Saint Kate of the Cupcake: The Dangers of Lust and Baking (7 page)

“It’s where you’ve forced loved ones and yourself to eat so much fat and sugar that you feel bad about it. I think I have a sugar hangover too,” I said over my shoulder as we headed back into the kitchen.

“Are you serious?” She laughed.

“Absolutely. It feels just like a normal hangover, except you haven’t drunk anything and have eaten your bodyweight in cake.”

“Oh!” she said, still laughing. “Doesn’t that rather go with the territory?” She looked around my house, which was in a bit of a state, or should I say more of a state than usual. I had never quite mastered the immaculate look and told myself it’s because I actually preferred a “lived-in” aesthetic. “What happened here? Is your daily on holiday?”

“A woman shouldn’t have to be responsible for a spotless house and her own orgasms. It’s a question of available energy,” I answered loftily. Bats merely quirked an eyebrow. “The boys were home, and I smothered them with food because I miss them so much.” I made another sad face at her.

The twins had just started at Harrow after a long drawn out battle between Jack and myself. He had wanted them to start when they were eight, as he had done, but coming from an upbringing where that would only occur in the most unusual circumstances, I was firmly against it. Consequently, they had gone to Eton House after St. Luke’s, and I reluctantly agreed to let them go to Harrow at thirteen, which was a much more complicated affair. It involved sitting for tests and interviews at the school to get them in on the last round. Jack was so happy, and the boys seemed excited, so I hid my unhappiness at losing them so soon.

There were still some weekends and school holidays with them, but they grew up so much in between each time I saw them that it felt like they were on fast-forward. I missed them more than I could express, and the house seemed too quiet without them. I even missed their vast quantities of laundry, but mostly I missed the boundless energy that flowed in their wake. I know it’s stupid, but once I cleaned up their mess, it felt like I would be like erasing all traces of their visit. I just wanted to hold on a bit longer. I was having a Miss Haversham from
Great Expectations
moment. I completely got her perspective now.

“Isn’t that why we’re exercising?” Bats asked, bringing me back to the present.

“Yes, doesn’t stop me feeling guilty about it, though. Nutritionists everywhere would be alarmed if they knew and would report me to the government as a health hazard.”

“I can’t speak for the children, but everyone else is a consenting adult, and they know the risks before they accept an invitation to sample your cooking. You know we all wait with baited breath, hoping to be chosen as guinea pigs.”

“But you said no!”

Bats was always so disciplined with what she ate and couldn’t have been more than a size six the entire time I had known her, except during her pregnancies when she gained less than ten kilos. She would literally only eat a single bite of anything vaguely unhealthy. There was a certain amount of pressure in our social group to remain thin. It was such a double standard, as most of the men were becoming rather portly while their wives struggled against slowing metabolisms to remain model-thin.

I had always been outside the game, so to speak, not being a size six except while I was a teenager and yet to fill out. I’d have to be dead for a couple of months before my bones would be able to fit into the expected proportions. My height may have excluded me, but I still heard the snide comments from the stuffy women in our social circle, so they would never let it go entirely.

Bats was so old money and titled as well, but she’d been the most welcoming of anyone. We were just women to each other, rather than a rung in a complicated ladder that I still didn’t really understand. I guess when you
were
rather than
aspired
to be something, you could relax a lot more. People would still invite you to things, and you didn’t have to worry about all the rules, either because they were bred into you and you just did them without thinking, or because you understood which ones you could get away with breaking. Bats never wore the “right” gear on the shoots and could make a rag look like designer chic. It wouldn’t occur to her to say “toilet” or “dessert,” but if she did, people would just think she was being droll. No mother would have objected to her; quite the contrary. Edwina would have been a quivering puddle of ecstasy if Jack had brought her home instead of me.

“We’re having photos taken next week for
Vogue
. I need to be careful, just until the photographs are taken, then I can eat again. I’m hoping you still have some you need to perfect?”

“You’re in luck. The strawberry champagne cake needs some work.”

“Great, but get into your running gear!” she ordered, pushing me toward the stairs. I could feel bits wobbling as I moved and had a moment where I felt like Homer Simpson, where everything kept moving even after I stopped. I reluctantly hauled on my exercise gear, fearing to look in the mirror before I left, in case I retreated into my wardrobe, too scared of going out looking like an overweight walrus next to Bats.

I felt better after we started our run, which was in truth part-exercise, part-therapy session.

“How are things with Rupert?” I puffed. Things hadn’t been going that well for her and Rupert lately. Rupert was the male version of Bats: handsome and very well bred. Socially, they were the perfect couple, though I had always found him…uninteresting, for want of a better word. He was charming, but he lacked Bats’ irreverence, or any other quirk for that matter.

“Fabulous! He’s fucking his personal assistant, and I spend his money to get back at him. He feels so guilty, he doesn’t dare ask me about it. I have to show you my new Hermes bag.”

“I’m sorry.” I stopped running, trying to imagine Rupert doing the nasty. The picture in my mind was a Ken doll bending repeatedly in the middle.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” She kept jogging, so I had to speed up to catch her again. “I’m not that interested in sex anyway, and we work better together when we don’t have that—” she paused, searching for the right word “—
obligation
hanging over us.”

“So, Rupert knows you know?” I asked, puzzled.

She shrugged. “We’re all very good at pretending that everything’s fine, and after a while, you know, it
is
fine.”

“I can understand that,” I said thoughtfully. “Truthfully, that’s how Jack and I deal with any unpleasantness. We just ignore it until it goes away. I’m not sure how healthy it is, but it seems to work. Who needs to hash out every small detail anyway?” This sounded like a bit of a cop out, even to me, but it was how we managed. Bats nodded, and we kept jogging.

She did seem fine with it, but she must have been concerned because I’d never seen her face move this much. In the last few years, she had grown fond of Botox and the outward serenity it provided. She once told me she could never yell at her kids because her face simply couldn’t express anger; it looked weird with an angry voice and a pleasant face and was very confusing for the children. As a friend, I found it did make it a bit difficult sometimes to gauge her emotional state. I had to pry a bit further, to be sure that she wasn’t just unable to express her pain and maybe did want to talk about it. Also I was curious. Her marriage was so different from mine, and I struggled to understand it sometimes.

“But this isn’t just leaving dirty clothes on the floor; it’s having sex with someone else. Don’t you feel betrayed?”

“Yes and no. It doesn’t feel great, I’ll be honest with you, but it’s not a deal-breaker for me. I can understand it from Rupe’s perspective. I don’t want to have sex with him like we used to, so I’ve changed too. It’s like tennis; just because I don’t want to play doesn’t mean that he can’t play with someone else.” She said it flippantly, but I could tell she was serious.

“So, you don’t want to see someone else too?” I asked after a few minutes.

“God, no, I don’t have time. I’m far too busy,” she said. “How about you and Jack?”

“Opposite problem. I want sex but he doesn’t.”

“Really? You still want to sleep with Jack?”

“Yes. I
like
sex, just like I like food. It’s my weakness.” I sighed. “Sex isn’t a priority for Jack, and it’s not like you can just get a man to ‘lie back and think of England.’”

“I don’t mind it when I’m doing it, but the urge to get there is missing for me. Maybe we should swap husbands.” Her face darkened almost imperceptibly. “When did we change so much?”

I looked at her questioningly, not sure where she was going with this.

“I mean, we used to all
feel
things so much more. I remember in my late teens and early twenties being so overwhelmed by my reactions to things. You know, horribly embarrassed or almost giddy with excitement. I used to struggle to control my impulses and emotions, and I would have found Rupert sleeping with someone else unbearable then. Most of the time now, I just feel placid and slightly bovine.”

I nodded, understanding. “I feel the same, almost like I’m numb a lot of the time. But I don’t think it’s that we’re necessarily feeling less; it’s just that we have more perspective. Once a few truly awful things happen, then you realize how little most of it matters. Very few things are really life and death.” I looked away, taking in the view of the river, which was steel gray on this overcast day.

“I guess,” she agreed. “But part of me thinks I should care more about Rupert fucking his PA. I’d like to think he’d care if I was doing someone else, but I really think he’d just fall over in surprise.”

I reached for her arm and gave her a quick squeeze. She smiled a bit sadly in response. It made me think: when did we all stop being compatible? Did sex really not matter that much in a relationship anymore that we could get by without it or source it from outside the main relationship with no ill-effects? I tried to picture Jack or myself having an affair, but right then it seemed unimaginable.

Chapter Six

“S
O
, H
OW
D
ID
Y
OU
G
ET
your start in writing cookbooks?” the journalist from the
Sydney Morning Herald
asked. They were doing a feature article on me for their Saturday magazine. I think because I was Australian and living the “fairy-tale dream”—married into the aristocracy and living a glamorous life in London—there was a ready-made market for my books, and I was selling only slightly behind Jamie Oliver.

For a second, I considered giving the real reason. I could just imagine his face if I said, “My first cookbook was a way of coping with a tragedy that was more painful than I could possibly express. I lay on the floor and cried every day after I had managed to get the children to school. Then, once I could move again, I wrote to fill in any empty time in the day or night when I couldn’t sleep. My theory was that if I didn’t have time to think, I couldn’t fall apart. I’d always enjoyed baking, but it had become an obsession: weighing, measuring, searching for subtle improvements. Absolute control, when it felt like there was none in my life. Too many people knew, and shutting myself off to write the book gave me the space to grieve in my own way and let the grapevine do the rest. Eighteen months later, I sold it to a publisher, and over the next couple of years, it sold increasingly well and became a genuine bestseller. No one could have been more surprised than me, except maybe Jack.”

The temptation for honesty passed, and I stuck to the well-rehearsed standard response to this question.

“I’d always loved cooking, and we entertain a lot, so when my publisher came to me with the idea of sharing that enjoyment and, I guess, also a piece of my life, I jumped at the chance. Nothing is too complicated, but simple things can still give pleasure to your loved ones, or people you need to impress,” I said, with a wink.

The party line was that Jack’s family had been wowed by my “breath of fresh air” and loved me whole-heartedly, after I had amazed them with my brilliant cooking and stylish presentation. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. They saw professional cooking the same way as if I had become a professional plumber and had my hand in a toilet all day.

“It took some time for
Saint Kate of the Cupcake
to gain momentum, but then it took on a life of its own. What exactly set it apart from the hundreds of others in the market?” he asked.

In truth? Nothing really, just smoke and mirrors and the curiosity that sells
Hello!
magazine,
I thought sardonically. I had enjoyed a brief time around my wedding as an almost “It” girl, having the cleverness to snag one of England’s more eligible bachelors, rather than anything in my own right. After producing two future eligible bachelors to continue the tradition, I thought that would be it. But enough of the population was still interested in my life and bought the book.

“I think the recipes are good, but with a bit of a twist that is actually my own and how I cook myself. Also, the spectacular styling and photography make it beautiful, and it’s always a pleasure to look at something beautiful.” Which had less to do with me than one would think. “I work with some of the most talented people in the business who can make my food look amazing.”
God, could I get any more perky? If only honesty sold as well…