Cakewalk

CAKEWALK



         At 5:06pm the telephone on Dorothy’s desk shrilled. On her way out the office door, she almost ignored the ringing and let the machine take it. But after a second’s hesitation, she turned and picked it up.

“George Mannigan’s office. Dorothy speaking.”

“Dottie?” It was her husband.

“It’s me, hon.”

“Glad I caught you. I’ve got four clients coming for dinner tonight. Sorry to drop this on you. I’m sure you can whip something up.”

“Sure.” Dorothy gritted her teeth. He did this to her at least once every two weeks.

“You’re a doll. We’ll be there just after seven.”



         Dorothy hung up the phone and hurried out of the office. Looking at her you would never know that she was furious, but she was. How could he do this tonight? she thought. I was planning to serve the leftover casserole from last night. And my favourite show is on TV. She stopped just before reaching the bus stop, making a mental inventory of her refrigerator’s contents. There was fish in the freezer. Thank goodness for the microwave, she thought. I can get that defrosted in no time. And her sister had brought a great sack of vegetables down from the family farm only a few days before.

“Oh!,” Dorothy was unaware she’d spoken aloud. “Dessert!” Turning on her heel, she headed back towards her favourite bakery, a block away from the office.



         Dorothy trotted towards the cake shop, plump thighs rubbing together under the tailored grey skirt she wore. She had been avoiding the bakery for the past few weeks because she’d started a new diet. Again. This was the third since Christmas, and it was only April. But it was never too late for a fresh start, right? Passing a large plate glass window she caught sight of her reflection, a matronly looking woman with a great mass of chestnut hair framing her too-round face. She paused to tug down the skirt that rode up to reveal the darker top to her pantyhose.



         Reaching the bakery, Dorothy paused to steel herself. She was hungry and knew it was going to take a huge act of will not to succumb to the sweet temptation of all those cakes. A glance at the window, stacked high with treats, reinforced this opinion. There were her favourites: éclairs, with their glossy chocolate icing, plump with custard or pastry cream. Tiny pots of crème brulee just waiting for their sugary caramel crusts to be shattered with a teaspoon. Lemon pies with their clouds of meringue topping the tangy, tart custard. Decadent slices of black forest gateaux with whole cherries spilling out in a pool of kirsch. Rich chocolate mousse topped with great whorls of whipped cream and delicate chocolate lattice-work. Moist squares of tiramisu oozing coffee-infused marscapone. Dorothy’s mouth watered.



         With a deep breath she entered, hearing the familiar bright tinkle of the bell as the door swung shut behind her. The area around the counter was brightly lit, crowded with customers who shifted and slid around the glass-fronted display case. Dorothy looked enviously at a group of Pilates-toned housewives, still in their tights, picking out the richest, creamiest cakes. Shaking her head, she turned to the task at hand. What should I get? she asked herself, studying the delights on offer. Something with fruit, she decided. But what? The tarte tatin looked fantastic, lightly caramelised apples glistening atop the crumbly, sweet pastry. But then, the cherry pie also looked fabulous. And she had always loved their blackcurrant cheesecake…

“Can I help you?” The teenager behind the counter smiled, teeth flashing braces.

“Umm…” Dorothy stared indecisively into the cabinet. “I think I might need a little longer to decide.”

“Sure, just let me know when.” The teenager turned away to serve another customer, a tall, slightly built man with the most enormous beard Dorothy had ever seen. She could not understand why it was that almost every one of the bakery’s patrons this evening was thin. How could a cake shop be patronised exclusively by slender, willowy people? She felt suddenly dowdy; large and lumpish amidst this crowd of lardless bodies. Certain that they were all staring at the fat lady, here to buy more cake, she became self-conscious. Slipping away from the counter she made her way to the bathrooms at the back. She locked herself into a stall, deciding to wait until the after-work rush had gone before venturing back out to make her purchase.



         Dorothy awoke with a start, uncertain where she was. It was dark and her neck was stiff and sore. She struggled into a more comfortable position and realised she was sitting on the closed lid of a toilet. I’m at the bakery, she thought. How embarrassing! I fell asleep in the stall. Using her cell-phone as a flashlight, she managed to find her way out of the bathroom. Boy do I feel foolish. And what would Marcus have thought when I wasn’t home to cook his dinner? He must be worried sick! But no. There were no missed calls on her phone, and only a single text message, from her sister who reminded her that she was babysitting her niece on Sunday. So, she thought, peeved, he didn’t even miss me? He’s not worried about where I might be at 1am on a Wednesday? Even when I was supposed to be entertaining his clients?



          A part of her knew what had happened though. The same thing that had happened several times before when he had asked her to cook for the people he sold advertising to. They would have gone to the Capitol for drinks before dinner, and two martinis would have turned to four, six or more. She imagined him sprawled on the couch, snoring and stinking of gin, unaware she wasn’t upstairs in their bedroom, pretending to sleep while she seethed over his thoughtlessness.



         Standing in the middle of the cake-shop floor, Dorothy looked around and tried to figure out what to do next. Clearly there was no alarm system or she would have set it off by now. From this side of the glass, the night-silent streets seemed eerie and strange. The streetlight outside the store shone its orange sodium glow across the floor, slashed into tiger stripes by the shelves in the window. Dorothy tried the door and, as she had expected, found it locked. She stood for a moment, unsure what to do. If she left, the door would be unlocked and the store vulnerable to thieves. But even if he had not called, Marcus must be worried about her. She never went out without telling him where she was and when she might be home.



         It was a dilemma. Dorothy decided to go behind the counter to see if there might be a phone number, someone she could call and explain her situation to. Making her way into the kitchen, her stomach growled. She paused in front of a glass-fronted refrigerator, filled with the very fruit tarts she had been trying to decide between earlier. No, she thought. I’ve done so well with this diet so far. I am not going to give in. She was lying to herself. In the three weeks of her diet she had lost only two pounds, nothing like the results the book had promised. Turning away from the fridge she found herself face to face with another cabinet, this one holding a perfectly iced cake, one slice cut out to reveal the three layers of chocolate sponge, sandwiched together with strawberries, raspberries and some creamy pink filling. She stared at this cake for several minutes before tearing herself away. I hate you! The thought was venomous, startling her with its intensity. She turned, frightened suddenly as she realised the room was filled with cakes, sweets, pastries and all the treats she so loved, but had been denying herself. All the things that threatened her slim hope of, well, slimness.



         Back in the main room of the bakery Dorothy breathed easier, although she was none the wiser as to what to do about her situation. It was just so rude to call people at one in the morning! She leaned against the counter as she thought about it, her finger inadvertently brushing the top of a cupcake. Without thinking she stuck the finger in her mouth and was instantly engulfed by the rich, chocolatey frosting.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “That is so good!”



         As if a dam had broken, all Dorothy’s will power flowed out of her and she crammed the cupcake into her mouth. She had barely swallowed that before she found her hands reaching for more. A square of fudge was gone in a single gulp. The crème inside a profiterole was sucked down her throat in one great slurp, the profiterole following shortly after. She tore into a torte, gnashed through nougat and gorged on gateau. Sated and slowed by too much sugar, she slumped to the floor, leaning against the cabinet, now smeary with her cake-encrusted fingerprints.



         The tinkle of the bell above the door startled her and she shot to her feet. The baker, coming in to begin his shift, was greeted with a missile. A cherry tart, one he had baked himself the previous morning, flew through the air and hit him in the chest, the force enough to make him stumble back against the door.

“Hey!” he cried, instinctively reaching for a projectile of his own. Dorothy was stunned for a moment, unsure quite what was happening as she scraped lemon and meringue from her face. Too sweet, she noted as she cleared her eyes and saw the baker for the first time.



         Two police officers cruised down Main on their regular nightly patrol. Everything was quiet; even the drug dealers who plied their trade on the corner seemed to have packed up and left. The lights were on at the bakery so they knew the baker was there. This was the time of night they usually stopped in and picked up a few of yesterday’s pastries. Slowing to a stop outside the cake shop, they were horrified to see the baker through the window, blood on the white front of his chef’s jacket from what appeared to be a chest wound. They screeched to a halt and were out of the car in seconds, guns drawn. Hoping to surprise the criminal, they snuck around to the back door and, using their skeleton key, let themselves into the kitchen.



         The front room of the cake shop was a war zone, pies flying through the air every few seconds, more often than not missing their targets. The walls dripped custard, fruit, cream and more. Puff pastry, biscuit crusts and tart cases floated like boats on the sticky sea. And in the middle of the carnage sat Dorothy and the baker, hysterical with laughter as they hurled cakes and pies and pastries at one another, pausing every few minutes to stuff a morsel of this or a handful of that into their mouths.

“Thank you,” chuckled the baker. “You have no idea how long I have wanted to do this! Every time I walk in the door and see those pies on display, I want to throw one.”



         From the kitchen, two police officers burst into the room, skidding and slipping on the mixture of pie fillings carpeting the floor.

“Hands up! Police!”



From two directions, pies sailed through the air.



1832 words



June 2009