There's More to Life Than Cupcakes

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘This is the best!’ Skye wheezed, as she kicked her legs out, ‘I don’t know if it’s being married or being pregnant – but I love it!’

  Someone knocked the remaining cake over in mid high-kick and everyone cheered. I let it go.

  And the bubble of happiness even lasted through the next day’s epic hangover, waving Rich and Skye off for their short honeymoon in Paris, the five-hour clean-up operation, weepy goodbyes with Marie and Bee, and the detoxing drive back to London. I really meant to tell Pete about Best Dishes. I meant to. But on the sofa watching The Goonies under a duvet with Pringles didn’t feel like the right moment. Neither did a cheeky roast dinner in our local, or cuddling up for an early night. Or taking a long walk over Blackheath Common the next day, watching the die-hard kite flyers test out their Christmas gifts. Then, all of a sudden, we were getting into that ‘back to school’ fug of having just two days left before work started again. I really didn’t want to throw a tricky conversation on top of the gloom of ironing shirts and setting the alarm back to 6.45 a.m. So I didn’t. There was so much time, I thought. I’d had an email from one of the runners asking me to come along for a proper day of filming – the last screen test before they made the final cut – and that would be during the second week back at work. If – and it was still an if – I got through, it would be weeks till the series was actually shot, I guessed, and possibly months after that in editing and post-production, before it was on the actual telly. I would definitely, definitely tell Pete all about it long before then.

  On the night before the real world cracked into life again, Pete put his arm along my shoulders as we settled down to a couple of Arrested Development episodes. He leant his head against my head.

  ‘Do you know, Smells,’ he said softly, ‘I think this is going to be our year.’

  I opened my mouth, about to hand him the ‘Too much pressure!’ red card, but he went on.

  ‘Whatever happens or doesn’t happen, it’ll still be a great year. Because we’re in it together. We’ll handle it, remember?’

  I nod. This is a great man. And I’m going to work my butt off to come to a baby decision, hopefully the one he wants.

  Chapter Forty-One

  In the New Year, New Excellent Me campaign of Eleanor Redford, there are action points beyond ‘Be Nice to Pete’. Even beyond ‘Get your shit together re: procreation’. There is ‘Be a better friend, goddammit’. And so here I am, wearing five scarves and holding a giant glittery sign on a pole that says YOU DON’T NEED SALE SHOPPING. And then, in smaller letters, (But if you do, follow the scarves).

  Lyds has set up an ingenious trail of some of her upcycled cable-jumper scarves – patchworks of moth-eaten jumpers donated by friends, or charity shop finds – starting with me, just outside Portobello Tube station, and then tied to stubby trees, railings and streetlamps, leading people all the way to her stall. This being London, the scarves are secured with cable grips. It’s an amazing PR stunt and it also showcases her products ingeniously. I’m very glad for the purple, green and mustard yellow scarves I’m sporting. They are muffling my icy cheeks and only twice have I had to wrestle the ends out of Japanese students’ hands – I think they thought I was a pop-up shop all on my own.

  As part of reminding Lyds I’m not a total arse, I volunteered my efforts for her opening sale day. The gangs of edgy-looking girls and guys clocking my sign and then ambling towards the market prove she really does know what she’s doing. It’s giving me an electric thrill even on this freezing January Saturday, to see my bestie creating this whole fashion empire from scratch. It’s her baby, in a way. And it’s a beauty.

  Come lunchtime, I really need to move my feet a bit before they snap off, and my stomach is loudly protesting a lack of coffee and cake. I heave my sign on to my shoulder, nearly decapitating an old-school punk, and walk up to the stall.

  ‘Can Guy cover you for a quick lunch?’ I shout out to Lyds, who’s frantically but coolly taking money and making change. Guy’s wangled a pitch swap with one of his old market mates, so his potato van is right next door to Lyds’s stall. I think this is two-thirds love and support, one-third business acumen. All those stringy fashionistas will be wooed by the smell of his crispy jackets and cheesy fillings. I’m ready to dump my packed lunch in the gutter and grab a potato, till I remind myself how special this particular lunch is.

  Guy gives a thumbs up and Lyds gives him a thankful peck on the cheek before she steps out back with me.

  ‘I have one for Guy too, actually, in case he’s sick of potatoes.’ I root around in my book bag and bring out a foil-covered roll.

  ‘Ta, love.’ Lyds unwraps it. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘One last peace offering.’

  She squints her purple eyelashes at me. ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s the leftovers sandwich I should have made after you guys came to ours. Everything from scratch. So here’s a roast turkey sandwich, with stuffing, red cabbage and cranberry sauce. I’ve got a little pot in my bag of mini sausages wrapped in bacon. And mince pies for afters.’

  ‘Oh, Smells.’

  ‘I’m putting right what once went wrong.’

  ‘Like in Quantum Leap.’

  ‘Exactly, I even said “Oh boy” when I took the turkey out of the oven. But, seriously, this is to show you I really do think about you, and Guy, and I’m dead chuffed he’s going to be hanging around with us.’

  Lydia chomps into her sandwich and doesn’t pick up on my verbal fishing.

  ‘He really is going to be hanging around, isn’t he? Christmas went OK?’

  She nods. And also makes a ‘sod me, this is delicious face’. So I feel happy on two counts.

  After she swallows, she says, ‘Actually, he’s going to help out more with the stall, give me some pointers on what he’s learned and put me in touch with more of the market peeps round here. You wouldn’t think it,’ she leans in and whispers, ‘but it’s a bit of a cabal. None of this breezy Notting Hill shit. They watch you. They talk about you. You need to grease the right palms with chocolate muffins.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper back, ‘do I already know too much?’ I whip my head over my shoulder.

  She laughs until it’s time to stuff her face again. But she pauses mid-air and rushes out, ‘Matilda isn’t coming back, I forgot to say, because I was being all cross with you then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She liked being home too much and all the plaited bread and sweat lodges and stuff, so said I could keep running the business on my own. Guy’s going to buy out her share. And possibly,’ she mumbles, ‘move in. But—’ she holds up a finger, to stop the inevitable soft furnishings daydream this will kick off in me, ‘it’s still only a possibility. And it’s such a shame she’s gone, because now my hair has been the same colour for almost two months, and I feel suburban.’

  ‘Ha! Hardly.’

  I happily watch her as another huge mouthful gets crammed in.

  ‘Wis rarey is the beh!’

  ‘Don’t talk, just eat, clever pants. I’ll give Guy his now. I really do want him to like me. Despite the first two meetings going as wrong as it’s possible to go. And especially if he’s your new roomie.’ This is designed to push her buttons. ‘Then I’d better shift it, if that’s OK. They moved my filming day to this afternoon, so I’ve got to get up North.’ I take advantage of Lydia’s massive turkey mouthful to slip this in – I know she wants to berate me for not telling Pete the whole truth (or, actually, any part of the truth) yet, but luckily for me, my chestnut stuffing has her jaws glued together for the moment. Thanks, Delia. ‘Bye! Love you! Well done on the sale!’

  And on still-frosty legs, I speed-walk to the Tube.

  I figured it would be best to go to the studio without any slap on – doesn’t that save the professional time when you’re in the chair, bits of tissue sticking out of your lapels? But walking past perfectly powdered and lipsticked people has left me feeling about as attractive as Sebastian the Crab without
his shell. Zoe spots me shifting my weight from foot to foot in the corner, and comes over.

  ‘Hey,’ she says with a head-tilt. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Good, good. Well, I am a bit nervous about being in front of proper cameras. Ha ha. Hope I don’t set fire to any celebs by mistake!’

  That might not have been the cool thing to say. Zoe flinches briefly.

  ‘No, I meant … in yourself.’ She looks pointedly at my stomach.

  Oh, yes.

  Shit.

  They still think I’m up the duff.

  Shiiiit.

  ‘Oh God, actually … The thing is Zoe, when I met you guys in the tent that day, it was a weird thing. I only really—’

  ‘Hey ladies!’ A beaming Joe leaps into my vision, looking as instantly impressive as ever. He has his sleeves rolled up, as if he’s ready to bake, but I bet it’s a calculated move to show all the ladies in the room his brawny forearms. ‘I’m ready for my close-up.’ Lucky his laugh is so charming, or he’d get himself thrown out.

  ‘Great!’ Zoe beams and checks her clipboard. ‘Joe, you’ve been to wardrobe, that’s fantastic. Eleanor, we definitely need to get you to make-up, get a bit of colour back in those cheeks! Poor thing.’ She takes my elbow and leads me decisively out of the room.

  ‘I didn’t wear any make-up, because I thought that was what you were supposed to do.’

  ‘Sure, sure. Of course!.’

  I’m sat down in a rigid chair right in front of a mirror with lights (sadly not an arch of light bulbs, but maybe next time. At the BAFTAs for best cookery show. I’m joking. Sort of.)

  Zoe taps at her clipboard as she hands it over to the make-up artist. I think I recognise my own handwriting on it.

  ‘Just have a quick look at the health details here, love,’ Zoe says clearly to the beautiful and rake-thin woman wielding a big puffy brush. At last! The movies didn’t lie to me. Big puffy brushes are a thing.

  ‘Aha. Good to know, thanks love.’

  I remember reading somewhere that showbiz types use ‘love’ so much to cover up for the fact that they can’t remember anyone’s name. I’m going to nick that. So far I only have Joe and Zoe down pat.

  ‘Now darling, let’s give you the works, shall we? A bit of a treat, I think. I’ve got this fantastic trainee with me who can do you a lovely manicure as I’m working on hair and make-up. Steve!’

  For some reason, I really want a manicure from a man called Steve. And I especially want to sit in this chair and let this gorgeous woman make me a tiny bit as gorgeous as she is. If I’m going to make a prat out of myself on telly, I might as well look shit-hot while I’m doing it.

  Hmm, she’s handing me an eye mask thing. I might just pop that on, but I definitely won’t fall asleep.

  I’m still in the chair. But the room is empty. Shit, I’ve been sat here two hours!

  But at least I’m looking like … well, me. But a really scrubbed-up, nice me. The clever make-up lady must have finished my face while I was dead to the world. She’s managed naturally defined cheekbones, this nice light purple colour on my eyelids that brings out the blue of my irises and my hair is not flat. No wonder she’s got ‘artist’ in her job title. Steve is a little beauty too – my nails are the shiniest cherry red, like he’s used car paint and buffed up each nail with a little shammy. I suppose if they do close-ups on my hands while I’m cooking, this sort of thing matters. Ooh, get me and my jargon: close-ups.

  Steve pops his shaved head round the doorframe. ‘There you are!’ he sing-songs. ‘We wanted to let you nap, you obviously need the rest, love.’ He flaps his hands to shoo me into action. ‘They’re ready for you, if you feel up to it?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ It’s doughnuts, not open-heart surgery. Though both can get pretty messy.

  I leap out of the chair and wriggle my wedding rings off and into the pocket of my bag.

  ‘Great, great.’ He leads me out. ‘Hey, did you know you talk in your sleep? Something about egg-timers, it was.’

  Sod ad sales. Sod journalism. I am the new Lorraine Kelly. I am REALLY good at this. Right, so I might be a bit hyped up on all the luvvie praise and the refined sugars, but I genuinely think I did a pretty damn good job. I just did the same as before – running through my doughnut recipe – but I was more relaxed; I spoke like me this time, rather than a robotic Girl Guide. They had Joe stand with me the whole time, because the director said we’d had such a natural relationship on our first test shot. And besides, it was so much more fun to talk to Joe as I mixed and sifted and deep-fried, rather than awkwardly looking down the lens and trying not to give myself third-degree burns as I thought about what to say next. It was like he had a history as an MTV presenter he wasn’t telling anyone about; he would easily fill a silence, ask a question like, ‘So does it really matter if it’s self-raising or plain flour?’ that people would probably be thinking at home, and all the while he looked like an underwear model on his lunch break: wholesome, approachable, but mostly hot.

  We mucked about and, OK, yes we flirted a bit, but in a Phil and Holly way – to make it better telly. Joe kept playing with the bendy spatulas, using them to catapult lumps of butter at me, even though I told him not to. And when I was rolling the doughnuts in sugar he took a large step behind me and said, ‘I’ve always wanted to do this.’ Suddenly his arms came around me and into the big bowl of sugar, his hands going over mine as I coated each jam doughnut evenly.

  ‘What?!’ I laughed.

  ‘Come on, everyone wants to do the Ghost thing once in their lives. And we don’t have a potter’s wheel but we do have doughnuts.’ I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck each time he laughed.

  ‘Ooooh my looooove, my daahhhhhlin,’ he started to croon as he clumsily groped about in the sugar granules.

  I had really lost my cool by now, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all but feeling super weird that a pair of arms other than Pete’s were around me. In fact it was too weird: it was wrong. I shrugged him off as gently but firmly as I could. Phil and Holly would never let it get out of hand.

  ‘Maybe we should—’

  I turned my head around just as Joe was leaning down to hear me speak, and nutted him square in the jaw.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘First aid!’ The director yelled.

  ‘Oh God, sorry. Sorry, Joe.’

  He was feeling along his jaw. ‘No, no. It’s cool. All good. No bones sticking out.’ He ran his tongue over his front teeth. ‘And no chips. Phew. Can’t really pull off the trailer-park look.’

  My relief ran out of me in a hoot of laughter. ‘Thank God for that!’ I poked my index finger into his pec. ‘Anyway, that will teach you for stealing too much of my baking limelight. Now let’s get the beers out and make some bread.’

  ‘OK, OK, just don’t hurt me.’ He held up his hands in mock surrender.

  We made the bread, with me asking the questions this time and poking about in his little pre-measured bowls of stuff, and it came out of the oven with the most delicious malty smell.

  It all got slightly too cringey though, when the director asked us to sit at a table and eat what we’d made together, seeing as we’d helped each other cook and our relationship was coming across so well. Joe grimaced and shrugged at me, as if to say, ‘What can you do?’ so I dutifully sat at the seat next to him.

  There was a red tablecloth on an old pine kitchen table, like a leftover prop from a Christmas special. There were even white fairy lights strung up around a fake fireplace. At least they’d taken the tree down, I suppose.

  I’d lost my Lorraine mojo a little, due to the stiff and unnatural feeling of eating something while you’re being filmed in a fake living room that’s not your own. And I kept thinking about the Ghost moment. That wasn’t cool, I shouldn’t have gone along with it. But as I nutted Joe ten seconds in, I’m sure they’ll bury this screen test in some dark dusty storeroom and so I can bury it way down in my subconscious. Joe breezed on like a troo
per but the director had to mutter prompts to me: ‘Raise your glasses, like you’re toasting. Great’; ‘Take a big bite out of the bread, give it the thumbs up. Enjoy yourself! Good, good.’ But luckily that only went on for about fifteen minutes before they shouted that they had enough and we could end it there for the day.

  Joe whistled. ‘Do you think Mary and Paul get this tired after a day at work?’

  I put a hand to my stomach and laughed. ‘Not sure, but I doubt they eat as much of their own creations as we did. I should not have had that fourth doughnut. Eurgh. Do you think anyone has any celery on them? I’m feeling a bit sicky.’

  Unfortunately Zoe heard this as she speed-walked past. ‘Oh, Eleanor, are you OK? I have some ginger tea in the green room if you’d like some?’

  ‘Yes, please. You’re a lifesaver.’ My stomach gurgled again.

  ‘Not a problem. And great work today, both of you, everyone is so happy with what we’ve got.’

  ‘Whoot!’ Joe raised his hand up to high-five me, and I didn’t leave him hanging. ‘Next stop, Paul Hollywood!’ But I did leave Joe laughing alone at that one. My stomach couldn’t take cheese on top of all that sugar.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Now I’ve been back at my desk for three weeks, and everyone in the corporate world has finally shaken off their Christmas hangovers and paper hats, work is in full flow. It’s sadly not as much fun as baking for a living, but it’s as close as you can get. There have been plenty of invoices to put through, as we’re bringing in so much new ad business with our keen efforts and the new maternity feature. To top it off, poor Gina broke an arm AND a leg skiing just before work started again. She was full of apology but I said not to worry and to set her out-of-office so that anything urgent would come my way. Otherwise, I’ve been beavering away, putting in the extra hours to polish up my maternity project before I sit down and present it all to Sam. I bribed the Design department to put together a series look for all the pieces, a pistachio green border with a repeating pattern of egg-timers, nappy pins and chunky slices of cake. And I branched out a bit beyond our usual ad-buying clients and sold space to a bottle steriliser company, organic rusk producers and even those guys that make the baby genius DVDs with classical music. I have mapped out the content for four issues, plus extra exclusive online material. I’m feeling pretty proud of myself. With this and the Best Dishes stuff that we can roll out as soon as the show starts (there’s no air date confirmed just yet), we are jam-packed with great content and all sorts of good revenue potential. And that doesn’t happen every day at Crumbs.