Read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard - full podcast here.
Aperitif: Spellbound Martini - Shaken for a hint of glamour!
***
Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I’ve been freezing the bastard for months; churning it over and over like butter, or ice cream. Biding my time just as he had bided his, since that fateful day he ordered his first Foreplay Frappe - a fun night guaranteed! - with that dopey smile.
“Good choice, that’s my favourite!” I exclaimed as I rang it up.
“Then one for yourself as well,” came his smooth reply. “Or maybe something a little stronger when you get off shift?”
But that was then. Now, he’s opening his menu, perusing the delights on offer as if it isn’t easy to predict what he’ll choose. I just need him to order, then I can enjoy as he watches his dreams and ambitions shatter on the floor.
Tension ripples down my spine as the waitress leads him to his seat. I fight to stop it bleeding into the dough at my fingertips. He has no bag, no briefcase. Has he brought it?
He doesn’t see me, or even remember this is my place, by my design more than his absent-mindedness. He’ll remember soon enough.
***
Appetiser: Pop-up Scallops - A fresh start!
***
I was never the kind to fall for a snappy glamour, or that overused flame on the thumb trick. Who even smokes nowadays for that to work? What I do have is a terrible taste for normality. It’s like a black watermelon. Elusive, refreshing, and finding one is dangerous to my sanity.
He seemed as normal as they come. Bland brown hair, whisky eyes, no tricks.
Most who enter my cafe sense there’s some truth hidden behind the cheery menu items. Order a Confidence Shot and you will “Walk a little taller!” It’s just what I do. I say most because there’s always one or two oblivious fools who have no idea what they have stumbled into – but they still tend to get what they came for, even if they didn’t know what that was.
He wasn’t a fool. He just let me think he was oblivious.
He acted like it was all new. As if I was opening his eyes to the magic of the world around him. A world beyond his “wildest dreams”. I started small. A batch of Merry-mint muffins topped with fresh raspberries baked for our first date. We giggled and laughed like children as we danced along the barren pier, our own mirth painting the grey sky with a rainbow of colours only we could see.
We talked endlessly, although looking back maybe it was me who just kept talking, about life, dreams, but most of all about my cooking. He loved to hear me talk about food and would ask question after question about the most minute details. How exactly had I imbued such cheery flavours into the muffins? Where did I source my ingredients? Was it really magic or could anyone do it? I hadn’t quite known how to answer that one. No one else had ever tried.
He asked where I learnt to cook and, fool that I was, I answered. I told him about my late grandmother and how she shared the source of her magic with me—a cookbook containing every one of our family recipes. I didn’t mention that she also forbade me from ever sharing it outside of the family, which, after she passed, meant keeping it all to myself; hidden behind my kitchen splashback.
***
Entree: Fugu Karage - A taste of the forbidden!
***
I showed him my favourite seafront bar, The Drunken Selkie, hidden beneath the pier. They make the best Sea Breezes in the city and the delight on his face when he took his first sip was sweeter than honey. I had to teasingly hold him back from requesting the recipe. When he asked for another round before I’d finished my first, he said he needed to know what gave it such a refreshing salty tang. After a few more rounds he gave up trying to figure it out.
The man drank fast. I would look away for a second to admire the sun melting into the surf, and on looking back, half his glass would be gone whilst mine was barely dented. He must have had twice the number I did, and yet he showed no ill effects. He was as charming and attentive as ever. I knew I was drunk the moment I thought my glass was refilling itself.
The bell rang for last call and we stumbled out, arm in arm. I listened with rapt attention as he described his idea for the perfect restaurant. One where every element of the meal combined to achieve one purpose and one purpose alone; to enthral the customer in their own perfect collision of flavours so that all other eateries would be ruined for them.
“What would your perfect menu be in this restaurant?” I slurred over the middle part a little, but he still got the gist.
“Something magical but strong to open. Vodka-based maybe. It needs to leave a clean palate for the food to come. Then something a little unexpected but light. For a main, I would choose something exotic; I’ve always had a taste for things people say I shouldn't.”
He stared into my eyes as he said that last part and my insides melted like marshmallows over a campfire. I took a step closer so I could smell the faint residue of grapefruit on his breath.
“And for dessert?” My words were little more than a whisper.
“Chocolate. Always chocolate.”
I don’t know how long we stood, eyes locked, but it took all my strength to break away and glance around. A grin slid across my lips. We were directly outside my apartment. I must have steered us here on autopilot. Looking back at him I raised a single eyebrow in invitation.
“Coffee?”
The next morning I awoke early and alone. The bed beside me was still warm, but empty. Assuming he had just left, I searched for a note of some kind, but there was nothing. I tried to shake off the hurt, but something nagged at the corner of my brain and wouldn't let me return to sleep. Rising, I padded towards the kitchen. As soon as I entered I saw it. Or rather I didn't see it. The loose tile was discarded on the draining board, and my grandmother's cookbook was gone.
***
Dessert: Death by Chocolate - A risk worth taking!
***
I have never experienced the rancid notes of panic so vividly as I did at that moment. I tried to rationalise but every scenario I could fathom came down to one unavoidable fact. He’d stolen my damn recipe book. I searched endlessly. I should have known what was coming. But you cannot know sweet from sour until you’ve tasted both, and things that seemed obvious now were impossible to see through the candyfloss cloud his attentions wrapped me in.
He would pay the price for deceiving me. I would take everything from him as he had from me, but it would take time and precision. Little did he know he’d shown his hand, but I still held many cards in my apron pocket.
I needed to lower his guard. I probably could have just let time do this for me, but maybe I am less patient than I like to believe. Dominostein Oblivio was quicker, more reliable, and allowed me an element of control. The chocolate-covered layers of gingerbread, jelly, and marzipan would be irresistible to his sweet tooth, and the tears I wept into each would wash away the memories of me until they were distant and fragmented. It wasn’t permanent, edibles never are, but it would do the job until he came across a strong enough trigger.
I packed them into a pastel presentation box and slipped a card underneath, where I knew it wouldn't be seen until the sweets had been enjoyed. It simply invited him to an evening at The Faeling Cafe.
***
Coffee: Iced Cafe Deliquesce - Worth Savouring!
***
And now here he is. I stay in the kitchen until a young waitress delivers his frozen coffee and flits off to clear another table. Ice rattles in his glass. The first sip of sweet caffeine caresses his lips, and I take the unlaid place at his table. He sputters; eyes flash from me to the coffee frappe and back. My face triggers the synapses in his brain to re-establish the connections I have oh so artfully severed. Recognition comes first, his eyes darting around the room from the door to the bar, to the kitchen and back to the door. A setting he had disregarded as new and unknown moments before, snaps into place as the memories flood back. Then comes the realisation of danger and his free hand flies to his lapel. Fingers trace the familiarly-sized lump beneath the linen of his jacket. Perfect. The glass stutters slightly as he places it back down, and a small drip escapes over the lip.
“What did you do?” He hides the quiver in his voice well, but I’m looking for it. I choose to ignore the question for now.
“I wouldn’t waste that if I were you.” I indicate the rapidly melting coffee.
“What did you do?!” His face is starting to redden as he tries to contain all that anger and fear. His facade is slipping, and I love every second of watching it fall.
“I simply fulfilled your perfect menu, to ruin all other eateries for you. Maybe a little more literally than you intended, I admit.”
He’s beyond words now, eyes bulging and spittle flying: he clearly assumes I’ve killed him, but I’m no banshee. Death would be too quick a punishment. Even so, I can’t resist a twist of the knife.
“Once you leave that seat, it will all be gone. Your favourite Merlot will be as flavourless as filtered water. The bittersweet of your mother’s key lime pie will be utterly lost on you. It will all be no better than sand in your mouth.”
A flick of my wrist signals the waitress to bring his check. Calmly, I lean over and remove my recipe book from his inside jacket pocket.
“Enjoy your coffee.”
I leave him to watch me walk away, as his taste buds slowly dissolve.
When you fuck with a fae, all that’s left to do is pay the bill.
(c) Charlotte Davis, 2023
Charlotte Davis is a UK-based writer who spends her time split between writing, procrastinating, and that pesky thing called the day job. A video editor by trade, she loves all forms of storytelling be they written, visual, or interactive.
Sophie Morris-Sheppard works in film, TV & theatre as well as audio drama. She’s narrated several children’s books (Audible) & voiced animations. Sophie recently appeared in Paris Zarcilla’s multi award-winning feature film Raging Grace. She began theatre producing in 2022 & just set up Morris & Maurice Productions, which delivers its first show in 2024. www.sophiemorrissheppard.com / www.2020audiodrama.com / IG: morris_and_maurice_productions
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