by Poppy Dolan
Cat brazenly swallows a snort. ‘Oh yeah, paper, pencils, sure. Got a spare slate and some chalk? Because I’ve never heard of, like, an iPad. Psst.’ She starts to swagger off.
Right, I can’t have this. Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl would not have had this. I know she was a bitch, but still. She was the boss. And she ran a tight ship.
‘Catherine,’ I intone carefully but with force, ‘while your father isn’t here, you’re in my care. And I expect everyone in my team to treat each other with respect and good manners at the very least. Find a desk, get to work, and I don’t want to hear anything from you other than you hitting the keys. Or, the touch … pad thing. I hope that’s clear.’ I turn back to my PC screen, to signal the conversation is over and also so that I don’t ruin it with a Sigourney impression. ‘You make it happen’ is on the tip of my tongue but I hold it in place between my teeth.
The public-school drawl that floats over my shoulder is soaked in sarcasm. ‘Office person, you work for my Dad. You are not my boss. If anything, I’m yours. And my name is Catriona, yeah?’
I’m hoping Gina can’t see my red cheeks over our partition wall.
One last mutter reaches my ears. ‘Chill out, you old mum.’
I’m on my third latte and still my veins feel frozen solid with icy shock and rage. That little bloody …
I’ve brought my Kraft notes into the break room, with the excuse I was going to make an important phone call in a quieter space. But as I forgot the cordless phone, I don’t think anyone bought it.
Office spats don’t happen often at Crumbs (an excess of cheese and cake samples seems to be a natural sedative), so when Cat revealed her claws, all eyes and ears were on me. She had the last word, so now I’m dreaming up an excuse to give her one last last dressing down, preferably in front of Martin. I won’t have her – or my colleagues or my boss, for that matter – thinking I’m a pushover. And with Sacha having prime material to tell them all I’m up the duff, they will have written me off by close of play. Besides, how dare Cat talk to me like that? I’ve never come across such an uppity, sulking, opinionated … Or maybe I have. Maybe I met a girl like that when I was fifteen. And she was me.
I think maybe I’ve just forgotten what teenagers are really like, seeing as that was half my lifetime ago already. They are moody, selfish, scathing and inevitable. All babies become teenagers. Blimey, that’s a sobering, unsexy thought. I can’t stand one that’s stalking around my office for a day; how will I handle one that actually lives in my house?
Just as another shard of that icy feeling slips along my veins and down my spine, Gina pops up in front of me.
‘Um, hey.’ This is the first time I’ve ever seen her unsure of her words.
‘Hi.’
‘So, it’s about Cat.’
‘Don’t you mean Catriooooona.’ I roll my eyes.
After a feeble laugh, Gina goes on, ‘Yes, um the thing is, she’s not at her desk.’
I can already picture her hanging around the Art team, flirting with one of the twenty-something designers that has ironically dyed grey hair. Or maybe she’s sticking her fingers into all the salted caramel eclairs for this afternoon’s shoot, cackling like a minx. Maybe she’s got one of Daddy’s credit cards and is doing an iPad ASOS shopping spree at the water cooler. Right, this calls for a spirited lecture about responsibility, commitment, following through on your goals. She’s supposed to be revising for her AS levels, qualifications that could decide the rest of her life. She needs to take herself seriously, goddammit, and as a serious woman myself I am going to set her straight whether she likes it or not.
‘Where is she then?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘That’s it – I don’t know. She’s just gone. And her stuff has too.’
No one has Cat’s mobile number. No one saw her leave, not even the blushing designer in the holographic t-shirt. I can’t call Martin. How would that sound? ‘Oh hey, boss, I lost your daughter when she was in my care. No bigs. And yeah, that whole saving the company budget is totally under control. Laters.’
I let a provocative teen loose on the streets of London. Oh Christ.
After reassuring Gina with an unsure, wobbly voice, I’m grabbing my coat and legging it towards reception. Gina guesses she’s been gone for fifteen minutes or so; she can’t be far. I just have to trust that she is far too posh to find the Tube acceptable as a form of escape.
When I was seventeen, where would I have gone, let loose in London? To buy Nirvana posters in HMV, most likely. But Cat probably thinks Kurt Cobain is just a model who gets printed on to H&M crop tops occasionally. And the idea of buying anything to do with music from a shop on the high street is probably as alien to her as press-ups are to me.
I have no idea what teens do these days. I mean, I like Twitter and YouTube and One Direction. But I like to use all these things to better appreciate cute images of cats (if you haven’t seen the Tumblr feed ‘One Direction vs Kittens’ then you are missing the WHOLE point of the Internet). Sadly, I don’t think kittens are Cat’s thing.
Oh, but hang on. I type Catriona O’Dell into the search box on my Twitter app. Bingo.
@slutyah, I am coming for you.
@slutyah, what are you guys up to?
@slutyah God, office life is BORIN. Ditching the revision. Anyone nr TS for a manipedi?
I may be an old mum but I know what TS is.
Do I go for a calm and gentle approach, when I track her down to the Topshop nail bar? I could go all Dangerous Minds, shrug on a Topshop leather jacket and sit on a chair backwards, to reach her. Or do I go all Miss Trunchbull and drag her back to her desk by her messy beehive? And in a nutshell, that’s what terrifies me about having a baby that grows into a teenager one day. Will I have to be the doormat ‘best friend’ mum who’s waiting outside clubs at 2 a.m. in her Nissan Micra/minicab? Or do I become the unflinching badass who rules with an iron grip but who no one wants to cuddle?
As I wedge myself into the queue going down the escalators into the giant fashion mecca, I decide I am too tired, too sweaty and too busy to have sympathy with this little diva. Trunchbull it is. And I can just drink in the potent lie all would-be parents must tell themselves: ‘Well, my kids won’t be that bad.’
Martin is waiting in his office when we return. Although I gave Cat one almighty, shrill lecture – right in the middle of the shop floor! – I did let her pay for her new seed beads manicure set. I also let her explain to me how that look worked. By the time we get off the Tube and speed-walk up to the office, we are almost at a truce.
‘Ladies!’ Martin booms with a jolly lilt.
Interesting. No one has told him that Cat escaped. I could work with this.
‘Just taking your studious daughter for a caffeine break. She’s been hard at the books all morning. Don’t want her keeling over during her long,’ I turned wide eyes on the pouting teen, ‘long revision session this afternoon.’
‘Really?’ Martin runs a hand over his sleek grey hair. ‘Well, that’s a turn-up. I could do with an espresso myself after that …’ he gives me a meaningful look. Oh, yes, the accountants.
As he strides past me, wallet in hand, and Cat sways off back down to her desk of doom at the far end of the corridor, Martin pauses just long enough to murmur, ‘Watch her, actually. She can be a bit of a liability. I warned lovely Gina, but just so you’re on your toes too, yes?’
My butter-wouldn’t-melt intern is quietly typing at a rate of knots at her desk. Well that was one little detail she hadn’t communicated to me, though she seems so able to remind me – weekly – that she intends to apply for a permanent position and would so value my support and guidance.
‘But I know you’ve got your eyes on the prize, eh, Ellie? It wasn’t the best meeting today, so any nice big numbers rolling in soon would certainly … well, save our bacon, if I’m honest.’
Chapter Twenty
By the time baking class came along, I was feeling less worried about Sacha’s
assumptions and possible gossip spreading. Let her talk. My ovaries were my business. Though if someone else had them on remote control maybe my life would be a bit simpler right now. It was harder to push down Martin’s talk of saving bacon and all the stomach rolls of panic that followed it. Perhaps the first and only time my stomach hasn’t leapt for joy at the idea of pork. But when I thought about my bubble of happiness at the baking class with funny Hannah and – OK I will admit it – enjoyably hot Joe, the scary bacon got smaller and smaller until it was barely a rasher of worry.
There was no nagging thought in the back of your brain that couldn’t be quietened by a good bake. This week was brownies and though I had perfected the recipe years ago (dark chocolate mix, white chocolate chunks, throw in some cranberries at Christmas. DON’T overbake) there was nothing wrong with playing about with a new recipe and taking it slowly. I don’t think Hannah or Joe has twigged that I’d baked so much before. They know I work at a magazine, just not that it’s a foodie one. We all tend to switch between five minutes of concentrating on our method handouts to ten minutes of chatting about rubbish while we mix, sift, beat and blend. Each class is a glorious bubble away from the real world where I only obsess about my eggs being too old because I need them to form shiny, stiff peaks (old eggs won’t do that, see). I don’t talk about work or budgets or interns or families or even Pete: I am just Eleanor, thirty-one, baking enthusiast. Not usually comfortable with being defined by one single term, here it feels like a sort of freedom. So bring it. Not even cameras can put me off.
Hannah and I have perfected the art of talking out of the corner of our mouths. I smile innocently at Mr Berry as he catches us whispering and tune back in to what he’s talking the class through.
‘… and regardless of the cocoa solids of your chocolate, whether you’ve toasted nuts or added fudge pieces, your brownies won’t be worthy of a Network Rail coffee cart if you don’t get the baking time right. Here,’ he holds up a perfect thick rectangle of dark chocolate brownie on a plate, ‘you can see the heavy, squidgy bottom, with an almost crispy, cracked top.’ His pudgy fingers point out the sedimentary layers like a very hungry Tony Robinson has just walked into the wrong studio. In fact, he is working the camera tonight. The crew repeated their intention to stay as out of the way as possible, but Mr Berry keeps flashing his teeth in their direction and looking straight down the lens.
With the plate back on the worktop, he smoothes over his steely grey hair and adjusts his black pinny. Maybe he’s going to get himself an agent.
‘It’s all in the bake. Too short and you’re left with a wet mixture that won’t cut well and sinks in the middle. Too long and you have wasted your afternoon on making a very very dry sponge. With this recipe, we’re on a low temperature for forty five minutes and when that bell goes, ladies, don’t be too hasty to whip them out.’ Joe nearly faints with suppressed laughter next to me. I yank his pinny tie as a warning shot.
‘And, of course, gents. Joe, I hope you know how important it is to leave it in, even when you think you’re all done.’ Hannah puts her whole hand over her face and turns slightly to the window.
‘We want those brownies to stay in the oven as it’s turned off and cooling slowly, to continue the very gentle cooking and get that delicious chew in the centre. Now I like to pit Delia against Nigella in the brownie death match,’ another glance down the lens, another wave of embarrassed laughter from the class. ‘Delia doesn’t go too sweet, which I like, but Nigella has the right idea about the proportion of melted chocolate to get things going. So, in your bain-maries …’
Baking and being filmed and trying to hold on to my bladder control as Mr Berry apparently and repeatedly gets our baking class confused with a late-night cable channel called Hot Babe City is one of the greatest challenges of my life. But I’m determined on multiple levels. I want to look anything less than idiotic in this background shot so I can show my mum I’ve been on telly; I want to make some kick-ass brownies to take home and put into the deserving mouth of my hardworking, patient husband; I want to be done in good time so I can drag Hannah to the pub and subject her to some brain dumping of all my latest baby thoughts and research trips.
When the brownies come out, eventually, after their wait in the cooling oven feeling like a particular kind of cruel torture, the director takes Mr Berry over to one side. Have his TV dreams of stardom actually come true? But as we see his face fall, I guess not. The director gives him a jolly thumbs up, leaves a wodge of flyers on his table and heads back to his crew who are busy dismantling, sorting equipment and all the time trying to wipe away the drool that the thick brownie smell is creating.
‘Ahem, before you head home with your delicious creations, Rob the director wants to thank us for all our time and cooperation by giving us free tickets to the BBC Good Food Winter show at Excel. So if you hand me your signed release, you can pick up one free pass. Let’s all thank him for his generosity.’ He starts a very lame round of applause.
‘Sweet!’ Joe air punches. Hannah blinks in confusion at him. ‘Freeness!’ He beams. ‘Girls, these shows are full of freebies and I have exactly none of my Christmas presents bought. So it’ll be a sample of Flora spreadable for Mum this year.’ He rubbed his hands together in glee, like a really tall and handsome and black Del Boy. He scrawls his signature on the bottom of his release and grabs his toasty Tupperware box of just-warm brownies. ‘I’ll see you there, ladies! But if you try and beat me to a free tote bag, I will take you down.’ With a raise of the eyebrows, he’s off.
Behind me, Hannah leans in. ‘I think you and I need a drink. Five minutes in the camera glare and I’m developing a proper substance abuse problem. Finally. Nothing exciting ever happens to teachers.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The manager of the crummy pub near the college is still puzzled by our regular appearances. But this week there’s a small red vase containing a solitary twig of holly in it. He’s decorating the place! There’s even a string of fairy lights by the bar and now the choice from two bottles of white on the menu. But we’re sticking with the classic Vin de Table, like any good regular would.
Just as I’m limbering up my gob to pour out all my weird baby stuff, Hannah takes a deep breath, shuts her eyes and says, ‘Laurie and I had the biggest fight yesterday. We’re still not talking. I don’t know if I want to go home tonight.’ She opens her eyes just a touch and winces in my direction.
‘Oh no, shit, what happened?’ Hannah’s been pretty quiet about her private stuff up until this point – I just assumed she goes into her Zen baking zone like I do in each class, so I didn’t want to dig deeper. Altogether she’s a pretty calm, controlled sort of person. The odd bubble of school life stress pops now and again but otherwise she keeps a lid on the emotional stuff. But if there’s one way to cement a new female friendship, it’s by dishing out relationship woes, dissecting each word, each funny look, until you’ve put that bloke’s issues fully on trial and declared him unfixable. But still loveable. So hey, what are you going to do? I’ve had less of these long, heartfelt convos in recent years because it seems like when people tie the knot, they’ve somehow signed an official secrets act along with the licence. They keep their dirty secrets to themselves and work through their problems just within the partnership. It might be the healthy thing to do, but it’s not the most fun. I had a really lovely colleague at Crumbs who would pull me into the disabled loos every time her boyfriend came home inexplicably drunk and late. She’d rant and rave about what he could have possibly been up to and how next time she was putting the deadbolt on. Then they got married and we never perched on that loo seat again. She got pregnant a year later and moved to Sussex.
‘Laurie’s under loads of pressure at work,’ Hannah continues. ‘It’s not easy for a trainee barrister, I get it: the job is intense, important, with so many people need—’
‘Hey, so is yours,’ I interject.
She rolls her eyes with an exasperated exhaustion. ‘Tha
t is just it. I do have tough days. I know I can be home by six quite often, bar staff meetings and parents’ evenings and baking club. Well, at least one night a week I’m guaranteed to be home at six and then I get stuck into making dinner and marking pointless and unnecessarily hard reading-comprehension tests. I would tell you more about the state of education, but I know you’re deciding whether to have children right now and it would – believe me – tip you over the edge.’
‘So when Laurie comes in there’s a lot of soothing to do? I have that with Pete in tax season but he usually just needs a Cobra beer and a back rub. Or … you know.’
Hannah gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, yes, I do know. But sometimes even the best Cosmo tricks won’t make you forget about a family law case that’s making national headlines. This case … it’s just consuming us both. And I had had a crappy day at school, the Head breathing down my neck because we’d melted chocolate for Baking Club and I hadn’t filled out the right hazard form. You know, this club that I’m not getting paid extra for, no support to run, no bonus career points even? And he’s dressing me down in front of my entire class, the class I have trained to look up to me like … like I’m Little Mix’s mum, to put it in their sort of mind frame.’
‘Aha.’ I nod and sip.
‘Yeah, so I’m carrying all that, and I don’t fancy cooking, I can’t even gather the mental strength to decide what takeaway we should have, let alone take the washing out the machine, send off the Council Tax form … but when you’ve been deciding whether four children should have to testify against their sadistically violent father, that doesn’t sound so important. So, The War of Who’s the Most Knackered started. And hasn’t stopped. Have you ever felt like you’re at war with Pete? Like the person who’s supposed to love you the most has forgotten that temporarily, and it’s like you’re strangers in a huge battle?’
