Other People’s Diaries (23 page)

‘It was a big conference, he was supposed to have spoken earlier but everything was pushed back …' Lillian trailed off, looking at Kyla. Her expression said that she'd heard this all before.

‘I know, Mum. It's all right, it didn't make me turn to drugs or prostitution. But he should have been there.'

Lillian was silent, not knowing what to say.

‘Mum, I didn't tell you that to make you sad. I just hate that you have this ridiculously idealised picture of Dad in your head. He was a good man, but he wasn't perfect. You lived in his shadow your whole life, working around what he wanted. I loved him too, but your life hasn't gone with his.'

Lillian began to speak.

‘Nope,' Kyla interrupted. ‘We're not going to debate this here. This is a celebration. For Nana, but also for you. I know how big a thing it was for you to come to France by yourself. So just make it the beginning. Life's out there, Mum – you've just got to grab it.'

Lillian smiled slowly. ‘How'd you get so smart?' she asked fondly. ‘Okay, sweetheart. I guess on that note we'd better order another bottle of wine.'

Each dish was presented by silent but attentive waiters and proved to be extraordinary.

Lillian felt more relaxed than she could remember. She looked around. They were clearly the only foreigners in the room.

As they ate, they speculated on their fellow diners. From a pair of politicians, to businessmen, to a very well-heeled couple who looked as though they did this regularly. The couple both wore wedding rings, but whether they were married to each other, Lillian and Kyla couldn't decide.

The man Lillian had smiled at earlier was the only person dining by himself. He looked in his seventies, was incredibly suave and incredibly French. Kyla's theory was that he was a hero from the Resistance.

‘Oh no,' Kyla exclaimed. ‘Look behind you.' She gestured at a trolley being wheeled to their table, loaded with handcrafted sweets and chocolates.

‘You have to have some,' she ordered. ‘It's obligatory.'

They both managed some chocolates as they sipped their coffees.

Kyla drained the last of her espresso from the tiny cup and placed it carefully back on the saucer.

‘Well, I do believe that's it. I think it's time for the bill.'

Lillian nodded reluctantly, sorry to leave this glorious bubble of an afternoon. She looked around and noticed that there was only one other table of people still in the restaurant.

Kyla signalled to the waiter. ‘
Ah, l'addition s'il vous plaît
,' she smiled.

‘
Oui mademoiselle
,' he replied, disappearing again.

He was back within moments and spoke to Kyla, gesturing toward the table next to the window.

She shook her head and spoke to him in French.

The waiter handed Kyla a piece of heavy cream paper.

‘
Merci
,' she replied, a bemused look on her face.

Kyla looked at the paper and handed it to her mother. ‘You're not going to believe this, Mum. But apparently the man who was sitting at that table has already paid our bill.'

Lillian glanced at the now empty table of the resistance hero and then down at the paper which bore the restaurant's name. There were no contact details, not even a name. Just a message in red ink.

What a pleasure to watch such happiness
.

So I took out an extra line of credit to fill up the tank and took the Aston Martin out for a spin this morning
.

I haven't done it in more than a year so I figure it qualifies for my last task
.

Went up to Mt Glorious. It was a great day and, except for the hordes of motorbike riders intent on killing themselves on the next bend, fairly peaceful
.

Still it didn't work for me. I just kept thinking of all the crap I was pumping into the air. I didn't even stop for a coffee. Just turned around and came home
.

Maybe next time I'll take Annie …

H
e was going to cause a car accident. Or be the victim of road rage. Already he'd had two irate drivers honk at him as he was slowing down to take a corner.

‘What are yaw, mate? A little old lady?'

He wondered if it would make any difference if he'd made up a sign and stuck it to the back window of his ute.
Fairy on board
.

Then again, as he was the only one travelling in the car, that wouldn't be such a great look. It would probably only increase his chances of getting beaten up.

He used his hand to signal that he was slowing down and
pulled up outside Sandra's shopfront. The parking situation was even more diabolical than usual and there wasn't a spare spot within sight. He hesitated, then pushed the gear lever into park and pulled on the handbrake. A hundred metre walk in thirty degree heat could just about destroy his creation. He was prepared to take whatever the parking inspectors could throw at him.

Pink and white balloons were tied to the door off to one side of the shop. He could hear laughter and excited screams coming from inside and glanced nervously at the cake.

Sandra had begged him to buy the cake. She knew someone, she said, who could design just about any cake you could imagine. They could even pass it off as his if he really wanted them to.

When he'd refused, she'd rolled her eyes just like she had when they were together. Strangely, though, it no longer bugged him.

It wasn't some crazy test of love, she'd said. Annie knew he loved her. Baking a birthday cake from scratch wouldn't prove anything. Besides, remember the last time he'd made Annie a cake?

He'd laughed with her at the time, savouring the intimacy of a shared memory. The night before Annie's first birthday, he and Sandra had decided to make her a teddy-bear cake. In the process they'd opened a bottle of wine, then another, and by the time they were finished, they had moved on to Drambuie shots – the only thing left in the cupboard. Consequently, both they and the cake had looked rather the worse for wear the next morning.

But something in one of Alice's tasks had struck a chord. Traditions. Family traditions.

Annie's birthday cakes could be his thing each year. It had seemed like a sensational idea at the time.

So with Sandra still rolling her eyes, he'd told Annie that he'd make it for her and asked what she'd like. A balloon? The number four? Maybe another teddy?

It was then Annie had hit him with the fairy thing. Long after he could gracefully back out.

She wanted a fairy cake. Not to be confused with fairy cakes.
She wanted a cake made into a fairy. A beautiful one. Like the ones in
Flower Fairies of the Garden
, a book Kerry had given her shortly after he and Sandra had broken up. According to Sandra, Annie had slept with it under her pillow for months.

And the dress had to be red. With tiny pink and yellow flowers.

‘Just so you know, I'm holding this for someone.'

Kerry turned toward the voice.

Sandra was standing beside the front door, guiltily holding a burning cigarette.

As long as he'd known her, Sandra had smoked when she was stressed. Never more than one and never at any other time.

She was one of the few people he knew who could go for months, sometimes years, between cigarettes. No matter where they had lived, though, there was always a half-packet stashed somewhere ‘just in case'.

He smiled at her. ‘Smoking over a four year old's birthday. C'mon now. Surely not?'

She exhaled and gestured him closer. She really did look wound up, he noticed.

‘It's not the four year olds,' she hissed. ‘It's the parents. I thought they'd just drop the kids and run, but they all stayed.' Her voice rose at the end of the sentence and she took another long pull on the cigarette.

‘Thank God for your parents. Your dad went out and bought some champagne and they've been loading the parents up with it for the last hour.'

Kerry tried not to smile. This was clearly no laughing matter.

‘And you're late. Tell me the cake is all right. Annie's been asking about it all morning.'

‘Sorry. I had to do some … running repairs.' He ignored her question and pretended not to notice her worried look.

A bit more than running repairs, he thought as he followed Sandra into the house, holding the cake container gingerly.

He'd been determined to prove to Sandra he didn't need to cheat. He'd visited a cake-decorating supply shop and thrown himself on the mercy of the woman behind the counter.

She'd sent him home, armed with almost a hundred dollars' worth of professional-grade icing supplies that she swore would help him create his masterpiece.

And he'd totally ballsed it up.

The monstrosity he had created looked more like roadkill than a fairy (red being the only colour he'd managed to get right).

Just then there was an earsplitting shriek and Annie, dressed in a pink tutu, came flying down the hallway like some kind of mad banshee. Out of habit, he stepped in front of Sandra as she hid the cigarette butt in the palm of her hand.

Kerry had only just managed to pass the cake to Sandra before Annie jumped into his arms.

‘Daddy, I'm foooouuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrr.'

He couldn't help but laugh.

‘Annie, I kkkkkknnnnnnnooooooowwwwwww.'

He swung her around and set her back on her feet.

‘Did you bring my fairy cake?'

Kerry nodded.

‘Can I see it?'

Laughing, he shook his head. ‘Why don't you and your mum go out the back with everyone else? I'll follow you in a minute. With the cake,' he added as Annie's face started to crumple.

He turned to Sandra, taking the cake back off her. ‘I just need to add a few finishing touches.'

Once they had gone, Kerry walked into the kitchen and prised the lid off the plastic cake container.

He'd gone to bed at midnight. It would look better in the morning, he'd assured himself. It was just that he was too close to it all and too tired. Thankfully he'd arranged for his assistant to handle the stall at the market by himself the next morning.

Unfortunately, the cake had looked just as bad at six the next morning. Worse possibly.

He'd run through the options in his mind. His mother? Her cooking was a family joke and not a small contributing factor in his leaving home at nineteen. She'd have bought a sponge cake from the supermarket. And asking Sandra for help was clearly not an option.

Which really only left calling in the experts. He'd pulled the Yellow Pages toward him, wondering at what time cake shops opened. Surely if he offered enough money someone could produce a fairy cake for him. He'd tried, that was all he could do. Maybe next year he'd be able to make Annie's cake himself.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd put down the phone, defeated. He'd called every cake maker in Brisbane. All he'd got was answer phones telling him to call back later. Later would be way too late.

That was it, the end of the line. He had no one else to call for help.

And then a thought had struck him.

He'd turned on the computer, filling the kettle and finding coffee while he waited for it to start up. A mug of steaming coffee in hand, he'd settled himself in front of it and logged onto Alice's website.

This is an appeal of gravest importance
, he'd begun.

Without much hope he'd sat down at the table nursing his coffee.

He forced himself to drink half of it before he leaned over to press the refresh button to update the website.

Miraculously there was an entry from Rebecca.

Okay, you have now entered my zone of expertise. Homemade birthday cakes made under extreme time pressure and duress. You will need – a cake tin shaped like a doll's skirt with a hole in the middle, packet cake mix and a Barbie. My guess is that you have none of these so I will drop them around this morning. You then cook the cake, stick the Barbie in the hole in the middle, ice the skirt with whatever you want, and Bob's your uncle. Email me your address – I'll be there by eight. Rgds Rebecca
.

Rebecca had arrived at seven fifty-eight and parked outside, motor still running.

With her hair pulled in a ponytail and a white T-shirt over denim shorts, she'd looked tired but as attractive as he'd
remembered. Thrusting a plastic bag into his hand, she'd brushed away his offers of thanks.

‘Good luck. And by the way, if any of the mothers ask, of course you made the cake from scratch.' She'd smiled slightly and then clattered down the steps.

Even the enormous cake container had come from Rebecca – a Post-it note on top which said,
Figured you'd need this too
.

He looked at the cake now and felt a swell of pride.

Gingerly he slid his hands inside the cake container and grasped the edges of the plate. Inch by inch he raised it slowly until it was free. Balancing it on his palm he rotated it, examining it from all sides.

Red skirt, covered with pink and yellow flowers. Admittedly, a harsh judge could suggest that the flowers looked more like splodges. But anyone who knew anything about fairies would realise that Fairy Tatania's skirt had been made for her by elves who had in fact given painters like Degas the idea for Impressionist painting …

Fairy Tatania was also rather well endowed, Kerry thought with satisfaction. It looked like Disco Barbie was the first one Rebecca had been able to lay her hands on, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Depositing the cake on the bench, Kerry pulled a pack of candles out of his back pocket.

‘Shit!' he exclaimed looking at what was now a crushed packet housing a collection of small wax pieces hanging off string.

Sandra must have some birthday candles here somewhere. His eyes went instantly to the drawer to the right of the cutlery. Opening it up, he found the junk drawer which he'd expected. Rubber bands tangled with pens, and a bus timetable had wedged itself in the top of the drawer. Kerry wrenched it free, pulling the drawer out as far as it would go. A stack of letters rested on top and he put them on the bench while he picked amongst the loose change and hair bands. A handful of gritty candles were in the back corner and he pulled four out triumphantly. As he piled the letters back in, the envelope on top slipped to one side.

The letter underneath had a solicitor's letterhead and the
words
Final Demand
printed in bold type. Kerry read the words quickly. After a pause he replaced the envelope on top and pushed the drawer closed.

He stuck the candles into the cake, lit them and carried Fairy Tatania toward the gaggle of small fairies in the backyard.