The thing is to be direct. Firm and direct but pleasant. Grown-up and professional, like businesspeople who have to fire other businesspeople. Stay calm and use phrases like “We chose to go another way.”
“Hello, Elinor,” I say to my reflection. “I have something I need to say to you. I have chosen to go another way.”
No. She’ll think I’m becoming a lesbian.
“Hello, Elinor,” I try again. “I’ve been bouncing around your wedding-scenario proposal. And while it has many merits…”
OK, come on. Just do it.
Ignoring my butterflies, I pick up the phone and dial Elinor’s number.
“Elinor Sherman is unable to take your call…”
She’s out.
I can’t just leave her a message saying the wedding’s off. Can I?
Could I?
No.
I put the phone down hurriedly, before the bleep sounds. OK. What shall I do now?
Well, it’s obvious. I’ll call Robyn. The important thing is that I tell someone, before anything else gets done.
I gather my thoughts for a moment, then dial Robyn’s number.
“Hello! Do I hear wedding bells? I hope so, because this is Robyn de Bendern, the answer to your wedding planning prayers. I’m afraid I’m unavailable at present, but your call is so important to me…”
Robyn’s probably already on her way to meet me at the cake-maker’s studio, it occurs to me. I could call her there. Or I could leave a message.
But as I hear her bright, chirruping voice, I feel a pang of guilt. Robyn’s already put so much into this. In fact, I’ve already become quite fond of her. I just can’t tell her it’s all off over the phone. Feeling suddenly firm, I put down the phone and reach for my bag.
I’ll be a grown-up, go along to the cake studio, and break the news to her face-to-face.
And I’ll deal with Elinor later.
To be honest, I don’t really like wedding cake. I always take a piece because it’s bad luck or something if you don’t, but actually all that fruitcake and marzipan and icing like blocks of chalk makes me feel a bit sick. And I’m so nervous at the thought of telling Robyn it’s all off that I can’t imagine eating anything.
Even so, my mouth can’t help watering as I arrive at the cake studio. It’s big and light, with huge windows and the sweetest, most delicious sugary-buttery smell wafting through the air. There are huge mounted cakes on display, and rows of flower decorations in transparent boxes, and people at marble tables, carefully making roses out of icing and painting strands of sugar ivy.
As I hover at the entrance, a skinny girl in jeans and strappy high heels is being led out by her mother, and they’re in the middle of a row.
“You only had to taste it,” the mother is saying furiously. “How many calories could that be?”
“I don’t care,” retorts the girl tearfully. “I’m going to be a size two on my wedding day if it kills me.”
Size two!
Anxiously I glance at my thighs. Should I be aiming for size two as well? Is that the size brides are supposed to be?
“Becky!” I look up to see Robyn, who seems a little flustered. “Hello! You made it.”
“Robyn.” As I see her, I feel my stomach clench with apprehension. “Listen. I need to talk to you. I tried calling Elinor, but she was… Anyway. There’s something I need to… tell you.”
“Absolutely,” says Robyn distractedly. “Antoine and I will be with you in a moment, but we have a slight crisis on our hands.” She lowers her voice. “There was an accident with one of the cakes. Very unfortunate.”
“Miss Bloomwood?” I look up to see a man with gray hair and twinkling eyes in a white chef’s outfit. “I am Antoine Montignac. The cake maker of cake makers. Perhaps you have seen me in my television show?”
“Antoine, I don’t think we’ve quite resolved the problem with the… other client…” says Robyn anxiously.
“I come in a moment.” He dismisses her with his hand. “Miss Bloomwood. Sit down.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I really want to…” I begin. But before I know what I’m doing, I’ve been seated on a plushy chair at a polished table, and Antoine is spreading glossy portfolios in front of me.
“I can create for you the cake that will surpass all your dreams,” he announces modestly. “No image is beyond my powers of creativity.”
“Really?” I look at a photograph of a spectacular sixtier cake decorated with sugar tulips, then turn the page to see one in the shape of five different butterflies. These are the hugest cakes I’ve ever seen in my life. And the decorations!
“So, are these all fruitcakes inside?”
“Fruitcake? Non, non, non!” Antoine laughs. “This is very English notion, the fruitcake at the wedding. This particular cake…” He points to the butterfly cake. “It was a light angel sponge, each tier layered with three different fillings: burnt orange caramel, passion-fruit-mango, and hazelnut soufflé.”
Gosh.
“If you like chocolate, we can construct a cake purely from different varieties of chocolate.” He turns to another page. “This was a dark chocolate sponge layered with chocolate fondant, white chocolate cream, and a Grand Marnier truffle filling.”
I had no idea wedding cakes could be anything like this. I flip through dazedly, looking at cake after spectacular cake.
“If you do not want the traditional tiers, I can make for you a cake to represent something you love. A favorite painting… or a sculpture…” He looks at me again. “A Louis Vuitton trunk, perhaps…”