I take it in with a glow of satisfaction. This is my fifth cake ever, and the first time I’ve done more than two tiers. I take off my old shirt, check that my mobile is in my pocket, pick up the cake, and head out of the flat.
As Mrs. Farley answers the doorbell, she looks startled to see me.
“Hi!” I say. “I’ve brought you something. To say thank you for looking after my post.”
“Oh!” She looks at the cake in astonishment. “Samantha! That must have been expensive!”
“I didn’t buy it,” I say proudly. “I made it.”
Mrs. Farley looks staggered.
“You … made it?”
“Uh-huh.” I beam. “Shall I bring it in and make you some coffee?”
Mrs. Farley looks too thunderstruck to answer, so I head past her into the flat. To my shame I realize I haven’t been in here before. In three years of knowing her, I never once set foot over the threshold. The place is immaculately kept, full of little side tables and antiques and a bowl of rose petals on the coffee table.
“You sit down,” I say. “I’ll find what I need in the kitchen.” Still looking dazed, Mrs. Farley sinks into an upholstered wing chair.
“Please,” she says faintly. “Don’t break anything.”
“I’m not going to break anything! Would you like frothy milk? And do you have any nutmeg?”
Ten minutes later I emerge from the kitchen, bearing two coffees and the cake.
“Here.” I cut Mrs. Farley a slice. “See what you think.”
Mrs. Farley takes the plate.
“You made this,” she says at last.
“Yes!”
Mrs. Farley takes the slice to her mouth. Then she pauses, an anxious expression on her face.
“It’s safe!” I say, and take a bite of my own slice. “See? I know how to cook! Honestly!”
Mrs. Farley takes a tiny bite. As she’s chewing, her eyes meet mine in astonishment.
“It’s … delicious! So light! You really made this?”
“I whisked the egg whites separately,” I explain. “It keeps cakes really light. I can give you the recipe if you like. Have some coffee.” I hand her a cup. “I used your electric beater for the milk, if that’s OK. It works fine, if you get it to just the right temperature.”
Mrs. Farley is gazing at me as though I’m talking gobbledygook.
“Samantha,” she says at last. “Where have you been these last weeks?”
“I’ve been … away somewhere.” My eye falls on a duster and can of Pledge, sitting on a side table. She must have been in the middle of cleaning when I rang. “I wouldn’t use those dusters if I were you,” I add politely. “I can recommend some better ones.”
Mrs. Farley puts down her cup and leans forward in her chair. Her brow is wrinkled in concern.
“Samantha, you haven’t joined some sort of religion?”
“No!” I can’t help laughing at her face. “I’ve just been … doing something different. More coffee?”
I head into the kitchen and froth up some more milk. When I return to the sitting room, Mrs. Farley is on her second slice of cake.
“This is very good,” she says between bites. “Thank you.”
“Well … you know.” I shrug, a little awkward. “Thanks for looking out for me all that time.”
Mrs. Farley finishes her cake, puts her plate down, and regards me for a few moments, her head cocked to one side like a bird.
“Dear,” she says finally. “I don’t know where you’ve been. Or what you’re doing. But whatever it is, you’re transformed.”
“I know my hair’s different—” I begin, but Mrs. Farley shakes her head.
“I used to see you, rushing in and out, arriving home late at night, always looking so weary. So troubled. And I used to think you looked like … like the empty shell of a person. Like a dried-up leaf. A husk.”
A dried-up leaf? I think in indignation. A husk?
“But now you’ve blossomed! You look fitter, you look healthier … you look happy.” She puts her cup down and leans forward. “Whatever you’ve been doing, dear, you look wonderful.”
“Oh. Well … thanks,” I say bashfully. “I suppose I do feel different. I suppose I’m more relaxed these days.” I take a sip of coffee and lean back in my chair, mulling it over. “I enjoy life a bit more than I used to. I notice more than I used to—”
“You haven’t noticed your phone’s ringing,” Mrs. Farley interrupts mildly, nodding at my pocket.