Page 1 of Cupcakes and Kisses in Micklewick Bay

ONE

THE FIRST FRIDAY IN JUNE

‘Finished!’ Jasmine Ingilby said, puffing out a sigh of relief.

Setting down the fine paintbrush she’d been using to dust iridescent powder over the cake she’d spent most of the day decorating, she took a step back, running a critical eye over her handiwork.

The brief had been, well… brief: three-tier Victoria sponge to celebrate a pearl wedding anniversary.

But Jasmine had been okay with that; she enjoyed being given a free rein, allowing her creative side to take the lead.

‘Just do what you think, Jazz,’ Ali Harrington had said when she’d called to place the order. ‘After seeing the wedding cake you made for Kendra and Tom Wilson, I know I can trust you to come up with something totally awesome – those sugar paste flowers were amazing ! They looked so realistic.’

The feedback had given Jasmine a thrill; not only had she been in her element decorating the cake Ali referred to, but she’d also gained a considerable number of new customers off the back of it.

Her diary was now bulging for the rest of the year with orders trickling into the next.

She had no idea how she was going to fit them all into her already hectic schedule, but she’d do it even if it meant working into the early hours and getting up at the crack of dawn.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

And now, a month after Ali’s phone call, she was standing in the tiny kitchen of her little home, surveying the end result, the cloyingly sweet smell of sugar paste and icing sugar hanging in the air.

The three-tiered confection was a study of understated elegance, decorated in ivory-coloured fondant icing and topped with a cluster of delicate roses in a matching shade of sugar paste.

The top and bottom tiers were edged with cream ribbon, while the middle one was trimmed with a string of faux pearls.

Jasmine had spent an age making the individual roses, using her cake-decorating tools to curl the petals in order to create a realistic effect.

The final touch had been to add a soft pearl-like shimmer of iridescent powder in a nod to the anniversary for which it had been commissioned.

Jasmine smiled. Usually self-critical, she was pleased with her creation.

And, after Ali’s feedback about the Wilson’s wedding cake, she felt sure Ali and her family would be happy with her interpretation of the brief.

Her own parents’ ruby wedding anniversary was a couple of months away and Jasmine planned to make something similar for them but with elements in a rich red trim referencing the red stone that symbolised the fortieth celebration.

Though she was going to trim theirs with sugar paste “lace” using the confectioner’s mats she’d recently invested in.

The equipment would punch the intricate design into the sugar paste, creating a delicate vintage lace effect which she could then affix to the base layer of fondant icing. Jasmine couldn’t wait to try it.

Her green eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, its face glaring back at her accusatorially, making her heart lurch. It was twenty past seven. ‘Yikes! How the bloomin’ ’eck has it got to that time?’

She was late, of course – when wasn’t Jasmine late?

It came with the territory of being a single mum to two lively children while juggling two part-time jobs and her growing celebration cake-baking business.

And though she thrived on being busy, and regularly found herself wishing there were more hours in the day, there were times when she felt she was – to quote her mum – in danger of catching herself coming back.

She fell into bed exhausted every night, sleep pulling her under as soon as her head hit the pillow, and before she knew it, the six a.m. alarm was rousing her with its ear-splitting screech the following morning.

Much as her body cried out for an extra hour’s sleep, Jasmine resisted the temptation to snuggle back under the duvet.

Instead, she’d heave herself out of bed so she could catch up on her jobs around the house, throw a load of laundry into the washing machine, or even make a start on the sugar paste elements of whichever celebration cake she was currently working on.

Whatever it was that was screaming out as a priority at that time, was given her full attention.

It was the only way she could keep on top of everything.

But since her cake decorating business had taken off, Jasmine had found herself becoming perennially late, this evening being a prime example.

It wasn’t because she was unorganised – the opposite was, in fact, the case, with her slew of lists and planners – it was more that she was a perfectionist, tweaking her creations until they satisfied her exacting standards.

Losing track of time had, frustratingly, become a hazard of her life recently and she’d been racking her brains to figure out a way around it. Thus far, she’d had limited success.

In an ideal world, Jasmine wouldn’t be constantly under pressure to keep things running smoothly, wouldn’t be dashing from one job to another to make sure there was enough money to pay the bills and to make sure her children got what they needed.

And she wouldn’t be wracked with the guilt that constantly ate away at her, telling her she wasn’t giving her children enough attention, which was the worst part of it all, especially since she’d noticed that her daughter, Chloe, had been quieter than usual recently, which she hadn’t been able to get to the bottom of yet.

Not having to deal with all of that would be the dream.

But, maybe, after the phone call she’d received earlier, there was a faint chance it might be more than just a dream – not that Jasmine wanted to build her hopes up too much; she was nothing if not cautious in that regard.

But right now, at twenty past seven on a Friday evening, Jasmine should have been sitting in The Jolly Sailors pub with her friends, glass of wine in hand as they all caught up with what had gone on since their last get-together a week earlier.

In those few precious hours, she allowed herself to switch off, slip out of “mum mode”, not to mention “work mode”, push her never-ending list of jobs to the back of her mind, and relax with her closest friends – her ‘me time’ as they called it.

As a rule, Florrie from their friendship group would stop off at Jasmine’s house on Rosemary Terrace and scoop Jasmine up on her way to the Jolly, but knowing she would be running late, Jasmine had texted her friend earlier and explained about the cake, telling Florrie to make her own way down to the pub, adding that she’d join them as soon as she could. She knew they’d understand.

‘No worries, flower. And don’t go stressing yourself out, rushing around like a headless chicken; just get there when you can,’ Florrie had said in her reply, which, Jasmine had thought at the time, was easier said than done.

Would there ever be a time when she wasn’t running around like a headless chicken?

Jasmine wondered. The way things had been going recently, it was hard to imagine.

Next week was a classic example. Not only did she have an extra couple of hours working for Spick ‘n’ Sparkle, the cleaning company owned by her friend Stella’s mum, but she was also covering two shifts for a colleague at the bakery in town on top of her own.

Then there was the celebration cakes she needed to bake and ice.

The reminder triggered a squeeze of stress in her chest. Before she let it take hold, Jasmine pulled herself up and drew in a deep breath.

‘Right, it’s Friday night, fretting about next week isn’t going to help or make a difference.

You need to get your backside into gear and get down to the Jolly with your friends!

’ she remonstrated with herself, relieved not to have a tardy babysitter to contend with – something that had, disappointingly, become increasingly regular – thanks to Zak and Chloe having a sleepover at her parents that night.

Feeling instantly brighter, she quickly washed her hands before separating the tiers of the cake and carefully placing them into boxes ready for collection first thing in the morning.

That done, she whipped off her apron and shoved it into the washing machine before rushing upstairs where she wriggled out of her cake-making clothes.

Much as she’d love nothing better than to jump in the shower, time was against her, so she gave herself a quick squirt of deodorant instead, then changed into a clean pair of cargo trousers, teaming them with a yellow and white striped T-shirt.

She didn’t have time to look in the mirror; the couple of coats of mascara she’d applied that morning would have to suffice, and she wasn’t going to give the state of her dyed-red pixie crop a second thought after all the icing sugar and sparkles that had been floating around the kitchen.

If she sparkled like a Christmas bauble, it was too bad!

‘Ignorance is bliss and all that,’ she muttered to herself, knowing her friends would take her as they found her.

Racing downstairs, Jasmine grabbed her phone and her keys, stuffing them into her bag, which she slung over her shoulder cross-body style.

She slipped her feet into her battered Converse plimsols then reached for her green utility jacket.

Seconds later, the front door closed behind her with a slam.

Standing on the doorstep, she puffed out her cheeks, squinting in the bright evening sunshine.