The Sunshine And Biscotti Club (15 page)

Libby winced and hurried over at the same time as Dex who’d been outside having a cup of tea.

‘Admiring my mixture?’ Dex said as he strode over. ‘Oh shit,’ he added, as he stared down into the bubbling inferno that was meant to be his cake. There was then an explosion in his oven that made Eve yelp, and they all crouched down to see what looked like a volcano in his cake tin.

‘What did you do?’ Libby asked, tentatively opening the oven door.

‘Well, I wanted it to rise,’ Dex said, sheepishly trying to put the lids back on empty baking soda and baking powder pots.

‘You put the whole lot in?’ Libby frowned, holding the volcano cake at arm’s length. ‘And the lemons?’ she said.

Dex nodded.

‘Dex, it’s all reacting with the acid. Oh god, and it’s still going.’

They all gathered round to watch the mixture in Dex’s bowl frothing out like
The Little Shop of Horrors
.

‘You take that, I’ll take this,’ Libby said, chivvying him on. ‘Let’s get it outside.’

On the grass the concoction continued to spew forth in the burning heat, the volcano cake sitting on the little
patio like a school science experiment. Poor Dex stayed outside, looking forlornly at his ruined masterpiece.

Miles was next out of the running; the cream cheese of his cheesecake was overbeaten and inedible. Frank was suitably unimpressed.

Then it was Jessica’s turn. ‘Libby, I think something might have gone a bit wrong back here,’ she said, biting down on her thumbnail.

Libby momentarily squeezed her eyes shut as Frank led the way, now seemingly enjoying this cacophony of disasters.

‘She’s put the grill on,’ said Frank, getting to the ruined cake first.

‘Oh no, did I?’ Jessica covered her flushed cheeks with her hands. ‘How stupid.’

‘That’s OK, that’s OK.’ Libby tried to usher Frank out of the way, riled by his complete lack of tact. ‘It’s OK. It’s fine to make mistakes, that’s what this is all about. We’ll reset the oven and just slice this burnt bit off the top. Then you can cook it again.’

‘But it’s completely flat,’ said Jessica.

‘So whip up some cream, pick some cherries, and we’ll turn it into a flan.’

Frank peered over, intrigued, as Libby helped Jessica attempt to rescue the cake. And when they’d made the best of what they had, Jessica was clearly delighted. ‘I’ve never made anything before really,’ she said, staring proudly at her flat, cherry covered cake
flan. ‘It’s OK, isn’t it?’ she said to Frank, who had to concede that it wasn’t a complete write off.

Things picked up with Bruno’s triple-layered chocolate Italian cream cake that glistened with thick creamy icing and was liberally sprinkled with pecans and coconut. Bruno’s chest was puffed out like a preening lion as he cut Frank a slice.

‘Looks very nice,’ said Frank, the compliment prised from his mouth. ‘A good texture,’ he added after a forkful. ‘Very pleasant.’

But pleasant wasn’t what Bruno was looking for and, pulling the cake swiftly away from where Frank was standing said, ‘I think it is excellent. What is wrong with it?’

Frank, a little startled, said, ‘Nothing—it’s good.’

‘Well,’ said Bruno, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Say it is good, yes? Better say it is excellent.’

Libby cut in before either of them could say any more. ‘OK, let’s move on to Jimmy. Thank you, Bruno—a very good cake,’ she said, and Bruno said something in Italian that obviously wasn’t positive. ‘Right, Jimmy, are you ready?’

‘Am I ready?’ said Jimmy cockily, and brought out a four-tiered creation that he’d put together in secret underneath his bench while sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Libby had to cover her mouth when she saw it in an attempt to hide an unexpected snigger.

‘Christ, Jimmy, that’s an eyesore,’ shouted Dex from the garden, standing up to come in and have a look.

‘You’re just jealous,’ scoffed Jimmy, proudly displaying his cake, each tier vibrantly dyed with half a bottle of food colouring so it looked like a traffic light. The top tier he’d cut to resemble the hotel, with little marzipan shutters on wonkily carved out windows, and big lumps of green icing had been plonked around the tiers to look like trees.

Jessica came round to have a look. ‘Well, I mean, you’ve got to get marks for effort.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Jimmy asked, clueless as to the extent of his monstrosity.

‘Nothing, Jimmy.’ Libby shook her head. ‘It’s a triumph.’

Frank cut a massive slice, knocking one of the lumpen trees to the floor, and tasted a forkful. ‘It’s …’ he paused, ‘interesting.’

Jimmy gave a whoop, taking that as confirmation of his genius, and said, ‘Your guests will love it, Libby.’

There was no chance the iced monstrosity was going on Libby’s dessert trolley, she’d make sure Bruno beat him even if she had to prise his chocolate cake out of his disgruntled arms, but then Eve’s oven timer pinged and they all turned to look as she brought out an ugly brown wrinkly fruit cake.

Jimmy chortled.

‘Well, it’s not going to win on looks, is it?’ said Eve, staring deprecatingly down at her cooling bake.

‘Let’s taste it,’ said Libby, and cut out a wedge that she split into three for her, Frank, and Eve.

Frank ate his first, nibbling like a mouse then almost immediately stuffing the whole chunk into his mouth.

As Libby took a bite she watched as Frank closed his eyes and stood stock still as though the world had paused on its axis. He barely looked like he was breathing and when he opened his eyes again he seemed to have momentarily forgotten where he was.

Then the flavour hit Libby and she was no longer able to look at anyone, just savour the soft, buttery warmth of the maraschino and chinotto, as she felt herself walking through pine forests in the morning sun. ‘It’s incredible,’ she whispered.

‘It is?’ said Eve.

‘It is,’ said Frank, instinctively reaching forward for another bite, all his bravado gone.

Suddenly everyone was clamouring for a taste of her cake, except poor Jimmy who was trying to prop up his increasingly lopsided cake hotel.

‘I would never have done that if it wasn’t for this club.’ Eve laughed. ‘I haven’t made anything in months.’

Libby looked over at her, flanked by Dex and Miles as they congratulated her on her brilliant bake, radiant, grinning just like old Eve, only better.

Frank stood back to write something down in his notebook and Eve said, ‘I’m serious, you know? I literally haven’t had the head space to create a thing. And I’ll admit, I was sceptical, I never for one minute thought that I’d achieve it here, but there’s something about it.’ She glanced around the room. ‘Something about this place gets into your soul.’

Libby listened, watching Frank nod intrigued, wishing she could believe what Eve was saying but unable to quite trust that it wasn’t just part of a helpful PR campaign.

The judging complete, Eve victorious, they wrapped a slice of her cake up for Frank to take with him in his briefcase and then all went with him as he headed back up the garden path. His haughty veneer lessened as Dex made him smell the lemon scented air and admire the newly scrubbed terrace. Jessica pointed lovingly towards the pool area, Jimmy talked about his plans for the garden, and Eve continued to rave about how inspired she was, to the point that Libby was forced just to listen at the back.

Half of it, she knew, was egged up in an attempt to secure the hotel a place in the guide, but their enthusiasm was starting to conjure a sense of pride in her for the Limoncello that she hadn’t experienced until now.

‘I like what you’re doing,’ Frank said when they reached the lobby. ‘Enough to come back when the renovations are complete.’

‘Oh, that would be fantastic,’ said Libby.

‘Let me just say though, our customers demand something special in the places they stay. You have created that in the club, but my concern is that in here you’re lacking the personal touches. What I always did like about the Limoncello was that it had something, dare I say, eclectic in its style. I assume these …’ Frank pointed up at Jake’s halogen spotlights, ‘won’t be here when I come again?’

She heard Eve stifle a snigger.

Libby nodded. ‘No, absolutely not.’

‘Good,’ he said, sauntering towards the door. ‘Otherwise I’d say you’re on the right track.’

Jessica was quite relieved to be able to escape back to her pool patio area. Hiding from the sun in a sliver of shade from the olive trees, she was scrubbing the mildewed sunshade canvases. Already her fingers were like prunes from the soap suds. Watching the white come through the dirt as she scrubbed was like therapy. She kept thinking about her night with Bruno. How he’d held her hand as she stepped onto his boat. How he’d asked if she wanted to go swimming in the remains of the old boathouse. How she’d looked at him like he was mad, but he’d pulled his top off and dived in so she followed. Ducking under the cool black water to bypass the iron grates, she’d surfaced inside a cavernous, echoey old chamber, the reeds swirling like feathers round her body, the light flickering on old broken boats half exposed in the water, and the echo of wings fluttering.

‘This is spooky,’ she said.

‘Spooky?’ Bruno asked.

‘Weird,’ she said. ‘Bit frightening.’

‘You’re frightened. Of me?’ he said, swimming over, confused.

‘No of ghosts and stuff.’

He laughed. ‘You believe in ghosts?’

‘It’s hard not to in here,’ she said, glancing up at the looming shadows.

‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ he said, swimming away to the darkest, blackest part of the boathouse. ‘Just the imagination. Fear playing tricks. Come over here.’

‘No way.’ Jessica clung tight to the side.

‘Come on,’ he called, a voice in the nothingness.

‘No.’

He’d gone silent.

‘Are you still there?’ she asked.

He laughed.

A cloud drew over the moon dimming the last of the light.

She felt her heart thumping in her chest.

‘What are you afraid of?’ he called.

Letting go.

‘Swimming into the dark with a strange man,’ she shouted in the end when she couldn’t persuade her fingers to loosen their grip.

Bruno laughed and swam his way back. ‘I am not strange,’ he said when he got up close. And then he kissed her, soft on the mouth, the black water licking around them.

Jessica had been woken up by the early morning sun as it shimmered low over the lake. To her shame she had slipped away, as she always did, from the possibility of an awkward morning encounter, leaving Bruno fast asleep, the sun’s rays flickering on his face.

He had strolled into the outhouse for the morning’s baking as if nothing whatsoever had happened between them. No meaningful looks, no stolen smiles. Just exactly as he always was.

She realised she should have been relieved but she wasn’t. And it kept coming back, the feeling that she should have swum out into the darkness.

‘Working hard out here, I see.’ Miles’s voice yanked her back to reality where she was sitting with a sopping wet sunshade on her lap and her hand in a bucket of cold soapy water.

‘I was just …’ She got confused, the silhouette of Miles blocking out the sun, invading her little haven of escape. ‘I’m just cleaning these,’ she said, standing up and shaking out the canvas to see how much more scrubbing it needed.

‘Want some help?’ he asked, sitting himself down on one of the loungers.

‘I don’t need any,’ she said. ‘Not if there’s someone else who needs help more,’ she added, then frowned, unsure whether she’d made sense. She was quite keen for Miles to go but also annoyingly exhilarated by his presence.

‘No,’ he said, lying back on the lounger with his eyes closed, hands behind his head, long body stretched out, legs crossed at the ankles. ‘Jimmy’s working like a demon in the garden, Dex is whitewashing the back wall, and Eve and Libby are inside. They sent me out here.’

He opened one eye and looked at her, the incessant cicadas counting down the seconds. Jessica pretended to inspect a patch of mould on the canvas.

‘Have fun with Bruno last night?’ Miles said after the pause, eyes closed again, a sweep of black lashes, chin pointing up to the sun.

Jessica felt a blush creep traitorously up her neck. ‘It was fine.’

Miles’s lips were smiling. ‘Fine, eh?’

Jessica went over and got the brush, then scrubbed furiously at the patch she’d missed.

Miles sat up and grabbed the other canvas. ‘You got another brush?’ he asked.

‘There’s one in there,’ she said, nodding towards the red bucket.

When he stood up to get it, it occurred to her that in the past she would have scurried over and got it for him. Probably dragging the bucket over as well so he didn’t have to move.

Jessica watched him strolling over to get the other brush, the collar of his white polo shirt turned up, his low-riding khaki shorts revealing a strip of Calvin
Kleins. Was everything he owned khaki now? She missed the skinny black jeans and the huge holey grey jumpers, the rollies, the reefers, the bare feet, and the unwashed hair. It was like that whole other person had vanished.

He took his brush back to the sun lounger where he sat at the foot, elbows braced on his knees, and started working on the other canvas.

For minutes the only noise was of scrubbing and cicadas. And for Jessica the weight of their silence grew with every second that passed. There was so much that she wanted to say but in the end the only words she could force out were, ‘What are you listening to nowadays?’

‘Complete shit,’ he replied without looking up.

Jessica laughed despite herself.

Miles laughed. His chest rose and fell. ‘And I’m judging some awful TV show.’

‘Yeah?’ She paused her scrubbing to look his way. ‘What’s it called?’

‘So You Wanna Be in a Band,’
Miles said, glancing up, expression pained. ‘I’ve sold out, Jessica.’

Jessica looked away. It was weird hearing him say her name.

‘And you?’ he asked after a pause. ‘What are you listening to?’

‘I don’t know really.’ She went over to the bucket to rinse her brush, then moved it closer so it was between
the two of them. ‘I stopped listening to anything a while back,’ she said, soapy water drizzling along the floor as she went back to her canvas. ‘Just a bit of Bach now when I work.’ She glanced over at him. ‘It’s good for the synapses.’

He looked up with a frown. ‘I told you that.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I know.’

He chuckled, realising he’d missed the point. The atmosphere between them lightened.

‘I lied,’ he said. ‘I don’t listen to all shit. I’ve got this little label of my own. Kind of a hobby. No profit. I fund it with the sell-out shit.’ He batted a fly off his arm. ‘There’s some good stuff, I think. One girl actually who you’d love.’ He paused. ‘I think you’d love.’

‘Yeah?’ Jessica asked after too many seconds, intrigued to know what he thought her taste still was, surprised that he still aligned a sound to her.

Miles shrugged, going back to his canvas scrubbing. ‘Yeah,’ he said, without looking up again.

Jessica watched him work. She wanted to say something. She wanted to apologise—to him, to Flo—but the words were stuck inside her. They seemed so little, so pointless now, yet at the same time huge, as if time had pumped them up like a balloon.

They stayed there in silence, the monotonous hum of brush on canvas occasionally peppered with the sound of water sploshing in the bucket. The sun rained down, the cicadas an orchestra of violins, the pump of the pool
gently bubbling. Jessica was hyper aware the whole time, wishing she could walk away but at the same time hoping they both stayed, her night with Bruno wrapped up like a treasure, a moment to escape to, to relieve the pressure of this.