Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes (22 page)

“But what about Lizzie? She’s due to fly back in a few weeks,” I said.

 “I know doll. And I think the only reason she’s hanging in there at the moment is this rumour that she’s having a relationship with Barbecue Barry.” Al announced theatrically.

This came as a complete surprise. Lizzie hadn’t said anything to me last time I saw her, and we usually shared everything.

“Are you sure, Al? I saw her yesterday and she didn’t say anything.”

“Well she wouldn’t, would she doll? He’s married. But rumour has it that MJ daren’t get rid of her, or she may lose Barry, her star.”

I hung up, feeling a little sad that Lizzie hadn’t shared with me but more than anything worried for her. It looked like Lizzie was going to have to watch her back – or she might find herself on the receiving end of one of MJ’s poisoned daggers.

By the following weekend, I was exhausted. Diego hadn’t called, but I didn’t have time to think about it as I was worried about Lizzie which lead me to think about MJ, then Tom, then Bitch Rachel and I spent the rest of the week in an emotional daze. Grace was with Tom that weekend and I was really looking forward to a leisurely Saturday having my hair done and in the evening having a curry with Lizzie and Al. The plan was that everyone would head back to mine for lots of drinking and talking. However, on Friday night Lizzie called to say she had to work on some new recipes with Barry all weekend. I was a bit disappointed and I could tell that there was definitely more to it than ‘recipes’. I just hoped she wasn’t being stupid, believing everything he told her like I had with Tom. Lizzie wasn’t saying anything because Barry was married and given my feelings at that time for ‘the other woman syndrome’ I think she was being sensitive.

In truth I was happy if she was happy, however hypocritical that made me. It was unfortunate that the man she loved happened to be married but I wasn’t prepared to make judgements on all ‘other women’, everyone had their reasons – except of course, Bitch Rachel.

 On Saturday morning, Tom came to pick up Grace and I barely made eye contact with him. I certainly didn’t invite him in for coffee. Since our argument about my date, I had been going out of my way to avoid him.

“I’ll have her back in time for her tea on Sunday,” he said, standing rather awkwardly on the doorstep.

“Fine,” I said, kissing Grace on the top of the head and practically slamming the door in his face.

Once I had watched his car trundle down the drive and turn into the road, I went out almost immediately to the hairdressers. It was a nice day, and once I was in there, I started to relax a little. As I was lapping up Jordan’s latest lover in
Hello!
whilst waiting for Jo to finish with her current client, I had a text from Al.

TXT: Sorry Stel, have terrible cold. Staying in bed all day.

I immediately texted him back.

TXT: Shall I come over and feed you hot soup?

 Just as Jo was showing her latest client the back of his hair in the mirror, a text pinged back.

TXT: It’s OK doll. Seb’s being nursemaid. Have a nice night x

 I sighed. Since being sacked by MJ, Al had been helping out in Seb’s restaurant and things had definitely moved onto the next stage for those two which was great, but I was disappointed not to be seeing him.

Thinking about Al and his partner and Lizzie and hers, I suddenly felt panicked at the idea of spending the night alone, so as Jo started to snip away at my hair and scream intimate details about her colleagues (embarrassingly within earshot) I did some desperate texting. Emma was working for scary Sangita tonight, helping out at an event, so I knew she wasn’t free. I trawled through my phone numbers and found Marie, a new friend I’d met at the school gate. We sometimes went for coffee after the morning drop-off. I sent her a ‘we haven’t caught up 4 ages. R u free tonite?’ text. Within seconds, she’d texted me back, reminding me she was away with her husband on a special anniversary weekend (
damn, she’d mentioned that last week and I’d forgotten. Some friend I was
).

I randomly texted a few other people I used to know on my phone list and waited.

“...so then he was practically eating her face!” yelled Jo, just as the hairdryer to the right stopped. I looked up and humoured her with a horrified face and a “gross.” I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, I’d almost forgotten she was there. I wished she’d shut up and concentrate on my new look. A black look from a colleague silenced her (momentarily) and she went back to pulling my tresses, as the responses came through. Sophie was in a cottage in Wales spending Saturday night with friends, husbands and children. Gemma was ‘going 2 Petit Blanc 4 dinner with nu man’ and Kate and Laura had obviously changed their mobiles and not bothered to let me know because I wasn’t getting any delivery receipts. I think that said it all, I was now deleted from most of my working friends’ lives.

Missing Grace and wishing she wasn’t away, I even started to think fondly of how Grace, Tom and I would enjoy a Terry’s chocolate orange with
The X Factor
on a Saturday night.
I hope they aren’t sharing a chocolate orange with Bitch Rachel tonight
, I thought.

In absolute desperation I texted Fiona, a friend I used to go to college with. I hadn’t spoken to her for years but surely she was still unbearable and therefore available? She moved to the Midlands a couple of years ago and threatened to visit so I’d never contacted her in case she turned up. Her text came back within minutes to tell me she was having friends over for dinner and Danny her husband was celebrating his promotion. They’d also got a brand new car, their kids’ IQs were through the roof and they’d just bought a property in Spain – all in one text.

I remembered then why I’d avoided her and with one push deleted her from my phone; time was too precious to waste with people like that. Life wasn’t a competition about who had the biggest salary, fastest car and brainiest kids. Then I realised, that’s what Tom used to say. Finally I was starting to understand him – how ironic was that? And for a nanosecond, I really missed him.

As the dryer whirred in my ears and Jo’s chatter merged with the swishing water and the beating music, my eyes started to fill up. In the middle of this busy place full of chattering people and chopping hair, I suddenly felt very, very lonely.

I bought two bars of chocolate and a box of coffee creams on the way home from the hairdresser’s. I ate both bars in one go but showed a modicum of restraint by saving the box of coffee creams for later.

 I decided to spend Saturday evening working. It wasn’t as if I had nothing to do – I needed to make notes, draw up a schedule, play with icing colours and create cake shapes. This was now my business, and I was solely responsible for its success, so I turned the oven on, opened the recipe books and began. I was still feeling nervous and a bit sad, so I put on some music to cheer myself up.

Within minutes I was singing, whisking and piping like my life depended on it. I nibbled and baked, while joining Streisand in several gutsy duets from her
Broadway Album
. I managed to lick buttercream icing and taste heavenly vanilla sponge while doing justice to those tricky Sondheim medleys (I bet even Babs couldn’t do that in sync). As I was whipping up a batch of icing I thought about how often I felt like I was constantly on the edge of tears. The hurt and hate and hope were so packed down that it was hard to release my emotions onto the outside world and being on my own had sent them simmering to the surface. A lump formed in my throat as I worked.

However, just half an hour with ‘La Streisand’ and a mixing bowl and the dam burst. My salty tears began falling into soft caramel and whipped cream, and paddles swirled them into butter, turning the mixture into fluffy yellow clouds. By
Send in the Clowns
my heart had exploded like a bag of flour over everything and I felt a deep, deep calm flood over me. Icing sugar rose from the bowl like magic smoke, rising high into the ceiling and filling every part of me with sweetness. By midnight I was red-eyed with a sore throat from singing and weeping, but strangely happy. I collapsed in a heap, my head resting among the rubble of Rocky Road, snowy pavlova and twenty-four pastel-coloured, polka-dotted handbag cakes.

On Sunday morning, I woke up feeling better than I had in a long time. Last night’s session with Barbara had brought everything to the fore and for the first time since Tom left, my heart felt light.

At six o’clock, Tom dropped Grace off and the first thing she said was, “Mummy, have you been OK? You weren’t lonely were you?”

She seemed concerned, and I said “Darling, I’ve had a lovely weekend on my own, and I haven’t been lonely at all.”

I spent the week toying with hard macaroons and wobbly handbags and felt preparations were going well for my first big event. I still hadn’t perfected the finer details of the polka-dots and the handles, though. They looked wonky and whilst homemade was good, some of these looked a little
too
homemade for divas to devour. I was also up to my neck in décolletage and sugar-frosting as I was giving the basque a dry run. I needed it to be more ‘fashion as art,’ and less ‘supermarket Busty-Boobs cake’, so I decided to have a dress rehearsal and invited Al, Sebastian and Lizzie round for a tasting.

I phoned Al and Sebastian answered. “Between you and me Stella, Al’s still upset about losing his job,” he said.

“Well, hopefully a few glasses of wine and a girls’ night in will cheer him up?” I suggested.

“Sounds perfect. We’ll be around at six.”

Lizzie arrived first with a huge Indian takeaway, followed by Al with Sebastian and two bottles of Pinot Grigio on his arm. I couldn’t help but think how great they looked together. Al grabbed Sebastian’s arm and linked him into the house, balancing the wine between them.

“Sebastian’s needed at the restaurant tonight, he’s only staying for a quick Pekora,” announced Al, “so it’s important that we tell our news straight away.”

Lizzie and I looked at each other and ushered them in. We all sat down and I started to open a bottle of wine. “Go on then,” I demanded, “what news?”

“Yes, tell us,” urged Lizzie. “You can’t just announce that you have news and then just sit there.”

Al put his arm round Sebastian and they looked at each other; “We’re getting married,” he said, looking from Lizzie to me for our reaction.

We were both a bit surprised but I gathered myself together quickly. “Wonderful news!” I said, rushing to hug them both.

“I suppose it might seem a bit soon,” said Al “But when you know, you know.” He was beaming from ear to ear.

“You have to stay for more than just a starter,” I said to Sebastian, kissing him on the cheek. “We need to make sure your intentions are honourable.”

“Oh I do hope not. Come and tell Auntie Lizzie all about it,” squealed Lizzie, grabbing him by the arm and patting the seat next to her.

We talked about a date for the wedding and convinced Sebastian to stay and share some of the curry with us before heading off to work. I went into the kitchen to plate up the takeaway and he followed me through to help.

“Al’s a very special person,” I ventured, spooning steamy, aromatic curry onto warmed plates.

 “Ha, yes I know,” he said, smiling “and it’s now my job to make sure he’s always happy,” he smiled. Then Al walked in with Grace and I saw Sebastian’s face light up. I think my hormones must have been at it again because my eyes filled up with tears and I had to wipe them discreetly with a tea towel.

Sebastian found knives and forks and Grace and Al moved blocks of sugarpaste and bowls to sit by the warmth of the oven and eat at the kitchen table. In between mouthfuls of chicken tikka and poppadoms we shared snippets of Grace’s day at school and the drama of Greek Tragedy proportions at the monkey-bars during playtime. Emma had fallen out with Gemma because she was going off with Ruby and Katie took umbrage when no-one would let her play, then Gemma pushed Emma playing tig and they’d all ended up in the headmaster’s office.

“Sounds just like a day at Media World,” laughed Al.

Sebastian reluctantly left about 9pm, hugging us all and leaving Lizzie, Al and I to catch up on our own gossip now that Grace was in bed. Lizzie kicked things off nicely with; “Al, is there any chance that Sebastian would go straight? Because I want him for myself.” Al smiled like a proud parent.

 “He’s obviously crazy about you,” I said, swallowing hard and trying not to let my hormones get the better of me again.

Lizzie was still picking at the remains of lamb tikka and rice, and whilst there was a lull I thought it a good opportunity to ask about her love life.

 “So, Al’s in lurve,” I started, “what about you? I heard you and Barry?” She stopped eating and looked straight ahead, avoiding my eyes.

“What
about
me and Barry?” she went back to her lamb but I wasn’t being fobbed off, so I tried again, “Lizzie I’m your friend and I know he’s married, but it doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me about him.”

“I saw a picture of him in
The Mail on Sunday Review
with his wife and kids. ‘Barbecue Barry and his Brood,’” added Al, “I nearly died. I mean the man behaves like a teenager, shags everything that moves, yet here he is playing ‘Dad’.” I tried to catch Al’s eye. This wasn’t the time to be doing the Al thing of tactless, insensitive friend.

Lizzie put her fork down and her head in her hands. “Oh God, I don’t know what to do. I can’t help how I feel.” I abandoned my food and put my arm round her.

“Lizzie, we’re not judging you,” I said, giving him another ‘look’, “we just want you to be happy, as long as you don’t get hurt.” Lizzie took a big gulp of wine.

“He’s just so kind and so funny,” she said. “What worries me the most is – I don’t even feel guilty that he’s someone else’s husband. I know I’m being selfish, but he’s everything. He’s a wonderful lover and Stella, you’ll understand this...he makes me feel young, and thin and gorgeous.”

“I’d like one of those,” I laughed, in an attempt to lighten things a little.

“People are saying it won’t last,” Lizzie continued, “I know he’s had affairs before, but this is different. He really
does
love me.”

“He and Mischa live separate lives,” she continued. “I know I sound like a naïve young girl, but I trust him.”

“Trust’s a big word,” I said. I didn’t mean to make her feel bad, but she looked hurt. I felt guilty forcing out a confession from her then appearing to throw it back in her face but it was too soon for her to trust this guy. Al stepped in, for once showing some tact and finally realising it was time to move on to something lighter and safer.

“So Stella, when we spoke on the phone earlier you mentioned handbag disasters? Share,” he demanded. “I need to see.” I got up and retrieved my fairy-cake tin, opened it and reluctantly revealed one of the misshapen, wonky handbags. “Darling, it looks like something Mrs Overall would have served up in
Acorn Antiques
,” he squealed, putting his hand over his mouth in horror.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I asked, beginning to feel a little panicky and studying the wonky handbag close up.

“My darling,” he squealed, snatching it from my hand. “It’s hardly a fashion statement in cake,” he huffed, putting it on the table like it was a used handkerchief. I opened the tin and laid out a few more little cakes for inspection, hoping that he might see a redeeming feature in at least one. He scrutinised more closely, stroking the icing and looking like he had a bad smell under his nose. “Mmm, I’m not saying they’re bad, but I haven’t seen anything this ugly since Britney shaved her head.” (He’d been watching
Ugly Betty
again.)

“Ooh Al...you’re just too sensitive. Please tell it like it is,” Lizzie said sarcastically, tinkering with one of the handbags.

 “I know they’re not great but I used my own handbag as a template – it’s hard to make something that’s immediately recognisable,” I said feeling slightly defensive; I’d worked hard on those.

Al then suddenly clutched at the table with one hand, stifling a scream with the other. Lizzie and I looked at him in alarm. “That’s it! You know what we need to do? We don’t want generic – we need
iconic
,” he announced. “We need an
iconic
handbag. That way it’s immediately recognisable.”

At this point, like fate had intervened, Lizzie had grasped her box of ciggies from her
iconic
Chanel handbag and abandoned it on the table, moving outside to the patio for a fag. Al and I looked at her bag, then each other at the same time.

“Perfect,” yelped Al, lunging at Lizzie’s bag and inspecting it close up like a precious diamond. He laid it on the table and began drawing the bag on a piece of kitchen paper. We were very excited now and in between puffs of smoke, Lizzie kept popping her head back round the French windows, barking instructions at him.

“Don’t just think, ‘fashion statement’, think quantities, think simplicity.” She was starting to sound like scary Sangita, but she wasn’t stopping. “Think 500 identical cakes – and think about the timeframe,” she added over her shoulder.

“Lizzie, think putting fag out and coming back in and shutting door, the place is full of moths!” I complained. Lizzie stuck out her tongue, threw her fag to the floor, twizzled it round under her
iconic
Gucci boot and waltzed back in.

“Look at this baby,” said Al, passing me the kitchen paper revealing the outline of a small but perfectly formed Chanel handbag. It was a simple shape, with the trademark iconic entwined Cs and
very
Chanel gold-chain strap.

Al then took an abandoned lump of sponge cake from the kitchen worktop and played with it, shaping and twisting the gold foil from my most recent packet of Rolos into a chain strap and a C. It was like magic: suddenly the cake had ‘the look.’

“I remember doing some wall art with Justin and Colin for one of our art bedrooms on
Home Dreams,
” Lizzie said. “They had this great idea to use Quality Street wrappers on a gold background creating an effect like Klimt’s
The Kiss
. It was truly amazing.”

“Oh yes. You wouldn’t believe what those boys can do with a bit of sticky-backed plastic and a sweet wrapper,” Al added, winking at me. Lizzie picked up the cake and held it by the chain, marvelling at Al’s handiwork.

“Come on,” she said, getting up and washing her hands. “Let’s make a fresh batch and we’ll let the cake fairy show us his own brand of alchemy – how to turn base cake into pure Chanel handbag.”

It was tough trying to get everything just right, from the marzipan Manolos to the Chanel handbags with gold-leaf chains and glossy black icing. As well as the handbags, I was having some problems getting the basque right (wobbly boobs, cream ruffles not adhering to cleavage, etc).

“Babes, can I just show you what I would do with that,” said Al, putting down his coffee and straightening the boobs. He then went on to fix the cream ruffles and created the best white chocolate flounces I’d ever seen.

“Al, will you marry
me
?” I said, gazing at perfect, creamy décolletage.

 “I love you darling but I can’t marry you – I would find it just impossible to lie back and think of England,” Al laughed.

“Well I think you’re wasted on the dole. Why don’t you come and join me in my hopeless paradise of wannabe cake-maker to the stars.” I said. Though it was said with a smile, the minute the idea came out of my mouth I knew it would be brilliant for Al and me to work together, officially. I held my breath and watched his reaction. His eyes widened as he considered my offer.

 “Are you serious, Stella?”

“Al, it would be brilliant. You are creative, you have a business brain and you’re one of my best friends. I’d love it. Of course, there might not be much money in it to start with.” After all, this was the first big order we’d had – who was to say there’d be any more?

Al became quite emotional. “Stella, I’d be delighted. I’d love to be your partner.”

“That settles it!” cried Lizzie. “You two will be great together. It’s the perfect match!”

That night, Al stayed over and after Lizzie left we got out his iPod. He had over 300 upbeat tunes to keep us going and we started work singing at the top of our voices. We whisked cream, moulded gold leaf and created life-sized breasts from semicircles of sponge. I for one was completely engrossed in sponge cleavage and sang along full tilt to George Michael.

As George was giving his all on
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go
Al suddenly screamed, “What was it Lizzie called me earlier?” He was clapping his hands together and jumping up and down on the spot.

“What? The Cake Fairy?” I said. He grinned and I knew just what he was thinking.

“How about it, for the name of our business?!” He said.

 “Yes, yes I love it,” I squealed, then he stopped jumping up and down and looked serious.

 “Do you think it’s a bit camp?” he asked, biting his lip, head to one side.

“Not at all,” I lied, and went back to slapping cream on my cleavage.