*****
The afternoon whizzes by in a whirl of activity as Betty, Doreen and I rush around getting everything ready. In the humid heat, I feel constantly drenched, despite my sleeveless cotton T-shirt and loose, flowing skirt. But I’ll be having a long, cool shower later, before the guests arrive …
Jake does a brilliant job of finishing off and at just after four o’clock, when he drives off, the three of us climb up into the treehouse to admire our brand-new café.
The treehouse interior feels surprisingly cool and dim after the heat and glare of the afternoon sun. Wooden chairs and tables are ranged around the central serving island, formed from a smooth slab of polished oak, and four square windows, two on each side, allow a mellow, dappled sunlight to filter in. Now, a fresh scent of leaves and greenery wafts through the open windows on a warm summer breeze, mingling with the fragrance of dad’s lilacs in the garden below.
It’s so beautiful, all big expanses of burnished wood, the rich colour of chestnuts, and fairy lights twinkling wherever you look. It’s like a scene from a whimsical fairy tale. Whenever I enter, I always think of a picture book from my childhood, that told the story of a little community of woodland creatures living happily inside the trunk of a giant tree.
‘It was a stroke of genius studding the roof with those lights,’ says Betty, and we all stare up at the ceiling.
Doreen sighs happily. ‘They’re just like tiny little stars.’
Glancing around, I suddenly remember something. ‘What about the tips jar? The Treehouse Café isn’t complete until my tips jar from Dad is in place!’
I run down the walkway and dash happily through the garden and out of the gate. When I reach the old premises, I suddenly realise I’ve forgotten the keys, but when I try the door, it’s open anyway. Walking in, I pick up the little wooden tub and hold it to the light, admiring the sheen of the polished wood.
It seems very quiet in here. I glance around. It must be because I’m used to the music playing softly in the background.
Still puzzled at the stillness, I go through to the kitchen, and that’s when I realise, with a jolt, what’s different. The fridge isn’t making its usual ‘busy-doing-its-thing’ noises.
I pull open the door and frown.
The light inside hasn’t come on.
My heart lurches. The fridge must be broken.
I stare in horror at the Pavlovas. Without the chill temperatures, the stiffly whipped cream has wilted. The fruit, too, has lost its lustre.
Hot tears of panic prick my eyes.
Even if we take the Pavlovas over to my fridge at home, by the time they’re in there, they’ll already be a great deal less than perfect.
We can’t possibly serve sub-standard food at a café launch. What the hell are we going to do?
Chapter 37
Betty and Doreen are horrified when I tell them what’s happened.
‘We’ll have no food to serve to the guests!’ wails Betty. Then she gets a determined light in her eye. ‘I’m going to have a look at them. You never know, we might be able to salvage them.’
We all go over there and peer into the dead fridge.
‘There’s nothing we can do about those,’ Doreen says, shaking her head sadly. ‘All that effort wasted.’
‘Hang on.’ Betty frowns. ‘What’s going on here?’
I turn and she snaps on a switch at the wall. Instantly, the fridge hums into life.
‘It was switched off at the wall!’ I gasp. ‘But how can that have happened? It was definitely on when we put them in, so how … ?’
‘Oh my God.’ Doreen claps a hand over her mouth.
‘What?’ demands Betty.
‘I can’t believe I did that,’ says Doreen slowly. ‘I must be going senile.’
‘What? What did you do?’ I ask.
She looks agonised. ‘I brought the food mixer up to the treehouse this morning. I unplugged it from this same socket, so I must have accidentally flicked off both the switches at the same time.’
We’re all silent, staring at the socket, absorbing the explanation. My mind is already leaping ahead to tonight, wondering if there’s time to bake something special.
Doreen grabs both our arms. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘These things happen!’ murmurs Betty, patting Doreen’s shoulder and looking worriedly at me.
‘Not to me, they don’t!’ wails poor Doreen. ‘I’ve never done anything like that in my life. What on earth was I thinking?’
‘Hey, don’t worry. It was an accident.’ I give her a hug, trying to make light of it, while inside, I feel like running away in a panic.
‘Yes, cheer up, Doreen,’ says Betty. ‘We’re resourceful women, aren’t we? We’ll just have to get our thinking caps on, smartish!’
We take the Pavlovas back to the house and I make room for them in the fridge there. But it seems a pretty pointless exercise. They’ll taste good, but there’s no way we can use them, looking as they do.
After a brief discussion, we decide our only option is to go out and actually buy food for tonight. It’s hardly ideal. How can we claim to offer the best cakes for miles around if we can’t even serve up our own baking on launch night?
I glance at my watch. ‘I suppose there might be time to whip up some fairy cakes. Then we could cool them in the fridge and quickly ice them?’
Betty and Doreen agree this is a good compromise. So they leave me creaming butter and sugar at top speed while they head off to the supermarket to buy in other goodies.
Once the trays of fairy cakes are in the oven, I nip over to the treehouse but Betty and Doreen are nowhere to be seen. They were just nipping to the local supermarket. They should be back by now. Where on earth are they?
I phone their mobiles but get no answer, so in the end, I go back to the house and flop down on the sofa, taking some deep breaths in an effort to quell
