Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 183150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 916(@200wpm)___ 733(@250wpm)___ 611(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 916(@200wpm)___ 733(@250wpm)___ 611(@300wpm)
‘Will this be a pin-ball rebound?’
I sigh. ‘Yes, I think it will. And not just because of the sex.’
She reaches over and squeezes my knee, smiling thoughtfully. She knows what’s happening here.
We slow at the entrance of a residential street, and Kate brings Margo to a stop.
‘Right, get in the back.’ she orders.
‘What?’
‘Get in the back, Ava!’ She reinforces her instructions with a batting of my knee.
‘Why?’ I know I’m frowning heavily. Why on earth does she want me in the back?
She points down the street and realisation dawns on me. I look at her, completely wide eyed.
She has the decency to look a little apologetic. ‘I’ve strapped, padded and cushioned, but this street is a fucking nightmare. That cake took me two weeks to finish. If it goes over, I’m fucked.’
I turn my gaped mouth away from Kate and look down the tree lined street, with parked cars on both sides and room for one line of traffic down the middle. That’s not what’s bothering me, though. It’s the vicious, black, rubber speed humps dotted every twenty yards that have my attention. Oh God, I’m going to be tossed about like a penny in a tumble dryer.
‘Can’t we carry it?’ I ask desperately.
‘It’s five tiers and it weighs a ton. Just hold onto the box. It’ll be fine.’
I exhale, unclipping my seatbelt. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got me doing this,’ I grumble, climbing into the back of the van and wrapping my arms around the tall cake box. ‘Couldn’t you assemble it on site?’
‘Nope,’
‘Why?’
‘I just couldn’t. Hold the fucking cake!’ she yells impatiently.
I tighten my grip, spreading my legs to keep my balance, and lay my cheek against the box. We’re positioned at the mouth of the road, engine revving and looking like something out of a comedy sketch.
‘Ready?’ she calls back.
I hear Margo crunch into gear. ‘Just bloody get on with it, will you?’ I snap. She’s giggling as she slowly starts creeping forward. A car horn starts honking impatiently from behind.
‘Fuck off, you tosser!’ Kate yells as we hit our first speed hump.
I’m propelled into the air, my face squishing against the box, my heels sliding from under me. ‘Kate!’ I screech, landing on my arse.
‘Don’t let go of that box!’
I scramble back to my feet, grabbing the box, just as the back wheels jolt down the other side of the hump. ‘Will you take it easy?’
‘I need a run up, else she won’t make it over!’ she exclaims, hitting another hump.
‘Bloody hell!’ I’m catapulted into the air, landing with an almighty thud. ‘Kate!’
She’s laughing hard now, only serving to piss me off more. ‘Sorry!’ she gasps.
‘No, you’re not.’ I grate, pulling myself up again. I kick my heels off to try and get a better balance.
‘Oh, no,’
I blow my hair out of my face. ‘What?’
‘I’m not reversing mister!’ she hisses.
I spot a Jaguar driving at us and with only enough width for one vehicle and no space to pull in, it’s a standoff. A string of loud car horns start singing out around us as Kate proceeds forward, knocking me all over the place in the back of Margo.
‘I’ll ram you,’ she warns Mr Jaguar, smacking her horn repeatedly. ‘Is the cake okay?’
‘Yes! Don’t you dare let him win,’ I yell, landing on my backside again. ‘Shit!’
‘Hang on, only two more to go.’
‘Oh God!’
Two jolts later and probably another two more bruises on my behind, we’re double parked and unloading the stupid five tier cake. Mr Jaguar is honking, cursing and throwing hand gestures all over the place, but we ignore him. My feet are still bare as I help Kate out with the cake, delivering it into the massive kitchen of Mrs Link, who’s throwing a sweet sixteen for her daughter. I leave Kate to sort the rest and go back to Margo to wait for her, ignoring the car horns as I look for my shoes in the back. They could be anywhere.
Noel Gallagher invades my eardrums, singing Sunday Morning Call from the front seat and my heart – which is currently hammering through exhaustion – starts hammering an excited drum in my chest. I abandon shoe searching to scramble to the front and answer, ignoring the reasons for my keenness to speak to him.
‘Hey,’ I puff down the phone, jumping out and slumping against the side of Margo. I’m fucking knackered!
‘Okay. Now, I know it’s not me that’s worn you out, so do you mind telling me who has you puffing and panting like you’ve been fucked into next week?’
I smile. Oh, his voice is a welcome distraction from the fiasco of the last twenty minutes.
‘What’s with all the car horns?’ he asks.
‘I’m delivering a cake with Kate, we’re blocking the road.’ I explain, but I’m distracted by an overweight, balding, middle aged businessman approaching with a face like thunder.