by Sue Watson
Sue Watson
COPYRIGHT
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Rickshaw Publishing Ltd, 102 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 9PL
Copyright © Sue Watson 2011
The right of Sue Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Cover designed by Richard Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Rickshaw Publishing.
www.rickshawpublishing.co.uk
Acknowledgements
I have lots of lovely family and friends who have supported me on this novel-writing journey and I’m grateful to them all – but I would like to say thank you to those who played a special part in the writing of this book.
To my teacher, friend and fellow writer Sue Johnson, thanks for spotting a tiny spark and encouraging me to light it. Thank you to everyone at Rickshaw for taking a chance on me, in particular my wonderful and talented editor, Jo Doyle, who guided me wisely and killed my ‘darlings’ with kindness – and strong editorial anaesthetic.
I am deeply indebted to Alastair Bell for his absolute fabulousness, overflowing font of TV and celebrity trivia and his profound knowledge of Gay Swimming.
Thanks to my great writing buddy and inspiration Jackie Dietrich and to Vanessa Jackson for her wise counsel and true friendship. Liz Cox also deserves a mention for her divine turn of phrase as does my dearest friend Lesley Mcloughlin who stayed up until 3am to help me with the ending over several bottles of red.
Thanks to Sir Terry Wogan for those Thursday afternoons at Clivedon making work seem like fun and for telling me I could write comedy. Love and thanks to my friends Nadia Sawalha and Sue Robinson for encouraging me to take the plunge on a hot afternoon in Hoxton and to Linda Robson, for sharing hilarious TV tales and wonderful advice.
A special thank you to James Martin for all the ‘cake porn,’ and the best chocolate mousse I ever tasted. And to Colin Mcallister and Justin Ryan – thanks for all the fun and fabulousness – and yes, you two still blow my frock up!
The ladies of The Bodacious Book Club, The Worcestershire Wags and my friends at the BBC have all in their own special way contributed to this book. I enjoy and appreciate their friendship, encouragement and funny stories (some of which I have stolen shamelessly and included in this book).
Thanks to Nick Watson for his love and support and for making it possible for me to abandon the real world and write every day – I’m so lucky to have him in my life.
Finally, a special kiss for Eve Watson who always makes me feel like a star whatever I do, with those three little words, “well done mum!”
Contents
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE - Sex in the Dark
1 - Chunky Kit Kats and Leafy Lunches
2 - Jam Doughnuts and Jewelled Tiaras
3 - Sex-fuelled Romps and Revolting Vicars
4 - A Rainy Night in Rochdale
5 - Trouble in Paradise
6 - Showtime!
7 - Family Fun Day
8 - Lesbian Lust and Lemon Curd
9 - Perfectly Peachy
10 - Cake Volcanoes and Marital Eruptions
11 - Hawaiian Heaven in Suburban Hell
12 - Mum, Mountains and Midnight Blue Lace
13 - Lost in Translation
14 - Noisy Cocks and Strappy Nighties
15 - Bowling a Maiden Over
16 - Low Flying Turkey and Twisted Tarts
17 - Pinot and Pole Dancing
18 - Fat Brides and Fairy Cakes
19 - Social Paralysis in an Incomprehensible Universe – or ‘Holiday’
20 - Cocktails and Cannons
21 - Brazilian Boys and Baking Blues
22 - Life Changing Phone Calls
23 - Fatal Attraction
24 - The Doctor, the Damsel and the Date
25 - You’re Never Alone with a Box of Coffee Creams
26 - Hard Macaroons and Wobbly Handbags
27 - Naked Fairy Cakes and Flouncing Fashion Queens
28 - Nude Espresso and Sizzling Pheromones
29 - Strictly Cupcakes
30 - Barry’s Smokin’ Barbie
31 - Dinner at Nando’s not Breakfast at Tiffany’s
32 - Panic on the Streets of Worcester
33 - Spangled Salsa and Chocolate Cha-Cha
34 - Love and Worry
35 - Dave’s Dirty Dancing
36 - Starlets, Twiglets and Lizzie’s Revenge
EPILOGUE - Wedding Cake and Wishes
Cake Fairy Recipes!
About the Author
This is for my Mum, who told me
to look for the lace in the trees
PROLOGUE - Sex in the Dark
“I need sex every day, luv,” said Denise, the vicar’s wife. I tried to stay calm and focus on the view of Rochdale by night. Las Vegas it wasn’t, but the little clusters of starry lights peeping through the driving rain were a comfort and made me think of people safe in their homes; I wished I was. “I have a very high sex drive you see,” Denise continued. The ‘high’ and ‘sex’ were mouthed exaggeratedly, almost soundlessly, as if to accentuate the enormity of it.
It was July, it was late evening and I was standing under a large umbrella in a vicarage garden in Lancashire with a wife of the cloth who, it seemed, had abandoned scones and sermons for sex. Her breath mingled with steam from the greenish tea she clutched to her bosom as she chatted. Sporting a disturbingly transparent crocheted dress, Denise did nothing to conceal a carnal desire for her fifteen minutes of fame. The phallic jewellery and sparkly heels were bizarre, but the TV-producer part of me knew they’d be great on camera. Not your stereotypical vicar’s wife, Denise wore a shock of pink hair and a vivid storyboard of tattoos telling of a life well-lived – and loved. “My Bernie’s a once-a-month missionary man,” she hissed at me in the darkness, referring to her husband, the vicar. “It’s not enough for me. I have a big appetite – and it’s led me to seek pastures new, you see.”
I kept a permanently fixed smile on my face as she continued. “It took me a while to settle down at the vicarage, but I’m happy now I’ve found a group of ‘like-minded’ folk.” She paused and winked elaborately at me. I suddenly felt a bit panicky. Was she looking for some kind of sign? Did she think I was ‘like-minded-folk’? I shivered and looked away as she pulled hard on the herbal tea from her chipped mug, on which was printed, rather reassuringly, ‘God Will Forgive’. I do hope so Denise, I thought.
Claiming to be 52 (but I’d add five), Denise filled me in on her colourful past of banning the bomb, piercing her nipples and catching crabs on an apparently ‘long, hot Summer of Love’.
“Mmm, sounds idyllic,” I said, desperately trying to walk away, hoping she wouldn’t feel the need to elaborate (and also hoping that the catching crabs comment referred to the innocent summer pursuit of fishing in rock pools for crustaceans).
“Don’t be fooled Stella, in remote villages…people get lonely,” she added ominously.
“Oh, surely not this lovely village with its friendly community?” I asked, in what I hoped was my grown-up TV producer’s voice. “This place is picturesque.” It’s on shortbread tins at Christmas, for God’s sake! I was horrified (if perhaps also a teensy bit intrigued) at the idea that orgiastic activity was nestling in the grey Victorian stonework, tea shops and cobbled streets.
“Oh, this village is very, very fr
iendly Stel. In fact, only last week I was walking through the village and felt a firm hand on my…” she began with a knowing smile.
“Gosh Denise, what a lovely shade of nail varnish!” I tried, desperate to change the subject, grabbing her hand and admiring the witchy, black talons.
“Sex in the dark, Stella…” she was off again.
“Denise, I was talking about the nail varnish.”
“So was I,” she answered, bemused. “It’s the name on the bottle, look, ‘Sex in the Dark’, they do a matching lipstick too. I’ve got it here somewhere…”
As she fumbled around in her tiny sequined bag for ‘Sex in the Dark’, I gathered myself together and took a good sidelong look at her through the steam and hot breath. I found myself mesmerised by the twists and turns of the now-damp crocheted dress. Then suddenly, like one of those Magic Eye pictures we all once loved, the truth emerged. In 3D, I began to see Denise in all her glory and looked away in horror. I was about to put this lady on TV in front of millions of people, and this vicar’s wife wasn’t wearing any knickers.
1 - Chunky Kit Kats and Leafy Lunches
2 weeks earlier…
It was five past nine when I finally flung myself through the door of the glass-fronted office building in downtown Birmingham on that fated Monday morning in June. As I sprinted to my desk I could see my boss Mary-Jane Robinson, or MJ as she liked to be called, loitering by the coffee machine watching me all the way with a twisted smile. Clad in a tight, black pencil skirt and a pristine white blouse, MJ’s taut, wiry frame hinted strongly at self denial and leaf-only lunches. Unhappy and unfulfilled she may be, but I had to hand it to her, her legs looked good in those killer heels.
“Morning, MJ!” I called with fake cheerfulness as I landed at my desk, deliberately taking a huge bite of buttery croissant and slurping my cappuccino.
“Oh, hello Stella,” she said slowly as she passed my desk and ascended the stairs that led to the upper level, where her office was situated. At Media World, the space was open plan and the TV executives were positioned on balconies above, from which lofty positions they could see everyone and make note of any battery hen that strayed from its pen.
MJ paused on the balcony outside her office for a moment, sweeping her eyes across the floor below. “Diet Coke!” she barked at her assistant and catching my eye, she gave me a nasty sneer, marched into her office and slammed the door.
The sneer slightly unnerved me but I quickly logged on to my computer, absently removing a collection of crisp packets and chocolate wrappings from the keyboard and thinking that the diet would definitely start now.
“Morning Stel,” said Valerie, the producer of I ♥ the Countryside, “I see the bitch queen was watching your entrance with her usual venom.”
“Hi Val,” I said. “Yeah, she was probably wishing she had my fabulous curvy body. I’m only a few minutes late, for God’s sake.” Val smiled.
“Why is it the execs only seem to notice when you arrive late, never when you leave late?” Val said. “I mean, what time were you here till on Friday, in the end?”
“Midnight,” I said with a scowl.
“Wow – that’s dedication to duty!”
“Not really. MJ decided that for some reason best known to her, she needed the pilot for Forgotten Families biked to her flat before today. “Sometimes I think she only does it to make my life harder.” I sighed.
“Well I know that everyone involved thinks it’s great – just don’t let her take all the credit.”
“Thanks Val. I just wish the filming could have been a bit nearer home, I think the title says it all!” I said.
Forgotten Families was a new series I was producing for the daytime TV audience. It involved people being reunited with family members they’d never met before due to adoption, emigration or divorce – think Surprise, Surprise on a daytime budget with a genetic twist.
I pulled out my file for the programme, full of dates, case studies and format ideas and began to get to work. I knew MJ had probably seen the programme by now and that feedback was on the way. Even though I knew it was good, the thought of what she might say almost put me off my mid-morning snack of a chunky Kit Kat and a small iced bun…but not quite – a girl needs to keep her energy levels high; it’s all about metabolism. Unwrapping the Kit Kat and biting into the solid chocolate coating that yielded to thick, crispy wafer crunch I wondered for the hundredth time how one person could have this effect on me. Over the years, childless, husbandless MJ had cultivated special venom for her own personal antichrist: mothers trying to hold down a career. This venom was directed at all mothers working at Media World but I was special and invited extra-poisonous doses.
Once upon a time (in a land far away) I was deemed to be a high-flyer at Media World with the owner of the company, Frank Moores, saying he loved my creativity and even offering me an executive producer position. Of course I was very flattered and considered it carefully, but I eventually turned it down because it would have meant even longer hours and being away from my daughter Grace and husband Tom. Meanwhile, MJ was snapping at my heels, spending a lot of time around Frank, arriving early, working late and appearing to be very efficient. It was therefore no surprise that soon after I turned the job down, it was given to MJ. I guess it must have seemed like a bit of a hollow victory for her and ever since then she’d seen me as a threat and never missed an opportunity to lash out and knock my ideas or the work I was doing. If she could do this in a public arena, I reckon she gave herself extra points. At first this was just annoying but over the years as she rose through the ranks this became more and more of a problem for me. I wiped my sticky fingers – time was ticking on and I had work to do, so I pushed in a last mouthful of iced bun and with it pushed thoughts of MJ to the back of my mind and got down to business.
I was so consumed by budgets, press plans, facts and figures that time – and several more tasty titbits – slipped past without me noticing. Suddenly I looked up and the clock on my computer said 5pm. I was just thinking about packing up and wondering why MJ hadn’t commented on the programme yet when an email pinged through to my computer.
Stella,
I have some feedback for you. Meet at my desk at 6pm.
MJ
Bitch! 6pm was exactly when After School Club closed, as she well knew. My eight-year old daughter already spent more time at the club than I would have liked and now it looked like she’d be the last kid at the gates – again. My stomach lurched and I felt sick. If I could capture that feeling and bottle it I could make a fortune from slimmers all over the world. I swear if someone had offered me a Flake (even a dipped one) I couldn’t have eaten it.
I pulled out my mobile and frantically called Tom but his phone was switched off. I felt a flicker of annoyance as his voicemail clicked in.
“Tom, it’s me. I need you to collect Grace, something’s come up at work. Call me,” I said, crossly. I shut the phone and checked my watch. The meeting with MJ was in 55 minutes which would give Tom enough time to get back from the studio and pick Grace up, presuming he got my message in time. Why was the damn phone off?
I tried not to waste time worrying and began pulling everything together for my meeting with MJ. As I looked through the documents I felt my confidence surge; this was a good programme, and even MJ would have to see that. I smiled and allowed myself to daydream about actually getting a compliment from her. I was feeling quite good until I realised that 40 minutes had slipped by without me noticing and Tom still hadn’t called me back about Grace. Then to my horror, a hurried early-morning conversation floated out of my subconscious and danced before my eyes. Tom was on location; he was a cameraman and was filming on a late shoot. Christ! What was I going to do about Grace?
I glanced up from behind my computer to see MJ’s skeletal form seated above. Her hard, dry meanness seemed to emanate from the balcony, stretching toward me like long, bony witch fingers. I made some hurried calls to some of Grace’s friends’ mums.
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“Hello Lara, it’s Stella Weston here. We met once at the school’s Bring-and-Buy Sale, I’m Grace’s mum. I’m so sorry to have to ask, but…” and I explained my predicament.
“Oh I’m sorry, Stella,” said Lara. “Katie’s going to Brownies and we’re about to leave. Hope you can find someone to help! Bye!” I felt another wave of guilt; Brownies was just one of the things Grace couldn’t do because she was always at After School Club.
I made another couple of frantic calls, all the time watching MJ casually slurping Diet Coke, laughing with executive colleagues, watching a bit of TV and picking at a miniscule sandwich. If I wasn’t so upset, I’d have been furious. She obviously had nothing to do all afternoon and had put my meeting right at the end of the day just to cause the utmost disruption to my life. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to call her to say I couldn’t make 6pm because that’s exactly what she wanted me to do. That would prove that I couldn’t cope and give her more ammunition with which to take pot-shots at my career.
At 5.55pm, five minutes before Grace would be the only child left at the school gates and just as I was contemplating jumping in my car and driving like Jenson Button through the outskirts of Worcester, I got through to Emma Wilson. Grace was friends with her daughter Alice and I had her mobile number in my phone from some long-forgotten party or outing.
“Emma? Hi, it’s Stella Weston here. I am so, so sorry to ask but I’m desperate. Grace is at After School Club and I’m stuck at work. Is there any possibility you could save my life and pick her up?” I held my breath. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I hardly knew these people because I never had time to stand and chat at the school gate and here I was asking them to collect the most precious thing in my life.
