IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

9. Malaise

Timothée's birthday is on July the twenty-sixth.

The day before, Fen comes into Una's room and stands there for a minute or two. Walks around touching things, running her fingers along the books on the shelf. Picking up a ring from the trinket dish and turning it over a few times before putting it down again.

Una sits on her bed, playing with the corner of the duvet cover and waiting for her mother to speak.

She hasn't really thought much about Timothée's birthday. In all truthfulness, she only found out about it yesterday when Frank made an offhand comment about it, and she's not sure if she's expected to buy him something. Una's not even sure she'd know what to get for him. Not even sure she'd know where to begin.

Fen walks over to the window and closes it a little. "Chilly," she says, even though there's a slight breeze at most. Her mum always feels the cold, especially on days like today. Days when it's finally cool after a period of pure heat.

Una wants to keep the window open, but she'll do that when her mother is gone.

"Would you make Timothée a cake for tomorrow," she asks in a voice that is nothing more than a demand thinly veiled as a question.

Una lets her head roll back against the headboard and she breathes out a little.

"Can't Dad do it?" she asks, and Fen shakes her head.

"He says he's very busy at the moment and I- well, I'm not very good with...sweet things. And I can't trust Frank-"

"-Frank, yeah," she says simply. Smiles.

"And your cakes are always very nice," Fen smiles coyly, perching on the end of the bed and pushing Una's hair back from her forehead. Una hums, pushing her cheek gently into her mum's palm.

"Can't we just get him a Colin the Caterpillar or something?" Una asks, and Fen's fingers pinch her cheek.

"Definitely not, he needs something special," her mum laughs.

"Okay, okay," Una concedes. "What flavour does he like?"

Fen shrugs. "I have no idea," she says. "What about a sponge cake?"

But they don't have any cream in for the filling and Victoria sponges always seem a little...un-celebratory. She hums again and nods. "I'll think of something."

--

Around eleven o'clock, Una starts baking. She's not necessarily the best at making things - her macarons never have feet and sometimes her biscuits turn out rock solid - but one thing she can do is make a cake.

She rummages through the cupboards for flour and baking powder, which is stuck right at the back with some rice and a tin of chestnut puree that has probably been there for years on end. Una can't remember the last time any of them had use for chestnut puree.

She manages to get flour all over the floor, and hastily sweeps it under the counter. Keeps mixing gently, trying to keep the air in the batter. She tips it into the lined cake pans, slides them into the oven, and starts to wash up. She doesn't mind washing up when it's her own mess.

When the cakes are cooling on the counter, smelling delicious, she starts making the buttercream. It's rich, indulgent, and the mix of smells in the house at the moment are heavenly. She just hopes Timothée doesn't walk in.

The front door shuts just as she is taking the cakes out of their pans, and she can hear someone taking off their shoes. From the ungainliness of the sound it has to be Timothée, and she peels off the baking paper from the bottoms of the cakes. Scrunches it down in the bin and appears in the doorway just as Timothée is about to enter.