Meet Me at the Cupcake Café (51 page)

‘OK, OK. Write the figure down on a piece of paper.’

Graeme paused, and decided to do exactly that. Mr Barstow glanced at it contemptuously and shook his head. ‘Nah. Anyway, got someone in number four. Running a little caff. Making not a bad fist of it either. She’s bringing up the prices around the place.’

Graeme inwardly rolled his eyes. This was all he needed; Issy was actually making his job harder for him.

‘She’s coming to the end of her six-month contract though. We’ll make it worth your while.’

Graeme felt a momentary twinge. He shouldn’t know when Issy’s contract was up, but he did of course. Mr Barstow raised his eyebrows. ‘So you’ve talked to her about it then? Well, I suppose, if she’s amenable …’

Graeme didn’t change his expression, either to imply he’d spoken to her or not. It was none of Mr Barstow’s business.

‘Don’t know how I’ll get that ironmonger out though. He’s been there longer than I have,’ reflected the landlord. He rubbed one of his chins. ‘Don’t know how he turns a dime.’

Graeme didn’t care either way. ‘I’m sure we can make him an offer he can’t refuse.’

Mr Barstow looked doubtful again.

‘I think you’d better keep writing on that envelope, mate.’

Chapter Sixteen

Some scones. Scones, Issy. Scones.

260 oz all-purpose flour

4 oz flour.

sprinkle of flour

50 oz white sugar

6 oz brown sugar

6 oz salt

Issy put the letter down and sighed. It was heartbreaking. Awful. She was heading up there with some baking of her own; maybe the sight of some fresh cakes would help. Issy knew it was going to be a pain to carry them all up there on the bus but she didn’t care. There were forty-seven residents (although the numbers changed quite often, she knew) and thirty staff at the home, and she was taking them each a cupcake and that was that. She had thought of asking Graeme if he wanted to drive her up and meet her grandad, but when she’d gone into the sitting room he’d immediately closed down the window on the computer he’d been working on and been so short with her that she’d retreated instantly – once more, she thought crossly, a visitor in what was now supposed to be her own home. If Graeme wasn’t so grumpy all the time she’d have considered suggesting that they start to look for somewhere new. On the other hand, it wasn’t like she was bringing in such a fortune that they could massively upgrade together. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to sell the old place, even though she suspected that when she was, Helena would buy it in a heartbeat.

When she viewed these problems it was almost like she was thinking about someone else’s life, so disconnected did it seem – sell her flat, buy somewhere new. On the other hand, she had moved. Issy thought back to last Sunday, when she’d finally met Graeme’s mum. His parents had split up when he was small – he was an only child – and she’d been really curious to meet his mother, especially after the phone call she’d had from her own.

‘Issy!’ Marian had hollered, as if she was talking to her from Florida without a telephone. ‘Isabel! Listen! I’m not sure how your grandad is. Could you pop in and see?’

Issy had swallowed back everything she might have said: actually she spent every Sunday there already, and had been warning her mother for weeks via email that he wasn’t himself at all.

‘I’ve seen him, Mum,’ she settled on.

‘Oh,
good
. Good. That’s good.’

‘I think … I think he’d really like to see you. Are you coming back? Any time soon?’ Issy tried not to sound sarcastic, but it was completely wasted on her mother anyway.

‘Oh, I don’t know, darling, Brick is so busy at work …’ Her mother’s voice tailed off. ‘And how are
you
, sweetheart?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Issy. ‘I’ve moved in with Graeme.’

Marian had never met Graeme. Issy thought she would keep it like that for as long as possible.

‘Oh, wonderful, darling! OK, be careful! Bye!’

So it was little wonder Issy was looking forward to meeting her possible future mother-in-law. In her mind’s eye she was a nice, slightly rounded, eager-to-please lady with Graeme’s handsome dark hair and twinkling eyes, and they could share recipes and bond. Maybe she’d have liked a daughter in her life. At any rate, it was with some excitement that she’d dressed up in a pretty summery frock, and taken along her lightest Victoria sponge as a gift.

Mrs Denton lived in an immaculate modern townhouse on a group of streets that looked exactly alike in Canary Wharf. The house was tiny with low ceilings, but had all mod cons – Graeme had found it for her off-plan.

‘Hello,’ said Issy warmly, looking past her at the pristine hallway. There were no pictures on the walls, apart from an enormous one of Graeme as a schoolboy, and no clutter of any kind anywhere. ‘Ooh, I can see where your son gets his tidiness from!’

Graeme’s mother smiled, seemingly lost in thought for a moment.

‘I brought you some cake,’ Issy went on cheerfully. ‘Did Graeme tell you I was a baker?’

Carole felt rooted to the spot. She had been so excited – this was the first girl Graeme had brought home in four or five years. She was so proud of him for being out there and doing so well – he was something big in property, as she liked to tell all her friends. Without actually saying as much, she implied that he’d bought her the house. The last couple of girls – well, they’d been terribly, terribly pretty, especially that one with the blonde hair all down her back. Of course they’d been gorgeous, look at her son. But she’d known it wouldn’t be serious. Graeme had his big career to establish first, of course, and he didn’t have time for all that settling down.

But recently she’d started to lose bragging rights to her friends when they discussed their children’s weddings – the size of the marquee, the number of guests, the arrays of presents – and worse, she’d had to go to these weddings, smile happily and compliment her friends’ good taste, even if the cold salmon tasted of nothing and they had those loud discos with DJs. Finally, the worst thing of all had happened: she’d been upstaged by Lilian Johnson, of all people, pathetic little mouse Lilian Johnson, whose daughter Shelley who’d gone off to university all lah-de-dah then come back and ended up a social worker, and everyone knew how rubbish they were. Well, Shelley had got married. The chicken had been disappointing at the reception but she supposed it was all right if you liked that kind of thing, and Lilian had looked quite fetching in mauve. And now Shelley was pregnant. Lilian was going to be a grandmother. Carole couldn’t bear it. So she’d been quite impatient for a while now for Graeme to get moving.

She’d thought maybe one of those delicate, pretty girls – a Gwyneth Paltrow type – very clever and so on, but utterly ready to give up her career and look after her boy, and desperate for some good advice on Graeme’s likes and dislikes, how to cook his favourite things, and some guidelines on taste – from her. She pictured them going to John Lewis together, and the girl saying, ‘Oh, Carole, you do know him inside out,’ and then perhaps they could pick out nursery things together and the girl would say, ‘Now, Carole, I don’t know anything about having a baby, you’re just going to have to fill me in on everything.’ And Graeme would say, ‘Well, I couldn’t find another you, Mum, I just had to make do with the next best thing.’ Not that that was the kind of thing Graeme was prone to saying, but she liked to imagine him thinking it.

So yes, that was what she was expecting, after Graeme had called and said, rather briskly, that he was bringing ‘Issy’ to tea. Isabel – that sounded like rather a smart name too, nothing common. Not that her Graeme would ever have gone for anyone common of course. He had good taste, like her.

So when she opened the door to see this diminutive, rounded, rosy-cheeked brunette – who had to be at least, what, thirty-four? Thirty-five? Could she even still
have
children? What on earth was Graeme thinking? It couldn’t be this girl. Graeme was so handsome, everyone said so. Since he was a little boy. Her ex might have been a total bastard, but he was a good-looking bastard, that was the truth, and it had all come out in the boy. And so smart, with his smart car and his smart suits and his smart flat. There was absolutely no way … Maybe she wasn’t his girlfriend. Maybe she was … Carole clutched at straws. Maybe someone who needed a visa to stay in the country. Maybe she was a friend of a friend passing through London and Graeme was kindly letting her stay at his flat. But then … why would he bring her? He wouldn’t.

‘Cake!’ said Issy again. ‘Um, I don’t know if you like cake.’

Issy felt the familiar blush spreading across her cheeks and grew hot and cross with herself. She felt dully, stupidly, like she wasn’t what Carole had been expecting. She glanced hurriedly at Graeme, who normally ignored his silly mother, but even he could see that her behaviour could be construed as quite rude. He gave Issy’s hand a quick squeeze.

‘Issy’s my girlfriend,’ he said, and Issy was grateful to him. ‘Uh, Mum, can we come in?’

‘Of course,’ said Carole weakly, standing back and letting them cross the threshold on to the cream shagpile carpet. Without thinking Issy walked straight in, then froze as she realized that, behind her, Graeme had bent down and taken off his shoes. Of course he had.

‘
Ah
,’ said Issy, taking off her sandals and realizing as she did so that she could do with a pedicure – but really, when did she have the time? She noticed Carole checking out her feet too.

‘Shall I put this cake in your kitchen?’ said Issy brightly. Carole gestured ahead. The kitchen was utterly spotless. Laid out on the side were three neat bowls with prewashed salad, a small pile of neatly trimmed white-bread ham sandwiches and a jug of lemonade.

Issy put the cake down with a sigh. This could turn into a long afternoon.

‘So do you work?’ asked Issy politely when they sat at the obviously rarely used round table to eat lunch. It was a glorious day, and Issy had looked longingly at the immaculately tended garden but Carole had announced loudly that she was terrified of wasps and flying insects and never ever sat outside. Issy had complimented her on her skin, which Carole had totally ignored, and now they were all sitting indoors with the windows shut and the television on so that Graeme could watch the sport.

Carole looked surprised at the question, but Issy had rarely asked Graeme about his mother; early in their relationship they were far too casual for it to be appropriate, and more recently she had sensed he rather avoided the topic. Carole couldn’t believe he hadn’t mentioned her to this girl … Well, woman, girl was pushing it a bit. Maybe the relationship wasn’t that serious after all.

‘Well, presumably Graeme’s told you about my charity work?’ Carole said stiffly. ‘And of course, the Rose Growers Association keeps me busy. Although I mostly do the admin for that. Insects, you see. They never seem very grateful.’