by Poppy Dolan
‘Mmm-hmmm.’ Over the eleven years of friendship with Lydia I had perfected the non-committal conversational segue sound. I think I used it the first time when she told me, during Freshers’ Week, that we should really sign up for the Windsurfing Society. At Sheffield University.
‘Yeah, so, this guy is actually taking Intermediate Baking – I saw him at the sign-up sheet. Tall, stubble in the right places. Nice smile.’
‘But baking?’
In many years of friendship with me, Lydia had developed a deflector shield eye roll that sent my sceptical frowns flying back into the atmosphere. It was how she got me to sign up for the Windsurfing Society. ‘Chuh. Homophobe much? A man can bake without … wanting to put his French stick in another man’s—’
I nodded vigorously. ‘Got it, thanks. Right, so what’s the plan?’ I picked up a biscotti crumb from the table top. ‘You could do with sorting out your shortcrust from your shortbread. Your eyes will meet over a pavlova and – poof – love at first bake.’
Lyds swung one long leg over the other under the cloudy glass coffee shop table. ‘Can’t do two classes, Ells, haven’t the time, money or revision capabilities.’ Suddenly I had a flashback of Lydia before her psychology finals, screeching, ‘WHERE is the frontal lobe again?’ and collapsing in a pile of ProPlus pills.
‘So what’s the plan of attack?’
‘You go.’
‘Hugo? Who’s Hugo?’
‘No, dear, you go. To the class. See what he’s like, if he’s any cop, then, if he is, bring him to the pub and I’ll just be there, casually chilling in my Topshop leather trousers and freshly made denim beads. And he will be mine.’ She cackled and tapped the tips of her fingers together. ‘It’s been months and I NEED it.’ Somewhere behind us, a barista dropped his saucer.
After clearing the green tea leaves from my throat, I croaked over our crumby plates, ‘All right, Dita Von Teese, don’t blow a gasket. That might be a fine plan in your world but I’m not just some smug married who has nothing better to do than play along with your seduction plans.’ If I’d ever known how to pout successfully, I would have done it just then.
‘Oh, love,’ Lyds tipped her head to one side and batted her Bambi lashes, ‘that’s not how I think of you at all. You have your life so sorted that you can help out a doofus like me. I don’t have a marvellous Pete at home, I just have an empty goldfish bowl, a half-knitted scarf and credit card bills as floor insulation. Take pity on meeeee.’ She clutched at my hands over the table and turned up the baby voice. ‘Pur-lese, Smelly Ellie. You are my bestest friend. In the whole wide world.’
I bit the inside of my cheek. I shook off her clammy clutches. I considered the five-year-old vow to join a night school and learn Italian I’d never so much as Googled into action. And I supposed I could do with furthering myself, meeting some new people. I considered all the things the eighteen-year-old me thought I would have achieved by now. OK, so perfecting a chocolate roulade was hardly on the same scale, but it was something to add to my patchy list of achievements.
‘OK, yes. But you’re buying all my ingredients and if you go off him in a week I can bail. If you get on him you can’t ignore me, either. I’m not having another summer like that awful one with Bob the Architect.’
Lydia patted her hands together in delight and then stuck out her tongue in good humour. ‘You went over the top, calling the police. I was fine!’
‘You holed up in your flat, shagging him solid for two weeks and didn’t return my calls! I thought you’d been chopped into bits or sex trafficked.’
‘Mmm, well we did do this one role play thingy where he’d come in with all the lights off and tie my—’
‘Okay-dokey, definitely time to catch the bus.’
And that was how I agreed to become Lydia’s covert culinary agent in dating warfare.
Chapter Four
Pete loosened his tie in that yummy coffee advert way he had, and exhaled slowly. ‘Numbers. I wish I could just leave them at work, in the spreadsheets, but they follow me home, every day: train platforms, Casio watches, bloody Sudokus. Gah.’ He opened a bottle of Becks against the kitchen counter and put the lid in the bin before he took his first sip. I had truly married the right man.
‘The curse of the accountant. You’re like a modern-day Midas. Sort of.’
Pete gave me a soft pat on the bum and took an exaggerated sniff over my head. ‘What’s that delicious smelling stuff? Magimixed anything nice? We haven’t julienned any carrots yet.’
‘Hah! Not tonight. Cod fillets with chorizo, and bean salad. Thank you very much.’ Pete and I lived and died by Nigella’s recommendations. ‘Saw Lyds for a coffee after work.’
Pete picked up a kidney bean with dexterous fingers. ‘Oh yeah? What’s her latest scheme? Rollerblading waitress? Lifestyle guru? Professional bodybuilder?’
Flipping the cod over in the pan, I thanked my lucky stars the skins held in one piece. The chorizo slices sizzled in their scarlet juices around the edge of the pan, giving off a delicious tangy scent.
‘Selling textile jewellery with her new flatmate. She’s going to take an evening course in it. And I think I might sign up for one, too.’ I looked at Pete sideways as the steam tickled my nose.
‘Good idea, babe. Right: Hairy Bikers.’
And without so much as asking what evening class I’d taken, or where or when, Pete strolled into the living room to start our quasi-cannibalistic evening of eating food while watching better food being cooked and dreaming of the food we’d eat tomorrow. My average Tuesday night.
So now here I am, standing outside the college, ten minutes early for my class and feeling like a plonker. It’s that weird kind of September when it can be flat and grey when you’re getting dressed and then, like a weather ninja, it’ll pull out a blade of red-hot sun and you’ll be sweating buckets and desperately stuffing one of your three layers into your book bag. So I have a red cardi in with my Lisa Jewell and a bit of time to kill to avoid first impressions of complete swottiness. I’m still a little surprised at myself for going along with another of Lyds’s evil schemes so readily, but a change is always as good as a rest, as my Gran used to say. Mind you they put her in a rest home, and she wasn’t too happy about that.
A smorgasbord of Londoners fill into the adult education building and I’m transfixed by the menu of people types: polished octogenarians in granny gangs, with floral two-pieces and cheeky smiles; shy-looking foreign language students with a whole host of accents and skin tones but mysteriously near-identical backpacks; your basic trendies in skinny jeans, waistcoats and thick-framed glasses, gender unknown; women probably my age in funky coloured tights and with sharp bobs, swinging their own book bags and speed-walking towards their class in heeled brogues. I have instant life envy and hope they are in my class.
‘That’s me, there. Eleanor Redford.’
I’m ticked off by a sweet little receptionist after I’ve wasted a socially acceptable ten minutes just shuffling my feet on the pavement and people-watching. Plumping for a middle row in the large Home Ec classroom, I feel all kinds of nostalgia for my schooldays. Funnily enough, I hated cooking when I was in secondary school and said very annoying and precocious things about one day paying someone ‘to do all this pants stuff for me’ when I was asked to crumb butter and flour for scones. Now I feel a mini burst of joy if I get an hour free of work stress or dealing with Pete’s work stress or doing my Davina workout DVD till my eyes pop out or swearing at the self-checkout in Sainsbury’s. If I have a free hour I’ll use it to bake. Something fattening that will cancel out my bottom toning with Big D (as I call her and like to believe she accepts fondly), something that I could have bought super easily at the supermarket but then it wouldn’t have been my own, my precious. I’ll bake and I’ll think about nothing. And then I’ll lick the bowl. Joy.
I’m not sure how bowl licking will go down in this class, so decide to rein myself in to start with. As I flop my bag onto a high stoo
l, my phone buzzes.
From: Lydia Chlamydia
Have funnnnn, Smells! Remember, he’s tall, dark and hopefully single. Recon catch up later, yeah? THANKS AGAIN BABY x
I know when Lyds bothers to do something in caps that she really means it, so that’s nice. I just hope the whole class isn’t full of tall, dark, handsome men. Wait, no, actually I do. But can they please wear name tags? But not so much as one single hottie has turned up yet, so I fuss a bit to hide my impatient awkwardness.
I switch my phone to silent, after texting back, I’m in deep cover. He will be yours. X. I tie my hair up, put on my favourite Liberty pinny (no I didn’t dream of uttering that thought when I was eighteen, but then again I didn’t have clothes nice enough to risk ruining with beetroot juice then) and, as an afterthought, slip my wedding rings off and into the zippy pocket of my handbag. When Pete and I had first tentatively talked about getting hitched, he’d straightaway begged not to choose the ring. It was too much pressure for his male brain, and I was happy to save him the mental energy. Jewellery shopping; hello. But I’m not a blingy type, and our budget definitely wasn’t the blingy type, so my ring is a little bit different. It’s three grey pearls in a close row, with these tiny gold leaves tucked between them, like a metallic bouquet. I loved it on sight in a jewellery boutique, and Pete finally unclenched his buttocks when he realised it was way affordable.
But the sales girl had looked a bit panicked when I said it was our engagement ring.
‘It’s more of a fashion piece,’ she fumbled, ‘I don’t know how long it will last.’
‘Well, who knows how long the marriage will last!’ I joked gaily, feeling out of place in the swanky velvet-lined shop. (Pete sulked, quite rightly, for a good hour about that lame remark.)
‘The pearls are only … glued in place,’ she finished with a whisper. ‘Please try to avoid getting them wet, or having any contact with soap, so they don’t loosen.’
By this stage I was so droolingly in love with the ring I would have handed over the joint account card even if she’d said the pearls were cursed and I could only wear them on a full moon in a hay field, surrounded by virgins. But I did remember her Gremlins-style warnings and have been carefully sitting the ring on a little white tile left over from the bathroom refit, which itself sits on top of my favourite painted teacup, each time I shower or wash up or bake. Pete calls it The Shrine and sometimes gives it a mock-bow on his way to the fridge. But my pearls are still intact three years later, so I am a happy devotee. My actual wedding band is your bog-standard Ernest Jones job that is so thin I could probably use it as a washer should an appliance break down. Or it would be an excellent hula hoop for a bee. I still remember the gelled-up sales assistant who took out the tray of wedding bands hopefully, only for me to say, ‘No, the row below that one. No, down a bit more. Basically, the one right at the bottom on special offer.’ But to save hurting the skinny thing’s feelings, I let it sit on The Shrine too. Like the Queen lets Prince Phillip join in on things. He’s important, but you wouldn’t cry so much if he went down the sink.
So I’m prepped to bake, looking out for a friendly type to be my new course buddy. And in walks one of the bright tight ladies. She has a sheet of fine blonde hair, cut longer in the front, and a grey marl dress. I think grey marl speaks very highly of a person, like only reading the Daily Mail online for the showbiz news and slagging it off otherwise. Like putting back the cheese you suddenly don’t want in its right home in the supermarket, rather than leaving it to sweat to death in the biscuit aisle. I have a funny premonition she’d never leave a good cheese behind. So I catch her eye.
‘Hello!’ I chirrup, unnaturally perky. ‘I’m Ellie. Are you here for Intermediate Baking?’
There’s a horrible minute where she just blinks and I prepare myself for a cool girl’s blanking. It’s amazing the number of women you meet who are thirty-two going on seventeen when it comes to assessing who’s edgy enough to talk to. But luckily a polite smile breaks out.
‘Hannah.’ She puts forward a hand. ‘Is this it? Just the two of us? Good for teaching time, I suppose, but I should warn you, I can get competitive. If there’s some sort of ribbon in this class, I will pretty much bake to the death to win it.’
I knew I was going to like her.
‘Good to know. But don’t worry about a ribbon; they’ve already printed my name on it.’ I pull a jokey grimace to avoid coming across like a right knob. ‘So do you do much baking already? Are you up to croquembouche level?’
She laughs, and it’s pleasantly tinkly. ‘God no, I value the skin on my fingers too much to attempt hot caramel. I can find my way around a mixing bowl but I could do with polishing up. I actually teach not far from here, in Southwark, and the only Home Economics we can do is an after-school class. There’s no time in the curriculum. And there’s no budget to pay an actual expert. So I want to get some better skills to pass onto the kids, try and push back against the wave of fried chicken that hits them when they walk through the gates.’
‘What an image.’
‘Yup. But sadly true. I think if those places opened in the morning the kids would have it for breakfast. Maybe learning a bit more about food prep will help them make a more informed dinner choice. And, you know, like every other teacher in London I’m waiting for my Dangerous Minds moment.’
I laugh. ‘You’ve got the Michelle Pfeiffers about you,’ I say, fake-appraising her, ‘but you need the leather jacket and maybe to rap some of the ingredients list.’
‘Is rapping on the lesson plan? Or am I in completely the wrong room?’ a deep voice says, over my shoulder.
I turn around.
Bingo.
Joe is no slouch in the kitchen. I’m especially impressed by how quickly he can hand-beat an egg. But I don’t want to think too much about why that is.
And he’s just as tasty as Lyds described: tall and broad, a good head taller than me and with a natural ease that always seems to fit a tall and brawny man so naturally. With closely cropped jet-black hair and skin the colour of coffee cake batter, he could be an Abercrombie model. Or J-Lo’s boyfriend. Lydia’s tastes are, it seems, going up in the world. I approve very much.
Hannah and I make our skitterish introductions as Joe takes the stool next to me and other would-be baking students file in through the doors. Thank goodness the teacher turns up soon after because God knows why but I have suddenly gone silent in front of this bloke. Yes, he is fit, but I’m not fifteen and watching My So-Called Life on repeat any more. Not that being older and married stops you from having the odd crushette here and there, but I manage to speak normally in front of Luke in accounts and I once dreamed about him in Mr Darcy jodhpurs.
As the teacher – a shortish man (yup, there are muffled gasps from the class as he enters) in his forties – shows us the fire exits and urges us all to switch off our phones, I slip mine out and send another text from my lap, my right shoulder hunched up to make sure my male classmate can’t see.
To: Lydia Chlamydia
You didn’t say he was like Idris Elba and David Beckham’s love child?!?!
She pings back:
Oh YEAH baby!
And as everyone else behaved themselves and switched off I managed one last reply:
Maybe out of your league, love. But book a waxing in case xxx
And then it is all ears on baking. I may be about to embark on a recon mission for the sake of my best friend’s libido but I also have some serious cakes to make. Lesson One: The Ultimate Victoria sponge.
Chapter Five
‘Joe. Didn’t get his second name. Not a bad baker at all. South Londoner. Didn’t mention sports, so not 100 per cent sure, but he could be the dream: a man not bothered about football. Fun to talk to, very relaxed with Hannah and me, so not too arrogant or socially backwards. Definite potential. And I don’t think Hannah looked interested, so that’s not awkward.’
This rapid-fire data dump is a bit of a struggle after the f
our flights of stairs up to Lyds’s flat. Tucked into the eaves of an old Victorian school house in Brixton, it is the most amazing open, airy space: perfect for Lyds and her collection of crazy art, dressing-up clothes and oddball flatmates. I don’t have long to stop over for tea and vegan cake – date night with Pete at The Ritzy cinema – but I want to debrief my best mate with everything I’d learnt. I have a really good feeling about Joe. He’s the first bloke Lydia has fancied recently that I’d be happy to double-date with. Or even just let use my bathroom. If I can give Lydia a fighting chance with this nice bloke, then a little spying is totally worth my while.
‘And breathe.’ Lydia hands me a mug of steaming mint tea. ‘But he sounds good. How was he looking? Chest hair? Any visible tats?’
My tongue goes numb with a brief burning, ‘Ooof. Hot; yes, a bit; he was too tall for me to see; sleeves rolled up but no daggers, skulls or wife’s name showing. He looked nice.’
Lydia gives a half-skip on her way to the biscuit tin. ‘Ni-ice. That, from you, is high praise, I know. You wouldn’t even say Tom was decent.’
It takes all my strength not to say, That’s because he cleaned his nails with a butter knife and grabbed your sister’s arse at Christmas. I opt instead to burn my tongue a bit more to be safe.
As she picks at a lump of some orange-ish cake that could be carrot, ginger or tofu-based, Lydia lowers her very delicate eyebrows and flicks her hair out of her eyes. ‘And you’re sure no one else has already made a move?’
I shake my head. ‘Didn’t see so much as an arm punch or bashful giggle. I was watching Hannah but she didn’t seem to perve off him or anything. I think Hannah’s just there to really study up. She’s cool, you know. She’s a teacher nearby and is going to teach her kids—’
‘Ooooooooh!’ Lyds holds her hands under her chin and bats her eyelashes like Scarlett O’Hara on Red Bull. ‘Hannah! Lovely Hannah, teacher’s pet Hannah! I think Ellie has a cruuuuuuuush,’ she finishes in a sing-song.
