Meet Me at the Cupcake Café (14 page)

In the event, this was clearly not going to be necessary. By the time she headed out to meet Mr Barstow, the landlord of Pear Tree Court, Helena had given her a quick pep talk. She would convince him with her level of organization and research. Or fell him with her secret-weapon Grampa cakes. They should have met near the property, but of course, Issy thought smugly, there were no coffee shops to sit down in, so they met in Des’s office. Des had had a shocking night with Jamie. His wife was refusing to get up any more, so he’d sat with the wee blighter as he howled his guts up, his face a furious red and his little chunky legs contracted up to his chest. Des stroked his hot brow, gave him Calpol and eventually, holding him close, soothed the little lad off to a wriggling, uncomfortable sleep. But he’d had two hours, max. He felt like death in a cup.

The blonde woman was there, looking incredibly sleek and expensive in two-hundred-quid jeans, spiky heels and a ludicrously soft-looking leather jacket. Issy narrowed her eyes. This woman didn’t need to earn a living, surely. She probably spent more than Issy’s old salary on highlights alone.

‘Caroline Hanford,’ she said without smiling, extending a hand. ‘I don’t know why we’re having this meeting, I put my offer in first.’

‘And we’ve had a counter-offer,’ said Des, pouring repulsive sticky black coffee from a push-button machine into three cups, the first of which he gulped down like medicine. ‘And Mr Barstow wanted us all to meet to discuss the offers in more detail.’

‘Didn’t you used to have cafetières in here?’ said Caroline, briskly. She could do with a proper coffee; she hadn’t been sleeping properly. Those homeopathic sleeping pills she’d bought at enormous expense didn’t seem to be working as well as she’d been assured they would. She’d have to go and see Dr Milton again soon. He was expensive too. She grimaced to think of it.

‘Cutbacks,’ muttered Des.

‘Well, anyway, I’ll match the counter-offer,’ said Caroline, hardly bothering to look at Issy. ‘Whatever it is. I’m starting this business off on the right foot.’

A short, bald man marched into the room and grunted at Des.

‘This is Mr Barstow,’ said Des unnecessarily.

Caroline let forth a very toothy grin, impatient for this to be over. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I call you Max?’

Mr Barstow grunted, which didn’t seem to indicate an answer one way or the other. Issy didn’t think he looked like a Max at all.

‘I’m here to offer you the best deal I can,’ said Caroline. ‘Thanks so much for agreeing to see me.’

Hang on, Issy wanted to say. Don’t you mean to say ‘see
us
’? Issy knew if Helena were there she would make some remark about this being business, and tell her to get tough. Instead she just said, ‘Hello,’ then felt cross with herself for not being more assertive. She clasped her favourite cake tin – decorated with a Union Jack – to her side.

Mr Barstow looked at both of them.

‘I’ve got thirty-five properties in this city,’ he said in a strong London accent. ‘Bloody none of them have given me as much trouble as this one. It’s been one damn lady thing after another.’

Issy was taken aback by his bluntness, but Caroline looked totally unfazed. ‘Thirty-five?’ she cooed. ‘Wow, you are successful.’

‘So I don’t just care about the money,’ said Mr Barstow. ‘I care about bloody not having someone move out without warning leaving the back rent unpaid every bloody five minutes, do you understand?’

Both women nodded. Issy fingered her notes. She’d done research into what made a nice café, and how a good bakery could add value to surrounding houses, and hopefully how many cakes they’d sell every day (admittedly, she’d plucked this figure out of thin air, but pasted into a spreadsheet it looked quite good. This way of working had been reasonably successful in property management so she couldn’t imagine things were much different in baking). But before she could speak, Caroline opened up a tiny silver laptop she’d brought with her that Issy hadn’t even noticed.

Before Caroline had got married – to that shit – she’d been a senior marketing executive at a market research firm. She’d been great at her job. Then when the children had come along, it made much more sense to be the perfect corporate wife. She’d poured her energies into her children’s extracurricular activities, volunteering for the school board and running the house like a military operation. Had it stopped him fannying about with that floozy in his press office? No, it bloody had not, she thought grimly, waiting for Powerpoint to load. She’d kept working out, eating healthily, rushed to get her figure back after Achilles and Hermia were born. Had he even noticed? He’d worked all hours, come home too exhausted to do much more than eat and fall asleep in front of
Newsnight
, and now appeared to be banging some twenty-five-year-old who didn’t have fifteen cat costumes to make for the school play. Not that bitterness was attractive. Caroline bit her lip. She was good at her job. And this was going to be her new job, to get her out of the house a bit.

‘I’ve prepared this presentation,’ she began. ‘Now. Extensive market research undertaken by me has shown that seventy-four per cent of people say they find it hard to get their five a day, with a further sixty per cent saying that if fresh fruit and vegetables were more readily and temptingly available, they’d be fifty-five per cent more likely to up their vegetable intake …’

It was relentless. There were screeds of it. Caroline had gone in, out and round the houses. She had categorized the postcodes, designed the website and sourced organic carrots being grown on an allotment on Hackney Marshes. Nobody was going to beat her on this.

‘We’ll source locally as much as possible, of course,’ she simpered. Mr Barstow watched the entire presentation in silence.

‘Now, have you any questions?’ she said after twenty minutes, her look defiant. She knew she’d done well. She was going to show him. Start a hugely successful business and then he’d be sorry.

Issy’s insides had begun to shrink. A few days’ Googling was definitely not up to scratch here. In fact, she couldn’t give a presentation after that one, so immaculately researched and explained. She would look like a total idiot. Mr Barstow looked Caroline up and down. She really was extremely impressive, thought Issy. She’d give it to her.

‘So what you’re saying …’ he began. He still hadn’t removed the sunglasses he’d been wearing when he came in, even though it was only February. ‘What you’re saying is, you’re going to stand there all day, in an alleyway off the Albion Road, three hundred metres from Stoke Newington High Street, and try and push beetroot juice.’

Caroline was unperturbed.

‘I believe my extensive in-depth customer-based statistical analysis, commissioned from a leading marketing agency …’

‘What about you?’ said Mr Barstow, pointing at Issy.

‘Uh …’ Suddenly all Issy’s hastily gleaned knowledge seemed to fall straight out of her head. She knew nothing about retail, nothing about business, not really. This was sooo stupid. There was a long pause in the room as Issy searched her brain. Her mind had gone completely blank. This was a nightmare. Des raised his eyebrows. Caroline smirked nastily. She didn’t know, though, thought Issy suddenly. They didn’t know about her secret weapon.

‘Um,’ said Issy. ‘I make cakes.’

Mr Barstow grunted.

‘Oh yeah? Got any?’

Issy had been hoping for this. She opened the tin. As well as the lemon getting-what-you-want cake, which few could resist trying, she’d gone for a selection of cupcakes to show her range: white chocolate and fresh cloudberry (the acid of the cloudberry neutralized the overweening sweetness of the white chocolate if you got the balance right, which, after extensive experimentation last winter, Issy had, but it was very much a seasonal cupcake); cinnamon and orange peel, which tasted more Christmassy than Christmas cake; and a sweet, fresh, irresistible spring vanilla, decorated with tiny roses. She’d brought four of each.

She could see Caroline raising her eyebrows at the lemon cake, which looked cracked and messy. As she’d known he would, Mr Barstow stuck a fat hairy hand in the box and took a piece, as well as a vanilla cupcake.

Before anyone else dared move, he took a bite out of each of them. Issy held her breath as he chewed, slowly and deliberately, his eyes closed as if he were a top wine taster at work. Finally he swallowed.

‘All right,’ he said, pointing straight at her. ‘You. Don’t muck it up, love.’

Then he picked up his briefcase, turned round and left the office.

For Caroline, it felt like the final straw. Issy went from disliking her to feeling very sorry, particularly as Caroline would never even know that it was her who’d given Issy the idea in the first place.

‘It’s just, the kids are going to nursery and school now, and that shit’s messing me about and I just … I just don’t know what to do with myself,’ she sobbed. ‘And I’ve got one of those big houses just behind the shop and it would be perfect, and I thought I would show him. All my girlfriends said it would be great.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ said Issy. ‘My friends keep telling me it’s a terrible idea.’

Caroline stared at her as if just realizing something. A thought struck her.

‘Of course my friends lie all the time,’ she said. ‘They didn’t even tell me the Bastard was having an affair, even though they all knew about it.’ Caroline swallowed painfully. ‘Do you know, he takes her to lapdancing classes? With his own colleagues? On company expenses?’ She let out a strangulated giggle. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. Obviously I’m boring.’

This was directed at Des, who’d just let out a huge yawn.

‘No, no, not at all, colicky baby,’ stuttered Des. ‘I’m … I’m really sorry, Mrs Hanford, I don’t know what to say.’

Caroline sighed. ‘Try saying, “I’m a weasel estate agent who double-let the property.’’’

‘Uh, for legal reasons, I can’t …’

‘Would you like a cake?’ said Issy, not sure what else to say.

Caroline snorted. ‘I don’t eat cake! I haven’t eaten cake in fourteen years.’

‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘Don’t worry. Des, I’ll leave a couple for you and take the rest home.’

Caroline looked longingly at the tin.

‘But the children might like them.’

‘When they get home from school,’ said Issy, agreeing. ‘But they have white sugar in them.’

‘He can pay the dental bills,’ snarled Caroline.

‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘How many would they like?’

Caroline licked her lips. ‘They’re … they’re very greedy children.’

Slightly discomfited, Issy passed over the whole tin.

‘Thanks,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ll … I’ll bring the tin back to the shop, shall I?’

‘Yes please,’ said Issy. ‘And … good luck with finding a venue.’

‘“Get a little job,” he said, “to distract yourself.” Can you believe that’s what he said to me? Can you believe it? The Bastard.’

Issy patted her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Get a little bloody job. Bye, Desmond.’

And Caroline banged the door on her way out.

Des and Issy looked at one another.

‘Do you think she’s scoffing them all in her Range Rover right now?’ said Des.

‘I’m worried about her,’ said Issy. ‘I think I need to make sure she’s OK.’