Cake Goes Here
On Saturday morning, Holly and Lewis carried a big chocolate cake to the shed behind their parents’ house in Leicester. Holly unlocked the door.
“Quick,” she said. “Mum’s taken Dad to the garden centre, but they’ll be back by twelve.”
“Relax. We’ve got two hours,” Lewis said. “So how’s the new flat?”
“Tiny. How’s Glasgow?”
“Rainy.” Lewis looked inside the shed. “Wait. Since when is Dad’s shed tidy?”
“Mum probably did it. She even cleared a shelf for the cake.”
“Holly, I think he knows about the party.”
“He doesn’t. Mum’s kept it a secret for two months. Forty people for his sixtieth, a band, everything.”
“Then why did he phone me and ask when I’m coming tonight?”
“Because he thinks you’re coming for dinner.”
“And he bought a new shirt. Dad’s worn the same three shirts for twenty years.”
“Okay, that’s a bit unusual. But he’s terrible at secrets. If he knew, he’d tell us.”
Lewis put the cake on the shelf. Next to it was a folded piece of paper.
Holly picked it up and read it. “Oh no.”
“What?”
She showed him. In Dad’s big, untidy writing, it said: “Cake goes here. I’ll try to look surprised. Love, Dad.”
“Told you,” Lewis said.