bag away.

‘You can’t, you have a customer,’ he said, grinning at me.

‘What customer? No one’s booked in are they?’ I said, scanning the counters for the cake diary. We did the occasional wedding consultation in the mornings but they were nearly always booked in for weekends when the mother of the bride was in town and the fiancé had no excuses not to attend.

‘They are now, he’s been here since I flipped the sign over.’

‘Oh no, Jess, have I forgotten an appointment?’ I said, with the first prickles of panic.

‘No. He hasn’t got an appointment,’ Jess said, still grinning.

‘Why are you being weird?’ I asked him, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous expression. ‘Where is he then?’

I followed Jess as he walked from the bakery through the short corridor and out into the area behind the shop counter.

‘He’s over there, waiting for you to show up to work,’ Jesse said, looking out front.

I looked out through one of the windows over to the café across the street, glancing at the bistro tables outside for anyone I recognised. There were a couple of women in coats and shades enjoying the morning, but other than that no one. I was still watching when two business types, a man and woman, left the café together, followed by another sharply dressed guy in suit and shades. As he turned to check the road before crossing, I recognised the strong line of his jaw, passed down from one generation to the next.

‘How was your weekend, Holly?’ Jesse asked as it dawned on me who was heading this way.

I watched Ciaran Argyll draw closer as I tried to figure out what he was doing here.

‘There must have been a problem with the cake,’ I thought aloud, readying myself for what might be. ‘I bet the old bugger wants to make a complaint because I didn’t compliment him on his wedding tackle.’

‘Wedding tackle? What did you get up to this weekend, Hol?’

‘Nothing,’ I answered, still pondering.

The door set the bell tingling and Ciaran Argyll walked assuredly into my shop. Jesse stopped munching on his bagel.

‘Morning. Again,’ Argyll said, nodding at Jess standing over me. I got a gentle nod. ‘Hello.’

‘All right, mate, enjoy your wait with the golden girls?’ Jesse asked.

‘Actually, the coffee was surprisingly good,’ Mr Argyll said, taking his sunglasses off. He didn’t look so melancholy today; his smile was more relaxed than I’d remembered it. ‘But you were right, they did take care of me.’ He laughed, flashing a glimpse of perfect white teeth. I’d bet he was used to being taken care of.

‘Ah, they love a gent over there don’t they, Hol? Hol stopped buying lunch from the café when she realised the old girls give better service to the fellas than the women. It’s sexist isn’t it, Hol?’ It sounded silly when I heard it that way, but yes, I was boycotting the place.

I flashed a full smile of my own at Jess.

‘I’ll just go and finish my brekkie then. See you, mate …’ he said, leaving for the back, ‘nice Vanquish.’

Argyll turned to check the car sat outside the shop and nodded to himself.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Argyll?’ I asked, noting his cologne again. His hand dipped into the inside pocket of his jacket as he approached the counter between us.

‘You left in a hurry Friday, understandably. You forgot this. I thought we at least owed you the courtesy of returning it,’ he said softly, pulling open a folded sheet of paper and handing it to me. I recognised the information immediately.

Two times ten-inch vanilla testicles gored with stiletto, deliver to Fergal Argyll, Hawkeswood Manor Friday 20th September 8.30 p.m. EXACTLY.

‘Can I sign it for you? My father was a touch worse for wear over the weekend or I’d have asked him.’

He’d brought the delivery note all this way?

‘No, that’s OK. It’s not important really,’ I said, realising too late that the delivery note had travelled some thirty miles back to the shop with this man. ‘But thank you for returning it.’

His eyes were an intense brown, narrowing slightly as he tilted his head to watch me. He was a very attractive man, too good looking all for just one person. My attention was snagged by the light flooding into the shop catching on the edges of his choppy hair, sending brown to blond in places. There was a hint of neatly cropped stubble I hadn’t noticed on Friday.

I couldn’t explain it, but I felt the beginnings of warmth creeping over my neck. Was I so out of practice interacting with the opposite sex that I blushed like a naive schoolgirl around them? How excruciatingly embarrassing.

‘Are you sure?’ he pressed, those eyes that didn’t belong with the tones in his hair still watching me closely. ‘My stepmother can be quite the pedant when it comes to paperwork. And my father’s anatomy.’

Oh dear, we were back onto Fergal’s testicles. Yep. Definitely had a pink neck.

‘Um, not really, she didn’t hang around long,’ I said, trying to get off the subject of the vivacious Mr Argyll senior and any conversation that might lead me onto it.

‘I believe Elsa offered you an additional sum for proof of delivery to Fergal in person?’

‘She did. But it wasn’t compulsory,’ I answered

‘Then you’re out of pocket?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing again. ‘Let me take care of that, it’s not your fault my father was misbehaving. You shouldn’t get into any trouble for it.’ He pulled a chequebook from the same inner pocket, laying it alongside his sunglasses on the counter.

‘Would five hundred cover it?’ he asked, clicking the cap of his pen. ‘I understand you were offered double the cost of the cake if you procured the signature? The cake was two-thirty, right? Consider the difference by way of an apology. Fergal can get … excited, sometimes,’ he said as his pen scratched against the chequebook.

‘How do you kn—?’

‘Toby’s an old friend of mine. He helped me find you. Do you know there’s no address on your delivery sheet?’ he said, pausing to look at me again.

‘The delivery sheets are just for our records …’ I shrugged. ‘Toby?’

‘Elsa’s driver. He paid you for the cake. So shall we say five hundred then?’ Ciaran asked, waiting to scribble a final figure. These people, it was obscene how they threw their money around.

‘Really, there’s no need. It was all paid for.’

He looked up at me from where he’d leaned in towards the oak surface Charlie had waxed five times before achieving the shade I liked. His left hand was flat against the wood as he stood poised over his chequebook. He didn’t have worker’s hands like his father. They looked softer than mine, with impeccably clean fingernails. No wedding band either, but then I didn’t wear mine. The icing was always getting stuck underneath it so I wore it instead on a chain around my neck, alongside Charlie’s.

‘That’s very gracious of you,’ he said, ‘but don’t you think you should run it past your boss first? Money’s money after all.’ I knew I was younger than the average for setting up on my own, but it always irked me when someone thought I was the run-around girl. OK, so I was still doing a lot of running around, just not for anyone else. I’d done those jobs all through college, and university. I may not have been sat on an empire, but I’d still earned my place on my own hillock.

‘Is your boss around?’ he pressed.

Martha had filled me in on what had been written of the Argylls. Of Ciaran’s fast living while his father footed the bill.

‘Yes,’ I returned. ‘And that’s very gracious of you, but don’t you think you should run it past your boss first?’

Something in his face changed and I sensed that I’d hit a nerve. The chequebook slipped back into his pocket. For him, the son of a rich pest, it must have been like re-holstering his weapon.

The smile was back again but I’d already seen the genuine version. This one was for show.

‘So this is your business?’ he asked, moving over to the glass display shelves nearest the counter.

‘Sure is,’ I answered, knowing that I’d offended him.

I watched him as he looked over our array of summer designs. ‘And these are all real?’ he asked, perambulating around the perimeter of the room.

‘They’re dummies,’ I said, watching him move as though wandering an art gallery. ‘We call them dummy cakes. They have a polystyrene core, and then we ice and decorate them for the displays.’

‘So then they’re just for show?’ he said, stopping and looking back to me.

‘Just for show,’ I said.

He continued on his way over to the first window and crouched to look through the streets of the gingerbread village there.

‘Did you make this?’ he asked, not taking his attention from the miniature street scene. The intricately piped clock tower, and railway complete with train carriages and station house was the one thing that drew the interest of every boy, young and old, dragged in here by their mums, daughters and wives. Ciaran Argyll seemed no exception.

‘Jesse and I, it’s kind of a two man job. One sticks, while the other holds in place.’

He stood then, hovering by the door, as though unsure if he were leaving or not. ‘You’re very talented.’ He had one hand on the brass handle. He eyes were strikingly dark, even from here.

‘Thank you,’ I said, the warmth building again. I wished that I hadn’t offended him. ‘And thanks for the sheet, I appreciate you bringing it back.’ I smiled as he pulled the door open. The bells jingled again.

‘Bye,’ he said softly.

‘Bye,’ I said, turning for the bakery.

Stepping out through the back I heard the bells ring out again before the door clicked shut behind him. Jesse was hovering next to another batch of ninety-six cupcakes, which were waiting to be frosted. ‘If you’ve finished playing with Handsome, you’ve got some catching up to do,’ he teased.

‘I was not playing with anybody.’ I pouted.

‘But you don’t deny that he’s one handsome sucka.’

‘Did you just say handsome sucka? Is that the lingo these days, Jess?’

‘Call it what you like, did you see the man’s motor?’

‘No, Jess, I didn’t see his car. What is it with you and shiny things? You’re like a magpie,’ I teased, loading up another nozzled bag with buttercream.

‘There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the finer things in life, Hol, and that dude has got some fine things. His suit was sharp too, nice cut.’ I had noticed the suit. ‘So … who is he?’

‘Are these ginger or treacle,’ I asked, squeezing the lemon frosting to the end of the bag before twisting the top securely.

‘Ginger and whisky. Well? Who’s James Bond?’

I started to pipe a tangy lemony swirl onto a sticky ginger cupcake.

‘Last Monday, the cake with the heel … well that was cake man’s son.’

‘Yeah? Well, he seemed a bit more chilled than the old girl was.’

‘I don’t think it was him the cake depicted, Jess. His dad wasn’t so calm.’

‘So what, was she James Bond’s mum?’

‘Stepmum. She wasn’t there when I met his dad,’ I said, piping the next row of cakes.

‘And what was Dad like? Loaded I bet. Women like that don’t marry outside their class.’

I stopped swirling and tried to think of the word I’d use to describe Fergal Argyll, a man very clearly in a class completely of his own.

‘He was … lively. But harmless enough, I think,’ I said.

‘So what was junior doing here? Was there a problem with his old man’s ‘taters?’

I felt a smile appear as I remembered how close I’d come to seeing the real thing. Yikes.

‘I’m not sure really, I think he came to smooth over any rucks.’

‘What kind of rucks?’

‘The kind people with money are used to making go away with a chequebook.’ I finished the last row of gingers and set what was left in the piping bag down on the worktop. ‘I’m running out of room, I’m going start getting these under the counters.’

‘I keep telling you, we need two more stainless workbenches, at least.’

‘After the oven, Jess, new oven takes priority over workbenches.’

‘So when are we getting the new oven?’ he called after me.

‘Soon! When we can afford to order it!’

I picked up the tray of cupcakes I’d just finished and carried them towards the shop. Before I reached the last doorway out of the bakery I called back to Jess.

‘You are right though, Jess … he is one hell of a handsome sucka.’ I was only playing, but it was nice to remind Jesse that even I could appreciate the finer looking things in life. Just because I wasn’t hungry didn’t mean I’d forgotten how good food tasted.

Manoeuvring wide trays of cupcakes through the narrow doorway into the shop could be tricky, but that wasn’t the reason I nearly dropped the entire batch.

‘I forgot my sunglasses,’ Ciaran Argyll said, standing there watching me. The flush was back with a vengeance, raging up my neck and instantly taking up residence in my cheeks.

Why is he standing here? The door didn’t go!

‘Er …’ I stammered, realising to my horror that I hadn’t actually seen him leave. Panic started rising as I ran through the conversation he might have just heard. The harder I tried, the less I could think of anything to say, so I settled for trying to cover my shell-shock with something resembling a smile. I thought I’d already experienced the embarrassment of blushing in Ciaran Argyll’s presence, but this was an excruciating new level.

He carefully avoided looking at me; I was sure he was fighting a smile. ‘Actually, I have an event coming up. I was wondering what your thoughts might be on providing a cake?’ Please don’t let him have heard, please don’t let him have heard!

‘Umm, yes. We can do that.’ I swallowed. ‘When for?’ I asked, trying to salvage some sort of composure.

‘October twenty-sixth,’ he said. ‘It’s a Saturday.’

As I slid the tray of cupcakes under the adjacent serving counter I could feel the beginnings of perspiration over the back of my neck. I didn’t sweat. Clammy hands said I did.

The diary I’d been looking for was sat by the phone, on the side next to the till. In its place, for a change. I flicked through to the following month, hoping to find a week too full to take on another Argyll job.