Cupcake Couture (38 page)

‘Well, thanks for listening, pet,’ she said eventually, ‘and if I feel up to the party I will see you there. I want to support you and Hurley of course and he is desperate for me to go. He says it will cheer me up and that he’s got a surprise for me but, you know, I just feel so sad and poor Bridget, she’s beside herself so I might just stay home and share a sherry with her, like, you know?’

‘Yes,’ I said grimly, ‘I know.’

Would this be a bad time to move the conversation on to me?

‘Well I better go, pet, some of the kids from the charity are here at mine and I’m teaching them how to knit beanies to keep them warm over Christmas.’

Damn
.

After I hung up, feeling guilty at my anxiety to get off the phone and get back to work, I ran to my bedroom, pulled my laptop out from under my bed, plugged it in and tapped anxiously on the edge of the keyboard with my sponge-encrusted fingernails while it turned itself on.

‘Come on, come on, stupid thing. I know you’ve had a few weeks off but you can’t have forgotten how to do it. Right, at bloody last. Internet connection, hurry up, hurry up.’

I loaded the Safari browser and then brought up the Google search engine. I then typed Zachary Doyle + events + Newcastle into the box and pressed return.

‘Fuck me,’ I exclaimed when the results page loaded in front of me, ‘I don’t think even Chris Martin could fix this mess.’

I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the sink.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Beat icing sugar and butter in electric mixer

My Golf seemed to shrink with embarrassment the further I drove through Darras Hall, one of the most affluent estates in the Northeast. The deeper my little car and I ventured into the area, the bigger grew the houses, the gardens, the iron gates, the eagles and lions guarding said gates and the cars within them that seemed to glare at my clean but dented car with their flashy-shaped headlights like panthers eyeing up a feeble black kitten. My Golf was a decade old and bore the old-style registration plate, beginning with W, which, as we chugged past gleaming new cars fresh from the garage forecourt, seemed to stand for Woeful and Wistful and Wish-I-had-come-in-a-taxi and Where-the-hell-is-this-party-being-held-Shearer’s-house? I peered through the slush-splattered windscreen in the darkness, occasionally glancing in the rear-view mirror at the boxes, bits of wire and feathers that filled the entire boot and back seat and a fair amount of the front. I could not drive too fast for fear of sending the whole lot toppling over. Better to arrive ten minutes late with the cakes intact, I figured, than five minutes early with buttercream all over the roof.

Or maybe fifteen minutes late.

I glanced fearfully at the clock and tried to think whether I had set it fast to make sure I arrived at places on time, but I couldn’t remember. I flicked on the overhead light and skimmed the directions I had scribbled off the Internet and Zachary’s email to make sure I was heading the right way.

‘OK, this is the road. Fourth house on the right. One…’

…

‘Two…’

…

The counting of houses took a lot longer than driving down the average terraced street in Newcastle.

‘Three…’

…

‘F… flipping heck, is this it?’

My Golf answered by chugging, spluttering and stalling at the end of a very long, immaculately tended driveway lit up like a new runway at Heathrow. The lights drew my eyes through the open double gateway towards the spectacularly grand façade of a red brick mansion with so many windows my first thought was how much had been spent on the curtains alone. This house had not two white stone pillars but four, which propped up an immense window in the front centre of the second storey. Landscaped lawns surrounded the magnificent example of modern architecture, dotted with sculpted trees and perfectly preened bushes. Four shiny black cars stood to attention at the far end of the drive.

I swallowed heavily and tried in vain to restart my car.

‘Come on, don’t make me push you up this driveway, you’re not that old,’ I cajoled.

‘Do I have to go up there?’ it spluttered. ‘Those kids are way bigger than me.’

I took a deep breath, pulled down the visor and peered at myself in the tiny mirror, flicking my head from side to side to try and get the overall picture of my appearance. I didn’t look too bad after days spent in the kitchen, I thought. Granted my hair could have done with a blow dry and root touch-up and my make-up was more daywear than night on the town, but I was presentable. I licked the tips of my
fingers and smoothed them over my eyebrows and through my fringe. I delved into my bag for a lipstick and applied a quick coat, blotting it with the strawberry scented pink tissues I had taken to buying of late.

I took another extremely large, extremely deep breath and pulled on my jacket. I had barely had time to have a shower after a night and a day spent decorating cakes, never mind shop for a new outfit with Roxy, so I had opted for a safe black trouser suit and silky cream vest top with heels. Roxy had called me a least ten times during the day, once during the only three hours I had managed to sleep since my Google investigation the previous evening. I had ignored her calls and pressed on with my task of designing and decorating just short of nineteen dozen cakes to a standard I hoped a man like Zachary Doyle would find… well if not exceptional and unforgettable and fabulous, then at least acceptable. I had scribbled, crossed out, read every page of my notebooks old and new, trawled the very depths of my imagination, cried, wailed, kicked myself. I had Googled events the Doyles had previously done to work out what sort of themes they liked. I had paced the room, paced another room, tripped over the uneven floorboard in the bathroom, sat on the window seat, banged my head on the window, stared at the fairy lights… and then it had come to me. Fairy lights, sparkle, bringing sparkle to people’s lives, both men and women. How many times had Zachary referred to sparkle? He had already given me a clue. As I stared at my beautiful, twinkling fairy lights looped over my windows, a lightbulb had flicked on above my head. A pink, twinkly lightbulb with glitter in the middle. It was as if my creative genes had suddenly been awoken after years of being repressed by excel spreadsheets and business plans and structure and diaries. It had very soon become twenty-three hours I would never forget.

I had designed, planned and prepared. I had then done something I had never imagined I would do in a crisis; I had called my parents who came to my rescue for the first time I could remember. Jango, Jemima and Julian borrowed a van from the local carpenter who was a regular at the life drawing classes (and a particular fan of Julian’s physique), which was big enough to hold the wire and feather Christmas tree I had detested every year throughout my childhood because it was not
normal
. This was the very moment I needed anything but normal. I needed different, quirky and extravagant. Julian piled in tools and paints and all manner of motors and technical gubbins before they raced to my flat, a place my parents had only been on one occasion when they were so stoned Jango had tried to swim the Tyne.

While they argued their creative differences at a short distance away, I mixed softened butter with icing sugar, which I coloured various shades of pink and purple. I rolled out fondant icing and cut intricate shapes. I blew hot sugar to make delicate glass balls and I sprinkled edible glitter that sparkled in the light. Julian sat cross-legged on the floor staring into a plastic snow dome for what felt like hours until inspiration hit and he began to create with the help of my parents. My pristine living room metamorphosed into an artist’s workshop full of wire, feathers, paint, chatter and, more importantly, the vibrancy of life. I had looked over from behind the kitchen counter on more than one occasion and felt a warmth rush through me while I watched my family throwing themselves into the task. Sure they had swapped Coldplay for the sound of dolphins humping and they looked as mad as hatters, but they had come to my rescue with their creative talents and I had never been more grateful for having such crazy, out of the ordinary (or perhaps extraordinary) parents.

When I placed the final cake on our display, we all stood back to admire our work.

‘It’s no Damian Hirst,’ my father had said while stroking his beard thoughtfully, ‘but it is an original Baker. Congratulations, Clover, those cakes are true works of art.’

Praise from the man who had criticised every piece of art I had ever produced. You could have bowled me over with a glacé cherry.

Our carefully deconstructed sculpture, which was the only way it could be described, now filled the back of my apologetic little car. Where only an hour before I had felt full of confidence and pride, buoyed up by my quirky familial team and dizzy from exhaustion, now I felt nervous, uncertain and out of my depth. This house, these cars, the opulence; did my sparkly, wacky creation fit in a house like this? For not the first time in my life, I felt like the paint-splattered daughter of artists watching the normal people from a distance and wondering whether I should take a step forward or run back to where I came from.

A sharp rap on my window brought me back to attention.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not casing the joint or being a weird stalker or anything, I’m just, my car stalled and… sorry I’ll move it…’

‘Are you not coming in?’

I caught my breath and looked up at the man who was smiling at me through the open window, his head tilted, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a silver scarf flung dashingly around his neck.

‘You’re not Zachary. You look like Zachary but you’re not him.’

He had the same laugh, throwing his head back, his soft, full lips parting into a wide crescent. He had the same smooth skin, although his nose had a distinctly boyish dusting of freckles and his cheekbones were more angular. His hair was black and shiny but longer to his jawline and with a single, thick white streak that framed one
side of his face. His eyes were hazel instead of the sparkling green that made my hairs stand on end.

‘No, you’re right, I’m not Zachary I’m afraid. I’m Malachy, the middle child and the brains, beauty and glamour of the operation. Your Zachary’s the money and Hurley, well I suppose you could say he’s the wheels.’

I laughed uneasily, thankful for his easy banter, while somewhere in the back of my mind the words ‘your Zachary’ fizzed and whirled around like a Catherine wheel.

Malachy Doyle, the man whose name I had known before his brothers, stretched a big hand through the window, which I shook. His skin was smoother than mine.

‘You must be Chloe Baker, our cupcake maker,’ he chirped.

‘I am, yes. I hope you like them.’

‘I have no doubt,’ he said surely.

His confidence in me was greater than mine.

‘Come on then, park your car at the front door there and I’ll have the guys help you with’ – he screwed up his eyes and peered into the back of the car – ‘whatever that is growing behind you there. I’ll jog, you follow.’

With that, he set off up the long driveway at a jaunty jog. I turned the key in the ignition, the car groaned into life and I nervously followed. The house, that I thought could scarcely have been bigger, did indeed grow larger and more overwhelming as I approached. I could have driven my car straight through the double front doors, which were painted the same Guinness black as the colour of the Doyle brothers’ hair. I parked and sheepishly emerged from the car, smoothing down
my black trouser suit and breathing in as I fastened the single button on my Tuxedo style jacket.

‘Is there a tradesman’s entrance?’

Malachy laughed a roaring belly laugh.

‘Don’t be daft, we don’t stand on ceremony at our house. You’ll go in the front door like the rest of us and the dogs and cats and waifs and strays that my Ma brings home from time to time.’

‘Your house? This is your family home? But I thought you were’ – I paused while thinking how to phrase it – ‘a less well-off single-parent Irish family.’

‘We were that until Zachary got into his stride. He’s always been a worker bee that one, but family is where his heart always stayed. He always put us before work and now look at us. Lords and masters of a bloody castle in Darras Hall we are.’ He threw his arms open wide. ‘Zachary doesn’t really live here, he keeps an apartment in town near the office and Hurley likes to stay there near the buzz of the city. I stay with Ma because otherwise she rattles around inside like a pea in a maraca. Between you and me it’s a bit too much like a scaled down version of the White House in red brick for my tastes but the inside is gorgeous, largely because I had some input there and I have to admit’ – he whispered conspiratorially – ‘it has fantastic pulling power when I bring the boys home. Now, can I help you unload?’

Malachy’s instant familiarity and easy conversation succeeded in lowering my blood pressure until we had unloaded armfuls of boxes from the car and stepped into the main vestibule of the house. My eyes popped open and a gasp escaped from my open jaw. Two symmetrical staircases curved up to the high white ceiling at the far end of an impossibly shiny marble floor. Oversized vases cascaded with pink and white lilies, orchids and silver leaves, filling the hallway with the scent of sweet
pollen. Spotlights dotted at regular intervals illuminated a glass easel in the centre of the vestibule on which balanced a sign announcing:
3D EVENTS Welcomes You to the Credit Crunch Christmas Party! We made it through the year, we intend to celebrate…!

‘It’s a bit naughty calling it that,’ Malachy laughed, ‘but Jesus hasn’t it been a year to forget for most?’

He raised his eyes to the gleaming ceiling and I did the same.

‘You could say that, Malachy.’

Although tonight was looking like an end to the year most would remember.

Malachy led me through double doors at the other end of the vestibule that were even wider than the front doors.

‘Mind your step and be careful of the ice swan there. I’ll show you to where you’ll be setting up the cake and then I might have to rush off and check on the dancers.’