Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes (26 page)

“MJ went out on the pretext of making sure everything went smoothly and it’s her responsibility – she
has
to take the rap. Even
she
can’t squirm her way out of this one,” he stated. I wasn’t so sure. Al had told me recently that she is being touted for a big TV award and her career is going from strength to strength.

“I dread working with her, but I can’t afford to turn it down, there’s no work around. I’m really sorry I won’t be able to see Grace this weekend. I miss her so much,” Tom continued. I got the feeling he was saying he missed me too, but ignored the subtext and assured him that Grace would understand and stay with him as soon as she could.

“Look after Lizzie. She’s at the mercy of MJ...” I added, but he’d already gone.

Lizzie called me soon after. “Sweetie, I hope you don’t mind that I asked Tom to come out to Oz. After I got the call I knew I needed to find someone quickly, he’s a freelancer and he
is
one of the best. I need someone I can rely on and well, he may not be the most reliable husband, but he’s certainly a great cameraman.”

Tom was paying for Grace and we needed the money, and this type of contract could be very lucrative so I was fine with it. I was also glad because even though Lizzie was my friend, I knew he’d look after her.

“Not a problem Lizzie, hope you’ll be OK out there. What happened?” I asked, but she was gone.

I put the phone down, worried. I didn’t like to think of her in the jaws of the Elephant (or Rhino?) of Fate. I just hoped Tom got there before the Monkey of Revenge turned up.

Dave was late for another date. It was raining and I was soaked by the time he arrived outside the shopping precinct. He appeared through a curtain of cold, lashing water, his raincoat turned up at the collar and hair plastered to his head. “Stella, I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s work, I...”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s just find somewhere warm and dry,” I said, smiling. “This bucket-of-water-over-the-head-look just isn’t working for me.” Suddenly overcome with pleasure at seeing him, I grabbed his hand and he squeezed mine as we ran through the cobbled backstreets of Worcester, splashing through puddles, stopping briefly to gaze urgently at menus in windows and eventually finding a Nando’s.

Glad of dry sanctuary, we walked into the dimly-lit, pseudo-Portugese restaurant and were efficiently escorted to a seat. Dave smiled apologetically as he studied the menu. “I’m sorry Stella, but I can’t do a late one tonight. Have to be up early tomorrow for a vital recce, it’s really important.”

 My stomach lurched. “Oh, I hoped we’d be able to spend some time together,” I ventured. “I wondered if you’d be coming home with me. Grace is on a sleepover and...”

“Sorry Stella, but I can’t. I just have to finish this project and then I promise I’ll be all yours again,” he said. For the first time with Dave, I felt a little twinge of anger.

“I’m not sure you’ve
ever
been all mine, Dave,” I said, feeling like I was being put on hold.

He reached his hand across the table and looked straight into my eyes; “Stel, I am all yours and I care about you, but I’m not ready for a big commitment yet. I love spending time with you and I want to make this work but I am tied up with work and Max...I need to spend some time with my son Stella”

“I understand,” I said, trying to be reasonable, “but apart from Max, it would be nice to be put first
sometimes
.”

He let go of my hand. “I don’t need any pressure at the moment, I just need you to support me. This project is really important for my career and I can’t fuck it up.”

“I’d love to support you Dave, but you don’t tell me anything.”

“I hate it when you do this.” He pulled his hand away, his face coloured up.

“You hate it when I do what?”

“Look, there’s heavy shit going down at the moment and if I’m not careful I could lose the contract.”

“You should have told me,” I said brushing the back of his arm with my hand. I felt like a vet, calming a wounded animal, he was pink and clearly quite stressed. “
Tell
me all about it,” I continued.

“I can’t tell you, can I, because it’s fucking
secret
,” he hissed, jabbing me with the words and moving his arm away quickly.

I sat back, numbed by his reaction and the waitress saw her cue to wander over and take our order. I was smarting from his attack and I wanted to leave; this wasn’t how Dave Kennedy was supposed to act. When the waitress left with our subdued list of food he leaned forward, his head down, running his hands through his hair and avoiding making eye contact.

“Stel, I’m so sorry. I just feel very isolated at the moment.”

“I understand, I suppose it’s just the nature of your work,” I said, sipping my Diet Coke.

For the rest of the evening we talked about the past, which always seemed a safe harbour and was far enough away from any sparks of reality. Then Dave and I parted with a chaste kiss outside Nando’s and went our separate ways.

“I’ll call you tomorrow Stel,” he promised, not even offering to walk me to my car. I knew as I rushed to the car park in the freezing cold that he
would
call tomorrow but was beginning to wonder whether he
wanted
to, or if it was something he felt he should do.

When I arrived home alone I realised it would be morning in Australia – so I called Lizzie long-distance. She’d only just arrived and had the crocodile nightmare to deal with, but I knew she wouldn’t mind.

I told her about the evening; “It seems like he’s disengaged and only with me out of duty. It’s almost like he’s on autopilot. He suddenly doesn’t listen or pay attention, like he’s a robot who’s been programmed to do what a human would do. There’s no passion or spontaneity or feeling at the moment.”

 “You know Stel, they’re all pretty similar. I reckon the ‘right one’ is a myth. It’s not about finding the one you love the most – it’s about finding the one that annoys you the least,” she laughed.

“Yeah. I can see that in time Dave would join the compulsory male chorus, telling me I was too old to wear pink bunny-ears or combat-trousers.”

“Mmm, and he’d watch endless TV, clutching the remote control like a pacemaker for hours on end.”

“But Lizzie, I wanted candlelit suppers and twinkling eyes and shared jokes. Life with Dave should be perfect. It should be
South Pacific
,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
and
From Here to Eternity
.” I lamented.

“Dream on, girlfriend,” she said, “most men have never seen
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
and if they have, they’re on Al’s bus. I think you need to stop thinking Hollywood and start thinking
Coronation Street
. Or just enjoy the sex and forget the rest.”

Part of me was beginning to wish we’d never met again and I’d just kept Dave Kennedy as a youthful crush, preserved in the jewellery box in my head. That way I could have taken him out and held him to the light every now and then to enjoy his shiny perfection. I suddenly felt achingly empty and attempted to soothe the ache by baking a batch of ‘better in the morning’ banana cakes. Made from soporific, overripe bananas which helped you sleep, the cream-cheese and peanut butter provided protein repair while the pinch of salt replaced what was lost from the shedding of tears. After about three of these delicious sweet, salty, creamy confections, I was feeling more philosophical.

The next morning, Grace inadvertently let slip some gossip as we got ready to go to the park. It was gloriously sunny and she was talking about when she’d been to the ice-rink with her dad a few weeks before.

“Will you come next time Mum?” she asked. I knew what she was up to – she’d been watching
The Parent Trap
again and imagining she could get Tom and I back together with a Lindsay Lohan-style cunning plan, without the identical twin.

“Oh sweetie, I can’t skate,” I said.

“Rachel can.” she stopped, suddenly, and looked at me.

“It’s OK, sweetie,” I said, stroking her hair, “it’s nice that Rachel came with you and Dad.”

I felt a hot rush of anger rising through my face,
so, bloody Rachel was there too was she
?

Then, as kids do – Grace chatted about new skates and dropped another bombshell that she’d been sitting on for weeks halfway through the story. “I’m glad she’s gone.” This was said in passing, like it was of no consequence.

“Who’s gone? Rachel? You mean she’s not living with Daddy now?” I said, trying hard not to pounce and fire questions.

“No. Dad said they aren’t friends anymore and she’s gone to live somewhere else,” she said, looking up at me for a reaction.

“Oh dear, that’s a shame,” I said, aiming for responsible-role-model-mummy and resisting a deep urge to jump up and down shouting ‘Yess! Ding dong, the bitch is dead!’

I was still feeling smug later that day when I met Al and Seb at the tailors, to help pick out their suits for the wedding which was approaching fast. Having decided to get married, neither of them could see the point in delaying it and Al was already getting very excited. As he crooned over various shades of blue and pouted in front of the mirror, I told him of Grace’s revelation: “I know it’s not mature or sophisticated, but I’m delighted to know that Tom and the tart have split. I’m over him, I think...but I still can’t stand the thought of him with
her
,” I said.

“It’s cause for celebration,” announced Al and he snatched up the glass of fizz he’d been given when we arrived. “Let’s chink to her demise.” Al, Sebastian and I chinked glasses. (Mine was actually a plastic cup of water, but the thought was there.)

“Stella, there’s something Seb and I wanted to talk to you about,” said Al, smiling.

“OK.”

“We wondered...well, we wondered if you’d be our ‘best woman’. You and Lizzie have been amazing to us and we’d love to have you both and – well it would mean a lot to us,” he finished

“Oh Al, I don’t know what to say. I’d be honoured!” I managed, before my eyes filled up and I had to find a tissue.

“That colour is wonderful, Al,” said Sebastian, sensing my collapse and changing the subject.

“Yes it is.” Said Al, holding the sample up against himself. “Almost as wonderful as the thought of Bitch Rachel alone in a bedsit,” he laughed.

I baked a spectacular St Clement’s cake with dried oranges and lemons the following Monday whilst Grace slept peacefully in bed. It was a treat to myself, before I got stuck into the final stages of our
Strictly
order, the biggest and most important order we’d had so far. If we provided exactly what they wanted on time then we could be looking at a secure baking future for The Cake Fairy. The timing was going to be very tight but with all hands on deck I was sure we could finish everything in time for the event on the following Saturday. Al arrived early and we unloaded several huge bags of flour from the boot, dragging them up the drive and into the kitchen. “All good exercise,” Al shouted as we sweated and staggered to and from the car. “They drop...10 pounds a week...on
The Biggest Loser
...doing weights like this...doll,” he panted, trying to convince himself as much as me.

“Yes...but they haven’t...just eaten...a whole St Clement’s cake...have they?” I panted back with straining limbs and dripping sweat.

We were creaming tons of flour into tons of sugar when Sebastian arrived to help. “You two should be finalising your wedding preparations now. Don’t you have tailor’s appointments?” I said, sifting flour from a great height into the creamy batter.

“This is too important not to be here,” Al said. “Even my love has to get into the queue behind
Strictly
.”

The three of us spent all morning working to schedule, making basic mixes for the huge centrepiece ballroom cake and all the smaller fairy cakes. The top of the big cake would be covered in extra shiny, super smooth brown chocolate so it looked just like the polished dance floor and Al was creating (with fondant and bare hands) each dancer and their celebrity partner, in mid-step.

Our dance-themed fairy cakes were all planned. There was the ‘Cha Cha’, which was chocolate sponge infused with a hint of chilli and adorned in shiny, chocolate buttercream ruffles and red spangles, and the ‘Foxtrot’, a delicate vanilla sponge clad in pearls and blue, silk-like icing to represent the swish of the gown. Finally the ‘American Smooth’, my red-velvet cake with cream-cheese frosting was dressed in glitter and infused with a kick of lime zest, a symbol of the exciting moves this dance brought to basic ballroom steps. It was going to take us several days, but we were on target and everything was going well.

“Why don’t you two take the afternoon off,” I suggested when we stopped for lunch. “I can start the salsa without you and I shall foxtrot alone. Go and have a nice lunch and spend the afternoon, sorting things out for the wedding. Go on,” I made a shooing gesture.

After a little bit of: ‘we couldn’t’ then ‘are you sure?’ they agreed and set off. I grabbed some lunch and was just about to embark on icing the first of the 500 dancing cakes when the phone rang.

“Stella. We have a problem.” This was followed by silence. It was Sangita.

 “What?” I started to sweat.

 “An incriminating email, Stella.”

“Sangita, what is it? What does it say?”

“Very damaging Stella, libellous in fact, if not true.” By now I was almost hyperventilating. “I’ll read it shall I?” she said.

“Yesss! Please.”
Why does everyone I know play out the suspense instead of getting straight to the point? I’m surrounded by bloody drama-queens.

“Dear Madam,” she started, “it has come to my attention that you are involved in a new business venture involving the procurement of cakes for corporate events, establishments and individuals. I feel it’s my duty to inform you that this ‘business’ is being operated from a domestic kitchen and as such, contravenes Food Safety Regulations. I have informed the Environmental Health and Food Standards Agency of this clear breach of hygiene and food preparation laws.”

“What the…?”

“It’s an anonymous email, but whoever they are it looks like they are in possession of relevant information. Is this true?”

I was stunned. Who would do this and
why
?

“Stella, I’m not going to ask you whether this is true or not. I’m sure you have all the paperwork and won’t let me down. It would be such a shame if you did. Just remember we are potentially about to sign a huge contract with one of my regular clients, an events company that only work with the best – and this could ruin everything. You need to sort it asap, or I will have to go somewhere else. I will need all the regulation paperwork from Food Standards by 5pm today Stella – OK?”

The phone was banged down before I could respond and in my shocked state I wasn’t sure what to say anyway. All the long days and nights of hard work and building a reputation, not to mention a solid customer-base and money to live on; it suddenly all felt so fragile. The majority of our orders, and certainly all the big ones, came through Sangita. That one email had the potential to destroy us. It was 12pm and I needed everything in place by 5pm – I wasn’t sure if that was even possible, and I only had five hours.

I really didn’t want to call Al, he’d be about to down a large carbonara while gazing at Seb across lunchtime candlelight. Besides, he’d turn it into a Broadway production with dry-ice and dancing girls and I didn’t have the time for all that. I called Dave instead, hoping he would know what to say.

“Dave, you won’t believe what’s happened,” I started.

“Hi Stel. What’s going on?” I explained about the email.

“I’d planned to hire larger commercial premises as soon as we had more orders and could afford it – but now it looks like we may have lost everything, Dave,” I was now in tears, “I...don’t...don’t know what to do.”

“Mmm...that sounds awful. I don’t know what to say. Erm, I’m a bit tied up actually. Is there a website?”

“A website?” I sobbed. “For what?”

“I er...Sorry, I mean something that will tell you what to do.”

 “No Dave, there isn’t a ‘www your business is about to go bust because of some vindictive bastard dot com’. I thought it might be nice to talk to a real person, who might just care.”

“Look Stel, I do care. It’s just that I’m really busy at the moment, I’ve got something important to deal with.”

“Don’t worry Dave, my livelihood, my
life
isn’t as important as your work, this can wait,” I spat angrily.

“Oh good, I thought so,” he answered, completely missing the sarcasm. I slammed the phone down and called Lizzie, who would have literally just landed from her last stint in Australia. I didn’t even ask her about the crocodile attack, or Tom, I just spilled out the conversation with Sangita.

“Oh Stella, that’s scary,” she said, sounding genuinely shaken.

“I’m so upset I don’t know where to start.”

“But who? Why? Oh well, no use wasting time thinking about it. You need to get onto an estate agent that rents out commercial properties and view them immediately. You can’t sit on this honey, get on the phone today. Surely in these hard times, there will be somewhere available.” Unlike Dave, she had bothered to spend several seconds offering advice so I took it. I logged on to my laptop, which was sitting on the floury table surface next to the mocha cake which was inviting me to take a slice. Hastily scanning the colourful websites of estate agents, I made a note of properties that looked vaguely promising, all the time thinking about the anonymous email.

I had to let Al know, so I called him as I looked but he had taken me at my word and switched his mobile off. Just after I’d left him a message, I saw a ‘reasonably-priced office rental with kitchen’ and jotted down the number. Then I had a quick look on the council website to see if I there was any chance of getting my own kitchen accredited. It seemed that it might be possible, but that ‘preparing food in domestic premises’ had lots of hygiene implications and there were multiple forms and possibly inspections. I could take a Food Hygiene test online which I would do later but in the meantime, my best option was to find somewhere already accredited – and fast.

I made a call to a Mr Smooth, of Smooth Operators Estate Agents, who offered ‘light and airy prestigious office space in a newly-refurbished listed building of excellent structure and quality’.

“Is there a big kitchen? It’s kitchen space I need.” I stressed, drooping at the thought of paying for unnecessary office space.

I was in a complete panic, so when Mr Smooth (real name Nigel) said, “The property would be perfect for your requirements; you need to view as soon as possible though because we have several interested parties. I’m available in half an hour,” I leapt in the car and head down the M5 towards Worcester, where salvation in a suit would hopefully be waiting.

Arriving in the city centre I parked the car and ran through the high street, arriving at Worcester Guildhall, our arranged meeting place. Walking through the iron gates I noticed the stone Queen Anne adorning the entrance. She was staring at me, obviously not convinced this was the best use of my limited time. And as Mr Smooth slid towards me in full three-piece suit, with slicked grey hair and a dickie bow – I reckoned she had a point.

“Mrs Weston, I presume,” he slimed, predictably, reaching out a limp, oily palm for me to shake.

“I’m tight for time,” I said, shaking the wet fish, trying to be polite and at the same time making moving gestures in the desperate hope he would move his arse as quickly as possible. “I need to see the property immediately because this is a business emergency. I also have to pick my daughter up from school at 3.30.”

We ‘strolled’ through the streets towards the Cathedral area, Mr Smooth pointing out various points of interest like I was a bloody American looking for Shakespeare, or Jesus. “It’s a little-known fact that Worcester Cathedral has a history of organs dating back to 1417,” he prattled pointlessly. I smiled and broke into a power-walk, in the hope he’d get the message, but still he made like a wannabe tour guide.

“In 672, Worcester became the centre of five new dioceses,” he marvelled. He went on to cover The Benedictine Rule and the Danes in some detail but enough was enough and just as he embarked on a new diatribe involving the Norman Conquest of Worcester, I shot him a look of pure hate, which silenced him.

By the time we reached the property in the shadow of Worcester Cathedral and only metres from the Swan packed river Severn, I was feeling nauseous.

“Here we are,” he announced, trying to get the key in the lock. I stood behind impatiently, almost shoving him through the door as all sense of dignity washed away in the panic of losing my business and leaving Grace alone outside school, prey to God-knows-what.

“Oh dear...did I leave the correct key in my office-drawer,” he pondered. I was about to force open the door with his head when he suddenly discovered the key ‘hilariously’ hiding in the folds of his suit.

As the door opened on the ‘light and airy prestigious space in a newly-refurbished listed building of excellent structure and quality’ I was elated. The kitchen was a perfect square, about 30 feet by 30 feet with the most amazing huge, flat worktops that would be wonderful for icing. Three enormous ovens sat proudly against the wall under shelves and storage space to die for.

“How much?” I said, almost panting with desire.

“Well it will work out at approximately eight hundred pounds a month,” smiled Mr Smooth, who I now wanted to kiss with gratitude and delight.

“OK. That’s fine,” I said, feeling a little faint, but believing that we could get the orders to cover this. “I’ll need to start moving my stuff in straight away,” I started. “There’s so much equipment I’ll need to hire a van, but I’ll pay you up front so...”

 “Oh dear, didn’t they explain when you called?” He said, kindly. “The property is still in use I’m afraid, it belongs to a bakery and they can’t give it up until September, at the earliest.”

“This is ridiculous!” I almost shouted. “I asked to view available property and I can’t wait that long. Don’t you understand?
I have less than two hours
.”

Desperate not to lose money in these tough times, Mr Smooth paled and made a couple of frantic calls on his mobile – to no avail. We immediately said rushed goodbyes; there was nothing here for either of us – and I ran back towards the car in a panic. As I raced past Nando’s I was reminded of Dave and how he chose an early night instead of me. This made me fill up and by the time I got to the car I was crying with disappointment, stress and the fear of losing everything. I collected Grace (alone at the school gate) and arrived home to more messages from Sangita on the answer phone (I’d turned my mobile off).

“Stella. It’s almost 4pm and I haven’t heard from you. I’m thinking you’re not able to provide me with the necessary paperwork. I’m thinking, sadly that the order for the party will need to be pulled if you can’t provide the requirements asap.”

I sat amongst the naked fairy cakes and cried. “What am I going to do?” I said to Grace, who looked on, horrified.

“Shall we speak to Uncle Al?” she offered, handing me a glass of water, “he’ll know what to do.”

“I’ve left a million voicemail messages – he’s not getting back,” I said. “I think we have to face it, Grace – we have lost the
Dancing
contract, we aren’t going to the ball...and The Cake Fairy has just died.”

 “Mum, you mustn’t give up. That’s what you always say to me,” pleaded Grace.