Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Well,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s certainly not the same.’

  ‘PEARL!’ came Caroline’s imperious voice. ‘Did you remember to reorder the milk? Only we appear to be running out and it’s only one thirty. And the sandwich boy hasn’t been, so we’ve missed an entire lunchtime.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ muttered Pearl under her breath.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Issy. ‘This is a terrible line.’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Pearl. ‘Just congratulations from cheerful punters.’

  ‘Well, good,’ said Issy. ‘I’m glad it’s all carrying on fine.’

  ‘Yup, don’t worry about us,’ said Pearl, catching with her foot an orange that appeared to be bouncing down the stairs. They didn’t even sell oranges. ‘Don’t worry about us at all.’

  Issy wrapped Darny up against his strongest protestations and took out her guidebook. ‘Don’t complain,’ she said.

  ‘I am complaining,’ said Darny. ‘I’m considering a citizen’s arrest, in fact. I don’t want to go out. I want to stay in and play computer games. They have Modern Warfare 2.’

  ‘Well I’m afraid you can’t,’ said Issy. ‘We’re in the greatest city in the world and I’m not letting you miss it. Any other kid would be desperate to get out there and explore.’

  Darny’s brow furrowed. ‘Do you think so?’ he said.

  ‘Yes!’ said Issy. ‘It’s a huge world out there, full of all sorts of things. Let’s go explore!’

  Darny stuck out his bottom lip. ‘I think this is kidnap.’

  Issy, hung-over, stressed, tired, worried about the café – she had thought she would be worried if it was wobbling, but no, nobody even seemed to have noticed she was gone, so a fat lot of use she was back there; and here she was nothing but a liability – had finally lost her patience.

  ‘Oh for CHRIST’S sake, Darny, just do what you’re asked one FRICKING time and stop behaving like a spoilt baby. It’s pathetic. Nobody’s impressed.’

  There was a sudden silence in the room. Issy had never spoken to Darny harshly before. It was the tightest of drawn lines. He was not her boy. He was not her son. She had always promised herself that she wouldn’t cross that line.

  And she just had. She had been harsh and hurtful and it was hardly Darny’s fault; he hadn’t asked to come here. And neither had she. Oh, what a mess.

  In total silence, Darny stood with her as they waited for the elevator. As they descended into the lovely lobby, the charming receptionist smiled nicely at them and asked if everything was all right, and Issy lied through gritted teeth and said it was, then they both steeled themselves to go out into the freezing New York morning. The sky was a burstingly bright blue and Issy resolved that the first thing they needed was sunglasses; the sun bouncing off the glass panes of the skyscrapers and the snow was almost blinding.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. For a moment she forgot everything that was going on, just how impressed she was with the fact that she was actually here. In New York!

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go shop! We can have Darny at Barneys! There’s a shop called Barneys, you know, very famous.’

  Darny didn’t respond.

  ‘Look,’ said Issy, putting up her hand to hail a taxi. It really was impossible to be outside for more than a couple of minutes. ‘I’m sorry, OK. I really didn’t mean what I said. I was … I was frustrated about something else and I took it out on you.’

  Darny shrugged his shoulders. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. But obviously it did.

  Barneys turned out to be horrifically expensive, so they left after Issy had swooned a little over the staggeringly beautiful clothes draped on the mannequins, and marvelled at the young, beautiful American women who were storming through and picking things up right, left and centre, commenting on them all the while. She spied a Gap across the road and they hurried across. Everything was much cheaper there, and she bought Darny a few things she thought he needed (most notably new underpants) that neither Austin nor Darny ever seemed to notice. Then she thought about it again and bought Austin a whole bunch of new underpants too. Couldn’t hurt. And some shirts and a couple of jumpers. She liked buying for him. She couldn’t ever have bought clothes for her last boyfriend, Graeme; he was very anal and particular. Austin probably wouldn’t even notice, or care, but it made her feel like she was looking after him, and at the moment she didn’t feel that she was looking after anyone particularly well – and worse, no one, from her customers to her boyfriend to his brother, felt particularly like they wanted looking after either.

  She sighed, especially when she came across a beautiful, soft checked lumberjack shirt. It was lined inside, which would have made it comfortable and warm for her grandfather, who had, in his last days, always been cold but found hard fabrics scratchy and uncomfortable against his skin. She held it briefly in her hands, wishing she could buy it for him. But she couldn’t.

  Laden with bags, they jumped into another cab – Issy knew she should probably take the subway, but was terrified of getting lost or hopelessly confused. Anyway, she told herself, she hadn’t had a holiday in over a year, she worked too hard ever to spend any money and the rest of the trip was free. She deserved a bit of time off and could afford to spend a little.

  The Empire State Building didn’t look like anything from the street; just another office block, except for the beautiful art nouveau signage outside. Issy hadn’t considered that it was actually a working office block. Of course it was; what did she think, that it would just be empty, like the Eiffel Tower? She bought their tickets with excitement, glancing at the enormous, beautifully dressed Christmas trees in the lobby that seemed to stretch several storeys high, whilst Darny maintained his petulant silence. Issy tried to pretend he wasn’t there. In the crush of the first lift, she watched the beautiful golden arrows on the floor indicator climb upwards and smiled to herself, feeling she was channelling Meg Ryan. But it wasn’t the same, every time she caught Darny’s tight-looking little face in the mirror.

  Up on level 100, the cold and the wind and the sun were absolutely bracing. All Issy’s jet lag and fuzziness was instantly blown away as she stepped out on to the smaller-than-she’d-expected platform. The jostling lift-load of tourists spread to all four sides of the building to gaze out over the far horizons: huge ships from China and the Middle East docking down in the Lower East Side; helicopters taking off south from Broad Street and circling round the island like giant wasps; Central Park, so ridiculously straight-edged and tidily cut, totally unlike the more organic outdoor spaces of London she was used to – then no other green at all anywhere, just building after building, their jagged tops and mirrored glass walls making them look like an infinite reflection of a child’s Lego set. The sun glinted off the river and the island – a shape as recognisable to Issy as London; possibly even more so than her home city of Manchester, she realised, with a lurch of shame. Her breath was visible in front of her face and she instinctively took out her camera, before realising that the vista laid out before her was probably better bought on a postcard rather than taken through netting.

  ‘On top of the world,’ she called out to Darny, who was huddling in a corner against the cold, looking anything but. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Shall we go up and look at the mast? Do you know, it was built to tether Zeppelins to? Can you imagine what it was like, bringing one of those down? Only it was too windy, so they had to stop.’

  Darny grunted again.

  ‘Darny,’ said Issy timidly. ‘I know you’re cross with me. But don’t let it spoil your trip, OK. Or mine. I promise I won’t think you’re not cross with me if you have a tiny bit of a good time.’

  Again, no reaction, and Issy bit her lip in frustration.

  ‘Well, never mind about that,’ she said, taking one last look around, lingering longest on the side with the little arrow that said it was 3,460 miles to London. ‘Come on. It’s time for lunch. There’s someone we have to meet.’

  Chapter Thirteen

 
Verity Deli Hot Chocolate Brownies

  Calories: UK – a million, and can make you potentially nauseous all day; US – a light snack in between two gigantic meals, both of which have melted cheese on top. Can also be accompanied by caramel sauce, whipped cream, ginger ice cream, coronary surgery. Do make this, but please make very small brownies as a delicious melting snack. Death by chocolate is, truly, a horrible idea. The idea here is to feel delighted and pleased, not sticky and regretful.

  185g unsalted butter

  185g best dark chocolate

  85g plain flour

  40g cocoa powder

  50g white chocolate

  50g milk chocolate

  3 large eggs

  275g golden caster sugar

  Melt butter and dark chocolate very slowly and carefully in the microwave. Allow to cool. Turn on oven to 160°C/gas mark 3 and line a baking tray with baking paper.

  Sift flour and cocoa powder; chop the milk and white chocolate. Whisk together eggs and sugar till the mixture looks like a milkshake and doubles in size. Carefully and gently fold in melted chocolate mix until fudgy. Stir in chocolate chunks.

  Bake for 25 minutes till shiny on top.

  Issy followed the instructions she’d received in the email. Heartily frozen from exposure to the elements a hundred floors above ground, they were both relieved to escape back into the warmth of the building, then into a yellow cab. Issy was beginning to get the hang of cabs; Austin had explained that you didn’t hail them and wait for them to come to you. You grabbed one and just opened the door and jumped in, otherwise someone else would take it. At first this had seemed rude and ill-mannered, till the first three times someone had managed to get there ahead of them and stolen their cab, which was of course even more ill-mannered, so now Issy was hopping in and out of them like a native, Darny at her heels.

  They passed through the happy chaos of Times Square, full of pink-cheeked tourists looking around to see what all the fuss was. A Santa was ringing a bell at every cross-walk. People were buying tickets to Christmas shows and staring at the fabulously lit-up buildings, with their holidays wishes from Coca-Cola and Panasonic. Everything was a riot of lights and trees and every street corner had carollers or bell-ringers or men selling knock-off handbags which Issy looked at slightly regretfully before coming to her senses and moving on. She couldn’t imagine the look on Caroline’s face if she turned up with a fake Kate Spade, not to mention her horror of getting caught at customs.

  The place they’d been instructed to show up at – early, it had been insisted – was a large corner block with old-fashioned fifties-style lettering advertising a soda fountain. It was called the Verity Deli, and its walls were lined with pictures of its illustrious clientele – Woody Allen was there, as was Liza Minnelli; Steven Spielberg and Sylvester Stallone. There was already a small queue forming. An elderly waitress with dyed orange hair and an alarming bosom crammed into a green uniform took them straight away to a much patched and darned banquette. Issy asked for a cup of tea and let Darny, eyeing her closely, order a root beer float, even though neither of them had the faintest idea what it might be. When it arrived, it turned out to be a gigantic confection of ice cream and fizzy flavoured lemonade, in a glass the size of Darny’s head. He glanced at her again, but she didn’t comment and he plunged in without checking twice.

  They were waiting a long time. The waitress returned repeatedly – the menu was absolutely gigantic, with all manner of things to order: roast beef side; knishes; pastrami on rye and lots of other things that made no sense at all to Issy, who was already slightly shocked at the state of the banquettes and the slovenliness of the waitress. She wouldn’t want to run her fingers across the top of the pictures.

  After twenty minutes, as Issy fiddled with her phone and wished she’d brought a book, and Darny ate his way stoically through the root beer float until he looked like he was turning green, the door slammed open dramatically, bringing in with it a noisy gust of wind. A tall, imperious woman dressed in old-fashioned, very plain hand-made clothes and a large and rather elaborate hat swept in.

  ‘Isabel!’ she declaimed loudly, in an American accent.

  ‘Mum,’ said Issy.

  Darny looked up for the first time that day.

  Marian swanned across to their table. The elderly waitress was over in the blink of an eye, but Marian waved her away.

  ‘Beverly!’ she cried. ‘Not until I’ve said hello to my precious daughter, whom I haven’t seen in an age. Look at her, isn’t she lovely?’

  Marian wobbled Issy’s cheeks up and down. Issy tried not to mind and hugged her mother back.

  ‘And who’s this? Have you had a child and not told me?’

  ‘No,’ said Issy and Darny simultaneously.

  Marian sat down and waved away the laminated menu. ‘We’ll have pastrami on rye three times, no pickles. And three root beer floats.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Darny, looking slightly queasy.

  ‘Two root beer floats. You have to try these,’ said Marian.

  ‘OK,’ said Issy.

  Their drinks appeared in record time, while Marian was still looking her up and down.

  ‘I haven’t seen you since …’

  ‘Gramps’ funeral,’ said Issy. She’d put a notice in the Manchester Evening News, and had been stunned by the response. Over two hundred people who had remembered her grandfather – worked with him or eaten his wares over the years – had contacted her, and his funeral was full to the rafters. It had been rather daunting. Her mother had wafted around gathering compliments and looking artistic and brave whilst Issy had attempted to cater for an endless parade of well-wishers and mourners, many of whom were kind enough to say that she had inherited his talent.

  There had been so many stories. Credit given when the man of the house was out of work; an apprentice taken on out of prison; a thief rapped sharply on the knuckles and sent off with a stiff lecture, never to offend again. There were stories of wedding cakes; christening cakes; warm doughnuts for cold hands off to school; growing up with the scent of fresh bread always in the nostrils. He had touched a lot of lives, and people wanted her to know that, and she was grateful to hear it.

  She was glad to be busy too, all through the funeral and the sorting things out; there was always something to do and she had her hands full. It was when everything was tidied away and she’d returned to London that she’d spent her nights crying into Austin’s shirts. He had been very good about it. He’d understood, perhaps better than anyone else could.

  There had been a little money – not much. Issy was glad about that. Her grandfather had worked hard his entire life, and she had spent it all on the nicest home and the nicest people she could find to make sure he was as comfortable and happy as possible. She didn’t grudge a penny of it. She had used her share to extend her lease and pay off some of her mortgage. Her mother had used hers to go to an ashram, whatever that was, and complain about all the inaccuracies in Eat Pray Love.

  And here she was again, large as life, in a coffee shop in New York. It felt very strange.

  ‘Hey,’ said Issy.

  ‘Well,’ said her mother. ‘Tell me everything.’

  But before she could begin, Marian was looking over for the waitress.

  ‘You know,’ she confided, ‘I shouldn’t really be eating this. I went all raw food at the ashram. Apparently I have a very sensitive system and I can’t process refined flour. But oy vey, as we say.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Issy. She looked at the sandwich in front of her. It was piled higher than her mouth could possibly open. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was meant to do with it or how she should eat it. ‘Are you Jewish now?’

  Marian looked solemn. ‘Well, I think on a very real level, every one of us is Jewish.’

  Issy nodded. ‘Except we’re Church of England.’

  ‘It’s the Judaeo-Christian tradition, though,’ said Marian. ‘Anyway, I’m changing my name.’

  ‘Not again
!’ groaned Issy. ‘Come on. Remember the fuss you had with the bank when you tried to change back from “Feather”?’

  ‘No,’ said Marian. ‘Anyway, it’s not hard to remember. I’m going to be Miriam.’

  ‘Why bother changing your name from Marian to Miriam? It’s practically the same.’

  ‘Except one honours the mother of Jesus, a great prophet to be sure, and one is the sister of Moses who led the Chosen People to the Promised Land.’

  Issy had learned long ago not to take her mother up logically on any of her latest crazes. Instead she smiled resignedly.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying living here?’

  ‘It’s the most wonderful place on earth,’ said Marian. ‘You must come visit the kibbutz.’

  ‘You’re in a kibbutz?’

  ‘Of course! We’re trying to live as authentically as possible. Saturdays are difficult, but apart from that …’

  ‘Why are Saturdays difficult?’ It was the first time Darny had spoken of his own accord all day.

  Marian turned her attention towards him.

  ‘And who are you?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘I’m Darny Tyler,’ he replied, his face heading back down towards his sandwich again.

  ‘And how do you fit into all this? Is my daughter being nice to you?’

  Darny shrugged.

  ‘Yes, I am!’ said Issy, cross. ‘I’m nice to everyone.’

  ‘You’re too nice,’ said Marian. ‘Always trying to please people, that’s your problem.’

  Darny nodded his agreement. ‘She always wants everyone to like her, all the teachers and stuff.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ said Issy. ‘Of course I want people to like me. Everyone should like people to like them. The alternative is just wars and aggravation.’

  ‘Or honesty,’ said Darny.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Marian. They exchanged a glance.

  ‘You two are ganging up on me,’ said Issy, attempting at least the bottom half of her sandwich. It was absolutely delicious. As soon as she tasted it, all her doubts about the café and its standards completely disappeared. That was interesting, she realised, looking at the queue out of the door. People came here for one thing only: the amazing, fabulous food. The fact that the lino was a bit cracked or the windows smeary didn’t matter in the slightest. She looked around at the other customers, rushing in, shouting out their orders, scattering salt sachets and coffee stirrers on the counter, jostling each other to get in. This was good. This was how people liked it. It might not suit her clientele, but it certainly suited its own.