Baked to Perfection

– Gemma –

I’ve spent all week Googling honeymoon destinations.

Jeremy has apparently been making other plans.

I don’t know that yet, though. I’m still sitting opposite him in a navy dress, hair pinned up, wearing the eyeliner I usually reserve for occasions worth the effort.

Our fifth anniversary should qualify.

The restaurant has flickering candles, crisp white linen and the sort of cutlery arrangement that makes me grateful I’ve ordered something familiar. Soft piano music plays through hidden speakers. A waiter passes with a tray of wine glasses, and I glance at Jeremy’s jacket pocket.

Just in case.

I smooth my dress over my stomach. It clings more than I’d like, but Jeremy always says he likes my curves.

He’s been saying rather less lately.

Tonight, he’s barely said anything.

He checks his phone between courses and drinks faster than he eats. I keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. Work has been stressful. I know the sharp tone he gets when he’s tired, and I’ve learnt how to navigate it.

That’s what love is, isn’t it?

Knowing when to leave someone alone.

Knowing which questions to save for later.

I reach for the last piece of bread and picture what happens next.

He clears his throat. Looks nervous. Reaches into his pocket.

I gasp, he drops to one knee, and the restaurant politely applauds while I ugly-cry into my cocktail.

Later, I’ll tell people I didn’t see it coming.

The honeymoon search history will remain confidential.

“Gem.”

My hand stills over the bread basket.

Oh, my God.

“Yes?”

“Look at me, please.”

I glance down at my lap, trying to arrange my face into something surprised but photogenic.

When I finally look up, he’s still in his chair.

No box.

No ring.

Just Jeremy, turning a piece of bread between his fingers.

His eyes are wet.

A tightness spreads through my chest.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

He shakes his head.

“Jeremy?”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

For a moment, I hear the words without understanding them.

“Do what?”

He looks down.

“Us.”

The piano keeps playing.

At the next table, a woman laughs.

I stare at him.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s someone else.”

My hand drops into my lap.

For several seconds, all I can look at is the bread breaking apart between his fingers.

“Someone else,” I repeat.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Have you slept with her?”

He closes his eyes.

“Yes.”

The room seems to shift beneath me.

I grip the edge of my chair.

Five years.

Five years, and he’s brought me here, let me dress up, let me order a cocktail and wonder whether the lump in his jacket pocket might be a ring.

“It wasn’t planned,” he says quickly. “We weren’t in a good place, and she—”

“Don’t.”

“Gem—”

“Don’t tell me her name.”

I can’t bear another person at this table.

Not yet.

He leans towards me.

“Please, just let me explain.”

I pick up my water and drink, buying myself a few seconds.

My throat hurts.

So does my chest.

I look at the pale pink cocktail beside my plate. Untouched. Ordered by a woman who thought she was celebrating something.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say.

Jeremy stops talking.

“I’m going to finish my cocktail.”

I lift the glass and swallow far too much at once.

The gin burns.

I refuse to cough.

There are limits to the humiliation I’m prepared to accommodate this evening.

I set down the empty glass.

“And then I’m going to leave.”

He blinks.

“You’re just leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Can we talk about this?”

I look at him properly.

“Were we going to talk about it before or after the anniversary dessert?”

He flinches.

Good.

“Gem, please. It just happened.”

“You keep saying that as though you tripped.”

The couple beside us have stopped speaking.

Jeremy lowers his voice.

“Don’t make this worse.”

For a second, I can only stare.

Then I reach beneath the table for my bag.

My hands shake as I lift the strap onto my shoulder.

“Gem, come on. After five years, don’t I deserve a chance to explain?”

Five years.

He says it as though he’s the one who has lost something.

“You’ve told me enough.”

I stand and take my shawl from the chair.

His hand moves towards mine.

I step back.

“And it’s Gemma to you.”

Then I walk out.

My heels sound too loud against the tiles. I’m aware of faces turning, a waiter stepping aside, the sudden difficulty of remembering how to move normally.

I keep going.

I’ve wasted my best eyeliner on him.

He isn’t getting an encore.

Outside, the cold catches at my bare arms.

I make it halfway down the street before my breathing starts to shake.

People brush past, laughing, checking phones, discussing where to go next. I stop beside a shop window and pretend to search my bag until I trust myself to move again.

My reflection looks back at me.

Pinned hair.

Navy dress.

A woman who thought she might be engaged by now.

My phone vibrates.

Jeremy.

I silence it.

For once, I don’t try to work out what he needs.

I pull my shawl tighter and start walking.

The route is familiar enough that I barely notice where I’m going until I see the gold lettering in the window.

G’s Bakes.

My bakery.

I painted that sign myself, standing on a stepladder while my dad held it steady and offered advice I hadn’t requested.

The apostrophe took three attempts.

It’s still slightly crooked.

I find my keys.

Inside, I switch on the kitchen light. The fridge hums beneath the counter, and the familiar smell of coffee and vanilla lingers in the air.

A tray waits beside the sink.

Tomorrow’s orders are pinned to the board.

There are things here I know how to do.

I kick off my heels, wash my hands and tie on an apron over the dress.

Then I take out the butter.

Flour.

Sugar.

Eggs.

I line everything up on the worktop.

For several minutes, I stand looking at it.

Then I pull the mixing bowl towards me.

Baking at nearly midnight probably isn’t a sensible response to being cheated on.

Unfortunately, I haven’t got a better one.

The butter is too cold, so I cut it into small cubes. Measure the sugar. Weigh the flour.

Each task gives me somewhere to put my hands.

Something to think about that has an answer.

My phone vibrates inside my bag.

I leave it there.

I reach for the chocolate chips.

“One thing that won’t break my heart,” I mutter, “is a cookie.”

I add a few more.

Under the circumstances, accuracy can make an exception.

By the time the first tray goes into the oven, my shoulders have begun to ache.

I set the timer.

Then lean against the counter.

There’s nothing left to measure.

Nothing to stir.

The tears come before the smell of baking does.

I press a hand over my mouth, but there’s nobody here to hear me. Nobody I need to reassure. I let myself cry.

I wanted a life with him.

That’s the part I can’t make smaller with a joke.

I wanted the ordinary things. Shopping lists. Holidays. Someone beside me when I’m old enough to complain about the music in restaurants.

I thought we were building them.

The timer sounds.

I wipe my face, wash my hands again and pull on the oven gloves.

The cookies have spread into uneven circles.

One has joined its neighbour.

I separate them carefully with a spatula.

Tomorrow, I’ll still need to open.

There will be coffee to make, cakes to finish and customers who have no idea what happened tonight.

I don’t know how I’m going to feel when the alarm goes off.

But the bakery keys are mine.

So is this place.

I set the tray on the cooling rack.

It’s somewhere to start.

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