Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  I chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought of it like that. I’ve always just thought you were lucky to have parents like yours rather than my arty farty, free love, swinger parents or Roxy’s alcoholic single mother. I guess I hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to follow their example.’

  Heidi sighed and blew on the steaming sausage meat.

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to find what I’m looking for, do you, Chloe?’

  ‘Depends. What exactly are you looking for?’

  Heidi took a bite of pastry and chewed while looking at the ceiling.

  ‘I don’t know really.’

  ‘Say anything that comes to mind.’

  ‘OK, well, I suppose I’d like him to be nice and kind and thoughtful.’

  ‘That’s do-able.’

  ‘And I’d like him to have dark hair, really dark, preferably short.’

  ‘Again, not impossible. A green Mohican would be harder to track down I’m guessing.’

  ‘I want him to be slim and long-limbed and fashionable.’

  ‘Right, OK, that’s a clearer picture…’

  ‘Aye in fact I’d like him to be really into fashion but in an adventurous way, not in a buy the whole outfit off the mannequin in River Island way. I’d like him to wear prints like flowers and checks together and lovely shoes in funky colours. And if he wants to carry a man bag then more power to him.’

  ‘Er, good…’

  ‘And he’d have to like food and wine so that we could cook lush meals together because I like a man who can cook. But even if he can’t, he’d have a great appetite for things like steak and chips and puddings, especially custard slices and cheesecake and he wouldn’t mind my love handles, because they are here to stay. You know what I mean?’

  I nodded and opened my mouth but closed it again as she carried on.

  ‘And he has to like animals, like cats and dogs but preferably dogs and children of course because I want four of them. And I’d like him to have hobbies, creative ones and also reading because I love reading. But he must be ambitious, not just in a make lots of money way, more in a make the most of every day of life way. I’d like him to be called something beginning with F or at least E and to be taller than me but not too tall.’

  I opened my mouth again. And closed it.

  ‘And he has to love his family and my family. I know it’s difficult to love someone else’s family but they mean too much to me to have any conflict. Ooh and my friends because if he doesn’t like my friends then that’s like saying he doesn’t respect my opinion so that would never work. And if he doesn’t mind watching Pretty Woman while I recite the lines, well then that’s just a bonus.’

  I tried to stop my eyebrows jumping off the top of my head. Heidi grinned and clicked her tongue. I paused to make sure she was actually finished.

  ‘W… well,’ I breathed, ‘quite a bit sprang to mind there didn’t it? You have thought that through. Quite a lot.’

  She grimaced.

  ‘Oh, you don’t think I’m going to find him do you? You think I’m going to be a chubby old spinster don’t you?’

  I saw tears in her eyes and rushed to rescue the moment.

  ‘No, no, of course not, I didn’t say that. Any man will be lucky to have you, Heidi. I’ll be honest, you have got high, very precise standards but that can be a good thing. At least you’re not going to drop your knickers for any plonker who walks through that door.’

  We both glanced at the door, which remained resolutely closed. I decided now would be a good time to change the subject.

  ‘Why does Bridget bother opening on a Sunday, Heidi? We’ve only had one customer and she bought a dressing gown for fifty pence. It’s not exactly a roaring trade.’

  Heidi checked her Minnie Mouse watch and nodded.

  ‘Aye you’re right, it’s like a graveyard in here. Probably because it’s so cold out there. I think it could snow tonight.’ She finished her sausage roll. ‘But every fifty pence counts for the charity, especially in the current financial climate. Bridget hinted yesterday that things aren’t going too well, but she wouldn’t go into detail. To be honest she had her head in a bag of Roxy’s shoes so I couldn’t really hear her too well. God knows why because they’re two sizes too small, but the old minx squeezes her bunions into those designer stilettos so tight it makes her ankles swell up. Anyway, she said something about getting in the paper to publicise it. But you know, Chloe, I get a feeling the kiddies won’t be given presents this Christmas because there’s no spare money in the pot. Isn’t that terrible? Loads of them are from families who can’t afford luxuries like Christmas and birthday presents let alone things like jazzy wheelchairs and beds. Imagine the poor bairns sitting waiting for Santa to come and he doesn’t. As if their lives aren’t tough enough.’

  My own problems faded into insignificance. Heidi was like my conscience. One mention of crippled children not getting presents and she won the best reason to be miserable competition.

  I grabbed a second pile of books to price up.

  ‘No you’re right, Heidi, every penny counts.’

  Heidi shook her head and brushed pastry crumbs from her black jumper.

  ‘No, pet, I think you’re right today. There’s no point wasting money on the electricity if no-one’s coming in to appreciate it. Let’s lock up and head to Tynemouth flea market.’

  I had to admit, I felt relieved. I didn’t mind helping out when I had nothing better to do… and let’s face it, I really had nothing better to do. The cause was heart wrenching, but in all honesty the smell of the Charity Shop still worked its way up my nostrils and all the way down to my stomach, leaving me feeling queasy for some hours afterwards. Heidi was immune to the mustiness in the air that lingered over ‘dead peoples’ shit’ as Roxy fondly called it. Considering she came from one of Newcastle’s roughest areas and had worn Charity Shop clothes until she was old enough to discover shoplifting, she could be such a snob.

  We locked up and then squeezed into Heidi’s blue and white Citroën Dolly, which chugged merrily along the seafront the five miles to Tynemouth. I always imagined Heidi’s car singing to itself as it drove. It suited her completely. We passed Longsands beach, a flat expanse of sand (as its name suggested), which was always packed with dog walkers and families on Sundays even in winter. I peered out of the car window at the energetic locals wrapped up against a sharp wind blowing with increasing enthusiasm from the Northeast, bringing Norway’s icy weather to Newcastle’s door. A group of hardy surfers clad head to toe in neoprene bobbed in the angry looking water like merry seals. The thought of the wind chill on wet skin made my spine shiver. There were still two hours until the November sun would set at the depressingly early time of four o’clock. Personally I thought the sun’s insistence to work short hours in the winter months spared little thought for us singletons. It was easy to occupy the seven or so hours of darkness in July with eating and television and sleeping but trying to fill a very inconsiderate sixteen dark hours out of twenty-four without feeling pangs of loneliness was nigh-on impossible, especially without the distraction of work. Today, a prolonged darkness hung steadfastly in the air blurring the distinction between the sky and the sea.

  ‘I think you’re right, Heidi,’ I shivered, ‘it feels like we’re in for snow.’

  Heidi swung the pink fluffy dice that dangled from her rear-view mirror and started singing White Christmas at the top of her voice.

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I growled, ‘Christmas is looming like the worst sort of deadline. I’m usually happy to be single because I’ve got such lovely friends, but now I’ve been made redundant too, I can’t face the whole bloody merriness of it all. In fact, I think I might just boycott Christmas this year.’

  Heidi gasped.

  ‘Ee you cannot do that, Chloe, Christmas is magic.’

  ‘Well then I wish it would just magic itself away to Fuck Right Off Land.’

  Heidi pulled into a parking
space opposite Tynemouth Metro station. The place I had met Zachary Doyle, the man who was messing with my brain with his modest handsomeness and his compliments about my cakes and his handsomeness…

  I stood at the entrance to the nineteenth century station building that housed book fairs, art exhibitions and the weekend flea market, which attracted people from all over the Northeast to discover the antiques, books, crafts and edible delicacies on offer every week.

  ‘You know, I was thinking we should do a stall here one week,’ said Heidi as she shoved her car keys into her bag, ‘we could sell some of Roxy’s stuff and we could make things. The Charity Shop has been so quiet lately because the stock’s not the best. I reckon everyone’s hanging on to stuff during the recession they might normally chuck out, so I’m worried we’re not viable anymore. It would be canny good to help out and make some extra money to buy pressies for the kiddies at Christmas.’

  Bloody hell, short of renaming myself Scrooge in response to her plea for Tiny Tim, how could I say no to that?

  ‘You could even keep some of the profits too what with you not having a job. Every penny counts at this time of year.’

  I sighed, the visible cloud of my breath drifting sluggishly away on the frosty air. It mixed with the sound of Christmas Carols and the happy chatter of customers and stallholders emanating from the station. The aroma of bacon sandwiches tickled my nose. I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets and turned my back to the entrance.

  ‘I’m not a charity, Heidi and I’m not quite that desperate yet. I’m still thinking positive. Who knows? I may have a job by the end of the week.’

  Heidi grimaced and touched my arm.

  ‘I’m sorry pet I was just thinking out loud.’

  ‘It’s alright, I know what you meant and I think the stall is a good idea for the real charity. Just let me know when and I’ll get some stuff together. But if you don’t mind I might give the flea market a miss today. It’s Monday tomorrow and really the only market I should be concentrating on is the job market. If I don’t find a job before mid-December, everyone will disappear off on holiday and it will be mid-January until I get anything sorted.’

  ‘I understand, pet, do you want a lift home?’

  ‘No, no, I can walk from here, the exercise will do me good.’

  I hugged my friend and walked away across the cobbled street towards my flat. It was time to get things moving on the job front. As I walked, snowflakes began to fall, becoming larger and falling heavier by the second. By the time I had reached my front steps, they were already settling like a layer of icing sugar on a cake.

  They could be the best cupcakes in the world. Zachary’s words buzzed around in my head.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I retorted aloud, ‘they’re just bloody cakes.’

  I stamped on the fine snow, entered my flat and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gradually pour in half the milk

  The following morning, I opened the curtains and gasped. Several inches of fresh snow covered every surface and flakes were still falling. Cars that were not four-wheel drives and had been given the day off snuggled under white blankets. Tree branches strained to support their additional load. The pavements merged into the road, next door’s wrought iron balcony looked as if it had been painted white and Mr Downstairs’ cat had left comically perfect paw prints along the wall. The whole scene looked so peaceful it made me smile. It was funny how frozen rain could turn a grim world into a wonderland, but then even the worst cake could be transformed by thick buttercream frosting.

  Resisting the urge to slip into my wellies and run outside to make snowmen, I showered, styled my hair, applied a light make-up, dressed in a smart black wool dress, grey tights and matching cardigan, slipped my feet into fluffy slippers (because heels would have felt inappropriate indoors) and poured a mug of filter coffee. Sitting on a breakfast bar stool with my contact book open on ‘A’, my phone in one hand and a shiny pen in the other, I felt and looked as if I were ready for a job interview (the fluffy slippers aside). After a fortnight of greatly reduced self-esteem, I needed to power up for the day’s task and dressing for action was part of the plan. By the end of the day, I vowed to myself, I would be well on my way to being the old Chloe Baker. I had a non-compete clause in my contract to stop me stealing clients and working within the local area for six months in exactly the same field, but I knew enforcing the contract would take time and money on my previous employer’s part and many of the clauses did not stand up when scrutinised because it was hard to deny someone the right to work. I figured if Blunts were in financial trouble, chasing me would not be high up on their list of priorities, especially after they had already succeeded in cutting my future salary and bonuses from their balance sheet. Times had changed and it had not taken me long to realise the job market was sure as hell not going to come knocking on my door. I had to give myself a metaphorical kick up the arse and go bang down its door. With both fists. In fact, I was going to sledgehammer the bloody thing and get myself back inside the reputable jobs club if it killed me.

  I took a few hits of strong coffee, applied fresh lipstick (somewhat psychological but I was sure I spoke more professionally with lipstick on) and dialled the first number in my contact book. The book was like a recruitment Bible, which contained the details of every mover and shaker and stagnant yet influential bod in the industry that I had gathered over the years. Mr Alexander of Alexander and Son was my first port of call. He was a gracefully aging English gentleman with salt and pepper hair and the rosy glow of a man who had lived, eaten and drunk well during his latter years. I remembered as the phone was ringing that he had a son called Zander Alexander, but that Mr Alexander Senior had ill advisedly impregnated his young, busty P.A. and was now estranged from the heir to his recruitment company. I wondered whether he would be changing the company name if his son didn’t forgive him.

  ‘Mr Alexander, hello it’s Chloe Baker, how are you?’

  I forced myself to focus and launched into my self-promotion.

  ‘…I know you’re aware of my reputation. I billed over three quarters of a million pounds last year… I decided to move on and look for a job with greater career progression… I aspire to join a company with a different culture… I want to manage a team as only I can… Mr Alexander, I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace… I guarantee I will make you even more money…’

  There was a heavy silence when I finished my spiel. Resisting the urge to fill the gap in the conversation, I crossed my fingers, my toes, my legs and even attempted to tie my tongue in a knot until Mr Alexander finally spoke.

  ‘Miss Baker, I really do appreciate your call, I have always admired your work…’

  Yes!

  ‘… and you will be well aware that I personally tried to headhunt you on several occasions…’

  Hunt away, this head is all yours baby!

  ‘…your billing record is impressive and I was surprised when I heard of your untimely demise at Blunts…’

  You heard?

  ‘… to be honest I think they are bloody fools to let you go…’

  Hear hear! Their loss is your gain as they say, Mr A!

  ‘… but…’

  Oh, there’s a ‘but’?

  ‘… I am rather surprised that you profess to having heard great things about my company in the recent marketplace, which leads me to think that you may be slightly out of touch…’

  It’s a big ‘but’ isn’t it?

  ‘… because if you had your finger on the pulse, Miss Baker, you would know that the heart of my company stopped beating approximately ten days ago and we are now dead in the water.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, clearing my throat, ‘I didn’t know that, I’m sorry.’

  I suspected Mr Alexander’s rosy glow was not quite so rosy.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Baker, I’m sorry too, but sorry will neither pay my mortgage and my creditors nor redeem my
shattered reputation.’

  Any words that came to mind stuck in my throat like piece of dry cream cracker.

  ‘I do however wish you luck, Miss Baker,’ he continued, ‘you are young and you have the opportunity to change your life, to grab it with both hands and give it a bloody good shake. Take my advice, Miss Baker and do it before it’s too late. Before you get to where I am when the preferable option seems to be sticking my head in the Aga.’

  ‘Would that actually work, sticking your head in an Aga? Wouldn’t you just get gradually too hot?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he mused, ‘but it might be worth a try.’

  I paused.

  ‘I hope things work out for you, Mr Alexander and thanks for your time.’

  ‘Time is something I have now I have no job. Funny how I never seemed to have enough and now I have too much, hanging like a noose around my neck. I’m not used to having time. I don’t know what to do with it.’

  ‘I can relate to that, Mr Alexander.’

  ‘How foolish we business folk are,’ he said with a low chuckle. ‘We work our fingers to the bone trying to scrape together assets as if they are the most important thing in life, when all along, time is the greatest asset and the most fragile. We can’t get it back. It’s priceless yet we fritter it away. Now I have hours in the day and I’m scared of them while all the years I should have treasured have gone forever and here I am a lonely, grey, suddenly poor old man who wishes he could start again.’

  A tear trickled down my cheek and I sucked back a sob. I hadn’t figured on job-hunting being this profound.

  ‘I dreamed of being a chef once,’ he sighed, ‘I wonder how that would have turned out.’

  We sat in silence; two business associates who had never engaged in a personal conversation but who, having been stripped of our suits and our business confidence, now saw the world in a whole new light.

  ‘Good luck, Miss Baker.’