Wedding Cake

We had met at a wedding. I had been immediately drawn to him, his open warm face, his colourful clothes, his braces that had three different types of bird printed on them, the original Latin names written under in an italic scrawl. Of course, I’d known about his history, through one of his oldest friends with whom I used to live: the wild hedonism that had trickled into addiction, the lost years, his habit of disappearing. The wedding was the first time he had seen some of his oldest friends in years. Later he would tell me how difficult this had been, how he’d practised the smile I had been so mesmerized by in the mirror over and over again, desperate to been seen as ok. I too, had been feeling a similar pressure that day, to be fun and to try and shake the feeling of being examined by those around you, a search for little cracks in the mask. Maybe that is what had drawn us to each other, we were the best ones at pretending.

I had worn a green silk dress that day, an integral part of my own presentation as a bright, happy thing, a glowing tribute to sobriety. A success story. He commented that I was like a chaotic celebrity, my journey played out publicly, with everyone watching, and having something to say. When he said that I knew that I wasn’t crazy, that the eyes I’d always felt on me were really there. I loved him for it, because at the moment it was exactly what I needed to hear. I interpreted his words as a sign, inextricably linking him to me, me to him. He was this exotic figure who understood me instantly. He was elegant and poised, his dark skin rich against the cool cream of his shirt. He was gorgeous, and with him I felt as if I was too. We were sat next to each other at the dinner table and began our conversation big, traditional niceties were absent. There was no small talk, but as I knew his history (and wanted him to tell me it himself) I didn’t allow for any. I was in a good mood by then, the initial pressure of the start of the day had faded, I had successfully smiled through the incessant questions and smoked enough cigarettes that I wasn’t intimidatingly sober and pure. I felt accepted. We both ordered coffees and cemented mutual appreciation with oozing, sticky chocolate cake. I had baked one for the wedding so was able to regale him with my last-minute calamity baking, burnt edges, lopsided batter and he laughed, reached up and wiped some remaining chocolate out of my hair.

The wedding played out around us, people tipping into drunken revelry and we soaked up the joy around us, made it part of our beginning. I so wanted to impress him and this meant he was special. I homed in on him, and I could feel myself showing off when I spoke to other people, willing him to look. We gravitated towards each other all night and when he told me that watching me was exhausting, that my energy was so high with everyone, my charm so consistent, I could hear the awe in his voice and knew he was mine. The evening trailed on and I eventually left him at a house party at five am, him fixated on his friend, concerned for him and not ready to leave. I saw him the next day, we walked on Hampstead heath in glorious sun, a languid, slow quality to the day, the warm glow around us seeming to mimic the new glow of friendship, and the heath opened up in all its shades of green and sang us into an instant ease with each other. It had all seemed so promising.

Now it was months later, and he had disappeared, and I didn’t know whether to be worried or offended, understanding through the nature of shared secrets whispered to each other in the dark that his demons told him to push people away. But how long do you reach out to someone before you have to assume you are no longer wanted in their life? That’s why his sudden text, “meet me in the café at two” had unnerved me. In our new world of no contact, this sudden text had caused a surge of feeling, like a balloon being held underwater suddenly released and whooshing up, and I didn’t know if I felt excited or nervous, but I was going.

It was a miserable day, the kind where the sky is one, flat colour that accentuates the misery in all the faces you see so you forget other colours exist, and other expressions apart from resigned disappointment. There was a light trickle of rain, that half-heartedly got you sort of wet but chilled you to the bone. I had put on a bright yellow outfit, tried to be cheery against the grey of the day but as I walked to the café, I felt garish, like a big damp clown moping through the streets. I arrived at the café, a newish venture in hackney that had a beautiful pastel aesthetic, pale pink walls which were adorned with hanging plants, the green of them creating a Miami feel, so a sense of summer still lingered there. The tables were also pale pink, with mother of pearl tops that shimmered, so I felt the comfort of being close to the sea.

They served rainbow lattes, and everything on the menu was perfectly presented. On the counter were three beautiful cakes, the middle one a luminous chocolate. It was dark and white chocolate, gorgeously tiered, with pale puffs of icing all around the base. I paused to look at it, hypnotised by its sheen. I remembered the collapsed mess of cake we had eaten at the wedding when we’d first met. It felt like a delicious, glittering sign.

I was nervous, craving sugar and I took my huge slice of chocolate cake and lavender coloured latte with three added sugars over to the table in the corner, where I could see the door. While I waited for him I watched a couple on the table opposite sip coffees. They were barely looking at each other while they gazed intently at their phones, thumbs moving quickly up and down their screens. She paused and showed him something on her phone, and they laughed, this moment of connection causing him to put down his phone and kiss her lightly in the forehead, a gesture that was so gentle, I immediately felt the absence of such gestures in my own life and had to quickly look away.

As I did he appeared at the door of the café, looking as stylish as ever, his ray ban sunglasses resting on his golden face. I inhaled sharply when I saw him, I’d forgotten just quite how striking he was. Our eyes met and something passed between us. I knew all at once what he was going to say, and was filled with dread. I didn’t know how to make it ok. He held his finger up to indicate he was going to be one second and approached the counter, his practised smile brighter than ever. I wondered as I watched him if I should initiate the conversation, how I should start it. It felt as if so much time had passed between us yet it had been mere months, and I felt so much at once: that he knew me so well but not at all, that I felt so incredibly attuned to him, my skin hummed in his presence, my bones felt soft, my body felt brand new. I was still undecided as to how to talk to him as he sat down, his brown skin glowing, his clothes sharp and clean and perfectly monochrome. He was stark and powerful against the pastel backdrop, as if he’d planned it. He had also bought a huge slice of chocolate cake, and sat it next to mine so they glistened next to each other like melting ice creams on a hot beach.

“I know” he said, and I wondered if I could play dumb, pretend I didn’t know what he thought I did.

“It wasn’t personal” I ended up saying, because I didn’t want to lie to him anymore.

“It just happened, it was just a kiss.” I continued, wondering about the moral layers to this particular situation.

“But the day after I told you” was all he said, staring at me in a way I couldn’t quite read.

“I had also just seen him at the wedding, “ I insisted quietly, my voice a whisper. I didn’t want to explain myself.

“Look, can we just forget this, it really isn’t a big deal and it stopped as a soon as it started” and suddenly I was waffling, talking rapidly my words tripping over each other, as I tried to make it better that I had kissed the boy he was in love with.

I was in full flow when he reached out his hand, which was surprisingly warm and smooth, and put it on mine so my words slowed into silence.

“ I’m not angry “and then “I’ve really missed you.”

And the gentleness in his voice, the considered words I knew he’d practiced, the tenderness that I believed he felt towards me caused me to burst into tears. They fell onto my glistening chocolate cake, where they didn’t burst but sat whole and unbroken. We both looked at the cake, while my tears continued to fall on it.

“This cake looks almost as delicious as the wedding cake,” he said as he picked it up with his hand, and pushed it towards my mouth. I bit into the sticky, moist slice and felt all my anxiety slip away. He smiled at me, and I knew then that the months we hadn’t seen each other didn’t matter, and just like that this pattern was woven into the fabric of our friendship, and I would learn to get used to not seeing him for months and understand never to mention it. Whenever we met up, we always ate chocolate cake.