Marguerite looked down at the cake in front of her. It was about six centimetres tall with a diameter of around twenty centimetres, cloaked in thick, rich butter-cream with a thin drizzle of syrupy jam across some of the top. All of these things Marguerite loved, but here they were on a fruit and nut cake. A number of previous experiences catapulted themselves to the front of Marguerite’s thoughts, reminding her of her nut allergy.
“Any for you, Margie?” her hostess asked, plunging a large knife into the rich flesh of the cake, causing the metal blade to thicken with butter-cream. She knows, Marguerite thought angrily, she knows that I shouldn’t eat this. “Any for you?” The hostess repeated, sliding the hefty slice onto a delicate china plate.
Marguerite felt the eyes of the other three occupants settle upon her, silently disapproving of her reluctance to eat the delicious morsel that the hostess had lovingly prepared for the event. Terrified of the turmoil she was about to cause; Marguerite put her hand out to receive the plate. Taking a pastry fork, she scooped up her first mouthful and hoped for the best.