Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

by Jenny Colgan

  They reached the bus stop. Issy turned to Pearl.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I am going to ask for what I want. I want you. To come and work for me. We’ll figure Louis out between us. He’ll be going to nursery soon anyway, won’t he?’

  Pearl nodded.

  ‘Well, couldn’t he go to a nursery near the shop? There’s loads in Stokey. Come up and sit in the shop while we get opened up and the cakes go in, then pop him up to nursery and come back. He won’t be far, and you can spend your lunch hour with him. What do you reckon?’

  Pearl thought about it from all the angles. There was no reason Louis couldn’t do a state nursery programme up here; she felt a bit guilty for even thinking it, but it might not be a bad thing for him to mix with people who weren’t all on the estate. Show him a bit of life. It could work. She’d talk to her Restart officer.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Pearl.

  ‘Is that a good hmm or a bad hmm?’ asked Issy excitedly.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Well, let’s give it a shot,’ said Pearl. And the two women very formally shook hands.

  Chapter Nine

  After that, everything moved at double speed. Despite Issy assuming that all the official papers would take months, insurance, licensing and tax registration were all returned signed and sealed much more promptly than she’d expected. Phil and Andreas, buoyed, she believed, by daily influxes of cake and chivvying from Pearl, were doing a fantastic job; the new units, ordered online, had arrived and fitted perfectly; they had painted the walls a soft shade of greige (grey and beige), and she had ordered retro 1950s aprons for Pearl and herself. Pearl sewed on her own extension ties. Issy was adoring her new industrial mixer, and couldn’t resist trying out more and more esoteric recipes with it. Helena had called a halt at liquorice and Maltesers.

  Over the following weeks, the boys did a lovely job. Several days of hands-and-knees scrubbing by Issy and Pearl, aided occasionally by a grumbling Helena, had sorted out the cellar, while the boys had hammered and drilled and sung along to Cheryl Cole songs on the radio and utterly transformed the place. Whereas before a bare bulb had swung from the ceiling, now there were gently inset halogen lights that made everything gleam softly. Tables and chairs in off-white shades had a gentle patina that made them look old (even though, as they had assured the crusty fire officer, they weren’t, and they were painted with flame-retardant paint); the wooden floor was polished to a high shine, and the display cases were of sparkling glass to show off the cakes, with cake stands ready to go on each table. The coffee machine, a second-hand Rancilio Classe 6, which everyone assured them was absolutely the best on the market, fizzed happily away in a corner. (Alas, it was a curious shade of orange, but not everything had to tastefully match.) Issy had lined the mantel over the fireplace with books for people to read (not too many, grumbled Pearl, we don’t want tramps staying all day), and smart wooden poles would hold the day’s newspapers.

  The crockery they had bought in a huge job lot in the IKEA sale, a collection of duck egg, teal and eau de Nil bowls, espresso cups and plates that were so cheap they could afford to lose a few here and there to small hands or sticky fingers; and downstairs in the storeroom were industrial bags of flour, and huge catering tubs of butter, all ready for the mixer.

  But most of all, for Issy, it was the feel of the place: the aroma of cinnamon being liberally sprinkled on delectable, melting soft and yielding brownies that demanded to be scoffed within seconds of coming out of the oven (and Louis often obliged); the heavenly violet scent of the sauce for the blueberry cheesecake. The day they tasted jams for the Victoria sponge, Issy invited all of her friends. Toby and Trinida had come up from Brighton, and Paul and John who’d just got married, and even though a few had had to decline, being busy with new babies or house moves or in-laws or any of the million and one crazy things that being in your thirties seemed to entail, lots of people had turned up anyway, and they had all ended up sticky and giggling and slightly sick, and decided Bonne Maman raspberry was simply the only way forward, until they could afford to make their own. It had taken a while to get all the stickiness off the wall tiles, but it was so much fun they’d decided to have a proper opening party, to test everything out and say thank you to everyone who’d helped so much so far.

  Everywhere was spotless, breathlessly spick and span; inspected, ticked off, registered and ready for action. They were set to open at 7.30 the following morning; Issy hadn’t scheduled any marketing or promotion just yet. This was to be a ‘soft’ launch, a quiet week or so for them to find their feet and get into the rhythm of how the café would work. Issy kept repeating this to herself so she wouldn’t panic too much if nobody turned up at all.

  They would need another member of staff, a part-timer to cover coffee breaks and holidays. Issy was hoping they’d get someone nice and local – a young girl perhaps, or a student needing a few extra quid here and there, who didn’t mind working for the minimum wage and (she told herself off severely for even thinking this) was hopefully a bit more flexible and didn’t have to look after anyone else.

  The local state nursery, Little Teds, had found a place for Louis, which was amazing (Issy had perhaps told a very small lie on the form viz-à-viz Louis’s home address – c/o the Cupcake Café, but needs must). But the nursery didn’t open till 8.30, so he would have to come and have his breakfast in the café. Issy hoped he’d be happy with a few wooden toys she’d stashed behind the counter to distract customers’ children from eating all the sugar sachets, but they’d have to wait and see.

  And tonight, she was having a proper little party, a celebration to say thank you to everyone: to Pearl, for teaching her how to make coffee (she was still slightly afraid of the hissing steam pipe, but was learning); to Phil and Andreas, who’d done such a sterling job in the end; Des the estate agent and Mr Barstow the landlord; Helena, who’d chivvied delivery men and helped her with national insurance forms that had her climbing the wall in frustration; Austin, who’d patiently explained profit margins, portion control, tax accounts and depreciation to her, then explained them again when her eyes had glazed over, then explained them one more time just to check; Mrs Prescott, a slightly scary-looking local woman who did accounts for small businesses in her spare time and was clearly not someone to be trifled with. She and Austin had looked each other up and down with some understanding.

  ‘What do you think?’ Issy had asked Austin nervously afterwards.

  ‘Terrified the life out of me,’ said Austin. ‘I think she’s absolutely perfect. She makes me want to go and file paperwork.’

  ‘Good,’ said Issy. ‘What about Helena?’ She indicated the rather magnificent redhead who was laying into the builders one last time.

  ‘Very … stately,’ said Austin politely, thinking to himself that actually, with her cheeks all red from the ovens, and her soft black hair dishevelled and loosening itself from where it had been hastily tied back, and her black-fringed eyes, and her apron tied round her shapely form, the one he liked looking at in here was Issy herself. His professional client, he reminded himself sharply.

  Issy glanced around nervously. Spring had been such a long time in coming this year, till the point where she’d thought it might simply never happen. Then one day it had arrived, like an unexpected gift turning up in the post; suddenly, out of nowhere, and the sun looked down as if surprised to still see people there, and people looked up as if surprised to be looking beyond the ends of their noses for the first time in months. Colour was gradually seeping back into the world, and on this late March evening soft light filtered through the plate-glass window, illuminating in shafts the gentle colours and restful tones of the Pear Tree Court café. Zac, her old friend, an out-of-work graphic designer, had painstakingly picked out ‘The Cupcake Café’ in white swirly lower-case letters on the grey-brown frontage and it looked beautiful; pretty, but still understated. Sometimes, when she woke too early in the morning, Issy wondered if they weren’t being a bit
too understated. Then she remembered the look on people’s faces when they ate the Bakewell tart her grandfather had taught her to make and bit her lip. Would good ingredients and free-range eggs and good coffee be enough? (She and Pearl and Austin, who had happened to pop by that afternoon, had had a coffee-tasting session with all the wholesaler’s samples. After four espressos they’d got all wide-eyed and bouncy and a touch hysterical but in the end had settled on two blends, a mellow Kailua Kona, an all-rounder coffee, and a stronger Selva Negra, for those who needed a bit of a pick-me-up in the morning, plus a sweet decaf for pregnant mothers and people who didn’t really like coffee, just the smell.) Would they cover their rent and the power bills? Would she ever make a living wage? Could she ever stop worrying?

  She phoned the home again. Were they ready?

  At his desk at Kalinga Deniki, over in EC2, Graeme was puzzled. This wasn’t really what he’d expected at all, but he hadn’t heard once from Issy. Presumably her business hadn’t failed yet. Or maybe it had, and she couldn’t bear to break it to him. Well, she would, she would. He idly remembered last Saturday night, when he’d picked up a really fit blonde in a nightclub. She had spent the whole night explaining to him the concept of body brushing and why Christina Aguilera was, like, a totally incredible role model. By the morning, when she’d asked him for a carrot smoothie, babe, he was desperate to get her out of the apartment. This wasn’t like him at all.

  Anyway, he had to concentrate. Work was still down, and he needed something juicy – a really big project – to impress the bosses back in the Netherlands. Something cool and cutting edge and funky, something that would attract high-net-worth buyers just like himself, something with all mod cons. He gazed at his map of London, bristling with pins to mark his current developments. His eye idly traced up from Farringdon to the Old Street roundabout, up through Islington and on to Albion Road, diverting into the tiny, barely legible Pear Tree Court. He could, he supposed, take a look at it.

  Issy smoothed down her new dress, which had tiny sprigged flowers on it. What she’d started off feeling was terribly twee, like she was an extra from some American set show about housewives in the fifties, had suddenly come into vogue, and everyone was wearing floral prints with tight waists and little skirts sticking out. She felt slightly better knowing she was on trend, and after all, what was she doing but baking cupcakes? The florals felt right somehow, like their dainty little aprons and the faded Union Jack pillows, Scotchgarded to death of course, that she’d bought to go on the new grey sofa they’d put along the far end of the shop; the sofa was a lovely thing, as hardwearing as they came but as soft and old and homey-looking as a sofa could be.

  It was a sofa for curling up on; for children to climb, or couples to perch on. You could watch the shop in motion, or the quiet courtyard outside. Issy was delighted with it.

  So that was the back wall, with the sofa underneath a large station clock. On the right was the fireplace, with books above, and then several small tables for two, with mismatched pale grey chairs set at companionable angles. The tables themselves were square; Issy had a hatred of wobbly round tables that hardly held anything. The room opened up as you got closer to the counter – obviously once it had been two rooms, and the outline of the dividing wall remained. Closer to the counter the tables weren’t so close together, so you could get a buggy in and people could (hopefully) queue, although it was still quite cramped. Cosy, that’s what she meant, cosy. There was one long table near that room’s fireplace, for larger groups, with a large, faded pink armchair at its head. At a push you could have a board meeting there.

  The counter was lovely, curved, shining and spotless, with a polished marble top and cake trays stacked high, ready to be filled the following morning. The small-paned windows on this side of the shop were balanced out by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the sofa section, which meant that when it got sunny, they’d be flooded with light. The coffee machine behind the counter, next to the door to the cellar, bubbled and hissed rather erratically, and the smell of fresh cakes filled the air.

  Issy moved through the shop, saying hello to Mr Hibbs, the crusty fire officer, who was eyeing the doorway just in case he’d forgotten where it was, and to the salesman from the kitchen shop, whose name was Norrie, who had been delighted when his young client who’d bought the pink kitchen had returned to buy an industrial oven, although she’d driven just as tough a bargain as before. (Issy couldn’t believe how much she loved that oven. She’d taken a picture of it and sent it to her grandfather.) Norrie had brought his plump wife and they were absolutely adoring the little cakes and pies piled around the room for them to sample. Austin’s secretary Janet was there too, pink and pleased. ‘I never get to really see what the bank is doing,’ she confided to Issy. ‘It feels like just pushing paper around sometimes. It’s so lovely to see something real happening.’ She squeezed Issy’s arm and Issy made a mental note not to give her any more of the cheap but tasty sparkling wine Pearl had sourced. ‘Not just real. Good. Something good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Issy, genuinely gratified, and went on filling people’s glasses, keeping her eye on the door. And sure enough, at six o’clock, close to his bedtime, as he’d pointed out several times, when the last rays of sun were hitting the close, a car backed up, completely illegally, into the close and a large wheelchair-friendly door pinged open at the back. Keavie jumped down from the front seat to attend to it and out came Grampa Joe.

  Issy and Helena rushed to open the door, but Gramps indicated that he didn’t want to come in just yet. Instead, he halted the chair in front of the shop. Issy worried about the cold getting to his chest, then watched Keavie tuck him in with a warm tartan blanket that had obviously been ready in the car. He stared at the shop frontage for a long time, his blue eyes turning a little watery in the cold. Well, Issy thought it was the cold.

  ‘What do you think, Gramps?’ she said, going out and kneeling down to take his hand. He stared at the delicately painted frontage; in at the softly lit, cosy-looking interior, where you could see the counter with beautiful, ornate cake stands loaded with delicacies and the coffee machine steaming happily; up at the old-fashioned script above the door. He turned his face to his granddaughter.

  ‘It’s … it’s … I wish your grandmother were here to see it.’

  Issy grabbed his hand tight. ‘Come in and have a cake.’

  ‘I would love to,’ he said. ‘And send some nice ladies to talk to me. Keavie’s all right, but she’s a bit plump.’

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Keavie, not in the least bit insulted, and already with a cupcake in her hand and a steaming latte.

  ‘Of course, I’m waiting for you, my dear,’ he said to Helena, who had bestowed a kiss on his cheek as he was wheeled inside. Issy put his chair next to the gas fire that looked real and danced merrily in the original tiled fireplace.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Gramps, gazing around him. ‘Well, well, well. Issy, this French cake needs a pinch of salt.’

  Issy stared at him in affectionate irritation.

  ‘I know! We forgot to get salt in this morning. Why are you even in this place? There’s nothing wrong with you.’

  Austin glanced around for Darny to make sure he wasn’t creating mischief somewhere. Seeing other people’s happy families – he knew nothing of Issy’s, of course – always made him a little forlorn. To his surprise, he found Darny sitting with a fat little two-year-old, teaching him how to toss stones. The two-year-old, unsurprisingly, was terrible at it, but seemed to be having a great time.

  ‘No gambling!’ warned Austin.

  There was just one important last piece of the puzzle, hot off the press, that they were still waiting for. Work had picked up, so he was running a little late with it, but any moment now he would—

  Zac burst through the door with two large boxes in his hands.

  ‘They’re here!’

  There was a flurry as everyone bustled around to look. Then they stepped back to let
Issy open them.

  ‘Hmm, let’s see,’ Zac had said. ‘I do worry about you. But I can get things printed.’

  Issy tore through the plastic wrappings. Agonized over, endlessly reworked and reworded, tested over and over again, sweated over … and here it was. From out of the fresh, sharp, inky-scented box, slowly, reverently, Issy withdrew her first menu.

  It was in the same soft pastels, with eau de Nil and white predominating, as the exterior. Zac had designed an exquisite tracery of pear tree blossom running up the side, like an art deco border. The lettering looked hand-printed and friendly, and was easy to read, and it was made of stiff card – easily replaceable, easily changeable, without having that horrid shiny plastic laminate to wipe off spills.

  The Cupcake Café

  Menu

  Fresh vanilla and lemon-cream cupcakes,

  with candied lemon rind and edible silver garnish

  Red velvet cupcake, with a honey and buttermilk icing

  English strawberry cupcake with sugar-spun pansies

  Muscadet grape macaroons with parma violet crème

  Caramel 70% dark Yves Thuriès chocolate muffins

  with slow-roasted hazelnuts

  Sampler plate

  (one tiny slice of each – you know you want to)

  Coffees of the Day

  Kailua-Kona slow roast – mild and sweet,

  from the volcanic slopes of Hawaii

  Selva Negra – tangy with a medium body,

  from Nicaragua

  Babycino

  Teas of the Day

  Rose Petal Black

  French Verveine