There's More to Life Than Cupcakes

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘Hey, I still say the food dye had strong, possibly intoxicating fumes. And it tasted lovely. If a little bit gritty with the glitter.’

  Skye sits and pops her feet up on the seat of the chair next to her. ‘Can’t argue with the taste. It was delicious. The decoration was … just not my style, shall we say. But you are a seriously clever woman, Ellie Redford.’

  Maybe. Maybe I am clever at cakes and ad sales and choosing my mum a birthday present and selling Lydia’s scarves.

  But am I clever enough to get my life back to where it should be? Am I clever enough to stop obsessing over having all the clever answers?

  And is Pete stupid enough to give me a second chance?

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Valentine’s Day. As couples entwined at the elbows flock past me, I feel like a lackadaisical sheepdog that’s letting all the swoony sheep run off in different directions. My head flicks back and forth; looking for that other lone figure I might just be able to chivvy in my direction.

  The wind whips up my legs and under my skirt, lifting the thin navy cotton up into a dumpy lampshade silhouette. Outfit planning last night was an anxiety-making affair, to say the least. Even though I have lost a bit of weight due to just not eating (I can’t believe it took me so long to work out this super complicated diet secret), and my clothes look a tiny bit better on me in general, I couldn’t quite put my finger on a look that successfully said ‘Forgive me, trust me, kiss me, come to Bruges.’ I could do with a capsule collection right now – there’s a weekend bag at my feet, packed for a dual purpose: to speed off to Bruges with Pete if he is feeling incredibly generous, or to run off to my mum’s if he says no. So I have both silk undies and flannel PJs. I’m basically ready for anything: romantic reunion; impending spinsterhood, global warming, zombie invasion.

  So my green felt coat is done up over my best tea dress: navy, with a sweetheart neckline and little swallows repeated all over. And I’m wearing those stockings with a line up the back, because I know they do funny things to Pete. I’m not above any dirty trick right now, frankly. I should really have invested in some sneaky pheromone spray or bought one of those books where they teach you to insult someone into bed. But ‘treat ‘em mean’ hasn’t exactly worked out well for me so far: my husband ran off to a different continent.

  My hair has been blow-dried in infinitesimal detail, as if I can hide pockets of luck underneath my uplifted layers. Regardless, it makes me feel more confident, weirdly bolder – I suppose I am that step closer to being a Dallas character when I have bigger hair. And Dallas characters carry off crazily dramatic scenes like this on a weekly basis. Maybe if I keep backcombing until my arms hurt, I would wake up after a shower and find out it’s all been a dream …

  But so far, the chill of February feels very real as it pinches at my face. I tap my heels; I walk in circles round my bag; I check my watch. 12.01. 12.04. 12.07.

  When will I give up? How long after noon will I leave it? Midnight, maybe?

  Pete is never late. Seven minutes is like a lifetime to him.

  I scan the arrivals board. The trains in from France haven’t been delayed – he can’t be late in from Mike’s.

  No tall, dark, frowning men coming my way. None emerging from the escalators. I look up at the beautifully arched ceiling. None parachuting in from the sky.

  Wow, the roof really is beautiful, its pale silver struts stretching away for ever. There are these giant copper clouds that have been installed as the new station artwork in the amazingly huge empty space above my head. If I’m going to be officially single at the end of today, then I might make art my thing. It will give me the perfect excuse to drift around public galleries on my own, looking clever instead of what I really am: 100% bonafide lonely. I’ll need a new hobby, because baking has definitely lost its appeal for me now.

  The cold is spreading further up my clothes as I take in the gentle curve of each cloud. All these loved-up types are missing this, as they catch trains to Paris and Brussels. They’re too busy looking adoringly into each others’ eyes, checking their matching luggage is all there, men tapping pockets just to make sure the ring box hasn’t gone walkies. Idiots.

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’

  Pete’s voice cuts through the chill in the air.

  My eyes take him in: a bit thinner too, more stubble than usual, a strange look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. It’s despair, a little voice pipes up in my head. He never despaired of you before all this. You broke the spell that you were the perfect wife for him. Time to convince him all over again.

  He opens his mouth.

  ‘No, wait.’ I hold up one finger. ‘Before you say anything, I have a presentation to make.’

  ‘A presentation? Ellie, I want to say, look, it’s hard but—’

  My heart ups a gear. I have to race on: I can’t let him end it all before I’ve even done my pitch. I pull the A4 ring-bound pages out of my bag.

  Holding it out to face Pete, the landscape way round, I clear my throat and start my mirror-rehearsed spiel. ‘You gave me my Twenties Leaver’s book but I have been far from a grown-up recently. In fact, I’ve been more like that teenager in those old photos. I haven’t taken things seriously enough. So, I thought – when am I at my most serious? When I’m at work. So right now you’re my client, and I’m pitching to you.’ I flip back the first page.

  He’ll be reading the big turquoise letters that say ‘Ellie Redford: A Major Development Plan’ right about now.

  Pete rubs at the bridge of his nose. ‘What is this, Ells? Can’t we just go and sit down, talk …’

  His face hasn’t exactly lit up in intrigued wonder, as I’d really hoped. And just at this second, I notice he doesn’t have a bag with him. But this is my only plan. I have to barrel on.

  ‘I’ve been dithering about our future. Where we’re going. Where I want to go. But I have a refined action plan.’

  Time for page two, in which I’ve gone a bit mad with retro ClipArt. In a neat row there’s a Nineties illustration of a woman at a desk, a big red arrow that points right to the next image, a Lego house. Then another arrow points along to a cartoon baby in a crib.

  ‘I’m taking a new job.’

  Pete blinks, taking it in.

  ‘I’ve been offered an exciting new role on the Creative team.’

  He smiles, just a tiny bit.

  ‘This is an excellent opportunity to continue to develop Ellie Redford – she’ll be stretched, use her brain for more than cream cheese frosting and the plot of every Friends episode. She’s recently helped keep the company afloat – with a very big Mothercare campaign – so she’s cashing in those brownie points with her bosses. Plus, she’ll earn more.’

  I turn to page three.

  ‘The bad news.’

  The smile is gone. I blurt on.

  ‘The bad news is that it involves lots more working hours. But here’s the key equation.’

  Over on the next sheet is one pink smiley face then an equals sign followed by the pink face again, this time overlapping a blue smiley face.

  ‘A happy Ellie Redford equals a happier Mr Pete Caldicott at home. A happier person who’ll know where her career is going, what she’ll achieve in the future, what she’ll contribute to the family.’ I clear my throat.

  I flip over to the jewel of the piece.

  ‘A spreadsheet,’ Pete murmurs.

  ‘Based on my new earnings, plus some cutbacks on both sides: no more BBC Food magazine subscription, a UK holiday for the foreseeable, £5 limit on birthday and Christmas presents, plus a lot of own brand food shopping, I calculate that we can have our ideal house deposit at the end of this year. And if we keep saving until next February, in fact, we will have enough to cover some furniture and interiors essentials.’

  I turn over to show the Pinterest board I’ve started with all my wish-list looks for our future house: colourfully painted units, shabby chic wallpapers, a wild-looking garden and birdcage-shaped hanging
chair.

  ‘So with a house in sight, a new job established over twelve months, Ellie Redford will be ready for her final stage of development.’

  My last page doesn’t have anything printed on it. But it does have something Blu-tacked. An appointment card. I gently pull it off, step forward and hand it to Pete, who has been listening and whose eyebrows have been slowly inching back up his face, from confusion, to what I hope is comprehension.

  He takes the little rectangle of card.

  Southwark District Nurse Appointment Card.

  1st Injection: 13th February 2014

  2nd on 31st May

  3rd on 31st August

  Last on 30th November. You will then need to seek other forms of contraception.

  His eyebrows have dropped again.

  ‘These four injections in the bum – instead of the Pill – are going to keep us to our plan for the next twelve months. And there’ll just be four. So that’s the plan: job, house, drugs, no drugs, hopefully baby. The five-step Ellie Redford Development Plan. For your consideration,’ I finish, my initial confidence worn down to a hollow niggle that is was all nonsense.

  Pete looks at the card. He looks at me. He taps the card against his palm.

  ‘Injections?’ he asks, his voice level. ‘For a whole year?’

  Oh God, it’s too late. It’s too late and he can’t wait that long.

  ‘Yes, but then … after that … it will be the right time. My plan… I want to make sure I’m really happy, so I can make you happy and I can have a happy little baby.’

  ‘No,’ Pete says softly. And it feels like a black hole has sucked up all the ground in London and I am slipping, slipping away.

  This is the end.

  He runs his hands through his hair. ‘No, I just mean, four injections in the bum? Are you sure? That sounds awful.’ His face is impassive but there is a tiny crinkle in the corner of his eyes and he looks again at the front cover of the nerdy booklet. ‘That blog of yours definitely set me right – you were doing some serious, if weird, thinking. Even if you were hiding it all behind your very beautiful poker face. You know, this was never about having a plan to change you, Ells. Just a plan for us. I mean, you are my plan, you know?’

  A twinkly warmth fills my chest and tingles up along my arms and into my head. It’s like the Ready Brek glow and I just downed three packets’ worth.

  ‘But the reason I couldn’t make a decision was that I was still all over the place. I realised that unless I made sure I had a good go at making myself a relatively happy grown-up, I just couldn’t be sure … I’d be a decent mum.’

  Pete takes a step closer.

  ‘You’ll be a great mum. Just don’t turn up on Blue Peter flirting with Shep the dog, OK? I can’t bear another bout of intense jealousy like that.’

  Shame burns at my frosty cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry. It was stupid and it helped me hide my head in the sand … I was behaving like a teenager, not someone with an awesome husband at home. You have every right to be angry at me.’

  ‘And I am. Well, I was, but now I’m winding it down. Just snapping pencils now and again, to get it out of my system. If you say it was nothing …’ he breaks eye contact to stare at the ceiling and exhales, ‘then I believe you. But it really hurt, Ells, to see that. I couldn’t take it. I won’t take it again.’

  A streak of red is racing up his neck.

  ‘I didn’t fancy him,’ I blurt. ‘And I LOVE you. It’s, like, worlds apart. And I was hiding in those classes, hiding from what was really going on. It could have been stupidly flirting or it could have been a designer shopping obsession or secret eating until I was twenty stone …’

  ‘For the record, I would have preferred either of those,’ Pete breaks in.

  ‘Actually, it was Skye that really helped me understand it. We talked over cake.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, my family is weird, but they’re still connected by phones and an unhealthy interest in each other’s lives. Skye told Rich, Rich told Mum, Mum told me. The message was pretty clear: it’s all a bit ridiculous, yes, and we’ve done a brilliant job of misunderstanding each other for two happily married people. But we do love each other, a lot.’

  A tear slides down the icy slope of my face.

  ‘I think I liked pretending I was young and single again: when I was twenty-three and the whole world told me absolutely not to have a baby. But that stupid advert made it look—’

  Pete reaches out, takes hold of my forearms and pulls me in towards him. I can instantly feel the warmth of his body through my coat. ‘Made it look like something else. I get that now, as much as I hated thinking about it. I thought you hadn’t been taking us seriously, and that guy’s ridiculous pecs were the answer. And I saw red, and I was bruised from my work crap, and I went nuts and stormed out. That was me pretending I was thirteen, pretty much. I don’t think I’d slammed a door since my mum said I couldn’t have my birthday party at McDonald’s.’

  The bubble of laughter that pops up from between my lips is like rediscovering a rare, delicious taste – a handmade salted caramel chocolate, rich and tangy; or a grapefruit cocktail, sharp and sweet with gin and champagne.

  ‘I’ll buy you a Big Mac, if you like.’

  ‘Does that fit in the new budget?’

  ‘Good call. A cheeseburger between two. We’ll take small bites.’

  I’m pulled even closer as Pete’s arms go around my back. ‘What’s Belgian for cheeseburger then?’

  My mouth falls open. ‘You want to go to Bruges? But you’ve got nothing with you!’

  He shrugs with fake nonchalance. ‘I’ve got a spare pair of pants in my jacket pocket and I can use your toothpaste. Besides, if it’s tinned beans for 2014, I want to get the most out of this last dirty weekend. Platform 3. Shall we, Sprogless?’

  ‘Yes!’ I jump into his arms.

  And suddenly we’re as invisible as all the other loved-up sheep: wonderfully anonymous in a sea of happy faces.

  None in the Oven

  The end. Or the beginning. I think.

  So, guys. Something short but sweet from me today. Because I think I’ve hit on the answer to the whole question of babies. There is no answer. I wish this was my own wisdom, found through meditation and eating wheatgrass but rather it came about because of cowardice, a TV reality show, a clever sister-in-law and lots more besides.

  I don’t know what my life will be like with a baby. No one can tell me. I just have to find out. And luckily I have the best friend/husband/accountant to find out with, plus an amazing big gang of friends and family who are willing to put up with my whines while I do.

  And in about twelve months, I’m going to attempt to find out. So think about me then. Well, don’t think about the trying bit then (this has never been that sort of blog, apologies if you thought it was going to end with 50 Shades of Babymaking).

  I might balls it up; I might not. In the meantime, I need to blog less, work more and dream up some super cheap and beautiful furnishing ideas. Hmm, I could start a new house design blog, I suppose. None in the Double Oven? Maybe not.

  But thanks for all your honest comments, it’s been INTERESTING. Ha!

  Now I’m off to do a bit more homework for my new job, make a paella with my husband and watch a GoT marathon. In other words: normal service has resumed. At ease.

  Sprogless (for now) x

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  Three people I just can’t do without, so thank you: Emma, Vanessa, Hat. Those three names put together make the best friendship trifle. Apologies for how gross that sounds, but it’s true.

  Thanks also to Mum and Dad for letting me dominate the shed (and leaving my many empty Diet Coke cans behind. Sorry). It was the perfect writing space, and most of this book was bashed out under its wooden roof.

  A big ole thank you to Beans, for always being smiley and supportive. In that respect, thanks to Rob in default for bringing
us Beansness.

  To Bernie, queen of … well, not just baking but everything. Friend, protector, giver of amazing gifts. One of the best people there is. Fact.

  To anyone who ever said hello on Twitter or Facebook or Goodreads, you seriously help out when I am writing my fifth lame joke about Victoria Sponge in a row. Thanks so much for the moral support, lovely bookish folk.

  Mike, thanks for surviving the rollercoaster moods of me writing another book. I have not based my hero on you at all this time. But there is a ‘Mike’ in there somewhere. Hey – why not read this one and see where?! Crazy thought. To the East Portlemouth Massive – thanks for winding Mike up about never having read past the second page of anything I’ve written. Rightly so.

  And lastly, the most mahoosive thank you to Kirsty and Edd at Team Novelicious. Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the chance on me, cheering me on tirelessly when I was wobbly, creating the most beautiful covers and most awe-inspiring campaigns. I actually couldn’t have asked for more, and as you know I’m pretty greedy. Thanks to Keshini for her excellent (and sensitive) editing. I had wanted to be published for so long and working with you guys has completely surpassed that dream. You rock.

  About the Author

  Poppy Dolan is a rom com aficionado. After watching When Harry Met Sally at the impressionable age of 14, she’s never stopped dreaming of having the perfect ‘meet-cute’, that one-liner that steals your heart and the grand romantic gesture to end all grand romantic gestures. Since her real-life dating experiences were more often situated at Nando’s than the top of the Eiffel Tower, she turned to fiction and wrote romantic comedies of her own.

  When she’s not glued to her laptop, Poppy loves cooking, reading and getting emotional over reality TV. She is in her early thirties and lives just outside London with her husband. She writes in a coffee shop nicknamed Terence and also – when it’s not too chilly – in the shed.