‘We wondered how you were fixed for September?’ Jules asked casually. She had changed out of her linen dress and into grey cashmere sweats to cook, finely chopping shallots into a yellow ceramic bowl with a Moroccan safi design she’d fished out of a cupboard.

‘September?’ Alice smiled, pausing from decorating the table, a glass of blush-pink wine condensing on the tablecloth.

Nina’s thoughts (could she use coconut cream and caramelised honey with a sprinkling of toasted almonds for a City Pâtisserie take on the gâteau Saint-Honoré?) were interrupted and her eyes popped open wide. ‘Is this for…?’

Jules nodded, her face the happiest her friends had ever seen it. She was radiant, resplendent with love.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘We’re getting married.’

‘Did he—’ Alice stopped herself, feeling clunky and old-fashioned sometimes around her friends. ‘Did you – did either of you – propose?’

‘No. We had a conversation about it. Agreed we both wanted to get married. Decided September seemed like a good time.’

‘Nice,’ said Nina. She was liking the sound of Paul more and more by the minute.

‘We wondered if you would do our cake? We’ll pay you, of course,’ Jules said. ‘And Alice, if Charlotte and Phoebe could be bridesmaids and Wilf a pageboy? It’ll be small. Just our families and close friends. In London.’

‘I’d love that,’ Alice said, but she felt a crackling of anxiety. The idea of getting Charlotte into a dress with her hair styled brought her out in a cold sweat. Charlotte had recently begun refusing to wear a school uniform, or to have her hair tied up per the school rules. ‘But getting Charlotte dressed up might be tricky,’ she said diplomatically, already wondering what she could effectively bribe her with.

‘She can choose her own dress,’ Jules said.

‘Can she choose her own shorts and T-shirt?’ Alice grimaced.

Jules laughed and both Nina and Alice were wowed again by this new, relaxed version of their friend. ‘Sure she can. The important thing is she’s there. That you guys are all there.’

‘I would love to make the cake,’ Nina said, already picturing layers of delicate sponge spiked with orange blossom and pistachios atop swirls of honey and cream. La City Pâtisserie was doing so well that she had been approached by investors, keen to help her expand with additional premises across the City. Nina couldn’t believe her luck. A job she loved, that she was good at, and it was actually going well. But best of all was the deep pleasure she gained from her work. She found calm in the clean precision of patisserie, safety in the row upon row of identical items, light in the bright colours, delight in the names and the juxtaposition of textures and the histories behind each delicate morsel. She didn’t need to do the baking any more, she had a small team she oversaw, but most days she made something, unable to resist the call of flour, sugar and butter; simple ingredients transformed into something spectacular.