'The course of true love never did run smooth'
William ShakespeareI look up and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. With annoyance I rub my panda eyes, cursing that I had not thought to buy waterproof mascara. Typical, I think to myself. The one day I actually took some effort in getting ready for work, everything is undone by a five-minute downpour at the bus stop. I glance down at my watch and realise that if I don't hurry, I am going to miss my opportunity to deliver my packages.
Swiping at my eyes with a tissue, I manage to repair most of the black streaks hurriedly. With that done, I pick up my bags and, glancing around, sneak out of Hudson International's ladies' toilets. Taking a deep breath and summoning as much stealth as I can muster, I hurry down the corridor towards the staff kitchen, grateful to find it empty. Glancing over my shoulder, I quickly unpack my packages onto the counter.
"So you are the diet assassin, then?" The voice startles me, and I almost drop the box that I am holding. I can feel the flush spread up my neck as I spin around to find myself staring into a pair of delicious dark chocolate brown eyes.
"Um, um," I stutter, completely disorientated by the man standing in front of me.
"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me," he replies, helping himself to one of the chocolate cheesecake muffins I had placed on the countertop. He takes a bite and lets out a small sigh.
"No good?" I ask tentatively, my heart sinking. I had spent hours the previous evening getting the recipe exactly right, and I thought I had finally nailed it. But obviously not.
"No," he replies, my heart sinking. "Too good," he says with a grin. Unwittingly I find myself grinning back.
"Um, I'd better get these offloaded, then," I reply. I quickly place the remaining few muffins on the counter, pack up my boxes and turn around expecting the mystery man to have taken his muffin and left. But no, he is still leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, grinning at me as he slowly eats the muffin.
"Sorry, have to dash," I mutter, glancing at my watch. "Meeting in ten minutes." I feel completely unnerved by this stranger that I've never seen in the office before. Almost grudgingly he lets me pass, loaded with my empty boxes. As I draw level with him, it feels as if time stands still. The hairs on my neck stand on end as I take in his citrusy smell, the dark eyes crinkling with humour and his lush, full lips that seem to be inviting me to kiss him. I swear I am about to swoon, which is seriously not a good thing.
"So why do you do it?" he asks in a husky voice as if he is affected as much by this chance meeting as I am.
I can feel the heat flaming my cheeks as I reply, "I love to bake." I shrug my shoulders as if trying to shake off his gaze and swiftly push past him. I find myself hurrying down the corridor at almost a running pace, and I have to mentally give myself a nudge to slow down. It seems that luck is on my side, and I make it to my desk, where I quickly stow away my boxes in my drawers.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn on my computer but find my mind wandering back to the mystery man. I cannot understand why he has affected me so much. It is not even as if he said very much to me. Yet his presence seemed to speak volumes, and I have to admit to myself that at this moment I feel incredibly turned on. At the memory of his lips, I feel my heart quicken and my pelvis tighten. Banishing these thoughts, I turn to concentrate on my email, fearing that my tell-tale blush will give me away.
I lose myself in my inbox for several minutes, when I am suddenly brought back to reality by a tapping foot. "Come on, Abby, you are going to be late for the staff meeting, and I hear today's muffins are to die for."
Michelle Harrington-Black sends me an arch look, knowing full well who is responsible for today's cakes, but as my confidante and best friend at Hudson, she has been sworn to secrecy.
~*~
My love for baking started at an early age. Having two parents who were largely absent throughout my childhood meant I was effectively brought up by various nannies. Some were great, but others were horrendous. What they largely all had in common, though, was that none of them lasted particularly long. I think many took the job on thinking that being a nanny to the daughter of two international models would mean plenty of glamorous travel and parties, but the reality was that I was normally left behind in our North London home as mum and dad flitted around the world.
The one constant in my life, however, was my Nonna. It was in her Brighton kitchen that I spent Saturdays learning to cook. First, it was simple things, like scrambled eggs and basic cakes, and then on to harder, more complex dishes where Nonna would encourage me to experiment with flavours and texture. By the age of twelve, I could make my own bread and had pretty much taken over from the nannies in the kitchen.
Once I got into my teens and the nannies were given freer rein, it was deemed that I was independent enough to take myself on the train down to Brighton, where I would spend whole weekends with Nonna, lapping up her knowledge of the Italian cuisine she had grown up with.
While Nonna has always encouraged my love of food, my parents have always been less than enthusiastic about it. Food equals calories, and there is no place for those in a jet-setting model's life. For them, a stocked fridge is Evian and lettuce.
It doesn't help either that I was a beautiful baby. Seriously, I look back at pictures of myself up to the age of about six and you would be hard-pressed to find a more gorgeous child. I was everything expected of the offspring of Gina Albertelli and Michael James, two of the world's leading models in the '70s and '80s, and my parents positively lapped up the attention. I was on the cover of too many magazines to count, and everyone said I was going to be the next star in the family.
But in that age when milk teeth were lost and school started, something happened and things changed. I got plump and round, my auburn ringlets started to frizz into a carroty mess, my pale freckly skin was no longer in vogue, and that was the end of my child modelling career. And with it, the adoration heaped on me by my parents. Don't get me wrong. They have never been cruel or horrible, just, rather, that I no longer fitted into their world and so I wasn't of great interest to them from that point onwards. And therein my love of food grew. Because we all know that food heals the soul, particularly if it comes with a healthy dusting of icing sugar!
Throughout my teens and my years at university, food had been my comfort. But even more than the eating, it is the actual cooking I love. During final exams, I could always be found whipping up grand meals for my housemates simply to ease the tension, even if I was so full of nerves I couldn't end up eating what I made. All that measuring and being precise is a balm to a control freak like me.
This is where my anonymous cake-baking has come in. My first week at Hudson after graduating was terrifying. Thrust from the world of academia, I was suddenly expected to put all that I had learnt into practice. Each night I went home a wreck and did the one thing I knew I was good at…bake.
By the end of the week, I had so much food I didn't know what to do with it, so on that Friday morning I snuck it into the office and left it on the kitchen counter. Not feeling confident enough in my position given that I had been there only a week, I didn't put my name to my goodies.
It was somewhat of a relief to me that day when word spread like wildfire about my cakes. The people in the office loved them. And while they may not have noticed me tucked away in my cubicle, they were all talking about the texture of my coffee sponge with walnut crème and the crispness of my mini pavlovas, not to mention the taste of my chocolate and beetroot brownies!
So what started as a little stress relief became a regular occurrence where I would sneak in goodies and leave them anonymously in the kitchen. Hearing how much people enjoyed my cakes made me feel good inside, even on those days when I felt lonely and unsure of what I was doing. I even earned the nickname 'diet assassin' as no one could resist trying out what I left.
For the last three months, people have been trying to find out who their mystery baker is, and so far the only person who knows is Michelle. She caught me one evening on my way out when I dropped my cake boxes in the lift, and she put two and two together. But she has been sworn to secrecy and I trust her with my life. Plus the extras I send her way certainly help. But now my anonymity is in danger and I am unsure what to do.
I follow Michelle through to the boardroom, where the staff meeting is being held. This is the first time I have attended one of these meetings as they only happen quarterly, and I am somewhat surprised to see so many people in the room. So many in fact that the partition walls have been slid back from two of the meeting rooms to turn them into one huge space. As we file into the back, I glance around and realise that I definitely did not make enough cakes. But people seem to be happily sharing, so I breathe a sigh of relief.I am just about to dart off to grab a coffee off the table when a voice catches my attention. There, standing at the front of the room is my mystery man. All eyes have turned towards him as he welcomes everyone to the meeting.My heart plummets. This can't be good. I feel the heat starting to rise in my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I lean over to Michelle’s ear and whisper, "Who's that?"Michelle looks over at me incredulously. "That's Taylor Hudson, you duh-bra
My heart pounds as Taylor kisses my neck, his lips making their way from my earlobe down to the dip in my throat. He glances into my eyes with a wicked look before swooping down and capturing one of my nipples in his mouth. I find myself starting to writhe under his touch as he first laves my sensitive nib with his tongue, the swirling motion causing me to moan as arousal spikes through me.A hand reaches between my thighs. My breath catches as I feel first one and then two fingers slipping through my bush and exploring my folds until they find my sweet, sweet spot. Slowly Taylor starts mirroring the motion of his tongue with his finger, and it is all I can do to grip on to his shoulders as he hovers above me. The warmth in my pelvis spreads and becomes more intense by the minute as both his tongue and fingers continue their relentless assault on my senses."Please, Taylor," I beg, "I need you in me.""In a moment, my sweet," he reassures. Before I have a chance to respond, his mouth
As I push my way into Alfredo's at nine-thirty on the dot, I mentally prepare myself for the Spanish Inquisition. For once Michelle is already there ahead of me, waiting with two steaming lattes and the biggest cinnamon bun I have ever seen."Oh my god," she sighs with a mouthful of crumbs. "You so have to try this.""Mmm, looks scrumptious." I eye the bun with delight, feeling ready to get everything off my chest. I settle down in my seat, breaking off a piece of the bun, and take a sip of my coffee."Come on, then. Spill the beans, Abby. I can't believe you have made me wait this long!""Um, well, okay …" I stammer, suddenly feeling rather shy about everything that has gone on over the last couple of days. I start off describing the event in the kitchen and work my way through until our encounter last night, omitting my dream as I don't think I am ready to share that with anyone!"Bloody hell, Abs, you are a dark horse." Michelle gives me the once-over, scrutinising me over her desi
Muted light streams onto my face as I slowly become conscious. Images from last night start to flit through my head, and I start to sort through them one at a time, piecing together my journey from work to the pub to…shit. I slowly open one eye and then the other, knowing by the citrus scent around me that I am not at home in my own bed. Gingerly I move my head, waiting for the full impact of my hangover to hit. My head aches, but my stomach feels okay, so I prop myself up onto my elbows, taking in my surroundings. The exposed brick walls and the skylights confirm my worst fears…I am in Taylor's bed. I look around for him, straining my ears for the smallest sound, but there is nothing. I suddenly realise that while I am still in my top and pants, my jeans are missing. I push back the squishy duvet and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into the plush cream carpet. My stomach rolls, but I maintain control of the motion. It is only then that I notice my jeans hangi
I wake with a start, sweat dripping and tears rolling down my face. I struggle to catch my breath as I try to dispel the overwhelming urge to bury my head back into my pillow and sob my heart out. I didn't think I had this much water in me, but it would appear the faucets have been opened and nothing will stop the tears from leaking out. Sleep did not come easy. Whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was Nonna lying there dead. I am unsure as to what time I eventually fell asleep, but my dreams meant that I spent a restless night tossing and turning. A glance at the clock tells me that, despite the darkness, morning is here and it is time to get up. I shower and dress, my choice of clothing reflecting my dark mood and matching the dark circles under my eyes. I try to choke down a slice of toast, but my appetite has deserted me. I fill my travel mug with coffee and head out to the bus stop, knowing that I am still too early for work but not wanting to stay in my tiny, claustropho
Work just about gets me through the waking hours, though I know I am starting to behave like a zombie through lack of sleep. My parents phone each evening to check if I am okay, and I try to force a cheerfulness into my demeanour that is clearly not natural. I decided not to go down to Brighton until the day of the funeral as I am still struggling to write my eulogy. Tonight I have to finish it, so I resist the urge to lose myself once again in the kitchen and force myself to sit down in front of my laptop.Strangely enough, once I start, this time I can't seem to stop. I fill page after page with funny, inconsequential stories about both her life and our life together. When I finally read the final draft and hit Print, I know I have produced something Nonna would like.It is after midnight, and I know I have to be up early, so I decide to take a shower but am interrupted by a ringing on the intercom. Startled, as I never have visitors, let alone ones at this time of night, I lift the
The shrill of the alarm pierces my consciousness. The lack of Taylor's presence in my bed when I wake feels like déjà vu. As the reality of the day that lies ahead hits, my heart sinks. With leaden limbs I get myself into the shower, trying to blot out the image of Nonna dead on her kitchen floor that keeps resurfacing from my subconscious. It's not long before I am wrapped up in my heavy winter coat and scarf to ward off the autumn chill and pulling my case loaded up with a week's worth of my baking out the door and onto the main road to call a taxi to the station. I am just not in the mood for the bus today. I spend the journey attempting to analyse the situation with Taylor. I can't figure out why he keeps turning up when he has categorically stated that being with me can't happen. I can't help the attraction I feel, and I get the feeling that neither can he, but there is this big issue of him being my boss. Which of course on a rational level I completely understand. However, the
Seconds turn into minutes, and before I know it several hours have passed and I am shattered, my face aching from the forced smile I have attached to my face. Every now and again, I would catch sight of Taylor, but as soon as I would go to intercept him, another of Nonna's friends would grab my arm and would want to start reminiscing. Eventually, I manage to extricate myself and slip out the back door into the small courtyard garden. The light of the afternoon is fading, and the shadows offer a good place to hide for a few minutes."Thirsty?" Taylor's voice startles me. I spin around to find him standing right next to me, holding up a glass of juice. I take it gratefully as I am feeling parched from all the talking. The juice is delicious and cool, soothing my vocal cords. "Thanks, Taylor." I smile up at him, feeling shy but curious. "Um, why are you here?" I suddenly feel like I have to get to the bottom of what is going on. "Why did you come today? Why did you come to my flat last