Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  “Oh Stella, that’s scary,” she said, sounding genuinely shaken.

  “I’m so upset I don’t know where to start.”

  “But who? Why? Oh well, no use wasting time thinking about it. You need to get onto an estate agent that rents out commercial properties and view them immediately. You can’t sit on this honey, get on the phone today. Surely in these hard times, there will be somewhere available.” Unlike Dave, she had bothered to spend several seconds offering advice so I took it. I logged on to my laptop, which was sitting on the floury table surface next to the mocha cake which was inviting me to take a slice. Hastily scanning the colourful websites of estate agents, I made a note of properties that looked vaguely promising, all the time thinking about the anonymous email.

  I had to let Al know, so I called him as I looked but he had taken me at my word and switched his mobile off. Just after I’d left him a message, I saw a ‘reasonably-priced office rental with kitchen’ and jotted down the number. Then I had a quick look on the council website to see if I there was any chance of getting my own kitchen accredited. It seemed that it might be possible, but that ‘preparing food in domestic premises’ had lots of hygiene implications and there were multiple forms and possibly inspections. I could take a Food Hygiene test online which I would do later but in the meantime, my best option was to find somewhere already accredited – and fast.

  I made a call to a Mr Smooth, of Smooth Operators Estate Agents, who offered ‘light and airy prestigious office space in a newly-refurbished listed building of excellent structure and quality’.

  “Is there a big kitchen? It’s kitchen space I need.” I stressed, drooping at the thought of paying for unnecessary office space.

  I was in a complete panic, so when Mr Smooth (real name Nigel) said, “The property would be perfect for your requirements; you need to view as soon as possible though because we have several interested parties. I’m available in half an hour,” I leapt in the car and head down the M5 towards Worcester, where salvation in a suit would hopefully be waiting.

  Arriving in the city centre I parked the car and ran through the high street, arriving at Worcester Guildhall, our arranged meeting place. Walking through the iron gates I noticed the stone Queen Anne adorning the entrance. She was staring at me, obviously not convinced this was the best use of my limited time. And as Mr Smooth slid towards me in full three-piece suit, with slicked grey hair and a dickie bow – I reckoned she had a point.

  “Mrs Weston, I presume,” he slimed, predictably, reaching out a limp, oily palm for me to shake.

  “I’m tight for time,” I said, shaking the wet fish, trying to be polite and at the same time making moving gestures in the desperate hope he would move his arse as quickly as possible. “I need to see the property immediately because this is a business emergency. I also have to pick my daughter up from school at 3.30.”

  We ‘strolled’ through the streets towards the Cathedral area, Mr Smooth pointing out various points of interest like I was a bloody American looking for Shakespeare, or Jesus. “It’s a little-known fact that Worcester Cathedral has a history of organs dating back to 1417,” he prattled pointlessly. I smiled and broke into a power-walk, in the hope he’d get the message, but still he made like a wannabe tour guide.

  “In 672, Worcester became the centre of five new dioceses,” he marvelled. He went on to cover The Benedictine Rule and the Danes in some detail but enough was enough and just as he embarked on a new diatribe involving the Norman Conquest of Worcester, I shot him a look of pure hate, which silenced him.

  By the time we reached the property in the shadow of Worcester Cathedral and only metres from the Swan packed river Severn, I was feeling nauseous.

  “Here we are,” he announced, trying to get the key in the lock. I stood behind impatiently, almost shoving him through the door as all sense of dignity washed away in the panic of losing my business and leaving Grace alone outside school, prey to God-knows-what.

  “Oh dear…did I leave the correct key in my office-drawer,” he pondered. I was about to force open the door with his head when he suddenly discovered the key ‘hilariously’ hiding in the folds of his suit.

  As the door opened on the ‘light and airy prestigious space in a newly-refurbished listed building of excellent structure and quality’ I was elated. The kitchen was a perfect square, about 30 feet by 30 feet with the most amazing huge, flat worktops that would be wonderful for icing. Three enormous ovens sat proudly against the wall under shelves and storage space to die for.

  “How much?” I said, almost panting with desire.

  “Well it will work out at approximately eight hundred pounds a month,” smiled Mr Smooth, who I now wanted to kiss with gratitude and delight.

  “OK. That’s fine,” I said, feeling a little faint, but believing that we could get the orders to cover this. “I’ll need to start moving my stuff in straight away,” I started. “There’s so much equipment I’ll need to hire a van, but I’ll pay you up front so…”

  “Oh dear, didn’t they explain when you called?” He said, kindly. “The property is still in use I’m afraid, it belongs to a bakery and they can’t give it up until September, at the earliest.”

  “This is ridiculous!” I almost shouted. “I asked to view available property and I can’t wait that long. Don’t you understand? I have less than two hours.”

  Desperate not to lose money in these tough times, Mr Smooth paled and made a couple of frantic calls on his mobile – to no avail. We immediately said rushed goodbyes; there was nothing here for either of us – and I ran back towards the car in a panic. As I raced past Nando’s I was reminded of Dave and how he chose an early night instead of me. This made me fill up and by the time I got to the car I was crying with disappointment, stress and the fear of losing everything. I collected Grace (alone at the school gate) and arrived home to more messages from Sangita on the answer phone (I’d turned my mobile off).

  “Stella. It’s almost 4pm and I haven’t heard from you. I’m thinking you’re not able to provide me with the necessary paperwork. I’m thinking, sadly that the order for the party will need to be pulled if you can’t provide the requirements asap.”

  I sat amongst the naked fairy cakes and cried. “What am I going to do?” I said to Grace, who looked on, horrified.

  “Shall we speak to Uncle Al?” she offered, handing me a glass of water, “he’ll know what to do.”

  “I’ve left a million voicemail messages – he’s not getting back,” I said. “I think we have to face it, Grace – we have lost the Dancing contract, we aren’t going to the ball…and The Cake Fairy has just died.”

  “Mum, you mustn’t give up. That’s what you always say to me,” pleaded Grace.

  “Come on, let’s go to the restaurant and see if Uncle Al’s there – he’ll think of something, I know he will.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so in a weird Freaky Friday role-reversal scenario I did as Grace suggested, and reluctantly washed my salty face, pushed a comb through my hair and climbed into the car. I tried to stay calm as we snaked through the agonisingly slow, busy homecoming traffic and headed for Sebastian’s restaurant. On the way it started to rain, which seemed to slow everything down even more and stopping at a zebra for a rainbow of opened umbrellas to cross, I thought I saw a familiar face.

  “Is that Auntie Lizzie?” I said to Grace, about to beep her.

  “Yes it is! And there’s Dad, he’s with Auntie Lizzie…yay,” shouted Grace, waving frantically and trying to wind down the window to call them.

  “Don’t Grace, you’ll get all wet. Are you sure that’s your dad with Auntie Lizzie?” I said, puzzled and convinced Grace was mistaken.

  “Yes, it’s definitely Dad, look he’s wearing that awful red jacket we hate,” she giggled. I screwed up my eyes trying to see him through the rain and brollies and rushing pedestrians. She was right it was Tom – with Lizzie.

  “That’s funny.” I said.

&
nbsp; “Lizzie’s Dad’s friend too,” added Grace, still waving.

  “I know but…”

  “She’s always phoning him up,” she added.

  “Is she?” I said, even more puzzled. “Well they’ve been working together. I suppose they probably had things to sort out. To be honest, I don’t think Lizzie likes your dad much.”

  “Oh she does,” answered Grace with feeling.

  I let it go. It’s only right that Grace believes they are friends. I knew exactly how Lizzie felt about Tom. She hated him for what he did to me but she was such a good friend she’d sucked it all up and offered him the work in Australia so he would be able to support Grace and I. It’s strange that they were together though – after all, they’d practically only just landed.

  Having fought through the rain and the traffic we finally parked outside Seb’s restaurant, half on the pavement, abandoning the car to whatever fate the traffic warden decreed. The restaurant hadn’t yet opened for dinner so I started banging hard on the glass door. “Al!” I shouted, at the top of my voice. After a few seconds I saw Sebastian rummaging for keys and rushing to the door to let us in.

  “Stella, what is it?” he asked looking very concerned.

  “Oh Seb, it’s awful. Where’s Al? He’s not answering his phone. All our hard work, for nothing…” I spluttered, eyes brimming.

  “Calm down, sweetie. We had a lovely romantic lunch then Al went swimming. You know what he’s like when he’s in the swimming zone. Sit down and tell me what’s happened. Just sit.” he lowered me gently onto a chair at one of the tables and asked one of the staff to bring us some coffee and lemonade for Grace.

  Seb was so kind I burst into tears, telling him about Sangita’s call and the anonymous email. Throughout this I gulped coffee and wiped at my face with a paper napkin, feeling about five years old. Sebastian listened and nodded and shook his head in all the right places. Then he said, “I thought it was something terrible. Let’s get this into perspective. Grace is OK, you’re OK. This is about a kitchen.” I half-smiled through my wet napkin.

  “But Sangita won’t work with us anymore if we can’t prove we have a proper kitchen and she’s our main contact. With her we were going places, but now…”

  “But now, you have a kitchen,” he said, like he hadn’t heard a word I’d just told him.

  “No, Seb. I work from my own kitchen, that’s the problem. I’ll need inspections and I don’t think you understand.”

  “I understand perfectly,” he said, taking a sip of black coffee, “and the solution is simple. There is a working kitchen here,” he waved his arms in the general direction of the restaurant kitchen.

  “What…what do you mean, Seb?” I asked, confused. “You are a restaurant and so your kitchen’s always busy, there’d be no room for us.”

  “I mean that you and Al often work through the night – I’m sure we could organise your schedule so that when we finish in the restaurant, you begin. I have all the necessary paperwork and if anyone asks, this is where you’ve always worked.”

  Grace squealed and jumped up and down and I burst into tears again. I lunged towards Sebastian, kissed his face and hugged him so tight he screamed. Then he added, looking at Grace; “And let’s not forget you, Princess Grace. We have a spare room that I will paint ‘princess-pink’ and you can sleep in it at night while Mum’s working.”

  “Cool,” she said with a big grin.

  I called Sangita straight away with the good news. I then faxed through the restaurant paperwork immediately, pointing out that we hadn’t had the chance to add our business name to it yet, but were in the process of doing so.

  “Great, Stella,” she barked, “I have to say, I was thinking ‘curtains’ for the Cake Fairy. However, I need proof that you do actually operate from this address, in case of further complaints. How soon can you send?”

  “Er, we should be able to get that to you before the event,” I improvised, feeling sick all over again. “Now, let’s talk tangos.” As I hung up from Sangita, Al returned carrying a boxful of sample wedding favours. I quickly explained to him what had happened and stood back as his face turned bright red.

  “Who the hell would send an email?” he started.

  “I don’t know, Al. The only truly evil person I know is MJ,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Sweetcakes, how can it be her? She doesn’t know anything about your business.” Then his eyes widened.

  “OMG!!!” he exclaimed. “Think, Stella, who else would know that you work for Sangita and operate from your own kitchen? Think Fatal Attraction, honey!!”

  It slowly dawned on me. “Rachel?” I said.

  “Yes yes!!! Of course it’s her! Younger lover who can’t live up to older, successful, chunkier wife?” he said

  “Thanks, Al. But maybe you’re right.”

  And he didn’t stop there. He ranted and raved, pacing the floor, waving his arms and finally climaxing with, “The home-wrecking, life-destroying slut. She makes Glenn Close look like Mary Poppins.” I wasn’t completely convinced, but he was infectious.

  “Nothing could be further from my mind than getting back with Tom. But if Rachel is angry about her split from Tom and blames me, who knows how far she’d go to destroy my life?” I added, starting to sound like Al.

  During Al’s tirade, Seb had wisely escorted Grace to the kitchen to ‘help’ Claude the sous-chef and returned quickly to change the subject before our Rachel frenzy hit orbit.

  “Look guys, let’s not get hung up on who it was or why, let’s just move on and prove them wrong,” he said.

  33 - Spangled Salsa and Chocolate Cha-Cha

  “Have you said anything to Tom about his ex-girlfriend’s little email yet?” Al asked the next morning, as we worked on the ‘Cha-Cha’ cakes. It was Tuesday and with the Strictly deadline looming that Saturday, we were both feeling the pressure. The morning sun was streaming through the restaurant kitchen window and I felt that strange sensation of time being suspended, which was less about magic and more to do with working through the night and having no sleep.

  “No. He’s only just back from Australia and I know it’s been a stressful shoot. I’ll tell him all about it soon,” I said, dreading the conversation because it would no doubt cause trouble between us.

  “Don’t worry, Stel. Seb is sorting out all the paperwork we need today so we should have everything done by the weekend.”

  “I know Al – it’s just hassle that we don’t need,” I said, slurping on strong, black coffee.

  Al smiled and held out what he’d been working on. “This will make you smile,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an ‘exploding macaroon’. I thought we could add a little ‘Hip-Hop’ to the proceedings.”

  I took a bite from the light, crunchy disc and it literally exploded in my mouth like a thousand fireworks popping with sweet-yet-tart strawberries and sugary crystals.

  “Wow Al it’s aaghhh!! Wonderful, but aaghhh!” I giggled.

  “That’s just the reaction I wanted,” he said proudly. “The secret ingredient is Space Dust – it always made me laugh when I was a kid. I think it’s fiery and fun, just like the dance.”

  “You are so clever Al, for a moment there I was ten years old again,” I smiled.

  Al’s phone beeped. “It’s Seb,” he said. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll get some brunch on, then,” I said, relieved to finally have an excuse for a break and opening the fridge. We had the restaurant to ourselves until the staff arrived at ten, so there was just enough time to whip up some smoked salmon and scrambled eggs.

  Lizzie appeared at the back door. “One child safely deposited at school,” she reported. “She had a lovely night with Auntie Lizzie and went to bed really early – honest,” Lizzie winked. “Crikey, you two look like two rough old slappers who’ve spent the night on the street.”

  “Thanks a lot!” I retorted. “That’s what comes of having to work th
rough the night because some malicious bastard has reported you to the FSA. I could be in bed right now,” I sighed. “And it’s not over yet.” I began beating eggs with feeling.

  “Hard times all round then,” said Lizzie gloomily. “It’s such a relief to be with my friends and away from the bloody Barry’s Barbie edit but that’s not over yet either. I haven’t got too long now – I just have to stick it out.”

  “No you don’t have to stick it out,” said Al. “Look at me and Stella, we didn’t stay until the bitter end – we abandoned ship before we became human husks. OK – I was made to walk the plank, but I went didn’t I? Go now, all that stress will ruin your skin, girl.”

  “Yes, but I’m not you and I need to stay at work.”

  “Lizzie, I know you’re a trooper but it’s not like you’re desperately short of money. You could walk away now and live for about twelve months without work if you stopped buying designer gear. What’s going on there? Why has it been so awful?” I pressed. She flashed me a thin smile.

  “Enough boring work talk!” she declared, dismissing me and turning to Al. “Where are you and Seb planning to go for your honeymoon?”

  I frowned. All this drama and secrecy was getting a bit boring, especially if she wasn’t going to actually talk about it. I placed some smoked salmon, eggs and plates on the table.

  “Well, we’re torn between Paris and Rome,” he said, grabbing a plate and piling it high, looking far away like he was imagining the gorgeousness of it all.

  “Do both,” said Lizzie. “Do it all. Do a Grand European Tour.”

  “That sounds lovely,” I said, then my mobile started to ring.

  “Hello, can I speak with Stella?” the voice asked. It had a familiar, Spanish-sounding tone to it and I felt my stomach lurch.

  “Is that you, Diego?” I asked reluctantly, trying very hard to sound lucid.

  “Yes, Stella it’s me Diego. Stella I… ”

  Oh God, I thought. It had to be something to do with my mother, she’d called him, blabbed and he was now ringing me to ask for an apology.