Cupcake Couture (43 page)

My celebrity customer (who could not have been smaller in size or bigger in influence) turned to walk away and slipped my card inside her dress. It was like a second skin yet it had
pockets?
How? I watched awestruck as she winked at Zachary and then stopped to pose in front of the photographer like a true professional. She held the cupcake out on the palm of her hand.

‘Is it too good to eat, Cheryl?’ the photographer called out.

‘Almost,’ she laughed before taking a bite.

Cameras flashed, as did my eyes. I stood rooted to the spot trying to stay upright while seemingly every guest in the room shoved phone numbers and business cards in my hands and asked me for mine. Heidi and Roxy acted like my assistants, handing out the cards until only a few remained. I clasped my head, which was pounding as if someone had turned on a sub-woofer inside it.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I whispered to Roxy.

‘She’s going to faint,’ I heard Heidi say, her voice full of concern.

I let them lead me towards the sliding glass doors, desperate for the sensation of fresh air in my lungs.

‘Thierry, man, get the car, we’re taking her home,’ Roxy called out before we reached the pool and my legs gave way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Continue beating for 5 mins until light and fluffy

Roxy, in her new, surprisingly responsible role as teetotal mother-to-be managed to get me home and into bed. At least she ordered Thierry to, making the poor man heave me up the stairs to my flat. I hoped he hadn’t incurred an injury in doing so that would put him out for the rest of the season. I slept heavily that night and for most of Saturday. By the time I stumbled out of bed to find anything to eat that did not remind me of cake, it was already dark. I felt as if I had been hit by a truck. It was as if the events since the day of my birthday had all piled on top of me. It had definitely been a rollercoaster. The ride had ended on a spectacular ‘up’ but in the drop of adrenaline that followed, my body had drained the energy tanks dry and called time out. I don’t think the bottle of sweet, pink champagne on an empty stomach had helped either.

My head was so fuzzy, I wondered whether I had in fact dreamed the entire evening as I grabbed a box of Rice Krispies, a bowl, a spoon and some milk and padded back to my bed. The pile of business cards and telephone numbers of celebrities stacked neatly beside my jacket on the chair in my room was enough to confirm that the party had been real and that my cupcake design had been a success. I had potential orders, I was potentially a self-employed posh cake designer. Shame I was too knackered to do anything about it.

On Sunday morning (five minutes before midday to be precise), I awoke from an embarrassing dream involving Zachary and some coconut frosting to find my pyjamas sodden with sweat. I wrinkled my nose and dragged myself out of bed to take a hot, soothing shower. Feeling more human and definitely more fragrant, I
pulled my hair up into a towel turban, wrapped myself up in my fluffy cream bathrobe and pulled on a pair of bright, Christmas socks. In four days time it would be Christmas Eve. I still hadn’t bought presents or made a plan for the day. Despite recent developments in forging a workable relationship with my parents, I still wasn’t sure whether I could face spending Christmas Day with them. Their’s would not involve crackers and the Queen’s speech but rather spliffs, a vegan nut roast and probably a game of naked Twister with the life drawing class. I suddenly remembered I would have to return their tree to them. I also owed them a very personal thank you for their creative efforts. I opened the bathroom door and let out a cloud of steam as I went in search of my mobile phone, which I hadn’t heard ring all weekend.

As I walked out into the living room, I thought I heard footsteps outside the door of my flat. I stood still in my bathrobe and waited for a moment, then I slinked across to the window and peered out. My eyes fell on Mr Downstairs tickling his cat with his muddy gardening gloves on. I watched them for a moment before my attention was diverted to the man just turning the corner at the top of the street. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of a grey, wool coat and he was wearing a hat. I only saw him briefly but my stomach gurgled urgently.

Was it Zachary?

Had he come to my flat to see me?

I could not be sure. I turned my flat upside down searching for my mobile but to no avail. I had not heard from him since the party. I imagined him shopping in Newcastle with Little Miss Cannonball, their hands swinging merrily between them as they chose jewels and gadgets and novelty boxer shorts.

I went back to bed, pulled up the duvet and turned on the television for company.

On Monday morning, I awoke with a new sense of purpose. I had slept through the fog and now, as I sat up and looked over at the pile of potential customers’ details, I knew I had to get to work. This was my chance to start afresh with a new business, however small. I would be using the money from one client to buy ingredients for the next and I would be overloading my little oven but I had to at least give it a go. At this late stage in the year when company recruiters were on holiday and the people that were in the offices had one eye on their work and the other on the clock just waiting to leave, what other choice did I have?

Danny Doughballs and Chesney had given me their numbers. I would call them from my landline first and start myself off gently with their pre-Christmas orders before I threw myself into the others. Cheryl Cole had loved my cupcakes and, who knew, might be about to call me to place an order. If I could find my bloody mobile.

It was then I remembered the website Zachary had mentioned that Hurley had constructed for me. I leaned out of bed and pulled my laptop out from underneath it. I puffed up the pillows, sat up against them and, with the computer resting on my knees, switched it on. I giggled to myself as I typed
Cupcake Couture
into the Google search box. I was letting my imagination run wild that there my website would be at the top of the search results and that I would become the sort of girl people Googled but…

‘Fuck me,’ I gasped, which was becoming my usual reaction to a Google search.

I clicked on the first of the search results and there it was; my very own website, which sparkled and played music and filled the screen with images of my 3D Event cupcake tree.
CUPCAKE COUTURE
read the opening line in pink on a
metallic-effect, black background
haute couture cakes designed just for you…
There were photographs of Cheryl, Ant and Dec and Gary Lineker indulging in my cakes. There were suggestions for recipes and comments about the flavours (I suspected written by Malachy). There was an email address, but I had no password to access it to see if anyone had placed an order.

I wanted to call Zachary to thank him but I still could not find my phone. I then had a brainwave, Googled 3D Events again and found their website. There was a telephone number but I did not trust myself to play it cool on the phone. Instead, I typed an email, then re-typed it. And typed it again. It finally read,
Dear Zachary, Malachy and Hurley…
(in no particular order of course. I didn’t write this part but I did um and ah about the order, deciding to go by age in descending order in the end, obviously) …
I just had to write to say thank you so much for a wonderful evening at your Christmas party. I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly. I would have called but I seem to have misplaced my mobile. I hope you and your guests were happy with the cupcakes. I love the website, it’s amazing and a real thrill to be able to Google myself! I was wondering whether you could let me have the details of the email address so that I can check whether I have had any responses. (Thinking positively!) I’m sure you’re busy in the run up to Christmas so whenever you get around to it will be fine. Merry Christmas and thanks again, Chloe Baker x

I deleted the kiss, then added it again, having decided Malachy, Zachary and Hurley were friendly and approachable enough not to interpret this as a declaration of my undying love.

I screwed up my face, held my breath and pressed
Send
before I could change my mind.

I felt a lot more like the pre-November, pre-redundancy Chloe Baker as I got myself ready to start work. Granted I had not been woken by a seven-fifteen alarm and snoozed until seven thirty, it was already ten o’clock before I had showered, moisturised and blow-dried my hair into a tidy bob, which I brightened with two diamante slides. I applied more Christmassy makeup than sensible makeup with a glimmer eyeshadow and glossy lips. It wasn’t quite Cheryl Cole looking back at me in the mirror but neither was it a boring old suit. I pulled on some jeans, a soft grey marl T-shirt and a purple cashmere cardigan, where once I would have stepped stiffly into a freshly ironed shirt and a suit as sharp as a paper cut. With my third bowl of cereal in twenty-four hours devoured, I poured myself a mug of hot, filter coffee and (this was where the routine had really altered) I did
not
leave the house. Instead, I collected my two cupcake recipe notebooks together, stacked the new one on top of the old beside my landline telephone, pulled myself onto a stool, clicked my pen and called my first customer.

‘Hi Dough…
Danny
, this is Chloe Baker from
Cupcake Couture
, I hope this is a good time?… Great, I’m calling about your order for sticky gingerbread cupcakes…’

Just like that, my first working week proper as a self-employed, posh cake designer began and it was over before I knew it. It passed by in a wonderful blur of telephone calls, relaxed conversations, recipe ideas, sketches, desires and wishes of my clients, quotes and staggered deadlines. The pages of my notebook were filling up so fast, I would soon be needing a third. I was so euphoric (and slightly tipsy after two celebratory glasses of white wine at the end of the day) that I forgot to check my emails before I collapsed into bed.

On Tuesday morning, I was awoken by the sound of my landline ringing at nine o’clock. I jumped out of bed and raced to reach it, my bare feet slapping on the uneven floorboards.

‘Hello?’ I yawned before covering my mouth with the realisation that this could well be a customer.

‘Fucking hell, Chloe man, I thought you’d carked it.’

It wasn’t.

‘Hi, Roxy.’ I scratched the back of my head and squinted at the time. ‘What are you doing up before lunchtime?’

‘Thierry’s fucking
Maman
,’ she hissed, ‘decided it’d be a canny good idea to come and annoy us for Christmas from Frogland. Just turned up out of the blue with her onions round her neck and her baguette under her arm and she’s staying till the New Year! Fucking nightmare. She gets up at six o’fucking clock every morning and sings Celine bloody Dion songs in frog language at the top of her voice. All in the name of getting to know me before her
petit-enfant
is born. She’ll get to know me. My bloody fist if she’s not careful.’

I sniggered.

‘Ah the blissful unity of family and nations at Christmas.’

‘Aye whatever like.’

‘She doesn’t really have onions round her neck does she?’

‘If she did I’d fucking choke her with them,’ Roxy growled. ‘Anyhow, sorry I haven’t been round but her Ladyship’s taking up all my time. I’ve called your mobile a billion times though. In the end I had to call directory enquiries and get this number.’

I laughed and sat on the window seat, swinging my legs.

‘Remember the days before mobile phones when we all knew each other’s numbers?’ I laughed. ‘I’ve lost my mobile somewhere. I haven’t seen it since the party.’

‘It’s probably in your car like.’

I slapped a hand to my mouth, pulled the curtain back and peered out of the window at the space outside where my car should have been.

‘Shit, I forgot all about it. It’s still at the Doyles’ house. How embarrassing. They’ve probably mistaken it for a wheelie bin and left it out for the bin men.’

‘Howay, pet, it doesn’t look that good.’

‘Thanks. So to what do I owe this call or are you just needing to vent about your French mother-in-law?’

‘If she’s part of the package I’m not marrying him. Not that he’s asked. But not that I would.’ She tutted. ‘Which reminds me, Heidi wants us to go with her on Boxing Day to the sales to buy tiaras and veils and all that crap already for the dream wedding.’

I heard her pretend to be sick.

‘Which sounds shite like,’ she carried on, ‘but better than sitting here listening to Thierry speak his stupid language that sounds like he’s trying to sick up a whole pie.’

I laughed.

‘Count me in.’

‘And secondly, I called because you’re in the paper. It’s out today a day early because of Christmas.’

I sat up and stopped yawning.

‘You said you wanted to get in the paper for something you’d done and you have, so go and buy it. Then call me. Oh and before you see the pictures, I want to just say, I told you so. He
so
does and Heidi knows he does for a fact and she doesn’t mind at all by the way. Bye.’

‘What? You’re talking in riddles, Roxy.’

I stared at the silent telephone for a moment before I ran to get dressed, threw on a coat, hat and boots and left the house.

I bought the paper without reading it because the officious manager at the mini-mart was eyeing me warily. Where was the texting, disinterested girl when I needed her? I tucked it under my arm and walked briskly back in the direction of home.

I held my breath when I passed the open door of the bakery. Janice was outside scribbling on the blackboard sign with a tiny nub of chalk while Shirley leaned against the doorframe smoking a cigarette right down to her fingertips. I waited for the smart comment but, when none came, I quickly turned my head to look at them.

‘Morning,’ said Shirley.

She blew smoke into the frosty air.

‘Merry Christmas,’ sniffed a cold looking Janice.

I stopped and blinked at them.

‘Congratulations,’ said Janice, nodding at the paper under my arm.