Cupcake Couture (37 page)

My usually pristine kitchen was covered in flour, dollops of mixture, splatters from the whisk, crumbs and jam and the wooden worktops were almost buckling under the weight of the cakes cooling on wire trays and plates and baking sheets and
anything I could lay my hands on to free up the oven trays and keep the conveyor belt of production functioning. Twelve cakes bit the dust (flour dust on the filthy floorboards to be precise) when I backed out of the oven too quickly with a fresh batch of chocolate and raspberry cakes only to knock the previous batch off the worktop with my elbow. I admit I briefly toyed with the idea of brushing off the dirt and replacing them in the production line but even the thought of my subterfuge made me glance guiltily into the corners of the room in case Zachary had had the craftiness to break into my flat and plant webcams to watch me in action. I threw the cakes in the bin, safe in the knowledge that I did not want to end up on one of those programmes exposing dodgy workers,
Bakers from Hell
or some such show.

My contingency of cakes was swiftly reduced to twenty-eight and then soon after to twenty when I forgot to set the timer for a batch of vanilla and strawberry cupcakes, eight of which emerged looking more like the chocolate ones in colour. Four I decided I could just about get away with under the toppings. Where previously I would revel in the cracking of eggs, the weighing, the whisking, the folding, the scooping, while singing into my wooden spoon and dancing around the kitchen, suddenly I felt under pressure, stressed, uncertain, tired and very very hot. I felt as if I were the lone worker in a sweatshop, only with pretty utensils, a view from the window, music, a well-designed kitchen and a plug-in room freshener.

It was not exactly a sweatshop, but it was a frantic, over-loaded, under-prepared cottage industry and I was the only worker, as well as the boss. I could feel the strain of the self-employed person having to drum up self-motivation and confidence from somewhere because no one else was going to step in and save the day. It was all down to me to make this order and, where I had once imagined myself swanning around a sunlit kitchen like Nigella Lawson in a pretty pinny, tasting my
delicious mixtures, marvelling at my hand-made delights and waxing lyrical about the joys of baking, I looked more like Kate Bush with wild hair and crazed eyes shrieking at the oven and at myself as the clock ticked down to my deadline and cupcakes came out of my steaming ears. Was this really my childhood dream?

Cupcakes were all I could see and think of. The scent of vanilla and seventy-five percent cocoa chocolate lined my nostrils. When I tried to sleep, I dreamed about ingredients and burning cakes. King Alfred made an appearance on more than one occasion, along with a giant chicken laying enormous eggs into a monstrous mixing bowl. By the time eleven o’clock on Thursday rolled around, I was bleary-eyed and slightly mad. Mad enough that when I opened my fridge and the last carton of milk fell out and exploded on my slippers, I burst into tears and stamped in the puddle because I desperately needed a milky cup of tea to make me human again. Looking sourly down at my milk-soaked feet and tracksuit bottoms, I turned off the oven and trudged across the living room, leaving a trail of milk like a cow with leaky udders. I pulled on a navy pea coat and boots, grabbed my keys and left the flat to make the short walk into the village.

At the local mini mart, I hung a basket from my arm and filled it with semi-skimmed milk for my tea and full-fat milk for the remaining cakes. I bought several more blocks of butter to be sure I didn’t run out when the shops had closed and maltesers for my mid-morning snack because I could not face eating cake. They were lighter than ordinary chocolate, unless purchased in a one-hundred and seventy-five gram bag, in which case they weighed the same as one-hundred and seventy-five grams of anything. Weights and measures were hurting my brain.

I lifted the local newspaper from the small pile left over from the previous day and read it while I waited in the queue, which was taking an unconscionably long
time because the only girl serving was texting on her mobile in between scanning every item. Whatever she was texting about was apparently hilarious, which made the wait all the more enjoyable as my deadline drew ever closer.

I glanced over my shoulder when the edge of a wire basket jabbed me in the back of the leg. Shirley stood behind me wearing a baker’s hat and her white and burgundy checked tabard over a brown PVC mini-dress, making her look like a walking table. Janice stood a little behind Shirley’s left shoulder wearing a matching tabard and white hairnet pulled tight over the tops of her ears. Shirley pursed her lips, the smoker’s lines around them forming an asterisk. She glared at the contents of my basket.

‘Unusual ingredients for elevenses wouldn’t you say, Janice?’

‘I would aye, Shirley, unless she’s having maltesers sandwiched between blocks of butter and a glass of milk.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised like, she’s blocking my view of the till,’ Shirley chuckled.

I took a deep breath and shuffled forwards as the girl finally succeeded in completing a sale. Shirley continued at top volume.

‘Looks like she should be adding some dandruff shampoo to that basket, Janice, from the white powder on her coat.’

‘And her trousers, Shirl’.’

I instinctively turned and brushed my shoulders before I realised Shirley was referring to the fine coating of flour that had settled on my person over the past two days. It was in my hair, on my clothes and under my fingernails. Shirley narrowed her eyes. Her blue eyeshadow creased into the crevasses of her crêpey skin. I held her
gaze for a moment, feeling like a first year at a new school being bullied by the fifth formers, which was a feeling I had at one time been all too familiar with.

‘I think someone’s been baking in secret, Janice,’ Shirley said with a raspy tone.

‘Frosted cupcakes I expect,’ Janice replied with a hiss as if they were accusing me of boiling up children in a giant pot in my kitchen.

I shuffled forwards and finally deposited my basket on the cash desk.

‘How did the last ones sell then?’ Shirley persisted.

I ignored her and unpacked the basket while the girl at the till scanned them with the urgency of a slug. She continued texting with the other hand.

‘They’ll never catch on,’ Janice assured Shirley, ‘not around these parts, will they Shirl’?’

‘Never,’ Shirley said with a sniff.

The girl tried to pack a carrier bag with one hand while her thumb worked overtime on her phone.

‘Thinks she can buy some fancy cake moulds and become a baker overnight.’

‘She hasn’t even got a tabard.’

‘Or a hair net.’

‘Well I haven’t got a hairnet on, Janice,’ Shirley scolded, ‘I don’t want to mess up my hair.’

‘Your face does that for you,’ I muttered under my breath.

I grabbed the carrier bag and slammed my money on the counter.

I flounced towards the exit and called out, ‘I’ll let you taste a cupcake when I’m done, Shirley. If there’s any left after Alan Shearer’s had his pick!’

I had made all the sponges. Two-hundred and twenty light and dark cupcakes decorated every available space in my kitchen and filled the air with a sweet scent. It was dark outside, the lights from the street and the boats passing by on the Tyne framed by the window. I drew the curtains, switched on the fairy lights, opened a bottle of cold, white wine and stood back to admire my work. Now that the cakes were done, I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. Baking the sponge was where disaster was most likely to strike and it had admittedly been a battle but now, as I sipped from my glass and peered at the rows and rows of light, puffy topped little soldiers, I felt like I had almost won the war. Flavour was where I excelled, according to Julian and flavour was the most important thing. Decorating the cakes was the fun, creative part. Quite literally it was just the icing on the cake.

I allowed myself a smile for the first time in days and brushed my arm across my floury brow. The knot of stress in my stomach unravelled with each sip of wine and the anxiety turned into relief and then excitement. It was as if I had come through the pain of giving birth and was now enjoying the rapture of the other side. Admittedly I hadn’t a clue how I was going to decorate the cakes yet but whether it was just different coloured buttercream or fondant Christmas shapes, I was positive they would be good enough for an office Christmas party in Newcastle. I had just under twenty-four hours to do the icing, which was plenty of time once I had settled on my theme, so I was going to enjoy this moment.

I was pouring a second glass of wine and listening to the soothing sound of Chris Martin’s voice singing
Fix You
when my mobile rang. I tracked it down stuck to one of the work surfaces with congealed strawberry jam.

‘Chloe, it’s Zachary here, Zachary Doyle.’

‘I guessed the Doyle part. Hi, Zachary, how are you?’

The sound of his laughter warmed me inside. I wandered to the window seat and sat down, pulling my knees up to my chin.

‘I’m grand, Chloe, thank you and you?’

‘Great. It sounds noisy there, where are you?’

He groaned as if he was lifting a heavy object.

‘Oh I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch but honestly this event has swamped my time I have to say and despite our best endeavours, it’s still a bit chaotic here. We’re just putting the final touches to the party room.’

‘Blowing up balloons, decorating the tree?’ I laughed.

He paused.

‘Yes, something like that. In fact the tree nearly didn’t make it over from Norway, something about it being too big for the ship but Hurley got on the blower and sorted out that drama thank God.’

Too big for the boat?
Were they bringing it from Norway in a dinghy?

‘I’m just praying the ice sculptures withstand the heat from the fire-eaters on the night or there could be a flash flood but I suppose that won’t bother the guests in the infinity pool and if I ply the others with enough free champagne, they won’t notice any minor disasters, like the Teppanyaki chef chopping his hands off with his giant knife when he’s slicing the giant tuna at the table.’

I laughed uncomfortably as I tried to work out whether he was joking.

‘Do you dress up as Santa then?’ I quipped.

Zachary chuckled, before I heard the muffled sounds of him covering the mouthpiece and shouting – ‘Malachy, be sure to sit Ant and Dec together and don’t put Lineker at the back, he’s an up-front man… Hello, Chloe, sorry about that, are you still there?’

‘Hmm?’

I mopped the spilled wine from my dirty tracksuit bottoms and tried to steady my breathing.

‘Great, so I’m not checking up on you obviously because I know you’re a professional, but I just wanted to make sure you’re happy and the cakes are happy and that I’ll be seeing you here around seven o’clock to set up the display before everyone turns up at eight thirty. Anything up to four feet tall I can accommodate on the cake table. Anything above that may be considered a bit ostentatious for these times of recession, you know what I mean?’

I felt my throat constrict when I tried to reply.

‘But I think everyone needs a bit of sparkle, so we’ve put in the same effort we always do to cheer people up and raise money for a good cause. My brother has been all over the city buying up every florist’s stock of lilies and collecting posters and… Chloe? Hello? Are you there?’

I rested my head back against the window frame and closed my eyes.

‘Yes, Zachary, I’m here,’ I managed to muster, ‘and don’t worry about the cakes, they’ll be fabulous, just like you asked for.’

‘Exceptional, unforgettable
and
fabulous,’ he chirped.

‘Ooh yes, absolutely, all three.’

‘Fantastic. I’ll see you tomorrow at seven then. I can’t wait.’

‘Me neither,’ I said, clutching one hand to my throat, ‘me neither.’

What had I done? Ice sculptures, fire-eaters, Ant and Dec (or Antondec as Heidi referred to them), Gary Lineker, a giant Norway spruce too big for the ferry, floods of champagne, an infinity pool, a Teppanwhatty chef. This wasn’t an office
Christmas party, this was a fucking Elton John birthday extravaganza by the sound of it.

I sat rooted to the spot and glanced nervously towards the kitchen where two-hundred probably extremely tasty but at present hideously plain cupcakes sat waiting to be decorated by yours truly. Had he really said the cake table could accommodate anything up to
four feet tall
? How big did he think my bloody oven was for crying out loud? I felt beads of sweat pop onto my forehead but they were not the beads of hot sweat I had been producing over the past couple of days, these were cold and sinister, coupled with an overwhelming sense of dread.

‘Fix it!’ I begged Chris Martin who was singing about tears streaming down my face, which they were threatening to do.

I stared at the phone, willing it to ring and for Zachary to laugh and tell me it had all been a hoax and that his Christmas party was just an average affair with trays of vol au vents and an awful DJ and inappropriate drunken behaviour between the staff and the clients. My phone refused to let me off the hook.

Then you obviously haven’t spoken to Heidi
…
Did you not Google him?

Roxy’s words returned to haunt me. What had she meant?

I dialled Heidi’s number.

‘Heidi! I needed to ask you about this party tomorrow with Zachary and Hurley. I’m all of a fluster here and… hello, Heidi?’

‘Hi, Chloe,’ she sighed.

My bright, bubbly, always-the-listener friend did not sound like her usual self.

Please don’t let this be the one time in all our years of friendship that I have to listen to you instead of vice versa because I really need you to help me!

‘I’m glad you called, Chloe, I really feel like I need a shoulder to cry on.’

Bollocks
.

Heidi’s Charity Shop was closing its doors for the final time the following day and she was devastated. Two hours before the party, the financial lifeline for the disabled children of the area would close and many of them would not get the presents Heidi had so desperately wanted to get them for Christmas, not to mention the economic support for the future. That was happening tomorrow, another consequence of the recession, and I had been so busy thinking about making money from cupcakes that I had forgotten. I hadn’t even called Heidi all week to see how she was feeling until the minute I had needed something from her myself. I curled my toes up with guilt while she spoke softly and sadly (and at some length it had to be said) at the other end of the line.