by Sue Watson
“Oh, I’m sorry, I…”
Mentioning the artist formerly known as Jordan had clearly upset her and as she turned her back I could see I needed to move, but had no escape. I didn’t know anyone there and Emma was busy being Mother-of-the-Birthday-Girl.
Just as I thought she was walking away, Sangita turned round to face me. “I may have work for you re cakes,” she announced. “My company is expanding and we have a developing project. I need to see figures first, do some number-crunching but I might be in touch.” With that, she swept across the kitchen, hugged Emma and with a rustle of silk and a clatter of chunky bracelets, she donned her pistachio-green pashmina and left.
In the end I charged Emma £60 for the cake. I know it didn’t exhibit great business credentials but I couldn’t ask for any more. It covered costs and as she was now a friend I couldn’t profit from her but when I arrived home after the party I noticed an envelope in one of my cake boxes. Inside was a thank-you card from Emma and Alice and enclosed was a cheque for £150. I smiled; maybe I could do this after all.
22 - Life Changing Phone Calls
A few days later things started to move – beginning with potentially-life-changing-phone-call number one. At about eleven o’clock in the morning I was busy making fresh gingerbread people for Grace’s school summer fête later in the day. I’d always enjoyed making these chubby, spicy little boy and girl biscuits but I found myself getting carried away imagining they were Tom and Bitch Rachel. Consequently, I ended up wasting a lot of dough because gingerbread men with mangled genitals and maimed faces didn’t go down too well with the strawberry cream-teas on the school lawn. The phone rang during a particularly vigorous gingerbread-face-maiming scenario and as Grace had obviously joined a religious sect and taken a vow of ‘not moving from my chair when the telly’s on’ I ran to answer it.
I was a little breathless and when a male voice with a faint Spanish accent said “Hello, is that Stella speaking?” I felt a rush of warmth to my chest which went straight into my voice.
“Hello, this is she,” I said coming over all Scarlett O’Hara.
“I have your phone number. From your mother.”
“Oh yes,” I quivered, suddenly remembering who this might be. “Mother mentioned you, is it Diego?” I asked, trying to sound firm yet sensual.
“Yes, I’m Diego. Hello”.
“Mum says you’re living locally and have a young daughter?” I offered. “I also have a daughter around the same age,” I continued, at least attempting some background small-talk.
“Yes, she told me. And you used to work in TV? Your mother says you make very nice cake.”
“Mmm.” Thanks for the PR Mum, I thought. Most mothers would describe their daughters to would-be suitors as ‘pretty,’ or ‘clever’ but I just ‘make very nice cake.’
“Do you think we should meet?” Well, he wasn’t wasting any time. But who was I to reject an eager Latin Love God? Let’s face it, I wasn’t exactly turning them away at the door and this would be the nearest thing I’d had to a date since Tom left (Alex didn’t really count). Diego had a sexy Spanish accent and he was a doctor. What was not to like?
“Yes. It would be lovely to meet up,” I heard myself say.
So, amid the full-on flirting (him) and fake breathlessness (me), we arranged to meet in an Australian bar on the following Wednesday at 8pm.
I suggested ‘Bruce’s’ because it was the only trendy-ish bar I’d been to in the last decade. It was on Broad Street in the centre of Birmingham and surrounded by other bars and cafés so we could always move on if we wanted to. Lizzie and I once had quite a night in there, referring to each other as Sheila, singing Waltzing Matilda and getting plastered on ‘Aussie Wallbangers.’ Lizzie had always had a thing for Antipodean men and hoped she’d find her Crocodile Dundee amid the stale Foster’s lager and smelly kangaroo pelts. She was into ER at the time, had a huge crush on Doctor Doug and insisted (as she often did) that all Aussie men had a look of George Clooney. Unfortunately there wasn’t an Aussie or a Clooney in sight and we were chatted up by two salesmen from Bradford with bad breath and loose morals. When Lizzie asked why one of these ‘single’ guys was wearing a wedding ring, he said ‘it’s my dead mother’s’, which was a conversation stopper.
Before I could contemplate the full implications of a blind date set up by my mother with an unknown Brazilian in an Aussie bar, I received potentially-life-changing-phone-call number two. This time it was a woman’s voice and she sounded very businesslike.
“Hello, Stella Weston?” she barked down the phone.
“Yes. Who is this?” I asked politely.
“Sangita from Events Inc. Emma’s friend, we met at a birthday party.” I recalled the beautiful but haughty Asian woman who had admired the cakes and said she might have work for me. Before I could say anything else, she was back at me.
“Costings,” she ordered, getting straight to the point and talking at a hundred miles an hour. “I have a huge event coming up. Three hundred fashion delegates for one big Fashionista Afternoon Tea Party. Cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey are Harrods and The Ritz but Bertrand at Parisian Pastries has returned with a profane pricing for fairy cakes. I’m looking for something new and fresh so I’ve called you instead. I’ll need hundreds of individuals, tasteful not twee. Think Cath Kidston, pink polka-dot with edge. I want kitsch with a lingering scent of Parisian chic. I also need a big cake in the shape of a Vivienne Westwood-style basque. I want big, busty, lacy, but tasteful. Vivienne’s receiving an award on the night so think full-on kitsch married to chichi chic. Don’t even try to palm me off with Pucci – that was a hundred years ago and I won’t buy it. I’m thinking Carrie in The Magnolia Bakery à la Sex and the City, with gingham trim.”
She spoke like a medium channelling a spirit, a relentless stream of consciousness. “Hang on,” she suddenly shouted; “think Naomi Campbell in those heels. I need you to understand the importance of this, it’s stellar, Stella. The fairy cakes must be the bridesmaids…but the cake is the bride. It can’t be just a cake – it needs to be an installation.”
“Er, ok,” I tried to join in, but I couldn’t. She was like an express train.
“Think 70s with a contemporary fringe. Beautiful, funky, kooky,” she continued, like I wasn’t even there. This was making me very nervous; I wished I’d recorded the conversation because I would never remember everything. If I could pull this off, though, I could be on the verge of making cakes all day for a living. But could I pull it off? Suddenly, MJ’s mean face flashed into my head telling me that my work wasn’t good enough. Could I make cakes for an event this large, for a company this connected? And who, or what, was Pucci, anyway?
Sangita was what Lizzie would call a ‘conceptualiser’. She had magical ideas but needed someone else to execute them. I was salivating from excitement and fear at the same time but felt I should explain that I wasn’t Sprinkles in LA or Harrods Cake Hall, merely a woman in her kitchen who made interesting birthday sponge, but she didn’t want to hear it.
“Sangita, this is great but I really should tell you I…”
“Have two o’clock conference call with with Gaga. Need to shoot. Will text email address and list of what I need and you send costings asap.” Sangita didn’t do small-talk. In fact she didn’t even do whole sentences, just instructions and celebrity names.
This was a daunting request, but it wasn’t going to do any harm to start pricing up the cost of a few hundred fairy cakes, some glittery sugar strands and a sheet of gold leaf. There was also the big cake in the shape of a Vivienne Westwood-style basque. Making a cake for a big function is scary, but how hard can it be? I thought. I was sure it would also be fun. I started to think about rich cream ruffles, juicy scarlet cherries folded into dark chocolate lace, and of course, riding crops.
Within minutes of the manic call, Sangita texted requirements, dates and an email address to send my pitch to so I started to work things out. By the end of the afternoon,
I had the costs for two hundred pistachio and rose macaroons, two hundred pink and blue handbag-shaped fairy cakes and two hundred coffee-ganache and gold-leaf high-heel fondants.
From my time working in TV I was used to doing written pitches for work. This included writing treatments for programmes regarding the tone, the format, the look, the branding and how much each episode would cost to make. How different was a cake sell? A pitch is a pitch.
Al phoned just as I was typing up my concept. “Al, you won’t believe it,” I started to take on a Sangita-like persona, screaming, ‘new business’, ‘Vivienne Westwood,’ and ‘chichi handbag cakes’. I was met by silence.
“Stel, that’s great, but are you sure you know what you are doing? It’s not so easy setting up a business, doll. There are lots of things to think about and this one sounds like a big deal.”
After my previous elation, this brought me down to Earth with a bump. Al was right – this was a big deal.
“I think I’ve got it all covered. But I do need to sort brandings and costings. And source ingredients…oh God, there’s actually masses to do!”
“Look babes. There’s been a delay on Barry’s Barbie so I’m in limbo until they sort my flights. I’ll come over and help you. Maybe I can check your maths and money – I am the queen of the Excel sheet, after all.”
“That would be wonderful Al. Could you come over tomorrow night?” Then I processed what he’d said. “Why is there a delay in you going out to Barry’s Barbie? Lizzie’s already there, isn’t she?”
“Oh it’s something about that twisted bitch MJ demanding to be on the shoots. She’s flying out first and checking out all the bloody beaches so they don’t need me for about a fortnight. She’s just taking a bloody holiday on the Media World dollar if you ask me.”
“Yeah, when it comes to budgets, none is too small for MJ to enjoy a free ride,” I said, feeling that familiar anger welling up inside.
“Oh and talking of twisted bitches – it looks like Tom and the tart are on the rocks my love.”
“Really?” I suddenly felt giddy.
“Mmm, apparently they had a huge row at work. François from TV Fashion – you know, raging queen, fake tan, Botox – overheard the tart saying that she was fed up competing with Tom’s ex-wife. You! How fabulous is that?”
I put the phone down feeling far more pleased than I should and wandered upstairs to see how Grace was getting on in the bath.
“You OK, Mum?” she said, looking up from Malibu Barbie, who was showing her versatility by playing Gabriella, the lead female in High School Musical. Grace was using the bath as the set for the summer camp swimming pool and in my opinion, California Ken was being a bit over-familiar in the deep end with one of the cheerleaders, but I was textbook and didn’t react.
“I’m fine sweetie,” I smiled. “It’s just that Uncle Al’s pointed out there are lots of things to think about if I do this event and now I’m not sure.”
“Mummy, if it’s what you want to do, why don’t you just do it?” She sat there all wet and soapy with both hands out in a ‘so what?’ gesture looking just like her father. I kissed her soapy head. Sometimes kids were the sensible ones – they saw a bigger, clearer picture.
“You’re right, Grace, thank you. I am going to just do it,” I said, giving her a high-five.
“Shall we watch Masterchef on my bed with hot chocolate and marshmallows?” I said, trying to put Tom, tarts and MJ firmly from my mind.
As we snuggled up after her bath, Grace had obviously guessed I still had my mind on the event and said perceptively: “Mum, don’t worry about it. Don’t feel sad if that lady doesn’t choose you – it doesn’t matter,” she sucked up the cream and mallows in one go, deliberately creating a cream moustache and feigning surprise when I laughed and pointed to it; “Mmm, I love hot chocolate. No-one else makes it as good as you do, Mum.”
“That’s because all my love goes into your mug,” I said as I tickled her with a warm feeling in my tummy, a lump in my throat and a sugar-coated Vivienne Westwood basque whirling around in my head.
23 - Fatal Attraction
After the initial excitement about corporate cup cakes and chichi chocolate creations, I submitted my pitch and heard precisely nothing from Sangita. Al had helped me with the practical stuff and as a result the pitch was creative and businesslike and I couldn’t believe she’d just turn me down flat without even a rejection call or email.
I phoned Emma; “Perhaps she didn’t like my ideas? Perhaps I’m just too small time for her?” I wailed. But Emma had worked in this field and known Sangita for years. She reassured me that Sangita would be doing ten million things at once and would get back to me one way or the other.
Feeling fat, fed-up and broke, I decided to cheer myself up and email Mum regarding Diego the Doctor, my hot date for Wednesday:
Hi Mum,
I just wanted to let you know, Diego called and I’m meeting him in Birmingham on Wednesday.
Could you describe him to me?
Love Stella x
She emailed me back a couple of hours later (no doubt with the help of someone more technically able):
Glad Diego called, you must bake him a nice cake.
Love Mum x
Typical Mum, I thought, she always says that ‘a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’. That may have been the case in her day, but he’ll have to prove himself before he gets his mouth round my ‘Frangipane Surprise’.
I emailed her back:
I was wondering what Diego looks like? Could you describe him?
I waited for another hour and when I heard my email bleep I leapt onto the computer, eager to read details about my luscious Latin date.
Glad Diego called, you must bake him a nice cake.
Love Mum x
Mum and technology were not friends. I’d never had an email or text from her that made sense. Why did I think today would be any different? I wasn’t in the mood for email volleyball and anyway, I wasn’t shallow enough to make a decision about a man purely on his looks (who was I kidding?).
The day before my hot date I was rooting through my wardrobe whilst doubting my future as a businesswoman and having second thoughts about meeting up with Diego. I was still not really over Tom and there was also Grace to consider. She spent every other weekend with her dad whom she adored and she might not take kindly to another man at the breakfast table, let alone in her mother’s bed.
Lighting on a dress I hadn’t worn for at least five years I dragged it from the wardrobe and took it off the hanger. It had been a favourite of mine. It was navy blue and crossed over at the bust, giving, I’d always hoped, a perky-breasts-slim-waist effect. I held it against me and decided to try it on. I hadn’t been able to squeeze into it the previous summer but I’d lost a husband and a few pounds since then. And hurrah! It fit! I whooped, which brought Grace running from her bedroom still in her school uniform. “Look at me, Grace, I’m in a dress I thought was too small.” I gave her a twirl.
“Yay Mum, you’re like one of the ugly sisters, squeezing into Cinderella’s old shoe.”
“Yeah, thanks Grace,” I answered, a little deflated. Just as I was giving a second twirl in front of the mirror and checking for unsightly bulges, the doorbell went.
I was about to rush and get it when whoever it was decided to let themselves in anyway. Grace had run on ahead and shouted up “It’s only Daddy!” I heard some chatting and laughter from Grace followed by Tom’s voice calling to me up the stairs.
“Stella, I’ve come to get some of my stuff, as requested.” Oh, he knew how to wind me up. Not only had he just walked in like he still lived here, the ‘as requested’ comment was a reference to the fact that last time he dropped Grace off I had asked him to make arrangements to take away his ‘nasty mugs and other sad collections’ that were ‘cluttering my house’. Let Bitch Rachel live with his loser rubbish; after all, he was shacked up with her now.
I wanted to stay upstairs un
til he’d gone but I had to supervise his packing, lest he mistake any of my Emma Bridgewaters for one of his cheap crocks. I wasn’t letting that tart get her mouth round my cream mugs with pink hearts on. I stomped downstairs, still sporting the navy ‘date dress’ that I intended to wow Diego with and walked into the kitchen to find Tom on his knees at the open cupboard door holding a ‘I ♥ Menorca’ mug. My anger turned to a sticky lump in my chest and I thought I would cry.
“Hi,” I said, trying to smile, looking at his hands and imagining them holding someone else.
“Oh hi. You look nice. Er, I’m just getting my stuff. I don’t know where I’m going to put it.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I answered sharply. I walked towards the kettle, then seeing Grace out of the corner of my eye, almost holding her breath waiting for the inevitable argument I said; “Would you like a coffee, Tom?” Grace looked relieved and nodded encouragingly; I wanted to cry again watching her little face filled with hope and anticipation. Things had been so hostile recently; for Grace a cup of coffee was akin to us getting back together.
“Thanks, er yes, I will. Two sugars, please.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Tom, after sixteen years there are some things you don’t forget, even if you want to,” I said, without smiling, torn between wanting to make Grace happy and wanting to substitute his sugar for cyanide.
Tom winced, then lifted the Menorca mug he was holding and said, “That was a good holiday, wasn’t it?”
I softened at the thought of the holiday in Menorca. Grace was three years old and happy, and so were we. “Yeah, I remember Grace falling in the pool, fully-clothed,” I said, bringing the coffee cups to where he was and joining him on the floor to view the famous mug collection for one last time.
“There was a good slide that went into the water,” I said.
“Yes and you were so light you came down it at about a hundred miles an hour, Grace,” Tom laughed, shaking his head. The telephone rang and Grace went to answer it – when she didn’t return immediately I heard her chatting and knew it was one of her friends. Still smiling from the memories, our eyes locked for a couple of seconds.
