Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe (22 page)

Issy suddenly remembered with horror that her best green dress that she’d bought for her birthday party was at the dry-cleaner’s and she hadn’t had time to pick it up. That was her only really lovely thing; everything else she wore was really to be comfortable to work and get around in, which meant lots of slightly faded floral dresses with elbow-length sleeves teamed with opaque tights and boots and a cardigan if it was cold; in other words, she dressed like the student she hadn’t been for ten years.

She wasn’t sure this was going to cut it.

She hauled through her suitcase – turning the perfect little hotel room into a midden in the process, she noted sadly – and came up with three near-identical grey floral dresses, two of which were far too light for the winter chill; two pairs of jeans (who needed two pairs of jeans on holiday? she wondered to herself); four formal shirts for Darny (what was she thinking?), and her old college ball gown, which was covered in netting and pinched under the arms and would be far too formal.

‘Bugger,’ she said. ‘I think I will have to shop tomorrow.’

Austin, who never normally noticed time at all, was looking anxiously at his watch. ‘Um, darling …’ he was saying.

‘OK, OK.’

With horror, Issy
realised that the only thing she had that was mildly suitable was the black jumper and trousers she had travelled in – travelled in, and slept in for six hours. At least black could look a bit dressy, and she could stick a necklace on, and her boots could go under the trousers …

She sighed. Then, tentatively, pulled on her slightly stale clothes.

‘I feel like Haggis McBaggis,’ she said gloomily, gazing at herself in the tastefully soft-lit mirror. Austin glanced at her and just saw that the steam from the shower had made her cheeks go warm and pink, which he liked, and she was biting her lip like a nervous child, which was also cute.

‘You look great,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Pearl got home late and was bone tired. Louis had uncharacteristically whined the whole way. It had taken a lot longer to cash up and clear up without Issy there, and that was before they batched up for the next day. Because Pearl did so much of the cleaning, she often felt she worked very hard. Which she did, but as she filed the payroll reports, she realised she didn’t quite appreciate how much Issy did to keep everything ticking over. No wonder she couldn’t think about going to New York without falling into a panic. There were a million different things to remember.

Too tired to think about supper, she’d given in to Louis’ proddings and as a special treat picked up some fried chicken on the way home. She knew she shouldn’t; she knew eating it would only make her feel more tired in the long run. But right at that moment, resistance was low and the weather was freezing and wet and windy, and she wanted nothing more than to sit down in front of
In the Night Garden
and cuddle her (slightly greasy) son.

The doorbell rang.
Pearl and her mother looked at each other and frowned. They didn’t have many visitors. There wasn’t the room, for starters. And Pearl usually met her friends after church, not at seven o’clock at night in the middle of a storm, unannounced.

She got up from the futon, her knees creaking as she did so. She cursed inwardly to herself; she was young, still. She shouldn’t be creaking and huffing like an old lady. She shouldn’t have eaten all that chicken.

Standing in the shadow of the alleyway, in the space that was meant to be lit by security lighting but that the council never got round to fixing, with his finger to his lips, possibly a little tipsy, was her ex, and Louis’ father, Benjamin.

‘Sssh,’ he said.

In the cab, Issy suddenly sagged. The cold had cut through her like a knife as she’d stepped out of the cosy lobby of the hotel; her watch said 2 a.m. British time; and she envied Darny, who had gone straight to bed, very much. Never the less, she wanted to be as supportive as she could.

‘So who’s going
to be there?’ she said, trying to stifle a yawn.

‘Well, Merv,’ said Austin. ‘He’s the guy in charge. And his wife. I haven’t met her. And some other director of the bank. I haven’t met him. And
his
wife, I suppose.’

‘We’re walking into a massive group of people we haven’t met?’ said Issy, feeling suddenly terribly anxious. ‘Who are basically interviewing you for a job?’ She took out her make-up case nervously.

‘Don’t … I mean, you’ve probably got enough stuff on your cheeks,’ said Austin.

Issy’s eyes were hugely round and fearful. ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

‘Nothing,’ said Austin quickly. ‘Nothing. I mean, you look fine.’

‘They’re all going to be trendy New Yorkers, though,’ said Issy. ‘And I’ll just be scuzz. Mind you,’ she added, ‘maybe that’ll make them change their minds about the job and you’ll have to come home on the next flight with me.’

She’d tried to sound light, but she was aware she’d touched on a sensitive issue. Austin looked at her, but in the passing street lights it was very difficult to see his face. As the cab bounced downtown on one of the large, open avenues, he pointed out the Chrysler Building, all lit up in Christmas colours. It was so familiar and so wonderful all at once that she couldn’t help being impressed. Then she sniffed.

‘They’ve done the
BT Tower up in red and green,’ she said casually. ‘Oh, and the whole of the South Bank is a festival of light. And a Christmas market.’

The snow flurries were becoming thicker and thicker. The driver turned down a little old-fashioned-looking street lined with houses with brown steps up to their front doors, which reminded Issy of
Sex and the City
and the days when she and Helena used to watch it and wish they got their Chinese food delivered in little boxes, or that they too were asked out by suave gentlemen every five minutes (Helena did get asked out every five minutes, but only by drunks on a Saturday night when she was bandaging them up in Accident and Emergency).

The restaurant had large plate-glass windows that reminded her of the café, but this place was painted grey, not green. Inside, it seemed to glow; the lights were soft and warm and yellow and gave the place the most inviting, exciting atmosphere imaginable. Happy, stunningly beautiful men and women – all dressed, Issy noticed glumly, up to the nines – were chatting, laughing and generally having a wonderful time.

‘Hello,’ said Austin cheerily to the doorman. He never felt intimidated anywhere. Probably because he wasn’t really noticing it, thought Issy. And that made him comfortable and that in its turn made him likeable and that made him confident and so things always went well. It must be nice. She smiled in an ingratiating way at the doorman and wondered whether to tip him as he opened the door.

Inside, a stunningly
beautiful blonde woman gave Austin a smile that made her look as if she’d been waiting to see him all day.

‘Good evening, sir!’ she said, displaying gorgeous teeth. ‘Do you have a reservation?’

But ‘Austin! Hey, Austin!’ was already booming across the room, and at the back of the restaurant – it was much larger than it appeared from the outside – a short, wide man was rising up from a comfortable-looking banquette.

The blonde whisked away their coats, then threaded them through the tables. Issy decided it must be jet lag that had made her think she had just passed Michael Stipe having dinner with Brooke Shields. All she could say for sure was that every person in the room looked gorgeous, had obviously just had their hair done, was talking animatedly about interesting things and looked a hundred per cent absolutely like they were supposed to be there. Unless someone asked her about flour grading, Issy reflected sadly, she wasn’t going to have anything to say. And, after all, she was only the girlfriend. If
Sex and the City
was accurate, there were millions of beautiful girls in New York just desperate to snap up some gorgeous hunk.

Issy tried to snap herself out of it and smile politely and the men stood up as they approached the table.

‘Hello,’ she said,
as the women revealed themselves to be almost terrifyingly skinny. Merv’s wife, Candy, was at least three inches taller and twenty years younger than him. The other couple’s names she didn’t even catch, and she muttered ‘hi’ whilst feeling nine years old, hopelessly intimidated, furious with herself and furious with Austin for some reason she couldn’t quite articulate.

‘Hi,’ said the women, blankly and without interest. Presumably if you didn’t have poison injected in your face every ten minutes and starve yourself to death 24/7, you didn’t deserve even the faintest glimmer of attention round here.

Austin, on the other hand, was, she noticed, the object of ritual scrutiny. In her cornered state she couldn’t help but be slightly mollified; yeah, she thought, you guys are all a lot thinner and richer than me, but at least I don’t have to pretend I like having sex with Merv just because he’s rich.

Mind you, that said, compared with everyone else there, Merv was a lot of fun.

‘D’ya just get off the plane?’ he said. ‘There’s only one answer to that. A martini! Fabio!’ A stunningly handsome young barman appeared at Merv’s elbow. ‘Get this young lady a martini straight up. She needs a wake-up. Gin – she’s a Brit. With a twist. Quick as you can, OK?’

Austin looked at Issy in a slight ‘he’s always like this’ way, but Issy didn’t actually mind. Anything that would make her feel more at home.

‘Bottoms up,’ she
said when her drink arrived, and took a large gulp.

The only martini Issy had had before had been one her mother had made for her when she was fifteen and had come back miserable from a party because none of the boys had wanted to dance with her, which almost certainly had something to do with the fact that whilst all the other girls were in Lycra and legwarmers, she was in a macramé dress her mother had made for her in Peru and insisted on her wearing, and as it was one of her mother’s periodic homecomings, she had given in. It had had martini bianco and lemonade and had been delicious, and she’d sat up late while Marian had told her that no man was to be trusted. As Marian herself was not to be trusted, and the closest man in Issy’s life was Grampa Joe, who clearly was, Issy had gone slightly too far the other way and endeavoured to trust most of the men she ever met, far too much for far too long. Which had often turned out to be a mistake. Until Austin. She looked at him and took another gulp.