Page 90 of That Defining Moment

“I’ll need the marriage certificate,” Alison continued, “and any documentation relating to property acquired during the marriage. If any of that was purchased after the ceremony, it forms part of the marital estate, and given the absence of a valid prenuptial agreement—”

“Alison,” Cassian said. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

“Right,” Alison said, and to her credit, she sounded more amused than offended. “We’ll pick this up Thursday, then. I need you to try to source a copy of your marriage certificate.”

“I will, Alison.” He had no idea how to do that. He’d have to ask Hamish, who knew most things, except how to properly load a dishwasher, according to Lysander.

He ended the call and shoved the mobile into his back pocket, grabbed the banister with both hands, and hauled himself upright. The untied lace caught under his heel as he lunged for the front door, and he stumbled into the hallway table hard enough to rattle the bowl of keys on its surface.

Lysander was coming down the stairs with a stack of printouts fanned across both arms, leafing through the pages. He looked up at the sound of the table legs scraping the floorboards, and Cassian’s shoulder caught him square in the chest.

The printouts went everywhere. They scattered across the hallway in a burst of estate agent photography and floor plans, glossy pages spinning over the tiles and sliding beneath the radiator.

“Cassian!” Lysander dropped to a crouch, snatching at the nearest page. “I had those arranged in order of viewings, you absolute—”

“Sorry! Sorry, Sander, I’m late, I’m so late—” Cassian was already through the door, one shoe still untied, shooting the apology over his shoulder as he clattered down the front steps and hit the pavement at a run.

Proving Ground’s door hit the wall and set the chalk menu swinging.

“I’m here, I’m here!” Cassian announced, to the café at large and to nobody in particular, because the only person who needed to hear it was already looking at him from behind the counter.

Ruari’s gaze dropped to Cassian’s feet. One trainer was laced.

“You’re late,” Ruari said.

“I know.” Cassian bent double in the doorway and attacked the trailing lace, his fingers fumbling the loops into a tie that should hold. “I was on the phone with my solicitor, and she’s really scary, Ruari, she’s so scary. She talks for forty-five minutes without breathing and I can’t interrupt her because she once absolutely destroyed a former Aussie prime minister that was the ex of her client. Hamish told me that, he looked her up, and she’s handling my case, which is actually happening now, by the way.” He straightened up, flushed and beaming. “I’m getting an annulment, Ruari!”

A woman at the nearest table looked up from her flat white.

“Finally!” Cassian continued, at a volume calibrated for a stadium rather than a bakery. “Diwa says I’ve got an absolute viper of a lawyer, which I think he means as a good thing, and he says I’ll get what I deserve out of my fucker of an ex-husband. And Uriel got two years, because I gave evidence, and I only cried once.”

Ruari wiped his hands on his apron. “Good,” he said.

Cassian waited for the rest of the sentence, but there weren’t any more words left in Ruari.

Instead Ruari turned towards the kitchen and bellowed, “Raf — cake!” with a force that sent Cassian’s shoulders up around his ears. He was a proper regular at Proving Ground before he’d returned to Melbourne, and it was his first stop when he’d landed back in London two weeks ago with Hamish and Lysander, but the volume of Ruari’s shouting still got him every single time. At least his flinch had shrunk from a full-body recoil to a sharp twitch that he recovered from before Ruari noticed.

Raf emerged from the back carrying a white cardboard box with both hands. He set it on the counter, lifted the lid, and stepped away. The cake was magnificent.

It had three layers of sponge, visible where the icing had been applied with deliberate imprecision so that the golden crumb showed through in stripes. The buttercream peaked across the top in stiff, generous swirls, and the whole thing smelled so intensely of passionfruit that Cassian’s mouth flooded.

Colin had told him to choose the flavour. He’d said, “You’re the cake expert, Cassian. You can decide what to order,” and Cassian had said passionfruit without a second’s hesitation, because it was the best thing that had ever happened to him after Chelsea buns, pastéis de nata, and the moment Lysander had said you’re never going back there and meant it.

His head dipped towards the surface of the cake. The peaks of buttercream were right there, close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of passionfruit seed suspended in the icing, and all he would have to do was stick his tongue out just a little bit, barely a lick at all, more of a gentle greeting between his tongue and the icing —

A large hand settled on the crown of his head and pushed, gently but firmly, until his face was a civilised distance from the cake.

Ruari didn’t say anything. He closed the box lid, slid it to the far end of the counter where Cassian couldn’t reach it without climbing, and turned back to the display case. His enormous hands moved through the trays, and emerged with a passionfruit tart on a square of waxed paper.

He held it out.

Cassian took it, bit into it, and the tartness hit the roof of his mouth so hard that his eyes watered. He grinned around the mouthful, grabbed the cake box off the counter before Ruari could stop him, and backed towards the door.

“Thank you, Ruari!” he called, already pushing the door open with his hip. “Remember to download Sander’s podcast and like and subscribe!”

The bell chimed above him. Portobello Road stretched out in both directions, bright with morning light and market stalls, and Cassian hugged the cake box against his chest and ran.

The Ledbury Road house was even louder than when he’d left it, which shouldn’t have been possible given that it contained two babies and seven adults.