Cupcake Couture (2 page)

‘We thought you’d died,’ said Ben as he lunged for a jam tart.

I didn’t see any evidence of tears.

‘Suicide on the line.’

‘Poor soul, what a tragedy. Well at least you’re just late and not splattered all over the front of the 8.15 to Monument,’ said Naomi, clasping a gingerbread man to her chest.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I said awkwardly.

‘Howay man, Naomi, you’re putting me off my jam tart,’ Ben mumbled with a full mouth.

I grimaced as my staff dived on the cakes as if they had been locked in the building for weeks, even though it was only – I checked my watch - nine thirty.
Nine thirty?
I shook my head at my highly unusual tardiness and took off my jacket.

‘I did get custard slices but I’m afraid they don’t look great. I meant to bake some cupcakes last night but my meeting ran on with Garret and Co.’

Nigel laughed, stopped laughing and laughed again.

‘Aye right.’

‘What’s funny, Nigel?’

Nigel inhaled an entire custard slice without even chewing.

‘
You
, make cakes. I don’t think so.’

‘Why would the thought of me baking cakes be funny?’

Nigel glanced at Kimberley, who glanced at Sharon, who looked at Ben and Naomi, who whistled nervously and offered Gary a gingerbread Geordie.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ Nigel said warily, ‘because you’re…a bit…’

‘A bit?’

‘You know, a bit…’ He waggled his hand.

‘A bit what?’ I waggled my hand.

I raised an eyebrow at my staff who all shoved cakes so far into their mouths they were incapable of speaking.

‘For your information, I may not act like Nigella Lawson but I bake a perfect cupcake,’ I bristled. ‘Better than this rubbish anyway. It’s a hobby of mine. My friends can’t get enough of them.’

The silence was deafening.

‘Baking is very therapeutic,’ I said, ‘I often do it at the weekends and it’s been a talent of mine since I was a child.’

Ben snorted jam through his nose.

‘I wasn’t born in a suit you know. I do have creative genes. My parents are artists. I just leave that side of me at the door when I come to work. I could have been an artist if I’d wanted to be.’

Why was I feeling the need to justify myself?

Nigel smiled an awkward, custardy smile. I conceded defeat.

‘So what’s Margaret doing in the boardroom?’

Visions of a surprise birthday party flashed through my mind.

‘Fuffel’s feer,’ said Kimberley through a mouthful of chocolate éclair.

‘Fuffel?’

‘Russell’s here,’ Naomi translated, wiping away a cream moustache.

My stomach lurched, not just at the sight of Ben sucking the life out of a cream horn but also at the sound of the boardroom door opening and the clicketyclick of Russell’s metal tipped heels - he was trying to encourage spendthrift behaviour during the recession by repairing rather than replacing - on the wooden floor. I disliked the man with a passion and it was no secret I was after his job. Whenever we met, he tried desperately to score points over me like a child cheating at a board game. Russell catching me turning up late for work put me at an immediate disadvantage. I smoothed down my pencil skirt and assumed my battle face.

‘Part time is it, Chloe?’ Russell sniffed, fiddling with his blue monogrammed company tie.

‘Nightmare of a journey, Russell. I assure you it’s not a habit of mine.’

I confidently approached him with my hand outstretched. His palm was clammy. His beady eyes, which were like the stitches in a teddy bear when the button eyes have fallen off, moved towards the cakes. Or at least the cream and sponge massacre where the cakes used to be.

‘I see you had time to stop at the bakery.’

I held Russell’s gaze.

‘The secret to staff motivation.’

His eyes settled on my staff lolling around on Margaret’s desk like overindulgent Labradors. I cleared my throat and gestured towards the boardroom.

‘Shall we, Russell?’ I marched towards the door. ‘I need to discuss last week’s BD calls. I heard Virgin are keen to outsource their recruitment and I am almost positive I can negotiate exclusivity.’

Russell held up his hand to stop me. His abruptness jerked me to attention.

‘And as I already explained to Margaret before you finally arrived, Chloe, I have something very important to discuss with you. I will be speaking first.’

We entered the boardroom. The doors swung shut behind us. Only then did I notice Russell’s assistant, James, hiding beside the plate of custard creams that Margaret was intently arranging as if they were the flowers for a royal wedding. I frowned. The boardroom was the place where my perceptiveness peaked and I immediately sensed something was wrong.

‘Morning, Margaret.’

Margaret jumped and her eyes darted from mine to the custard creams and back again.

‘Morning, Chloe,’ she croaked.

‘Margaret, that will be all, thank you. I will continue our discussion after I have had a chance to talk to Miss Baker.’

Margaret’s comfortable Ecco shoes appeared to be nailed to the floor.

‘Margaret,’ said Russell firmly, ‘you are dismissed.’

Margaret scurried away with the plate of crumbling biscuits still in her crêpey hand, much to James’ obvious dismay.

‘You are dismissed?’ I repeated, ‘Why are you dismissing my secretary, Russell? I dismiss her when I choose to and, as a matter of fact, I never “dismiss” her like that. We’re not in the Army.’

Russell’s ruddy face coloured further and James suppressed a giggle.

‘If we were in the Army God knows we wouldn’t be in this mess,’ Russell huffed.

If you were in the Army, preferably in Basra, God knows we’d all be a lot happier
, I thought to myself.

Russell was a pompous ex-public schoolboy of unquantifiable age. After failing miserably at University, he had chosen a leg up from daddy (Mr Blunt who owned the company) to a position where he could boss people around, over a leg up from grandfather into an Army officer position where he could also boss people around. Both despite the fact he lacked the brains, skills and the personality to warrant such authority.

‘What mess are we in exactly?’ I said, resting my bum cheek on the edge of the desk while Russell and James remained standing.

‘My team are maintaining their core hours on the phone. Charge rates have not fallen and margins are still up. I have fulfilled the ITTs and the spec list looks promising. All in all, despite the economic climate, we are closing business and closing it well.’

Russell shifted his stiff, shiny brogues and I sensed a nervousness about him, which was unusual for the egotistical little prick.

‘And we at Blunts appreciate all you have done, Chloe, especially in these difficult times…’

‘Why do I sense a rather enormous “but” coming?’ I interrupted.

James looked like he wanted to jump into the coffee pot and close the lid, his eyes doing the same manic dart Margaret’s had just minutes before. Either they had been experimenting with recreational drugs or they were all privy to the information I feared Russell was about to impart.

‘Chloe, this is very difficult for me to say but…’

I pressed my lips together and breathed through my nose to stop any sounds of desperation escaping from my throat while Russell dived into his pre-prepared script.

‘Recession… got to let people go… very difficult decision… thank you for your loyalty… redundancy… non-competition clause…’

My vocal chords tightened around my windpipe and I felt as if I might faint.

‘Cutting from the top… restructuring… austerity measures… blah, blah… hope you understand… I’m an overpaid, under-qualified, talentless little shit who is only keeping his job because daddy says so…’

I may have ad-libbed the last part.

My tongue was becoming numb, pressed between my teeth as I held back the desire to scream. I crossed my arms protectively around my body to a) stop my hands shaking and b) stop said hands reaching out and strangling Russell until he turned as blue as the company tie.

When Russell finally stopped barking at me like an idiotic dog, I glanced at James, who visually trembled in the corner as if waiting for a tsunami to hit.

‘So you are here to tell me that despite my continued success as the number one recruitment manager in the company, I am being let go because of the “recession”?’

I made inverted commas with my fingers. Russell cleared his throat.

‘Er yes, the recession. It’s been on the news for a few years now.’

‘I know what the bloody recession is, Russell, I’m not a moron.’

In an attempt not to laugh, James inhaled too quick and sounded as if he was snorting his tongue through his nose. Russell’s brogues shifted backwards and forwards on the carpet so fast his hair began to stand on end.

‘These are difficult times, Chloe.’

‘Indeed they are, Russell. Only I had been operating under the bizarre assumption that if I generated more clients and more profits than the other managers,
which I might add, I have by over twenty percent, then my office would ride through the “recession”’ – I wagged my fingers again– ‘with our jobs intact. Do correct me if I’m wrong.’

Russell fiddled with his tie.

‘Besides many analysts say we’re heading towards recovery. House prices are starting to rise, mortgage offers are on the up, business confidence is increasing…’

‘Others predict we’re about to enter a triple dip.’

‘This is recruitment, not Alton bloody Towers, Russell.’

He jarred at my raised voice. I could feel my blood boiling between my ears.

‘We in Senior Management understand your disappointment, Chloe but the decision has been made. The Government is leading the way with austerity measures and we must follow suit. You will be offered a full redundancy package, without bonus I’m afraid, with immediate effect because we wouldn’t want you taking all our clients. Of course you cannot work for the competition for six months but that might allow you time to take a holiday. Go on a cruise, go skiing, visit Las Vegas…’

I looked around the room.

‘Sorry, did I take a wrong turn and stumble into Thomas Cook? I don’t want a holiday, Russell. I haven’t had a holiday for years. I don’t like them. I like work.’

James’ face flickered and I think he mouthed ‘saddo’ but I wasn’t even going to go there.

‘You’ll find another position, I have no doubt,’ Russell bustled on, ‘and once again we do thank you for your commitment to the post.’

‘We? Spare me the pre-planned corporate drivel, Russell. Did you write the speech yourself or did Daddy prepare it for you?’

Russell’s cheeks flushed pillar box red and he glanced at James for support. James offered none.

‘Now there’s no need to get personal, Miss Baker.’

‘Personal? That wasn’t even close, Russell. If you want personal, then I’ll give you personal. You’re a weasley little man who would not be in this job if it weren’t for your genes. You have less business acumen than all the people laughed out of
Dragon’s Den
put together. I am better than you and you know it. I have given my entire working life to this company. I’m loyal, I’m dedicated and I’m bloody good at my job. I don’t have a personal life and I haven’t had sex since… well since whenever…’

Was it tragic that I couldn’t actually remember?

‘…I am a corporate robot, Russell. I even swear at people who have just committed suicide in front of my train for making me late for fuck’s sake!’

Russell’s face swelled puce like an over-ripe plum. James clutched the wall.

‘This company owes me more than this, Russell. A recession is an excuse to clear out dead wood and I am anything but that. I am the best fucking manager there is.’

I was shouting now. James looked like he might cry. Russell’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

‘For God’s sake, Russell, say something. Are you incapable of having an intelligent discussion if the answers aren’t written down for you?’

‘N…no…’

‘Then have a bloody argument will you? At least give me a decent chance to vent. Give me one good reason why I should be fired.’

‘Well, because…’

‘One good reason, Russell.’

‘It’s just… the recession… and mmph…’

‘Mmph. Recession and mmph? The recession is a buzzword that is being blamed for everything from the demise of pick ‘n’ mix shops to war in the Middle East. As far as I can see, recession is an excuse for bastards like you to do what you bloody well like because you knew I was gunning for your job and you were scared.’

Russell’s eyes flickered when I leaned close enough to prod him in the chest.

‘It wasn’t my decision,’ he croaked. ‘They said you’re too expensive. Too good and too expensive. We can’t afford you.’

I watched his overfed, spoilt brat cheeks shake and for a moment I actually felt sorry for Russell Blunt. The men who were really responsible for this decision had sent the messenger because they knew I would shoot him. They also knew he would not be up to debating the issue with me and that a one-sided argument becomes something of a frustratingly damp squib. I could shout and scream and fight my corner until I won a world title belt, which was great for defining the waist but of little consequence in the corporate market. I would only be stripping the last bit of dignity I had left. I was not going to beg Russell Blunt for my job; I was worth more than that. He didn’t have the power to reverse the decision. Just as I knew how far to push a client in negotiation, I knew I had reached the end of the line. It was game over.

I wanted to wail - ‘This isn’t fair!
Please
don’t fire me. I don’t have anywhere else to go!’ Instead, I pressed my lips together and took a breath. Then another breath.

When I felt composed enough to speak, I looked from Russell to James and back again.

‘Too good and too expensive, you say. Well I hope the two of you are bad enough and cheap enough to ride the recession. I suspect you are. And you can tell Mr. Blunt Senior that he can stick his bloody austerity up his posterity.’

I heard James exhale like a deflating balloon as I span on my heel and marched through the double doors of the boardroom for the final time. I had not realised they had been ajar since Margaret had run for cover. A sea of open-mouthed faces bobbed in front of me, many still bearing the remnants of cream cakes. My staff had been listening to the entire exchange. I held my head high to help my tears fight gravity until I was out of sight.