Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘Oh events mostly. Functions, you know that sort of thing. It’s just work but it’s a family business and I love it. I realised one day what was important and doing something you love with people you love makes the days much better.’ He stopped suddenly and slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Forgive me, here I am wittering on about myself like I’m on an episode of Who Do You Think You Are? and I haven’t even asked about your job situation. I hope I didn’t upset you with the stuff about my father.’

  I watched his hand move from his forehead to my thigh.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not about to have a heart attack,’ he said.

  The way it’s carrying on inside my chest right now, I wouldn’t be so sure.

  I focused on trying to stop my thigh jigging.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  ‘You mean am I still weeping openly at Metro stations?’

  He smiled and thankfully removed his hand before my thigh turned to Silly Putty under his touch. I took his cup and shrugged.

  ‘Oh I’m fine. Getting there. Adjusting. Driving myself mad alone in my flat but I’ve got my girlfriends who have been a good help.’

  ‘No boyfriend?’

  I smiled.

  ‘No. No man-bag carrying boyfriend. In fact you’re the first man this flat has seen for quite a while.’ I cringed at my rather sad admission. He somehow drew honesty from me. I added, ‘By choice of course. I mean I could have had men here if I’d wanted to and I have had offers, believe me, but I’m very fussy and I’m not the sort to just pick someone up. Believe me,’ I said again.

  ‘I believe you,’ he said with a grin.

  Flustered, I moved the conversation on.

  ‘And as for the job thing, I’m just not used to not having a focus if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do. My business has been my focus for a long time since… well, for a while for one reason and another. It’s been all work and very little play so I know I’d be lost without it. But that’s through choice and the business I’m in does have a bit of sparkle. It does improve lives I suppose in one way or another and we play while we work.’

  No mention of a partner. I punched the air in my imagination.

  ‘All work and no play sounds very familiar. We must have been made from the same mould you and I.’

  He brushed his hair from his eyes and smiled.

  ‘I’m not sure about that. What your mould created is a lot easier on the eye.’

  I bit my lip to stop myself rejecting the compliment. He avoided looking at me and instead looked at his thumbs that twiddled in his lap.

  ‘Sorry, that sounded cheesy.’

  Then I like cheesy.

  ‘So have you decided a new plan of action for what you’ll do next?’ he said politely, in our game of conversational tack changing.

  ‘Not exactly. I know the job market is tricky and I have a non-competition clause. I wallowed for most of the week to be honest but my near death experience has actually given me a kick up the arse, so you could well have done me a favour. I just need to decide what I want to do and go out and bloody well do it.’

  I looked at him. His eyes searched my face as if looking for the truth in my words. He looked concerned and perhaps a little pitying, which suddenly unsettled me. Why was I starting to pour my heart out to this man I had known for two brief encounters on dusty Metro platforms?

  ‘Another coffee, Zachary?’

  ‘Erm, sure, yes as long as you have time. I’m not a one-cup a day man I must admit. If I don’t have my two cups in the morning before work and my cup when I get into the office, I may as well stay in bed.’

  ‘Me too!’ I laughed. ‘And I definitely need a strong cup…’

  ‘After lunch,’ we said in unison.

  ‘Definitely,’ he smiled as I stood up to walk back to the kitchen, ‘after lunch is my B-time in the day. Coffee and chocolate is all that gets me through three o’clock meetings.’

  I nodded and then stopped myself mid-agreement.

  ‘That’s when I had three o’clock meetings. I don’t really need a caffeine boost to get me through Dickinson’s Real Deal.’

  ‘Well I don’t know I’d agree with you there,’ he smirked.

  I refilled the mugs and the cake plate, placed them on a tray and returned to the sofa. As I sat down and placed the tray down on the coffee table, my hand brushed his thigh. I tingled like a Jane Austen character and nearly dropped the tray. He steadied my arm with his hand, which only served to make me giddier. I mentally kicked myself.

  Pull yourself together woman, I scolded, he’s just a man. Don’t be pathetic.

  ‘It must be the caffeine,’ I trilled, holding out the plate, ‘another cake?’

  ‘These cakes are sensational,’ he groaned, leaning back against the sofa and clutching his stomach. His firm, flat, I imagined toned and tanned (although that was pure speculation) stomach.

  ‘Do you make other types?’

  ‘Of course. I like to experiment with the flavours and the toppings. I make a particularly indulgent triple chocolate cupcake with a melting centre and my gingerbread cupcakes are divine. I also make savoury ones like carrot and courgette, which may sound strange but they taste amazing and they’re almost healthy. I’ve recently developed cocktail cupcakes using Malibu and pineapple or vodka and cranberries but my latest recipe uses champagne and orange. It’s a buck’s fizz in a cake and I top it with these incredibly delicate blown sugar bubbles I’ve spent so long perfecting. Blown sugar is an art form in itself. You see I always had this vision of combining the cakes with art and design for special occasions, turning the displays almost into edible installations and each one being unique and designed specifically for what the client wants. Like haute couture only using sponge and icing…’

  I stopped, my hands in the air mid-description, when his lips spread into a smile and his teeth flashed as white as icing sugar. I blushed.

  ‘Sorry, I’m boring you.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I’m not obsessed with cakes. I just enjoy baking and I have these silly fantasies. Would you believe I used to dream of being a cake designer?’

  ‘I know, as in designer of posh cakes not a posh designer of cakes,’ he grinned. ‘Which definitely suits someone with the surname Baker but I could also see you in a tutu.’

  I clamped my mouth shut.

  ‘How do you know all that?’

  It was his turn to blush. Outside the window, a seagull screeched, piercing the uncomfortable silence. I shifted away from him on the sofa. Not that a few more inches of leather would offer me greater protection from a stalker if he had come to my flat with the intention of slicing my head off and taking it home in my ‘beautiful’ Tod’s bag. I momentarily wished Tristan would pop up wielding his trusty flick knife.

  He must have sensed the change in atmosphere descending on us like freezing fog.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chloe, I am being over familiar but I feel like I know so much about you already.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, slowly clearing my throat, ‘so do I. Too much.’

  He raised his hand to run it through his hair again. I flinched and moved further away.

  ‘Who are you, Zachary? You come to my rescue at Tynemouth Metro station when I’m crying. You appear at Monument Metro when I’m crying. You’re there when I have a near death handbag experience, which for all I know you may well have caused and then you turn up at my flat, returning the bag to me and telling me my inner thoughts.’ I raised my hands defensively. ‘If you’re planning to murder me can we cut the crap and get it over with?’

  A guilty expression flashed across his face.

  ‘I read your list,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your list of what you wanted to be when you grew up. It was a bit hard to read the first four through the scribbles but…’

  My hand shot up to my mouth. I had completely forgotten about the drunkenly scrawled list Roxy, Heidi and I had mad
e that I had shoved in my bag at the end of our night in The Stuffed Dog. We had not referred to it since. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry or curl up into a ball and die of embarrassment.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have read it but it’s like when you find a diary and you know you shouldn’t but you just have a peek and then you just have to read a bit more and…’

  ‘Well at least I know you can’t be trusted. You make a habit of reading people’s diaries do you?’ I said with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘No. Damn, I’m not looking too good right now am I?’

  I shook my head. He turned to face me, his leg bent up between us on the sofa. He raised his palms.

  ‘Just forget I read the list,’ he said.

  ‘Forget that even though we’ve only just found out each other’s names, you already know I wanted to be a ballet dancer, an Olympian or Mrs bloody Kipling?’

  I paused and pressed my knuckles into my eyes. I couldn’t help myself as my shoulders began to shudder. Zachary groaned and immediately started to fumble in his pockets.

  ‘Oh please don’t cry again. Jesus, that’s three times in a row. I’ve never had this effect on a woman before.’

  He thrust something towards me and the scent of fake strawberries wafted up to my nose. I wiped away the tears with my fingers.

  ‘I’m not crying, I’m laughing.’

  ‘Oh thank God.’

  He hugged the strawberry tissues to his chest and started laughing too, a deep laugh that seemed to rumble through his whole body from his feet to finally light up his face. I placed my arm along the back of the sofa as the cushions bounced gently in response to our frivolity.

  ‘Here am I thinking you’re a weird stalker when all the while you must be thinking I’m an absolute fruit loop. I’m surprised you’re still here.’

  He threw his head back and laughed, then his hand fell on top of mine along the back of the sofa, connecting our bodies by our fingers.

  ‘I have to admit it’s been an unusual introduction.’

  He paused and we gazed at each other for a second too long before we both looked away like awkward kids at a school disco. My hand felt suddenly hot. I slid it along the back of the sofa away from his and rubbed my thighs nervously.

  ‘Another cake?’ I said.

  He smiled and patted his stomach.

  ‘Tempting but no I really mustn’t. Us Irish men tend to have a fat man inside us just waiting to get out.’

  He lifted his blazer from the arm of the sofa and I felt my heart sink. I suddenly didn’t want him to leave. His presence in the room was like a real fire, bringing warmth, comfort and a definite spark. I had been so busy working to climb the ladder over the past few years, it had been a long time since I had taken the time to enjoy the company of a man. Zachary Doyle was certainly that; a big, meaty, handsome, interesting, witty, kind man. He stood and slipped his arms into his blazer.

  ‘I’ve kept you far too long, Chloe but thank you for your hospitality and for your gorgeous cakes.’

  I stood too.

  ‘You’re very welcome. Thank you for returning my bag.’

  I followed him to the door, our feet sounding heavy on the floorboards. I was preparing to say goodbye, running it over in my head – should I say ‘goodbye’ or ‘see you soon’ or ‘we should do this again sometime’ or ‘call me’ or a casual ‘adieu’ or you mentioned about seeing each other, or…? - when he stopped and suddenly turned to face me. I almost crashed into him.

  ‘Before I go I feel I should really say something,’ he said.

  I waited expectantly.

  ‘Gosh you’re smaller than I thought you were.’

  Now that wasn’t what I was expecting.

  ‘Sorry what I wanted to say was I think you’re a lovely height.’ He brushed back his hair. ‘Sorry, I feel a bit nervous.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I said.

  Just ask me out for Christ’s sake! I screamed silently.

  ‘OK. I just wanted to say that in my opinion childhood dreams are not ridiculous. Sometimes they’re the very thing we should listen to. They come from the heart when the head is free of all the other gubbins we eventually fill it with as adults, like bills and responsibility and social pressure. They come from a simple place. Maybe getting back to that simple place when life was more sparkly and fun would make life a hell of a lot easier.’

  I opened my mouth to speak but was not sure how to respond.

  ‘I just think,’ he carried on, ‘that you obviously have a talent and a passion for cake making so why not do it?’

  I laughed.

  ‘That? That’s just a hobby. It’s not a job.’

  ‘Why not? It could be. Imagine going to work every day and doing your favourite hobby. Surely that’s what we all dream of? Isn’t that what they say? Do a job you love and never work a day in your life.’

  I shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘You know earlier I did actually think if only work could be as much fun.’

  ‘You see, I’m right.’

  Zachary beamed, turned up his collar and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

  ‘I also know that life or fate or someone up there’ – he flicked his eyes towards the ceiling – ‘throws these curve balls at us from time to time for a reason to make us change direction, challenge ourselves. After all life would be very dull if it was a Roman road. Turning corners without knowing what lies up ahead is much more exciting, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ve always preferred knowing what direction I’m going in without thinking about corners and potholes and mountains to climb. Surely a path like that just takes longer to get us from A to B?’

  ‘What’s the rush? The sooner you get to B, the sooner your life’s over. The real achievement isn’t getting there faster; it’s enjoying the journey. I realised that after something bad happened and I’ve never looked back.’

  I rubbed my forehead. I wondered whether I knew him well enough to ask what the ‘bad’ thing was. I decided not. My hangover headache appeared to be taking hold again. He pressed his fingers against his lips and inhaled.

  ‘Forgive me going on about it. It’s just when you started talking about your cake recipes and the couture cake fantasy, it was as if this light went on inside you.’

  ‘You’re very poetic,’ I said.

  ‘Blame Yeats,’ he grinned, ‘he convinced all men from the west of Ireland we could be poets.’

  ‘Well thank you, Yeats and thank you, Zachary. It’s a lovely idea but cake making isn’t my career. I’m a businesswoman.’

  ‘You could combine the two.’

  I pressed my lips together in a smile.

  ‘You don’t give up do you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s a family trait since my father passed away. We’ve all gone after life with all guns blazing my brothers and I, trying to find happiness and fulfilment. Nevertheless, I went full-throttle one direction and then fate threw a giant curve ball at me and off I went again in a completely different direction. At the time if I’m honest, I begrudged it a little but I had to do it and it turned out to be the best thing I ever did. When I get to heaven and look down at my map of life, it will be like spaghetti junction.’ He paused and focused his eyes on mine. ‘But in spaghetti junction I get to bump into talented cake makers like you.’

  Zachary stepped towards me. His scent, a blend of oak perfumes, enveloped me and made my head spin. I was unable to blink and my mouth felt suddenly dry.

  ‘I er…’ was all I could manage.

  Zachary blinked, breaking the hypnosis and reached into his blazer pocket. He pulled out a slim black leather wallet, opened it and slid out a silver embossed card. He held it out.

  ‘If you change your mind about the cakes, maybe I can help. We need cakes from time to time for events. In fact I’m doing an event at Christmas that could be fun, ease you into it as it were and we love something unique. It’s our company event so i
t’s up to me who does the cakes, I don’t have to convince a client.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, call me if you’re interested.’

  I glanced at the card, feeling confused. What was this? A pure business proposition to help cater his work Christmas party or a round about way of getting a date by passing the buck and waiting for me to call him? The card hovered in the short space between our bodies.

  ‘And…’

  Ooh, there’s an ‘And’. I was hoping for an ‘And’.

  ‘Yes?’ I said with an encouraging smile, my hand reaching out for the card.

  ‘And, if you wanted to, you know, at some point, if you maybe wanted to…’

  A sudden crash cut short Zachary’s sentence just as it was getting interesting. I gasped at the sound of footsteps behind my bedroom door. I clutched my chest and spun around in fear as the bedroom door was flung open and a man stumbled into the lounge. He gazed around and almost overbalanced. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt undone to reveal a waxed chest and a six-pack. A gold chain flashed against his tanned skin, matching the gold hoops just visible through a mop of unruly highlighted chin-length hair. He wore one leather shoe and carried the other shoe in one hand and a brown leather jacket in the other. His eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses. Sunglasses indoors? Had Bono come to stay?

  I wanted to scream and my mouth was open but I was so shocked, no sound came out. The stranger stumbled over to us, looked at the huge white watch on his wrist that was big enough to land a helicopter on, clutched his head and groaned.

  ‘Guapa, I is late for the match,’ he said in heavily accented English, his face just inches from mine.

  I recoiled at the stench of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath. His nostrils were lined with crusty white powder. I found myself leaning away from him as he almost fell on top of me, lifted his sunglasses and puckered his lips for a kiss.

  All I saw was Zachary’s mouth drop open as Manuel or Juan or whoever the fuck he was wrapped his hand, still gripping a shoe, behind my neck, yanked my face towards his and proceeded to suck on my mouth like an anteater.

  Help! my eyes beseeched a stunned Zachary.

  Kick him in the balls! urged my brain.