Pink rose with leaves and stem

It is ten past four and the ovens have been going since two, so forgive the flour on this page. Mrs Okafor came in at half three asking for the rose cake for Saturday, the one with a single bud and a long stem down the side. She was cross when I said I would pipe it freehand. She wants it exactly as on the card she brought in, a drawing cut from her husband's old seed catalogue. The petals curl over at the top like a hand closing, and the stem bristles with small thorns, as if someone drew it in a hurry and meant every one.

I have sketched eleven of these on the backs of order slips now. Every time the thorns come out too neat, a row of tidy little hooks, and I rub them off with my thumb. The trick, Dad used to say, is to let the wrong bits show. I did not believe him then.

At quarter five the window goes grey and the first van rattles past towards the market. I pipe the stem in green buttercream, drag each thorn sideways with the tip of a cocktail stick, and then I stop. The bud is pale pink on a pale pink board and looks like nothing at all. So I take the red gel and draw one line along the edge of the top petal, the way the card does, and suddenly it is there, leaning out of the cake towards the glass as if it wants to see the street.

I'll bring the cake in myself on Saturday. Keep the kettle on for me.

Love, Ruth