In the glow of the hopeful, happy morning light bursting out from the curtains, my dad was bathed in sunlight, as he flipped pancakes on the skillet, whistling a ditty.

I stumbled into the kitchen, ribbing at my sleep-encrusted eyelids, partially in a zombie-like, fugue state.

Rubbing my palms on the back of my flannel pyjamas, rather than reaching out for a tissue, such was my morning lethargy.

'Well, if it isn't Little Miss Sunshine!' Dad said with relish.

'Dad, please, don't start!' I groaned.

It was a common routine of ours: I played at pretending the sulky, stroppy teenager on the occasions when his happiness exceeded mine.

During that particular morning, he seemed to be bursting with energy and zest.

With secret pride, I watched my father's skilful hands work away at the pancakes, spreading a dollop of cream with indulgent defiance, drizzling a river of chocolate sauce, and adding succulent berries atop his creation. Dad took pleasure in details.

'So, you're not still brewing over the incident with Zach?' My dad set the plate in front of me with a flourish.

He had gone all out, judging by the crime scene investigation-inspired outline of a body he'd drawn on the pancake.

'Oh very funny,' I replied, stabbing my fork into the stack of pancakes, the squelchy sound of honey and chocolate sauce mingling together, promised to deliver a hearty breakfast, 'so are you showing favouritism now towards Dorothy?" I made a face.

Chuckling, Dad ruffled my wild, untameable hair and settled down on the shaky wooden chair that he'd always said he'd replace but never did.

'I'll have you know Dorothy is a very hard worker. Her sense of humour may not be to your taste, but it doesn't mean that she isn't a talented young lady... when she puts her mind to it.'

I gaped at him, unwilling to believe that Dad has developed a soft spot for Dorothy of all people. Wonders never ceased on that front. Then again, Dad and I did share a tireless, some would say foolish, idealism for the potential for humans to be and do good in the face of adversity. However, I wouldn't have said that Dorothy had much of a sense of humour, unless being cruel for the hell of it was your idea of fun.

'I guess you're right, Dad,' I said, giving a noncommittal shrug, 'Dorothy has her moments.'

It actually made me wince to say the last few words, but sometimes it was better to keep up the illusion of agreeability rather than complain about certain people or events. You never knew when your words would come back to bite you.

And it turned out that a certain person had made a significant impression on my dad, as I was about to find out.

'I'd like to discuss something with you, Candice.' Dad took a sip of his drink; humming in contentment when he took a large gulp. He reminded me of one of the three bears in Goldilocks, stealing a moment of pleasure amidst the busy day that would ensue.

I was busy stuffing my mouth with forkfuls of pancake, so I could only grunt unintelligible sounds in between my mouthfuls; perhaps I should have been warned by the usage of my full name, but it never occurred to me to suspect he was building up to something of gargantuan proportions.

'Sure, Dad,' I managed to say.

'I believe that you're good friends with Zach.'

I gulped down a glass of creamy milk.

'I suppose,' I snorted.

'He seems like a sensible young man,' Dad mused, his eyes fixed on the mirror hanging on the wall, slightly eschew, as though in need of a helping hand.

'Mm,' I said, not trusting myself to speak in case I launched into a diatribe of Zachary's worse traits.

My dad suddenly swung his head to look at me as if possessed with an inspired force.

'He wants us to be responsible for his sister's wedding cake. Can you believe it? The actual wedding cake! This might just be the sort of opportunity we need in order for the business to thrive!'

At first, I thought I had misheard. What had he meant? Wedding cake.

Shit.

Maybe I was imagining this whole conversation. Perhaps I was stuck in an alternative dimension, one where my dad practically exploding with excitement at the prospect of designing and creating a knock-out cake for the high society wedding of the year.

But no, it wasn't so simple.

'He asked you to design his sister's wedding cake,' I repeated, squinting at my father.

'Uh-huh.'

My dad got out his sketchpad and began leafing through the pages; to my horror, he'd already started to outline different sketches of cakes.

He started to talk about his ideas and after seeing each sketch, I was confronted with dread. This was all way out of my control like the role of a die on a casino table.

'Wow, seems like you've really thought about it,' I said diplomatically.

Inside, my stomach was in knots.

'Of course!' His eagerness did nothing more than exacerbate the misery he was inflicting upon me. 'This is great. See, Candy! Silver linings do occur! I have to thank you for befriending him — he really is quite taken with you. I'm proud of you.' Dad wrapped his warm arm around my shoulders.

My mouth was dry as though I'd travelled many miles in the searing Sahara heat. Zachary had essentially offered my dad something far more valuable than a mirage to a hot and weary explorer. The opportunity to make a bunch of contacts and further expand his business, something he'd tried to get his foot in for a while.

To me, the offer seemed like a nightmare dressed up as a dream.

'Do you have any objections?' Dad looked at me closely, his forehead creased with worry, as though realising that I had the power to tell him that it wasn't a good venture after all.

I didn't want that burden on my shoulders, so I said the only thing I could have.

I gave him a weak smile. 'I'm happy for you dad. Go for it.'

Dad yelped in delight.

He spent the rest of day in a state of pure euphoria.

* * *

I'd stealthily looked at Dad's phone book, deciding it was time to approach problems head on.

My hands were sweating as I clenched the telephone, idly listening to the rings, waiting for the devil himself to pick up.

After waiting for what seemed like hundred of years, a smooth, entitled voice drawled into the receiver, 'Hello.'

'Hi PRICK,' I had to lower my voice as my mum came out from the laundry room with the basket under her arm, swaying in the direction of the kitchen. 'I'd like to speak to you, please.'

'Ah,' he accentuated the word; a rumble of pleasure and amusement beneath the surface. 'Is that Candice's lovely tones I'm hearing? There is no one by the name of 'Prick' who occupies this residence, but there is one Zach Malone, who has been hoping that he'd get a phone call from an annoyingly saccharine girl who works in a pokey little bakery in central London. What can I do for you, angel?'

'You're a very, very...' I seethed.

'Tell me. I'm all ears,' Zachary deadpanned.

'You know what you are.' My voice was dripping with contempt.

Forget about any false display of vulnerability he'd displayed in the hospital; he was rotten.

'Is this the thanks I get for helping poor folk?' he sighed; disappointment laced his voice. 'And yes, I know who I am...'

'We may be poor, but we're nicer than you'll ever be,' I growled back.

A soft, heartless chuckle. 'Candice, you have much to learn about the ways of the world.'

'From an amoral creature like you? I don't think so,' I shot back.

'Oh dear,' he said after a pause, 'I thought I'd made your father happy.'

'You're a vulture,' I spat. 'You knew there was no way I was going to tell him to reject your offer.'

'Candice, you know me too well,' I heard him drawl in my ear, and despite my best intentions, I had to admit that his voice sent a shiver down my ear like a lingering kiss.

Persuasion was something that he excelled in — I guessed an expensive private school education would equip you with the skills you finagle your way through life. He was worse than the snake in the garden of Eden.

'Your type disgusts me. Money and influence can not buy you everything—'

'One sec, darling,' he interrupted, 'as much as I enjoy hearing you on your soap box, I have no idea where my lighter has disappeared. Do you know?' I heard the crackle on the other end as Zachary moved around his apartment; a few groans; a bang.

'Have you tried looking under your sofa?' I said sarcastically. Zachary returned after a few minutes just when I was close to ending the call.

'My apologies, Candy. I found it in the breadbox — no idea why it was there of all places. Most curious. God, do you know, I haven't had a fag since I got out of the hospital yesterday. I need a release.' I heard the smile in his voice and I almost exploded at the innuendo.

I closed my eyes to relinquish the image of him reclining on the coach smoking a cigarette, his nimble, soft lips shaping lazy smoke rings in the air.

'I'm glad you're a smoker,' I said, trembling.

'Oh? Why is that?' he rejoined, interest piqued.

'Because just maybe you'd get a terminal illness for all your entitlement.'

I regretted the words once I'd uttered them, and yet, my body felt free as though I was letting out all the suppressed anger he'd provoked.

'You're being very irrational. I can understand your frustration, but this is how business works. Despite your mood swings, I like you very much. This is why I recommended your father's business to Hetty. She was looking for a cake maker. Like myself, her tastes are discerning. Your father is an excellent pastry chef. I had the pleasure to sample his dishes as well as the exceptional service. He needed a golden opportunity and my sister was eager to take him on. Great guy, your father. It's not rocket science, Candice.'

He said all of the above so earnestly that I felt guilty for being such a bitch to him.

He liked me? Exceptional service? Excellent pastry chef?

It was nice to hear him say these things.

'Oh well...' I suddenly felt awkward, my index finger twisting the chord round and round. 'I don't know what to say. I apologise if I caused any offence—'

Zachary laughed breezily. 'Don't worry about it. You're a pretty girl. Jimmy is a lucky guy.'

'It's Jonny, actually.'

'Of course, Jonny,' I imagined him waving his hand in the air, but I could forgive his attitude now that I knew he could be nice when he wanted to be.

'Listen, I have to go now, but it's been a pleasure talking to you, Candice. Why don't you come and join me for dinner on Saturday? I'm visiting an old haunt. I'll pay; no buts! Besides, I doubt it's something you can afford—' just as I was about to protest, he quickly said — 'I don't mean that in a derogatory way. The prices are extortionate. I would feel bad if I took you somewhere on your salary.'

I softened.

However, I was still doubtful as to his intentions. 'Look I appreciate the offer, but I don't think that's a good idea—'

'Don't be such a nun! I consider you a friend. Bring Jim—Jonny with you, if you like. I don't mind you lovebirds making out in front of me. Might actually provide some entertainment in my amoral life.'

I don't know how he did it, but I was warming to his suggestion the more he spoke. 'I'll consider it,'

I said through gritted teeth.

'Atta girl! Goodbye for now.' He hung up before I had a chance to wish him goodbye.

Little did I know that one phone interaction would be the start of a rollercoaster friendship, if you could call it that.

Perhaps rapport would have been a better description at that stage.