by Jenny Colgan
Caroline choked and indicated her trouser zip. She was wearing a pair of very closely draped cigarette pants, clearly expensive. The zip, however, had burst and pulled off a button at the top to boot.
‘Look!’ she wailed. ‘Look at this!’
Pearl squinted and examined it.
‘You’ve bust the zip … Are you scarfing ginger cookies in secret when we’re not looking?’
‘No!’ said Caroline emphatically. ‘No, definitely not. It caught on a door.’
‘If you say so,’ said Pearl, who found Caroline’s obsession with self-denial quite amusing. ‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘These are D&G Cruise 10,’ said Caroline, a sentence which meant absolutely nothing to Pearl. ‘I … I mean, they cost hundreds of pounds.’
Pearl thought she could easily get a pair down Primark for a tenner, but didn’t say.
‘And I won’t … I won’t be able to buy any more now. That’s it for me. The Bastard says he’s not paying for my lifestyle.’ Her voice tailed away in sobs.
‘I’m going to have to wear … high street.’ Caroline’s sobs grew louder. ‘And colour my own hair!’
She dropped her head in her hands.
Pearl couldn’t see the problem. ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. You know what they say, as long as you have a roof over your head and enough to eat …’
‘I never have enough to eat,’ said Caroline defiantly.
‘Let me take a look at it,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s only a busted zip. Can’t you fix it in your Stitch ’n’ Bitch?’
‘Ha!’ laughed Caroline. ‘No. That’s just for patchwork and gossip, not real sewing.’
‘Well, I can fix it for you,’ said Pearl. Caroline blinked her wide blue eyes.
‘Really? You’d do that for me?’
‘What would you do otherwise?’
Caroline shrugged. ‘I suppose … just buy another pair. In the old days. Of course I’d give them to the charity shop.’
‘Of course you would,’ said Pearl, shaking her head. Hundreds of pounds for a pair of trousers, thrown out because of a zip. The world made no sense.
The doorbell rang and Doti the postman came in, with his normal hopeful smile.
‘Hello, ladies,’ he said politely. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Caroline is out of her trousers,’ said Pearl, unable to help herself.
‘Oh good,’ said Doti.
‘Why is that good?’ spluttered Caroline.
‘You need a bit of meat on your bones,’ said Doti. ‘Skinny women look … sad. You should eat some of these delicious cakes.’
Caroline rolled her eyes. ‘I do not look sad. Does Cheryl Cole look sad? Does Jennifer Aniston look sad?’
‘Yes’ said Pearl.
‘I don’t know who they are,’ said Doti.
‘I look in shape, that’s all.’
‘Well, you look nice,’ said Doti.
‘Thank you,’ said Caroline. ‘Although I’m not sure about taking fashion advice from a postman.’
‘We postmen don’t miss much,’ said Doti, completely unoffended and putting their few letters down on the counter, as Pearl simultaneously handed him an espresso. They smiled at one another.
‘You, on the other hand,’ said Doti, necking his espresso as if to give himself courage. ‘You look beautiful.’
Pearl smiled and said thank you as Doti left, and Caroline’s mouth fell open.
‘What?’ said Pearl, still pleased enough by Doti’s compliment not to be too bothered by Caroline’s unflattering amazement. ‘You don’t think he meant it?’
Caroline looked her up and down, taking in, Pearl knew, her rounded hips, her large bosom, the curve of her back and her hips.
‘No,’ she said, in a humbler voice than Pearl had ever heard before. ‘No. You are beautiful. It’s my fault. I didn’t even notice. I don’t,’ she added, her voice becoming more mournful, ‘I don’t always notice much.’
So Pearl took Caroline’s trousers home and replaced the zip, and the button, and turned up a trailing hem and was slightly disappointed, actually, at the quality of the rest of the sewing on trousers that cost hundreds of pounds, and Caroline was so genuinely grateful she wore them twice in a week, which was a record for her wearing anything, and didn’t pick Louis up on his pronunciation for almost four full days, until he said ‘innit’ and she absolutely couldn’t help herself.
Chapter Fourteen
Best Birthday Cake Ever
4 oz Breton soft butter, first churn
8 oz white caster sugar, sifted
4 large fresh free-range eggs, beaten
6 oz self-raising flour
6 oz plain flour
1 cup fresh milk
1 tsp vanilla essence
Icing
4 oz Breton soft butter, first churn
16 oz icing sugar
1 tsp vanilla essence
2 oz milk
2 tsp essence of roses
Grease three small cake pans. Cream the butter until as smooth as a child’s cheek.
Add sugar very gradually. No dumping like you normally do, Isabel. This has to be fluffy; properly fluffy. Add a grain at a time through the whisk.
Add the eggs slowly. Beat well at all times.
Mix the sifted flours and add a little milk and vanilla; then some flour, then some milk and vanilla and so on. Do not rush. This is your birthday cake for you, and you are very special. You deserve a little time.
Bake for 20 minutes at 350°F/gas mark 4.
For the icing, add half the icing sugar to the butter. Add milk, vanilla and essence of roses. Beat thoroughly, adding sugar till the icing reaches the desired consistency.
Ice layers and top of cake.
Add candles. Not too many. Add friends. As many as you can.
Blow candles out while making a happy wish. Do not tell anyone a) your wish, b) your recipe. Some things, like you, are special, my darling.
Love, Gramps
Issy put the birthday card up in the window. The sun came through the shop so strongly on 21 June, Issy felt herself turn almost pink and wondered if you could get a suntan through glass. It was, undoubtedly, the only way she’d get a suntan this year.
‘It’s burst into summer without me noticing,’ she said.
‘Hmm,’ said Pearl. ‘I always notice. I hate weather where I can’t wear tights. My wobbly bits don’t know what they’re doing and start moving in different directions. I hope we get another freezing summer.’
‘Oh no you don’t!’ said Issy in dismay. ‘We want to be outside, all our clients sitting about for ages. It’s a shame we can’t get a licence.’
‘Drunks as well as sugar addicts,’ said Pearl. ‘Hmm. Anyway, it wouldn’t be right.’ She indicated a table by the window, currently occupied by four old men.
‘Oh yes!’ giggled Issy. It had been the oddest thing. One day two old men had trudged in the door, quite late in the day. They had looked, frankly, a bit like drunken tramps. They already had a local tramp, Berlioz, who came by most days for a couple of bits and bobs to eat and a cup of tea when it was quiet (Pearl also let him empty the RSPB charity tin by the till, but Issy didn’t know about that and Pearl had justified it to her pastor and they had decided to keep quiet about it), but these chaps were something new.
One came shuffling up.
‘Um, two coffees, please,’ he asked in a croaky, cigarette-ruined voice.
‘Of course,’ Issy had said. ‘Do you want anything with them?’
The man had dragged out a brand new ten-pound note and Austin’s card had fallen out too.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Oh, but we’re to tell you Austin sent us.’
Issy squinted for a minute, then remembered. They were the all-day drinkers from the pub Austin had taken her to.
‘Oh!’ she said in surprise. She had been avoiding Austin completely; she was still embarrassed about having thought he was interested in her rather than just her business, and
things were going so much better there was no reason for the bank to complain. She did think of him sometimes though, wondering how Darny was doing. She hadn’t used the dinosaur moulds yet. And she wasn’t sure about her new customers.
But from that day on, they came in three times a week, gradually joined by more furtive-looking characters. One day, cleaning up around them, Pearl had realized they were holding an informal AA-type meeting. Issy, shaking her head, wondered how Austin had managed to persuade them to do that. And made a vow not to walk past that pub again. She suspected the landlord wouldn’t be terribly pleased. That made about five places she didn’t dare walk round. In fact, had she only known, people who now came to Stoke Newington to buy cupcakes often wandered up to the other shops and cafés on the high street too. And the landlord was delighted to get rid of all his old soaks; he had installed wifi, opened up the windows and was doing a roaring trade in hearty breakfasts and tea for a pound; punters were much happier sitting in a light, toast-scented room that wasn’t haunted by the wrecks of early morning drinkers. But Issy kept out of their way nonetheless.
‘Longest day, longest day of the year,’ one of the old men was singing. The others laughed heartily and told him to pipe down on the rude old rhyme.
‘Is that the date?’ said Issy suddenly, checking her watch. Once they’d got past the financial year-end deadline, she’d slightly lost track of the days; now, finally, the Cupcake Café seemed to be on a reasonably even keel and earning its keep. It looked like, mortgage money aside, there was a possibility that she could start drawing a salary from it. Which was kind of ironic, Issy thought, seeing as she’d been so all-focused on the shop that she hadn’t actually done any shopping for herself in months. And anything she wore was covered in an apron all day, so it scarcely mattered. She really ought to get her roots done though, she thought, catching sight of herself in the mirrored edges of the cake cabinet. Ten years ago, having slightly messed-up, different coloured hair was kind of sexy and cute and beach style. Now, she risked looking like an old crazy person. She scrumpled up her face in the distorted mirror. Where did that furrow between her brows come from? Did she always have it? That expression she caught sometimes, of a woman with too many things in her brain, always one step behind. She smoothed it out with her fingertips, but the faint lines it had left were still there; perturbed at them, she watched her face go into exactly the same expression as before. She sighed.
‘What’s up?’ said Pearl, who was cutting out templates for the cappuccino chocolate. She didn’t know why customers liked little flowers on top of their foam so much, but they did, and she was happy to oblige.
‘Hm. Nothing,’ said Issy. ‘It’s … it’s my birthday coming up, that’s all.’
‘Oh, a big one?’ said Pearl.
Issy looked at her. Did she mean thirty? Or forty?
‘How old do you think I am?’ she asked.
Pearl sighed. ‘I can’t answer that question. I can never tell how old people are. Sorry. I’d just get it wrong and insult you.’
‘Unless you aimed really low,’ said Issy.
‘Well, that would be insulting too, wouldn’t it? If you thought I had to say you were twenty-eight just to flatter you.’
‘So I can’t pass for twenty-eight?’ said Issy sadly. Pearl threw up her hands.
‘What do I need to do to get out of this conversation?’
Issy sighed. Pearl glanced at her. Wasn’t like Issy to be down.
‘What?’
Issy shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just … Well, you know. It’s my birthday. On Thursday in fact. It’s just … it must have crept up on me. Normally I never forget my birthday.’
Issy called Helena.
‘Uh, Lena. You know Thursday is my birthday?’
There was a pause.
‘Oh Issy, that’s three days away!’
‘Yes, I know. I, er, forgot.’
‘You’re in denial, more like.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Shut up.’
‘OK, well, will we do something on the weekend? I’m on night shift Thursday and I’ve already swapped once, I can’t do it again. I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Issy, feeling dejected.
‘Want to do something on Sunday? Ashok’s off too.’
‘The weather might be gone by Sunday,’ said Issy, conscious she sounded like she was moaning. Plus, what was she expecting? She’d been ignoring her friends pretty much solidly for months while she got the shop up and running; she could hardly complain now that they wouldn’t drop everything at a second’s notice to celebrate her special day when she couldn’t even remember to send cards for their first babies or house moves.
She was a little sharper than usual in saying no to Felipe when he came in politely, as he did once a week, to ask her if he could serenade her customers on the violin. She knew Stoke Newington was bohemian and a bit exotic, but she still wasn’t entirely convinced as to the wisdom of having a wandering troubadour getting into people’s faces when they were trying to enjoy a quiet cake and the paper. Felipe never seemed remotely insulted or perturbed, merely spinning a few notes and moving on, tipping his black hat as he went.
‘Sometimes,’ said Pearl, watching him depart, his cheery dog at his heels, ‘I think this is a very peculiar neighbourhood. And you should see where I come from.’
The sun was still shining on Thursday morning, that was one good thing. Issy swallowed: she couldn’t help thinking back to a year ago. They’d all gone out to the pub after work to cele brate her birthday and it had been a total laugh: she and Graeme had kept pretending to sneak out for a cigarette, though neither of them smoked, then snogging up the alleyway like teenagers. It wasn’t like Graeme to be so romantic and demonstrative, not like him at all. It had been an amazing evening. She’d been so happy with the idea of being swept off her feet by the boss, full of plans, she remembered. She’d thought … she’d thought there might even be a ring by this year. That seemed absolutely ridiculous now. Stupid. He certainly wouldn’t be thinking about it now, that was for sure.
She knew when Graeme’s birthday was: 17 September. She’d signed his office card like everyone else but liked to think she’d put special meaning into the line of kisses she’d written underneath his name; or at least that he would understand what they meant. He was a Virgo, with finicky habits and a perfectionist streak; all of that made perfect sense to Issy too. She liked to check his horoscope; it made her feel protective, like it gave her ownership. But of course he’d never have remembered hers. Anyway, he’d even told her once that he thought girls were idiots when it came to presents and stuff like that. He wouldn’t have cared even if they had still been together. She sighed.
In fact she was suddenly wishing she’d never mentioned the birthday thing to anyone, just completely ignored it. It was embarrassing in front of Helena and Ashok, like they were her only friends; and a horrid reminder that, however hard she worked, and whatever new face creams she bought, and the fact that she still shopped in Topshop, nonetheless, time was ticking away. She bit her lip. No. She wouldn’t think like that. Thirty-two was nothing. Nothing at all. Helena wasn’t the least bit worried about her age, and she’d been thirty-three for ages. Just because some of her friends were insisting on flaunting big bumps all over the place, just because all those yummy Stoke Newington mummies didn’t seem any older than her when they hung out with their precious little Olivias and Finns. So what? She was definitely getting her life sorted; she was definitely in a better place than she’d been a year ago; she had a proper job. At least the Cupcake Café made her happy. The phone rang. For a tiny, fluttery second, she found herself wondering if it was Graeme.
‘Hello?’ said an old voice, a little crackly down the line. ‘Hello?’
Issy smiled to herself. ‘Gramps!’
‘Are you going to have a lovely day, darling?’ came her grandfather’s voice. It sounded weaker than of late; breathier, as if he was getting lighter and lighter; untethe
ring himself.
Issy remembered birthdays above the bakery. Grampa would make her a special, huge cake, far too big for herself and the handful of friends who would visit her house and ask where her mother was, or, if her mother was there, ask why her mother was wearing twigs in her hair, and sitting very quietly with her legs crossed, one mortifying year when Issy turned nine and her mother was deep into transcendental meditation and had told Issy if she practised hard enough, she could learn how to fly.
But mostly they were good memories: the pink icing, the candles, the lights dimmed, Gramps’s full table of goodies – no wonder she had been such a plump child – and everyone in the bakery popping their heads round the door to say happy birthday, warned as they had been in advance by her proud grandfather. There had been plenty of gifts – not big gifts, just felt-tip pens and notebooks and bits and pieces, but she had felt like a princess and rich with it all. If someone had told her then it was entirely possible to feel lonely on your birthday, she wouldn’t have believed them. But she did.
Issy took a deep breath.
‘Yes,’ she lied, stoutly. ‘I’m having a big party with all my friends in a lovely restaurant; we’re going out for a meal and they’ve all clubbed together to buy me a fantastic present.’ She tried not to let a wobble escape into her voice. That she would go to work, open up, bake, serve customers, cash up, lock up, come home, eat carrot soup, watch TV and go to bed. Oh no … She heard a knock at the door and knew instantly that it was the Parcelforce man, delivering her annual box of Californian wine from her mother. Well, that was even worse. She would drink some wine then go to bed, thus ensuring herself a hangover as well as everything else.
