Mistletoe Mansion (30 page)

My eye caught sight of the tracing paper face on the floor by the window. Adam would never scare me witless or bruise my back or kid me that I was communicating with the dead. A sudden shiver ran from my head to my toes and, eyes blurred with tears, I stumbled out of the room– telling myself I was mad to think I’d just that minute felt cold and heard the comforting notes of White Christmas…

Chapter 23

Sorry to let you down at the last minute, Saffron, but KimCakes Ltd is no longer in business. I’ve given up my stupid dreams. Adam was right…

I’d even dialled Saffron’s number, this speech ready, me prepared to throw all the girly cupcakes into the bin. But when it came to it I just couldn’t let her down. With a heavy heart I decided to get through the hen night, this evening – my last as a professional caterer. Luke’s ghostly trick had confirmed what I should have known all along: Stupid Kimmy Jones was not meant for the Big Time. A factory job in Luton… That was the sensible option.

You couldn’t miss Saffron’s house with the pink shimmer curtain hanging over the front door. Plus the “Girls Only” road sign on the tree in the middle of the lawn. And surely that wasn’t a naked blow-up hunk in the front window? A group of teenagers scooted past, on bikes. They stopped for a few moments and jeered at the blow-up doll. I parked on the other side of the street and waited for the clock to turn to seven.

My old Fiesta wasn’t too out of place in the street full of modest semi-detached houses. Steve and Saffron’s place was smartly maintained and the front garden even had a little fountain. It would have been paradise for Adam and me, although it was the poor relative to Melissa’s house. On the drive was a small red car with pink dice hanging in the windscreen – just like mine. Next to it stood a grey metallic saloon – pretty impressive, but nothing like Jonny’s Bugatti. The clock ticked to seven and I clambered out into the chilly air and opened the boot. I took a deep breath.

So what if Luke had only pretended to believe in my business idea, I told myself bravely. My eyes welled for a second. How could I ever face that man again? He must have had a right laugh over the last week. My little brother, Tom, always said I was gullible, especially when I’d jumped at his fake spiders or hurtled into the kitchen every time he burnt toast on purpose, to set off the smoke alarm. Well, no more. Cynic was my new middle name.

Two large plastic laundry bags filled with Tupperware boxes and the silver cakestands filled the boot. After Luke had revealed all and left this morning, I’d paced around wringing my hands and knew there was only one thing that would calm me down. So I’d jumped in the car and gone to the supermarket. I needed to bake. A new recipe from one of Terry’s coffee table magazines had caught my imagination – and would provide an extra batch for the hen party. It was perfect for health-conscious Saffron: low-fat Green Tea cupcakes.

Carefully, I’d added the cooked green tea liquid to the rest of the ingredients, after steeping the tea bags in boiling water. Then I’d piped on the green frosting. Those cakes were elegant, and counteracted the boobs and willies and whips. Then I’d ironed my apron – the one that silly me had previously believed Walter had left out.

Time for my happy face. I slammed shut the boot and dragged my bags across the street, up to the pink shimmer curtain. Three times I knocked loudly, glad of my gold parka as cold, white breath escaped my lips. Giggles rippled from inside and footsteps approached that could only belong to killer heels. I must have looked as plain as Madeira cake, but hadn’t felt in the mood for even a smudge of foundation or rouge.

‘Hello, Kimmy. This way,’ said Saffron. Her backcombed hair would have made Jackie Collins proud. She wore high white stilettos, a matching tight dress and her skin was impossibly bronzed. Whatever she’d used had left streaks up her ankle. I stumbled through the shimmer curtain and carried the heavy bags into the kitchen. A curvy woman sat at the small kitchen table, in front of a hand mirror, applying glitzy eyeshadow.

‘This is my big sis, Amy,’ said Saffron.

I smiled at the woman’s dark mousy hair and pale skin. No doubt she represented a natural version of Saffron, without the peroxide and bottled tan. But then to be fair, I’d almost forgotten what my natural colour was.

‘Nice to meet you, Kimmy,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard all about your cupcakes. They sound fab.’

‘Really?’ I gave a half-smile. ‘Thanks. Um… Congratulations on your engagement.’

‘Better move out the way, Amy, babes,’ said Saffron. ‘Kimmy needs to set up. This party’s going to be mental.’ As her sister disappeared into the next room, mirror and a bottle of Lambrini in hand, Saffron took a sip of her drink and ate a single cheese puff. ‘Plates are in here.’ She pointed to a cupboard. ‘I’ve set the buffet out in the lounge but thought we’d leave the alcohol and cakes in the kitchen.’ She glanced at me. ‘Of course, I haven’t got as much room as Melissa.’

‘Nice house, though.’

Her face smoothed out, as if she’d had Botox at Melissa’s after all.

‘How many guests are coming?’ I said.

‘Fifteen, at the last count.’

I took out the boxes and set out the stands. Nervously I lifted a lid. I’d show her the innocent girly ones first.

‘They’re so pretty,’ she cooed. ‘I’m loving that glitter buttercream icing and the way you’ve spelt Amy’s name out. Nothing could look classier than that. Are they full fat?’

A smile spread across my face. ‘Yes. Every woman deserves a treat once in a while.’ For me, translate that as at least once a day. In fact I might just wolf down a cake when she left me alone. My smile broadened at Saffron’s sparkling eyes, as she oohed and aahed over my detailed decorations and use of colouring.

‘Me and Amy are rubbish at baking,’ said Saffron. ‘The last cake I done looked more like some sponge frisbee. You’re really clever.’

I felt all warm inside. You know what? Maybe she was right. I had talent. At least, I don’t think a Simon Cowell of the culinary world would say ‘My trousers rise higher than your sponge.’

‘These ones are low-calorie,’ I said and took the lid off another box. ‘Green Tea cupcakes – they’re the very height of fashion. Elegant, healthy – your friends should be well impressed.’

Saffron shook back her big hair. ‘Fab – I saw those in a magazine at the hairdresser’s. And what’s in the other boxes?’

‘Um…. This is a hen party, right? You ladies intend to have fun?’ Slowly I prised off the lid. Saffron gasped.

‘Are they for real…? I mean…’

‘Every last inch is edible.’ I held my breath.

‘Amy, babes! Come here!’ she squealed.

Her sister came in, only one eye made-up, and stopped dead as Saffron lifted up one of the willy cupcakes. The two sisters burst out laughing and within seconds tears streamed down Amy’s cheeks. Saffron was disciplined enough not to ruin her mascara, whereas her sister would have to apply her whole face once again.

‘I’m loving these,’ said Saffron, and held up a cake decorated with a mini handcuffs. ‘Isn’t Kimmy amazing?’

A lump welled in my throat. You know what? Thanks to Saffron for making good the temporary knock to my confidence. Blow Adam – and Luke – I was born to cook cupcakes and nothing would stand in my way. They were the stupid ones for not believing in me.

My chest tightened as I knew this declaration could only mean one thing: my Ex should remain my Ex… He was never going to approve of, or respect, my baking ambitions. I swallowed at the memory of feeling safe, wrapped up in his arms. Is that how people felt when their mum hugged them? I didn’t know. In my childhood house I’d been the one giving support and comfort – the parent/child relationship, more often than not, had been turned around.

Question was, could I resist running back into Adam’s secure, protective arms? My cheeks flushed as Luke’s strong embrace infiltrated these thoughts. I shook myself. Better concentrate on the job at hand.

When the two sisters eventually stopped giggling, Saffron went upstairs. Someone put on music in the lounge and humming, I set out the plates. I called up to Saffron to ask where to find the dessert forks, but the chick flick medley was playing too loud. So, I went up and knocked on a door which was shut – presumably with her inside.

There was no reply, so I went in to face a double bed and a pair of men’s jeans draped over a chair. Saffron was on the phone and immediately ended the call. She picked something off her dressing table and shoved it in the desk’s drawer.

‘Just asking Steve for some last minute advice about my speech – it’s a big night for Amy.’ She stood up and inspected her dress for fluff. ‘And public speaking is very important. Who knows when I’ll need it and wished I’d practiced.’

‘Um… yes… right… Sorry for barging in, but I couldn’t find all the dessert forks.’

The doorbell rang.

‘Could you get that, ta?’ she said. ‘It’ll be the first guests. I’ll be down in a minute.’

And so went the evening – Saffron enjoying every moment of bossing me about, as if I were a butler, waitress and doorman rolled into one. I just kept repeating to myself “The Customer is King.” Or Queen. Or perhaps spoilt princess.

‘You okay?’ I asked as I nipped into the kitchen to see if there were anymore sausage rolls. Saffron was searching through the drawers and lifted a pile of celebrity gossip magazines from the worktop. I hoped she didn’t notice my buttercream icing fingerprints on them – I hadn’t been able to resist a quick peek.

‘No!’ she squeaked. ‘I’ve lost my speech. That was going to be the best part of the evening for everyone.’

Really? From what I’d seen, her girlfriends were more interested in competing to eat their cupcake in the most suggestive way. They weren’t slaves to calorie counting like Saffron, who’d eaten little more than one mini hotdog (I was sure I’d spotted some BargainMarket boxes in the bin) and a cherry tomato.

‘Where did you last have it?’ I asked.

‘If I knew that, there wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Jane! Your turn next!’ screamed a voice.

‘Coming, babes,’ called Saffron – or was that
Jane
? She blushed and cleared her throat.

‘Saffron’s not your real name?’ I said.

‘So?’ Her bottom lip jutted out. ‘Everyone likes it. I was always destined for classy things and needed a name to match. Know what I mean?’

‘Didn’t your parents mind?’

‘Mum’s always said I was different; special. She paid for me to change it by deed poll – said it was the least she could do, seeing as she could never afford for me to go to stage school. Anyway, hardly any celebs use the name they were born with.’

‘True. Ashton Kutcher’s real name is Christopher.’

‘Lady GaGa’s is Stefani,’ said Jane – I meant, Saffron.

‘I’ll look for your speech,’ I said. ‘You go and see to your guests. It can’t be far. It’s probably somewhere silly like on top of the toilet cistern.’

Saffron frowned. ‘Okay. Ta.’

‘And then I’ll pack up and head off,’ I said.

Saffron nodded and went to a drawer. She pulled out a cheque. ‘Thanking you for your services, Kimmy,’ she said, as if she’d been practicing her mistress-of-the-manor voice.

I tried to contain my excitement, as if earning money like this was an everyday occurrence. A quick glance at the signature revealed Steve’s name. I tucked the cheque into my apron pocket as she tippy-toed out of the kitchen in her catwalk heels. They had two mini bows on the back and I recognised them instantly from my favourite online shoe shop – designer copies, of course.

First I checked in the fridge because at a certain time of the month, I did things like put my shoes in the tumble dryer or store ketchup under the sink. Then I stuck my head in the cupboard under the stairs. A vacuum cleaner and ironing board stood side by side like a pair of models, waiting for a photo to be taken. After a hunt around the dining room, I headed upstairs and checked the bathroom – nothing unusual there. Then it struck me. Of course! When I’d barged in on Saffron earlier, she’d been chatting to Steve on the phone and quickly shoved something in her drawer when I startled her. That had to be it! I snuck into her bedroom.

Wow. Top-notch beauty products crowded her dressing table. How could she afford Clarins? I sat down and slid open the drawer. Oh. There was no speech there. Just a hairbrush, a small photoframe and… I lifted out a pretty charm necklace – not one of those Pandora ones, but an old-fashioned silver chain. Hanging from it was a small heart and a mini Eiffel Tower. Something stirred inside my chest. Where had I seen that before? I gasped. In a flash, it came to me – the picture of Jonny in the paper with that blonde woman… She’d worn a bracelet just like this.

I studied the heart. Turned it over. OMG, it was engraved with the head of an
eagle
. A wave of nausea washed over me – that was Jonny’s golfing nickname.

Chapter 24

‘What you doing in here?’ screeched a voice.

Shit. I dropped the bracelet back into the drawer. It fell on a pile of cut out magazine photos of reality stars.

‘Saffron…’ I stuttered. ‘When I came in earlier, you shoved something in this drawer after your phone call. I thought it might be the missing speech.’

She stumbled towards me and glanced down at the bracelet and photos.

‘I should grass you to the feds,’ she squeaked. ‘Is this your game? Robbing people whilst they eat your cupcakes?’ Her lips pursed. ‘You’d better leave.’

I lifted out the bracelet and pointed to the eagle.

A muscle twitched in her cheek. ‘Did that stuck-up bitch Melissa send you?’

‘Melissa hasn’t got a clue.’

Saffron’s tan suddenly looked paler. ‘Don’t tell her,’ she stuttered. ‘Jonny’ll go mad.’

I stared at her. ‘You weren’t on the phone to
Steve
, were you?’

‘That stupid newspaper… Everything was brill ‘til they printed that photo.’ She took the bracelet from me and fingered the heart charm. ‘He gave me that on my birthday, last month. And the Eiffel Tower… He loves me, you know…’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I scoffed, ‘he took you to Paris.’

A triumphant smile flickered across her face.