Saint Kate of the Cupcake: The Dangers of Lust and Baking (4 page)

I looked over at their leader, Caroline Pennington-Smyth, a skinny, Sloane Ranger-styled heavily-streaked blonde who had known Jack since they were born. They had grown up going to each other’s country houses for holidays. The other girls with her were just variations of the same, with fluctuating degrees of horsiness. They had grown up in the same areas, gone to the same schools, and families interbred so much they could have been cousins.
Probably were
, I thought bitchily.

I had met Caroline once before at a night out at the Builders’ Arms in Chelsea, but we hadn’t really spoken much, apart from the introduction. Something about her dismissive manner, however, alerted me to the fact that we wouldn’t be buddying up any time soon even then. She caught me looking at her and returned the look disdainfully. Addressing her best friend, Olympia, she spoke with deliberate rudeness.

“I’m all for travel, darling, but there’s something to be said for leaving your Aussie adventures where you found them.” The other girls tittered with laughter, encouraging her.

“Jack’s always had a weakness for fast food. He’s just extending it to fast women now.” Ha, ha. So frigging witty.

It went on, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of reacting.

“Oh, no, she’s looking a bit constipated. Maybe she needs to go to the
toilet
before
dessert
is served.”
Hilarious, she should be a comedienne
, I thought.

I could have handled being ignored and insulted, but their behavior after the men returned was even worse. I declined every invitation after that one.

“Kaaatieeee, why won’t you come to Kent this weekend?” Jack asked pleadingly, his arm across my shoulders as we sat snuggled up watching television on my couch one night. He always smelled so good, and I surreptitiously turned my head to bring my nose closer to his arm. He wore a clean-smelling cologne, and underneath was a slightly musky male smell that was particular to him.

“You were there the last shooting weekend I came to, weren’t you?” I asked sarcastically, my lips brushing the skin of his arm as I spoke. “Absolutely no way.”

“I’m sorry about Caroline. She’s just a bit possessive at times. She has no reason to be, though!” he added hastily, twining his fingers in mine and lifting them to his lips. The simple gesture caused a fluttering in my stomach, and I struggled to keep from being distracted.

“She refused to speak to me the whole weekend, just insulted me constantly so I could hear it, particularly about your propensity for ‘low’ women.” Actually, none of the other women there had spoken to me either, though none of the others had had the overt hostility exhibited by Caroline, either.

“She’s a bit insecure, that’s all. Her grandfather had to buy their estate, so she’s a bit more worried about all that new money/old money palaver. Plus, their family was from the North.” I had only a vague understanding what he meant by that, and the greater part of me just didn’t want to know. The English class system made my head hurt.

“What am I?
No
money?” I asked wryly.

“You’re Australian. That means that you’re outside it all,” he said, waving it off. But that wasn’t my only issue. The girls all spoke to the boys in a really flirty way, which I found particularly disturbing.

“Okay. So, why do Caroline and Olympia act like they are coming on to all the guys?” I named the two worst offenders. “I realize they’ve dated pretty much everyone at some point, but the excessive touching and suggestive comments seems a bit inappropriate.”

“It’s just the way they are. It doesn’t mean anything,” he said dismissively.

“But how would you know if they actually like you, if they do it with everyone?” I asked, genuinely interested.

Jack laughed.

“You don’t. Everyone drinks a lot, and then you hope for the best!” he said flippantly. I had already learned that they all got drunk together and hooked up, and after three years they had all slept with each other at some stage. Cheating was rife, and you could pick the former couples by the lingering awkwardness between them. From what Jack told me, rumors of cheating would fly around, and then one of the friends would have to tell the person, who would confront their partner, who in turn would deny it, but they usually broke up anyway.

“But surely it causes a lot of problems? What if someone misinterpreted it?”

“It can be a bit confusing, but that’s why I prefer you. I know where I stand, and it’s refreshing.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the lips, which was enough to get me off the topic and on to what the hell I was doing with Jack.

His lips on mine were firm and playful, but not demanding. He pushed me onto my back on the couch, lying on top of me, his weight taken on his forearms. He raised our entwined fingers above my head, pinning me there lightly, as his tongue entered my mouth to play with mine. Long slow kisses until I was wet and ready, but he just kept up the tormentingly leisurely pace. We kept kissing for hours, and it was wonderful but confusing as it didn’t go any further. When we reached the point where we were both breathing hard, he stopped and, rolling over, hugged me to his chest. I would have thought he wasn’t interested, but the evidence that he was could be felt clearly against my leg.

This repeated every time we hung out, which was often.

I had put him in the “non-boyfriend” pile when we first met, and it’s hard to make the move to the “relationship material” pile without something major happening to make you reassess. He was still largely who I thought he was at the start, though better company and more fun than I had given him credit for. However, I wasn’t sure I wanted his life. The stately homes and social events were fun at first, but the enjoyment I had was ebbing as I saw more of the dark underside of it. The bright glossy exterior was just that: the surface. Underneath was bitchiness, desperation, and a rigidity that bordered on brittle.

They guarded their perceived positions so fiercely it seemed like they might just snap at the slightest breeze. Only Jack’s foot in the door kept it from closing on me entirely. I might have had Jack on my side, but would that be enough? I had no friends amongst them, and I despaired that I ever would. He wouldn’t be glued to my side the whole time we were with them, and that left me with a whole lot of alone time. The other part I didn’t enjoy was the lack of privacy. Everything we did was observed and noted. There were always people around—friends, family, and staff. The only time I could relax was when we were at my flat, when I knew no one was watching.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t what I thought I wanted, and all the reasons I should run a mile from his scary friends, I found myself looking forward to seeing him, calling him to tell him funny or absurd things that happened in my day, and slowly sharing things that let you know without a doubt you are in a relationship. Or would be, but now I was unsure about what he wanted. We shared so much of our lives—not even one’s closest friends needed that much detail—but something held us both back from going that next step.

So, I seemed to be in a quasi-platonic relationship with Jack. We would kiss, but that’s it. I hadn’t pushed for anything more, not sure if I wanted it to go any further, but he would be angling for it, right? That’s what guys did. I was so confused. Maybe he shared my ambivalence. It was strange kissing someone, enjoying it, but not sure. I wanted him, but only if we were on a desert island and all the rest of the surrounding stuff wasn’t there. It was as though I wanted to push him away equally as much as I wanted to draw him closer.

If I thought he had given up about shooting weekends, I was mistaken. Any refusal to Jack seemed to just be a starting point for further negotiations.

“Come to Wiltshire this weekend,” he urged the following week. “There’s only a few of us so you can shoot if you want to.”

I thought about it. I had sworn I would never go to one of those things again, but if I wasn’t stuck in the house with the other women all day, the weekend might just be bearable. As if he could sense my wavering, Jack dropped to his knees at my feet and raised his entwined hands in the classic begging position.

“Please?” he entreated. “I’ll make sure you have fun.
Please!”

“All right,” I said with a sigh, reneging on my vow that the first one would be my last. Jack jumped up and gave me a big kiss, his tongue suddenly invading my mouth. I was just starting to get into it when he pulled away and, laughing, gave me a smack on the rump. Jack really wanted me to come, and these things were obviously part of his life and more important than I had initially realized. I was increasingly aware that it was part of Jack’s package. If I wasn’t willing to make the hard decision to cut Jack out of my life, then I needed to make an effort with this and with his friends.

On the drive down, Jack issued almost non-stop instructions while I drove.

“Remember, Katie, you are not here to massacre the wildlife. Shooting is about enjoying the sport and providing food.”

“Great, thanks. I needed some more pressure.” I already had nervous cramping in my stomach. I was a pretty good shot, as long as it was a tin can sitting on a fence. I’d never tried to shoot something alive and moving.

“Never point your gun, whether it’s loaded or not, at anyone else. When you’re walking in line, or standing at your peg, keep your barrels high in the air or pointed directly at the ground.”

“Got it.”

“Only load your gun just before you’re going to shoot. This is going to be a driven day, so wait for the signal that the drive has started before loading. When you’re aiming, don’t ever swing the barrels through the line of guns and make sure you know where everybody else is. Never shoot in a direction that could potentially endanger anyone else.”

“Don’t shoot other people. Got it,” I answered, keeping my voice serious. Jack looked at me and rolled his eyes before continuing his lecture.

“Don’t stand with the gun over your arm horizontally, and make sure it’s broken before you hand it to someone else. Check that the barrels are clear before loading the gun, and never keep mixed-caliber cartridges in your pockets. Putting a twenty-bore cartridge into a twelve-bore and then placing another twelve-bore cartridge over the top of it is one of the most common shooting accidents. You could kill yourself or lose a few fingers. It happens every year.”

“Try not to blow myself up. Check.”

Jack smiled despite himself. “It’s mostly common sense. Everyone knows that you haven’t done this before, and I’ll be there with you to make sure you don’t do anything dangerous.”

“You don’t think a bunch of people with loaded guns is inherently dangerous?”

“Not if you’re careful,” he said sternly.

“Just for the birds,” I muttered to myself. I did have a few qualms about shooting things. I hadn’t grown up with it, so it wasn’t something I thought of as a normal activity. On the other hand, I ate meat frequently, and the conditions in a chicken farm were much worse. These birds grew up in the forest, being fed by gamekeepers and kept in good condition, unlike those poor birds in cages with no room to move. Still, I didn’t have to kill the chicken I ate, so there was that deniability there. I didn’t know if I could actually do it, though I didn’t say that to Jack, who I don’t think would have understood.

Lost in my anxiety, I didn’t see the pheasant crossing the road until after I hit it with the car. Turned out my first kill happened before I’d even loaded a gun.

“Oh my God!” I braked the car as colorful feathers fluttered up over the windscreen.

“That happens. They’re not the brightest bird.” Jack shook his head sadly. “Don’t worry; we can clean the car when we get there.” I just looked at him for a moment, wondering which planet I had landed on.

Dinner that night was actually fun. Caroline and Olympia were fortunately absent, and the others seemed less hostile in their absence. There was a new girl there, or rather, she was new to me. Like all the other girls, Margaret or “Bats,” had gone to school at Roedean and had known all the boys there since they were children. She had studied at Oxford with Jack too, though they seemed to act more like brother and sister, with none of the over-the-top flirting the other girls employed. Bats was undeniably beautiful in that traditional English rose sort of way. Blond, peaches and cream complexion, and of a build so slim she could have been part elf. She was also very matter-of-fact and swore like a sailor.

“Hello, sluts!” she greeted us. I was so shocked I nearly spilled my drink on the antique rug. She approached me immediately.

“You must be Kate. Jack’s told me all about you. Don’t worry; I don’t think you’re a slut. It’s funny because, frankly, none of us are getting any at all,” she finished in a low voice.

“Oh!” I laughed, liking that she’d explained the joke. “I took you literally, but probably because I have quite a few friends who’ve lost count of the number of men they’ve slept with.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows moved half way up her forehead. “Great! I need some pointers. Come sit with me.” She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the couch with her. I think I spent the night gasping like a fish, amazed by the language coming out of her mouth, but laughing like I hadn’t since I’d moved to London.

I think the turning point with my relationship with Jack happened that weekend. I acquitted myself reasonably well during the shoot. I hadn’t endangered myself or anyone else, and the only bird I shot died cleanly, so I counted it as a victory, particularly as I did it with my eyes closed. During the formal dinner, Jack was in his usual good form, charming and funny. Maybe it was just that it was a smaller group, or the fact that the men were wearing their smoking jackets and slippers, which made them look a bit Playboy mansion-ish and less intimidating than in their formal black tie, but I found myself relaxing and thinking that one day it might be possible for me to feel like I belonged here.