Modeled after Giovanni Boccaccio's classic from the 14th Century, this collection similarly brought 100+ short stories to Wattpad readers. The original's premise was simple: ten individuals entertained themselves over a span of ten days by telling a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Day forty-six of my new life. A gloriously sunny Friday. I had cute new flat, a new friend, and a new job with as many free cakes as I could eat. I should have been relishing my freedom, spending the evenings of my twenty-fifth year celebrating a narrow escape while drinking dubiously named cocktails.
So why couldn't I forget the old Cherry Sander
Days one through five post Craig, or "Crexit," as I'd taken to calling it, had been spent awkwardly avoiding my ex while I packed up my belongings from our shared house. By day six, having been forced to endure his side of yet another phone call with his new girlfriend, I was ready to snap. A puppy! They were getting a puppy together, and they'd only been shagging for two months.
Craig and I had been together since I was twenty-one, engaged for over a year, and when I suggested upgrading microwave he'd vetoed that because it was a "big step."
Day seven after Crexit found me living in a bed and breakfast with three suitcases, a family-sized box of Quality Street, and a migraine, and I'd been trying to put my life back together ever since.
"Still thinking about your ex?" Olivia asked.
"How did you know?"
"Because you've just iced the word 'asshole' onto that cupcake."
I had? Dammit, I had.
"I'm so, so sorry. I didn't even realise."
"If it's any consolation, you've made a really neat job of it. Maybe we should start a new line? Divorce party cupcakes. You know, to help women celebrate their liberation with a touch of luxury."
"Maybe we could package them up with a bottle of champagne?"
"And throw in a free voodoo doll."
A giggle burst from my lips, and Olivia soon put down her spatula and doubled up too. As she'd told me when I first began working at Red Velvet, I could either laugh or cry. As I'd had no luck finding a mascara that lived up to its waterproof claims, I'd switched to laughing while I baked and decorated. It was only when I got home in the evenings that I bawled my eyes out.
"I still can't believe Craig had an affair with his dentist. I mean, every time he was due a check-up he fretted about it for a week beforehand."
At least until Shelley Constantine took over the practice. Not only were her teeth fake, her personality and her boobs were too. And Craig suddenly developed a new fascination for dental hygiene and allegedly needed four fillings in eight weeks.
Even then it hadn't clicked. The cheating git still bought me flowers every Friday and talked about going on a mini-break to Rome for my birthday in three weeks. If I hadn't suffered a PMT-induced craving for crispy wontons late one night and seen them snogging in his BMW outside the Chinese takeaway, I might have continued living in ignorant bliss.
