She was 82 years old. When had the years slipped so surreptitiously past, she wondered. Her grey eyes darted around the ballroom from behind her silver framed glasses as she surveyed the scene before her.
A sad excuse for a wedding, really. Most of the guests were too old and tired to stay up late so they had limped off to bed. The remainder had decided to shuffle awkwardly on the dance floor while the groom looked on delightedly at his rejuvenated friends.
“Aren’t I lucky?” the old woman thought. “How did I manage to land such a catch?” She chuckled to herself and gazed at the gold watch on her new husband’s wrist. She wondered how much it was worth and wondered if it was a genuine Rolex like her first husband’s.
Her eyes swept the room again. This time they landed on the three-tiered wedding cake on the table, perfectly framed by a bay window that gazed out at the June evening. A cake. It always started with a cake. This cake was her favourite. Unlike the other three, it had been piped to perfection. Its white icing glistened like fresh snow. Its dusty pink coloured sugar flowers matched the roses in her hair.
The little bride figure perched atop the third tier didn't resemble her at all. She was new and plastic. Her plastic face plastered with a plastic smile and her plastic hair stuck to her plastic head. The old woman was certainly not new. She was wrinkled and wizened. Years of experience under her belt. She knew every trick in the book and that book, if it had ever been published, would be How To Kill Your Husband – The Modern Day Housewife's Guide.
Why would she kill her husband? Why would she kill her husbands? I guess the secret would die with her. She always got away with it.
The first husband was a total darling. They had met and fallen in love in the 1950s. He had the perfectly coiffed hair and the pressed suit a perfect husband should have. Every morning he would go to work with his briefcase in his hand and his coat slung over one shoulder. The waxed car would pull out of the driveway at exactly seven o’clock and its headlights wouldn’t shine through the living room window till he returned at seven o’clock that evening. The door would swing open and she would be greeted with “Put the kettle on dear”. He’d kiss the top of his new wife’s head and call her “Angel”. She loved when he called her that. Her heart shaped face would light up, filled with the ebullience unique to newlyweds. However, in time she had come to learn that someone else loved being called “Angel” and that most offices closed at five . . .
When he came home one Friday evening, the house was bathed in candlelight. Perched in pride of place on the pristine kitchen table was a beautiful angel cake, which she had slaved over all day. Its cerise and snow white icing lingered in globules on the sides of the cake. He cut a slice. The sleeping pills were strong.
At the wedding, the woman gazed at her new husband’s watch again. The gold plating glittered, each sparkle glinting in time to the music. It was hypnotic.
Her second husband had been like that: hypnotising. He had found her hypnotising too. He was extravagant, and had plenty of money. He didn’t worry about money. Not unlike many others though, behind that polished and professional façade that he had invested so much in, the tiny cracks betrayed immense stress and worry. Rumour had it, he had had a hand in one too many suspicious deals. She discovered the problem when he tried to sell her jewellery and their house. He tried to appease her with a trip to an exotic island: an island with a name so exotic they forgot how to pronounce it two seconds after the travel agent said it. But this time appeasement wouldn’t work. The tropical tasting coconut cake was the last meal they shared together, and he had barely left a crumb.
Her second husband made her bitter, but when she learned that his body had been discovered in a hotel room under circumstances almost as shady as his business dealings, his insurance policy had been incredibly generous. So generous in fact, that she stayed a long while on that exotic island. That’s where she met husband number three.
Her third husband had been a friend of the first. She had never heard of him before their encounter on the exotic island, but was pleased to discover that at odds with his persona as the Big City Lawyer, he was actually rather charming. He bought her diamonds and an apartment in the city, and on her 40th birthday he bought her a dog. They were blissfully happy. That was until one night when they were eating slice after slice of a decadent Devil’s Chocolate Cake. It was sticky and sugary and no bite never tasted like enough. They had both indulged in a bit too much wine. They were laughing and joking, hanging over the balcony of the apartment when her husband asked her what was the most terrifying thing she’d ever done.
“I killed my first husband,” she said between hiccups before proceeding to break into fits of laughter. The wine tasted funny. His expression changed. He knew. He had known all along.
“It was horrible, Officer! He slipped and – oh! He smashed to pieces, didn’t he?!” She couldn’t continue any further.
“It’s all right. It’s okay. Would you like a slice of this chocolate cake? You look like you’re about to faint. Miss? Miss?”
“Excuse me, Miss? Or should I say Missus? Would you like a slice of our wedding cake?”
The woman snapped back to reality. She was back sitting with roses in her hair. This husband was different. They had known each other a long time. A baker. He was kind and could bake almost as well as she could. He had baked the wedding cake. She wanted to forget her past and even share her wealth from her previous marriages.
She picked up her fork and gingerly pushed the knife into the crunchy biscuit cake. She raised the fork to her mouth. Mmm. Incredible. It could melt in your mouth and the sugar flowers were sweet and light as a feather. A few more bites were pierced by the fork . . . There was a strange aftertaste. This wasn’t like the practice cakes. It had flavours of vanilla and something much more sinister. Her heart began to beat faster. The plastic bride figure gazed out the window. Her plastic feet frozen on this incredible confection.
“It tastes great, doesn’t it?”
“Mhmm.”
“I tried a few different recipes but I think this is the winner.”
“Mhmm. What’s that aftertaste I’m getting? Coffee?”
“Oh no dear, that’s revenge.”
