The Quiet Landlord

I'd been up since four.

I'd whisked the buttercream by hand because the stand mixer makes the texture sit wrong on a Victoria sponge. The white peach was fresh, halved into the curd that morning; the Earl Grey was steeped into the cream the night before. I'd hand-piped the rosettes in the dim above the bakery counter, wearing my whites and a clean apron, with a glass of water and the radio low.

I didn't drive in. I didn't want a Mercedes turning up at Bishopsgate on the morning of his birthday.