‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But a big part of me wants to.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Gerty says, standing up smartly and patting me on the head, ‘we won’t let you.’

12

   Leon

Hi Leon,

All right, fine – the truth is, I panic-bake. When I’m sad or things are difficult, baking is my go-to. And what of it? I turn my negativity into delicious, calorific goodness. As long as you can’t taste traces of my misery in the cake mix, I don’t think you should be questioning why I have been baking every night this week.

Which, as it happens, is because my ex-boyfriend turned up on my cruise ship* and gave me the eye and then buggered off. So now I’m all muddled. He sent me this sweet text about how special I was, but I didn’t text back. I wanted to, but my friends talked me out of it. They’re annoying, and usually right about stuff.

Anyway, that’s why you’ve had so much cake.

Tiffy x

*Not my cruise ship. No offence, but I wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom with you if I was the sort of person who owned a cruise ship. I’d be living in a Scottish castle with technicolour turrets.

*

Hi Tiffy,

Sorry to hear about your ex. Guessing from your friends’ reactions that they don’t think he’s good for you – is that what you think?

I’m Team Ex if it means cake.

Leon

Hi Leon,

I don’t know – I’ve not really thought about it like that, actually. My kneejerk reaction is yeah, he’s good for me. But then, I don’t know. We were very up and down, one of those couples everyone’s always talking about (we’ve broken up and got back together a few times before). It’s easy to remember the happy times – and there were tons of them, and they were awesome – but I guess since we broke up I’ve only remembered those. So I know that being with him was fun. But was it good for me? Ugh. I don’t know.

Hence the Victoria sandwich with homemade jam.

Tiffy x

*

On a large ring-bound printout of a book, titled Built: My Amazing Journey from Bricklayer to High-End Interior Designer:

Be honest – picked this up off table as thought it sounded hilariously rubbish. Couldn’t put it down. Didn’t get to sleep until noon. Is this man your ex? If not, can I marry him?

Leon

*

Hey Leon,

I’m so glad you enjoyed the book! My beautiful bricklayer-turned-designer is not in fact my ex, and yes, he is much more likely to want to marry you than me. I imagine Kay would have opinions on the subject, though.

Tiffy x

*

Kay says am not allowed to marry beautiful bricklayer-turned-designer. Shame. She says hi.

*

Good to catch her yesterday! She says I’m making you fat with all the cake. She made me promise to channel my emotional turmoil into healthier options from now on, so I made us carob and date brownies. Sorry, they’re totally disgusting.

I’m moving this Post-it on to Wuthering Heights now as I need to take Built back to the office! x

*

On cupboard above kitchen bin:

When is our bin day again?

Leon

*

Is this a joke? I’ve lived here for five weeks! You’ve lived here for years! How can you be asking me when bin day is?!

. . . but yes, it was yesterday, and we forgot. x

*

Oh, thought so . . . Can never remember if it’s Tuesday or Thursday. It’s a days-beginning-with-T thing. Difficult.

Any news from the ex? You’ve stopped baking. It’s OK, freezer stockpile will get me through for a while, but am keen for you to have another crisis in, say, mid-May.

Leon

*

Hey,

Total radio silence. He’s not even been updating his Twitter or Facebook so I can’t stalk him – so he is probably still with his fiancée (I mean, why wouldn’t he be, all he did was look at me a bit funny), and I probably completely misread the cruise-ship moment, and he’s probably a despicable human being like my friend Gerty says he is. Anyway, I’ve paid him back all the money I owe him. I now owe the bank a terrifying amount instead.

Thanks for the risotto, it was delicious – you’re a really good cook for someone who only ever eats meals at the wrong times of the day!

Tiffy x

*

Beside baking tray:

Jesus. Didn’t know about the fiancée. Or the money.

Does millionaire shortbread mean you got news?

*

Beside baking tray, now full of crumbs:

Nothing. He’s not even sent a message to say he received the payment. This is totally tragic but I found myself wishing yesterday that I’d just kept paying a few hundred a month – then in a way we’d still be in touch. And I wouldn’t be quite so deep into my overdraft.

Basically, in summary, he hasn’t said a word to me since the cruise-ship text. I’m officially an idiot x

*

Eh. Love makes us all idiots – first time I met Kay I told her I was a jazz musician (saxophone). Thought she’d like it.

Chilli on hob for you.

Leon x

April

13

   Tiffy

‘I think I’m having palpitations.’

‘Nobody has had palpitations since the olden days finished,’ Rachel informs me, taking an unacceptably large sip of the latte the head of Editorial bought me (every so often he feels guilty for Butterfingers not paying me enough, and splashes out £2.20 on a coffee to assuage his conscience).

‘This book. Is. Killing me,’ I say.

‘The saturated fat in your lunch is killing you.’ Rachel prods the banana bread I’m currently munching my way through. ‘Your baking is getting worse. By which I mean better, obviously. Why aren’t you getting fatter?’

‘I am, but I’m just bigger than you, so you don’t notice the difference as much. I stash my new cake weight in bits you won’t spot. Like the upper arm, for instance. Or the cheek. I’m getting rounder cheeks, don’t you think?’

‘Edit, woman!’ Rachel says, slapping a hand on the layouts between us. Our weekly catch-ups about Katherin’s book soon became daily catch-ups as March slipped by; now, faced with the terrifying real­isation that it is April and our print date is only a couple of months away, they have become daily catch-ups and daily lunches. ‘And when are you getting me the photos of the hats and scarves?’ Rachel adds.