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For some reason my mum never liked Daniel, not even when he was a little kid. And Daniel, for his part, never much liked my mum. He told me once that it’s because she hurt me. He couldn’t care less what she thinks of him. He only cares how she’s treated me.
“Daniel.” My mum tilts her chin in the air, taking on a haughty look that doesn’t match her silver party hat and tie-dye dress.
“Buttercup,” Daniel says, curtly nodding his head.
She glowers at him, her lips pursing. “Still chasing the capitalist’s dream? Materialism and consumerism your rotten bedfellows?”
My brother gives her a feral grin. “Still chasing your shadow around the world? Selfishness and blindness your faithful companions?”
Max coughs into his hand. He’s only met Buttercup once, and that was at my dad’s funeral when he patted her shoulder and offered her his handkerchief. “Shall I get some plates for the cake?”
My mum breaks her stalemate staring contest with Daniel. “Who are you again? I didn’t invite you.”
Judging by the look she casts Daniel, she didn’t invite him to my fake birthday party either.
Max gives my mum a hawkish smile, his glossy black hair shining under the light. “Max, remember? I introduced myself at the door. Maximillian Barone, a friend of your daughter’s.”
“No.” She waves his statement away. “That’s not what I meant. Aren’t you the man who sold me that miniature hoover with the selenite insert that could dust up negative energy? From the curiosity shop in Bern.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, that was you. I know that supercilious look. You owe me fifty-five pounds, the hoover didn’t work. You’re a purveyor of rubbish.”
Max gives her an affronted look. “I can assure you that wasn’t me.”
Daniel grins and rocks back on his heels, enjoying Max’s reddening face.
Mila is tiptoeing toward the coffee table, her eyes on the glossy vanilla icing layered over the three-tiered lemon cake.
“Oh no, I know it was you. I can smell the guilt all over you. As thick as the smoke in a hookah bar.”
“That’s not guilt. It’s commercialism. It coats him like smog,” Daniel says, grinning.
The look on Max’s face almost makes me laugh.
Mila’s reached the cake. She darts her gaze around, checking to see no one’s watching. Then she swipes her finger through the frosting near the base of the cake, pulling up a bright, sugary, glistening layer.
She pops her finger into her mouth and then smiles, her eyes widening.
I can just imagine the flavor. My mum always could bake a delicious cake.
“Mr. Barone, I expect a refund. Furthermore, you may not pursue my daughter. Clearly, if you can’t be trusted to sell a functional hoover, you can’t be trusted to perform in other ways.”
With that my mum grandly sweeps away to the kitchen.
This time Daniel’s coughing into his hand, covering a laugh.
Max stares after my mum then mumbles, “My hoover functions just fine.”
I hide a smile and dust the brightly colored confetti from my dress.
Max turns to me, his hands up. “Fi, I came to drop off your jacket. You forgot it last week. I don’t mean to intrude.” He looks in the direction of the front door. “I should go.”
“You should stay,” Daniel says, clapping Max’s arm.
“You should stay,” I agree, wanting Max here. “After all, we’re having a birthday party.”
At that Mila lets out a desperate squeak. The chiffon cake, which she’d been swiping frosting from, tilts. It wobbles. And then it tumbles off the platter and onto the floor.
