There's More to Life Than Cupcakes

by Poppy Dolan

  Sprogless x

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  Nope. Sorry. My boss looked like I’d just told him I wanted to sacrifice a chicken at my desk.

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  Ditto.

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  My boss was lovely (she had three of her own) but her top boss wasn’t so considerate and they offered me a part-time position when I tried to come back. That didn’t cover the childcare cost, so my capsule work wardrobe now consists of M&S jogging bottoms and an old Take That tour t-shirt. Really glad I got that law degree now. Because I’m in the process of suing them. Fight the power, Sprogless!

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  What the frick am I doing? It’s just a few days before Christmas, I still have no good present ideas for Pete (though Valium might still be effective as he continues to map out our rest-of-life-fund in Excel); I haven’t practised the cake for Rich’s wedding nearly enough and it’s a little under two weeks away – my snowmen are still either too much like lumpy doughballs or Halloween treats. Lyds still won’t return my calls and I miss her so much that I’m considering just turning up at Portobello Market and crying into her face until her resolve breaks. I’ve got all that on my plate and yet I’m currently holding an actual plate piled high with freshly made doughnuts, smiling into a camera, while megawatt lightbulbs try and boil the top layer of my skin off my face. And Joe is right next to me, a cheeky grin plastered over his chops and his beer bread grasped in one strong hand.

  I’m sure the runner said that this first session would involve no filming. I’m pretty sure I asked her that five million times. It was just going to be an informal chat with producers, where I’d outline my favourite recipe, answer a few questions.

  Joe and I had met up for a coffee before we nervously made our way up to the production office in Islington on this last Saturday before Christmas. We eventually shuffled in the line through double doors that opened up into a busy open-plan office, not unlike Crumbs but – I can hardly believe I’m saying this – MORE cake. They had an actual croquembouche tower. I had an emotional reaction to the very sight of it. A small, confident, competitive voice in my head said You could master that by New Year’s Eve. Think how impressive it would look at the wedding! But then a weedy little voice piped up: Is that a studio set up over there? And I spied the tiny but complete studio set up in the corner of this massive office: a kitchen counter, two huge cameras that looked like Daleks swivelling about on wheels, a sink with no plumbing and a super sexy oven built into the back wall.

  Joe and I had stood in the queue to be checked off a list, giggling like kids on a school trip to the Going Live! studios.

  ‘I could be the new Tim Lovejoy, you know,’ he said. ‘I could deal with mucking about in a kitchen and then sitting on a sofa every weekend. That’s pretty much my Sunday anyway, but now I’ll have cameras on me and get tonnes of money for doing it. And probably interview The Saturdays every now and again. Sweet.’

  ‘I used to feel sorry for the northern chef bloke who does all the cooking on that show. Tim just comes in and breaks an egg to look involved, when it’s the chef that’s planned three separate dishes. Then he released a cookbook called Men Love Pies, Women Like Hummus and I thought he was a bit of a prick.’

  ‘Ha ha!’ Joe nudged my shoulder just as the woman I vaguely recognised as Zoe speed-walked past. She stopped dead in her tracks when she caught my eye.

  ‘Hey!’ she beamed and then beamed even harder when she took in Joe. ‘Ellie, isn’t it? I thought I recognised you, though not looking quite so peaky today, I’m glad to see. And this is?’

  She looked up at Joe, who was frowning at me in confusion, so I bolted out a sentence to avoid the most cringey explanation of my life. ‘This is Joe. Joe, this is Zoe who works on the show.’

  ‘Did you two come together?’

  ‘Yes, we met in a baking class, actually,’ Joe starts, but Zoe cuts him off by seizing his wrist.

  ‘Perfect! Do you know what? I’m going to be a bit cheeky and get you in front of Simon and Priya first. I think they’re going to love that you …’ She’s looking at all six foot two of Joe, his muscular frame and cheekily twinkling eyes, and dodging the pheromones jumbling up her brain to find the right words, ‘… you go to a baking class. You’re obviously experts!’

  And so she took us off to see Simon and Priya, the head producers, and it was all very friendly and sociable, talking about quiche fillings and vanilla extract, while the others in the queue hated us intensely. So when Simon, a perfect media type in huge Perspex glasses and grey cardigan, leant forward and said conspiratorially, ‘Shall we just do a little screen test?’ I somehow forgot that I absolutely DID NOT want to be filmed today. I hadn’t had time to talk to Pete about going on telly – the right moment had never popped up, with all the wedding plans and office Christmas dos and him still wanting to tell Spencer to shove his gross margins up his bum. Besides, I didn’t have my best Shu Uemura foundation on, and there was no helpful make-up artist hanging around with a giant puffy brush, like there always is in films.

  But Simon’s confident manner and his artfully swooshy hair just felt so persuasive in the moment. And Joe had pretty much sprinted into the spotlight in the little fake kitchen, so I could hardly wee all over his parade and say no. I could always give it a go and change my mind, I told myself. I could tear up the release papers like a particularly bad episode of Dallas where a secret uncle sets fire to the seventeenth set of drilling licences. I was an adult: I wouldn’t be pushed along.

  But I have been pushed along. I’ve just made a batch of doughnuts in front of the cameras and the production team, using their new deep-fat-fryer and their sink with just a bucket under the plughole. I can pretty much recount the recipe off the top of my head in the way other people know the order of the planets (and my, how that nerdy knowledge must come in useful for them) as it’s Pete’s favourite that I make for his birthday, each and every year. In fact, I told Priya how they’re more romantic than they look, doughnuts: hefty and calorific, yes, but made with care, time and affection they are irresistible. All that faffing: a real sign of true love. She smiled as Joe rolled his eyes in mock-derision.

  They had a larder that was like a baker’s wet dream: every kind of flour, five different jams, vanilla pods and even one of those super sexy American mixers with the big balloon whisk attachment. Heaven. I think it was the balloon whisk that finally broke my right mind away from the rest of my being. Because all of a sudden it became very easy, like I’d been doing it for years: narrating my actions out loud (those imaginary Saturday Morning Kitchen sessions with James Martin at home really paid off), tipping my bowl up a little to the camera so they could see the doughnut batter more easily, quipping that Joe could keep his hands to himself, thank you, when he dipped a finger into the jam pot. He was hanging about just out of shot, waiting his turn, but his cheekiness barged its way in and Priya said why not let him in on the shot, as we were here together. I actually felt more comfortable with him just there: it was like being back in Mr Berry’s class.

  And now we’re posing like a couple of idiots with our bakes in front of us, having a test shot taken (‘Wasn’t the last hour enough of a test!’ I want to cry) and I realise it’s nearly 6 p.m. and I’ll never have time to get to the shops and trawl about for Pete’s perfect present, whatever that is. Shit. At least I’ve been working away like a secret squirrel on Lydia’s. She will have to warm up her cold shoulder when she gets it, I’m sure.

  As the cameraman stops papping us with his ridiculously proportioned lens, I put the plate down and stretch out my cheek muscles.

  ‘It’s wrong to smile this much.’

  ‘Yeuch. I’m with you.’ Joe rubs his hands along his jawline, then presses his fingers into his face.

  ‘Guys, that was all great. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of you.’ Simon actually winks before he walks away. I feel like I’m in the first few scenes of Fame.

  ‘Shit,’ Joe says thro
ugh clenched teeth, in a squeaky tone. ‘This is actually happening, then. Christ. Time for a pint of Dutch courage, Ellie? Or something to eat?’

  ‘Sorry, got to try and leg it to John Lewis before it closes, you know how it is.’ And when I look at him, I realise he doesn’t.

  ‘Seriously? You’re choosing John Lewis over me?’

  Well, put like that, it did sound like I was being a bit rude. And I had time for just one, probably. A quick one.

  Everywhere was so busy we actually nipped into a Carluccio’s for a glass of festive red.

  Joe was telling me about going home to his mum’s for Christmas, what he’d bought cute little Grace and asking if I was busy over New Year.

  A stone lands in my stomach as I think about the wedding cake. Will it be good enough? I might not be making it on telly, but the audience is even more important than millions of licence-fee payers. I cannot let Skye down, and God knows Pete’s family don’t need more evidence that I’m deficient.

  ‘Yes, loads going on actually. God, this year has gone fast, hasn’t it?’ I can feel the blood pump through my ears as worry speeds up my heart. ‘And next year we might be on TV. That sounds weird to say out loud, doesn’t it?’

  Joe just shakes his head. ‘Life is random.’ His chocolate eyes find mine. ‘But sometimes random stuff turns out to be great. Another glass for you?’

  My watch says it’s 7.45 p.m. No way. How can that be? Holy Moses, I’m not going to have anything for Pete. ‘Eeeep, no thanks. I’ve really got to go this time. But I suppose I’ll see you at the next round, seeing as classes are over for the hols. If you were Hannah, I’d say text me and tell me what you’re going to wear, so I can tell if I’m on the right track, but I don’t suppose it really matters in this situation, does it?’

  He puts his head to one side, looking down on me with those very dark eyes. ‘I’ll be happy to tell you what I’m wearing, Ells, day or night.’ I swear he made that filthier than it ever needed to be, just to watch me go puce and stumble off into the night a blushing wreck.

  I make it to John Lewis just as they are locking the doors. A thin salesman shakes his head sadly at me; sad perhaps for the poor soul who was expecting me to successfully buy them something. And now all the shops are shut. Being uncharacteristically crap with my present buying is weighing down on my conscious: as I half-jog to the Tube, I have that tight, heavy feeling of guilt on my chest.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I haven’t heard a peep from Lydia. And I miss her like you miss a useful limb. I know I ballsed up the dinner and I’ve apologised over and over. I even sent her a Biscuiteers biscuit through the post, one of those cute iced gingerbread men that you can have any message written on in white icing. Mine was a Village People-style builder that had I’M AN ARSE written on his tummy. But still no response. I just can’t imagine starting next year without her as my bestie, the Phoebe to my Monica (I’m not convinced anyone would be friends with a Rachel in real life. Perfect hair and works in fashion? Constant boyfriend troubles? Sure, sounds a treat). But even as I think that, I give myself a stern shake. No, she’s not Phoebe – she’s her own Monica now: in charge, and pushy in a good way.

  As she won’t see me, I’m just going to take the militant approach. I’m going to storm her flat and win her over with the force of an amazing Christmas present or two. It’s the morning of Christmas Eve: it’s illegal to turn away a repentant friend bearing gifts on Jesus’s Birthday Eve. Fact.

  I may not have got Pete’s perfect present the other night, but I had Lydia’s ready to go. Now I just have to wrestle it into her hands and make her love me again.

  I ring the bell at the front door to her Brixton block and say in my best Shiny Happy People voice, ‘It’s Smelly! Let me in please?’ And thank Christ, the buzzer goes. Traipsing up the stairs to the attic floor is no fun but I’ll feel the glow of platonic love and lactic acid burn when I see the look on Lydia’s face.

  But all I see is the look on Guy’s face as he stands in the doorway. And it’s puzzled.

  ‘I thought you were Lydia,’ I say.

  ‘I thought you were pizza,’ he says.

  This is not what they’d call in the movies a ‘meet cute’. More like a meat-feast cute.

  ‘Is she …?’ I follow him into the flat.

  ‘Out,’ he finishes. ‘She’s at a South London Small Businesses Christmas mixer. Handing out her cards.’ He passes me a small rectangle of lime green card. You Don’t Need It it says in bold stencil-like letters. (Just Google us) it finishes cleverly. There’s no number, nothing on the back. And you know, I would totally Google something if it was presented like this. Clever old Lyds.

  ‘No Matilda either?’ I quickly check over my shoulder.

  Guy shakes his head and scratches a hand through his shaggy hair. ‘Nope, still at home, for the holidays now, I suppose. Lyds has been running things pretty much solo.’ There’s a pointed look sent my way now, that, or he has something in his eye.

  ‘Right, well I was hoping she’d find this a bit useful,’ I shake the box and it rattles its assent. ‘Her stocking present. Don’t tell her, but it’s some crafty supplies for her business. I basically did a supermarket sweep in my local haberdashery. Some really strong jeweller’s nylon, loads of zips and safety pins and these massive tapestry needles, I think they were called, that I thought she could maybe string together, make a cool necklace. They’re totally blunt, so there wouldn’t be a puncture hazard.’ My dry laugh bounces around the eaves and comes back to me like a slap.

  ‘Right.’ Guy looks at the box, shiny and red with fat penguins printed all over. Then he looks at the door. Message received, loud and clear.

  ‘I’ll get out of your way.’ I leave the present on the big scrubbed-pine dining table. ‘But just … I am sorry, again, about the other night. I’ve been a bit all over the place, it hasn’t been easy to explain. To anyone, not just Lyds. And I really am sorry. Please tell her I want to see her. I miss her, loads.’ Guy half-shrugs at this but his face isn’t quite so stony now. He’s gone from cement to pebble-dash, at least.

  ‘Maybe you should explain to her what’s going on. She can handle more than you think. She is one tough cookie.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forward on his feet.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. ‘I know, and she is. But this is … baby stuff. Not really her bag at all. Like, the last thing she wants to talk about, trust me. She is not a baby person,’ I bleat.

  Guy’s eyes widen. And I know I’ve fucked things up even more.

  Good news: Lydia is talking to me.

  Bad news: ‘What the shit were you thinking, Eleanor!’ she bellows into my face. Guy at least was happy to tell me where her business drinks were, just before he shut the door on me. I knew this two-fold apology would have to be in person, and fast, so I jumped in a cab. ‘Guy just called to say you dropped in and now he thinks I’m some evil Cruella De Vil type, who hates kids and puppies!’ She necks her white wine, grimaces, and picks another up from the table.

  For a second, I consider saying, in my defence, that I never once mentioned puppies, but that hardly feels smart given the shouty circumstances. So I just brace myself for more. My buttock muscles are actually clenched as I stand under the pale yellow strip lights of this crumby hotel bar.

  ‘I’m so so sorry,’ I wheedle. ‘I only went round there because you wouldn’t answer my texts or my calls. So I was dropping off your present to properly, properly apologise. And then I put my foot in it ACCIDENTALLY. I promise.’

  She’s gone quiet. I know she’s thinking about the present.

  ‘What kind of present?’

  ‘Two, actually. But you’re probably not interested, I know. Take it you’re not going to your mum and dad’s then?’

  ‘Nope. Guy and I are just going to chill. He’s going to help me with an inventory, work out what can go into our January flash sale in the first week back. It’s only a little bit meaningful because he’s
staying at Christmas, OK?’

  Ha. She thinks I’m falling for that old chestnut. It is so the most meaningful thing ever to spend your first Christmas with a bloke. I’ll be digging around for fully analysed details when I’ve bartered her down to maybe only thirty-five per cent hating my guts.

  ‘Sounds good. I like this new Deborah Meaden you. Impressive. Sexy.’ I take a deep breath, rehearsed speech at the ready. ‘I’m really really sorry I didn’t take you more seriously before, and I didn’t listen, and I took you for granted. Really. I have been such an arse. I meant what was written on that biscuit. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. What it comes down to – and what is totally ALL my fault – is that my life is changing in a scary way and I wanted my gorgeous, funny, amazing Lyds to stay exactly the same, so I’d have something I could count on. But of course you’re moving on with your life, and I’m so proud of you. I love your face.’

  Lyds smoothes down her charcoal-grey midi dress. The turquoise stripe in her hair is woven into a messy bun. ‘Shudup,’ she says after a beat. ‘I love your face. I’m so sorry I blew up, but it felt like I was getting your B-game that night and I want to be in the A-team with you, yeah? I know I might not be all Boden and quinoa like your other friends, but you’re a big part of my life, so I want to be a big part of yours. And because Guy is becoming … well, my guy. And I need some help with that, being in a real relationship and all.’

  This beige room has suddenly brightened and is now my favourite place in the world. ‘I’m so glad. I like him. He was willing to be politely rude to me on your behalf, giving me the cold shoulder. I like that he’d do that for you.’

  ‘So do I!’ she trills. ‘But what is this baby stuff? Why did you think you couldn’t talk to me?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, because you said that children suck all the fun out of the world like a Superman baddy sucking up the Earth’s oxygen? Because you reacted to Rich’s news like he had Lyme’s Disease?’