Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe (26 page)

She was glad to be busy too, all through the funeral and the sorting things out; there was always something to do and she had her hands full. It was when everything was tidied away and she’d returned to London that she’d spent her nights crying into Austin’s shirts. He had been very good about it. He’d understood, perhaps better than anyone else could.

There had been a little money – not much. Issy was glad about that. Her grandfather had worked hard his entire life, and she had spent it all on the nicest home and the nicest people she could find to make sure he was as comfortable and happy as possible. She didn’t grudge a penny of it. She had used her share to extend her lease and pay off some of her mortgage. Her mother had used hers to go to an ashram, whatever that was, and complain about all the inaccuracies in
Eat Pray Love
.

And here she was again, large as life, in a coffee shop in New York. It felt very strange.

‘Hey,’ said Issy.

‘Well,’ said her mother. ‘Tell me everything.’

But before she could
begin, Marian was looking over for the waitress.

‘You know,’ she confided, ‘I shouldn’t really be eating this. I went all raw food at the ashram. Apparently I have a very sensitive system and I can’t process refined flour. But oy vey, as we say.’

‘Mum,’ said Issy. She looked at the sandwich in front of her. It was piled higher than her mouth could possibly open. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was meant to do with it or how she should eat it. ‘Are you Jewish now?’

Marian looked solemn. ‘Well, I think on a very real level, every one of us is Jewish.’

Issy nodded. ‘Except we’re Church of England.’

‘It’s the Judaeo-Christian tradition, though,’ said Marian. ‘Anyway, I’m changing my name.’

‘Not again!’ groaned Issy. ‘Come on. Remember the fuss you had with the bank when you tried to change back from “Feather”?’

‘No,’ said Marian. ‘Anyway, it’s not hard to remember. I’m going to be Miriam.’

‘Why bother changing your name from Marian to Miriam? It’s practically the same.’

‘Except one honours the mother of Jesus, a great prophet to be sure, and one is the sister of Moses who led the Chosen People to the Promised Land.’

Issy had learned long ago not to take her mother up logically on any of her latest crazes. Instead she smiled resignedly.

‘It’s good
to see you,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying living here?’

‘It’s the most wonderful place on earth,’ said Marian. ‘You must come visit the kibbutz.’

‘You’re in a kibbutz?’

‘Of course! We’re trying to live as authentically as possible. Saturdays are difficult, but apart from that …’

‘Why are Saturdays difficult?’ It was the first time Darny had spoken of his own accord all day.

Marian turned her attention towards him.

‘And who are you?’ she asked bluntly.

‘I’m Darny Tyler,’ he replied, his face heading back down towards his sandwich again.

‘And how do you fit into all this? Is my daughter being nice to you?’

Darny shrugged.

‘Yes, I am!’ said Issy, cross. ‘I’m nice to everyone.’

‘You’re too nice,’ said Marian. ‘Always trying to please people, that’s your problem.’

Darny nodded his agreement. ‘She always wants everyone to like her, all the teachers and stuff.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ said Issy. ‘Of course I want people to like me. Everyone should like people to like them. The alternative is just wars and aggravation.’

‘Or honesty,’ said Darny.

‘Quite right,’ said Marian. They exchanged a glance.

‘You two are ganging
up on me,’ said Issy, attempting at least the bottom half of her sandwich. It was absolutely delicious. As soon as she tasted it, all her doubts about the café and its standards completely disappeared. That was interesting, she realised, looking at the queue out of the door. People came here for one thing only: the amazing, fabulous food. The fact that the lino was a bit cracked or the windows smeary didn’t matter in the slightest. She looked around at the other customers, rushing in, shouting out their orders, scattering salt sachets and coffee stirrers on the counter, jostling each other to get in. This was good. This was how people liked it. It might not suit her clientele, but it certainly suited its own.

‘So tell me, how’s school, Darny?’ said Marian.

Darny shrugged. ‘Awful.’

‘It is not “awful”,’ said Issy. ‘He gets top scores in maths and physics. And no scores in everything else, not because he’s not bright but because he isn’t interested.’

‘I hated school,’ said Marian. ‘Got out as soon as I could.’

And got pregnant, Issy didn’t say.

‘Issy was such a little scholar, worked so hard, went to college, passed all her exams, proper little swot, and what does she do now? Makes cakes. Which is fine, I grant you, but it hardly needed her grandfather to pay for three years of higher education.’

‘It’s been very useful, actually,’ said Issy, crossly.

‘So you are
who, exactly?’ said Marian.

‘I’m Austin’s little brother. Austin’s her boyfriend.’ Darny made a face and Marian laughed.

‘I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,’ she said.

‘Austin,’ said Issy patiently. ‘The tall chap that was at the funeral? Whose house I live in? Whom I talk about on the phone?’

‘Oh yes, ooh yes, of course I did,’ said Marian. ‘I must meet him one day.’

‘You have met him,’ said Issy. ‘Four times.’

‘Oh, of course I have. Good for you! Now, Darny, tell me some of the nonsense they’ve been teaching you in school.’

And to Issy’s absolute surprise, Darny launched into a long story about their sex-education teacher who had got all wobbly and upset doing something unfortunate with a banana. It was a funny story and Marian listened carefully and asked pertinent questions, and then they both got stuck into a discussion of why they had to use rabbits for sex information and why couldn’t they use those gay penguins, and Issy couldn’t help but be struck by the fact that Marian was obviously enjoying the conversation – they both were – but also that she was talking to Darny as if they were both adults, or both teenagers, she couldn’t quite tell which one. At any rate, in a way that they managed to understand one another. She watched them with some sadness. Darny was so sparky, so full of contrariness and argument. She found it wearing and problematic, but to her mother it was clearly a challenge. Yet she herself had spent so much time as a daughter trying to be good, and behave herself, and gain appreciation for that.

Well, Gramps had
loved her for who she was. She knew that much. And Austin, too. No wonder he’d been so surprised by her outburst last night. She surreptitiously fingered her phone and wondered what he was up to. She glanced towards the restaurant kitchen, full of short-order cooks shouting, bantering, working the lunchtime rush. She wished she could bake something. It always calmed her down when she was agitated. But between the little hotel room and the big restaurant meals, that definitely wasn’t possible. She was just going to have to grin and bear it. And be happy that Darny and her mother seemed to have made a connection. That was good, at least.

They added a hearty tip to the bill (Issy paid, and her mother let her), reluctant to leave the cosy banquette for the freezing street, but Marian mentioned that she had to go and pick up some knishes from Dean & Deluca, a sentence Issy didn’t understand any of, so they headed out together into the cold.

‘How long are you here for?’ said Marian.

‘A few days,’ said Issy. ‘Can we come and visit you?’

Marian frowned. ‘Well, you know, it’s very busy at the commune … Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course. I’ll send you directions.’

She kissed them
both freely.

‘Mazel tov!’ she yelled happily, as she marched off in her funny home-made clothes, walking across a stop light as if she’d been born in America.

‘Your mum’s cool,’ said Darny, as they took a cab up to the Guggenheim Museum.

‘People think that,’ said Issy.

‘Do you not see her very much?’

‘No,’ sighed Issy. ‘But that’s OK. I never did, really.’

A silence fell between them. But this time it felt a bit more companionable.

After an hour of trying to appreciate the art (and Darny running up and down the famous circular passageway), Issy was utterly exhausted. She was on the brink of suggesting they go back to the hotel and have a nap when her phone finally tinged. It was Austin, with one of the funny, short New York addresses made up of numbers. He was suggesting they meet up there, and Issy agreed.

Austin had sleepwalked through his meeting. He hadn’t listened to a word anyone had said, just launched into an analysis of the business as he saw it. Amazingly, nobody seemed to have noticed that he hadn’t listened. Maybe not listening was the way forward. Maybe it was how everything got done. But he couldn’t help it. He was, he realised, unutterably miserable. Here they were, showering him with riches and offers and a whole new way of life; a way of life he’d never even dreamed of. Success, security for Darny and himself; a future.

But the person he
wanted more than anyone to share it with didn’t seem to want to share it with him.

Austin hadn’t fallen in love with Issy straight away. He had found her quirky, then he had liked her, then it had gradually dawned on him that he never wanted to be without her. But it was more than that. He trusted her; he listened to what she had to say. They thought alike on so many things. And the fact that Issy clearly wasn’t interested in being here with him … it shook his confidence, it really did. He’d grown to rely on her so fully, even, he realised, to the point of taking her for granted.

He kicked his way through the dirty snow. Everyone he met thought he was crazy in this weather, but he liked walking in Manhattan; there was so much to look at, and he fitted in with his regular long stride because everyone walked fast, and he liked the pulse of the city in his veins and the hum and buzz of electricity. He did like it. Issy would like it too.

That made him groan internally. He knew … he thought he knew … that if he begged her, if he made a big point out of it and insisted and strong-armed the situation – which was not his style at all – she would come. She would. Wouldn’t she? But even if she did, Austin knew she wouldn’t be happy. Couldn’t be. She’d worked so hard, and it was her … her purpose, he supposed. Issy, in the Cupcake Café, her hands covered in flour, her cheeks pink from the heat of the oven; with a pat on the head for every child and a friendly word for every cold and weary London passer-by. It defined her. To stick her in some glass box high-rise apartment in Manhattan whilst he worked ridiculous hours every day …

He would turn
them down in a heartbeat.

That much had been running round and round his head. That much he’d decided. Unfortunately, there was something else. Something that made all his good intentions towards Issy hardly count at all.

The letter Issy had grabbed from the hall table as she had left for New York. The letter, with its impersonally typed address and frank. It was slightly crumpled and stained from its trip on the plane and being stuffed in and out of bags. Issy had left it on his side of the bed. She didn’t know, of course, how far things had gone.

There was more, much more. Mostly of a legal nature. Austin had skipped that.

There was only one
other school in the district, King’s Mount, and it had been terrible and dangerous in Austin’s time and it was still terrible and dangerous now. Parents avoided it like the plague; people moved so their children wouldn’t have to attend it. Fights were regular; it was the dumping ground for children who had nowhere else to go, or a halfway house to borstal, or for those whose parents just didn’t give a toss. It had been on special measures for ever, but they couldn’t shut it as it was absolutely huge, and nobody else wanted the children who went there.