“So I thought, I know, I’ll help Malcolm out,” I said, “By eating a little of the leftover carrot cake.” Libby laughed. Sammy’s dad, Malcolm doesn’t like carrot cake. I was doing him a favour.
“But then,” I continued, “A moment or so later, I realised…”
“You’d eaten the whole thing?” chuckled Libby.
“It’s okay, Matt,” chimed Malcolm. “It’s not a problem.”
“It might be with my wife,” I said, making a face. She was out at the time, doing something else, but she was due back at their house any moment. We were planning on going back to where we’re staying, putting in some jacket potatoes, then nipping to the shops for baked beans. I was full of carrot cake but I thought maybe I could make it through the hour before the potatoes were ready.
I forgot all about it. Half an hour later, the rain was pattering onto the car roof, and Sammy and I chatted about house-stuff and work-stuff and whatever else. We arrived at the Co-Op and had a discussion about which yoghurt to get and whether it was better to get a four-pack of baked beans or two little ones. There were newspaper headlines to skim by and cans of Big Soup to observe, not to mention the question of what to get in the absence of Philadelphia cheese.
There was a lady standing by the ice cream freezer, transfixed by WhatsApp, apparently unable to stop texting. In searching for the soft cheeses, I accidentally said, “unbelievable” out loud and she flicked up for half a second. It’s funny how much can be communicated by half a second of eye-contact.
We paid up, wished the green-t-shirted young man a good evening and headed for the rain-speckled car.
“And we’ve got to eat that carrot cake tonight,” said Sammy, out of the blue.
My heart ran ahead of itself a pace.
“Erm. Which carrot cake?” I asked nervously.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that she actually meant a different cake to the one I’d scoffed an hour before. When we got in and shook the rain off, she suggested I had a little slice before dinner. I’m in so much trouble, I thought.
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