Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe

by Jenny Colgan

  Caroline may have been many things, but she wasn’t a coward. She took a deep breath and stood up straight in the face of adversity, just as she’d learned at her hard-ass boarding school.

  ‘Good lord, you do both get around,’ she held on to herself long enough to say. ‘I hope you used a condom, Richard; remember that time you gave everyone chlamydia?’

  Kate went pale and gasped, as Caroline turned on her heel. Downstairs, the nanny was unplugging the iron.

  ‘I quit!’ she shouted. ‘Is like being slave for crazy woman! I’m going to look for job for non-crazy woman. Bye! Stop losing child!’

  The three children started wailing their heads off all over their smart Petit Bateau Breton shirts. Snot was going on the William Morris wallpaper. Donald dropped his juice carton on the pale landing carpet. Caroline carried on out of the house.

  ‘And lock the bloody door behind me for once!’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  Later, she looked at her handiwork. She had made the children a pie. They were terrified of her cooking; normally she tried to get them to eat raw food. Hermia especially, her daughter, tended, even at the age of nine, to shrink from her mother’s highly critical gaze. She consoled herself at school, finishing up the thick stodgy puddings the other girls were already pushing away. It showed.

  Caroline added turnip, cabbage, carrot and some pieces of apple for flavouring, and a spray of low-calorie oil. Then she put the pastry over the top. That would cover it up, then she’d suggest that Hermia didn’t eat the pastry, just as she herself wouldn’t be doing.

  Perdita was bustling round the kitchen and looked dubiously at the pie, but a warning look from Caroline soon froze her off. Caroline also fired off an email to her lawyer, demanding additional damages for pain and distress caused by Richard flaunting his infidelity.

  Then, at a loose end, with Maya taking the afternoon shift and Issy back, she found herself sitting down with her photo albums. Like many other things in her life, Caroline’s photo albums were immaculate. She chose only the best pictures of them all in carefully staged perfect environments – round the fire in the ski chalet, wearing matching jumpers and toasting cups of hot chocolate (Achilles had screamed and refused to touch the snow or go outside; Hermia had been horribly bullied at ski school and woken up with nightmares for five months); on their island getaway (Richard had stayed on the phone to work pretty much the entire time; Caroline had gone mad without childcare and with all the mosquitoes); dressed up for a wedding (Richard had chatted up a bridesmaid, Caroline had burst into tears, the marriage had lasted six months before the bride ran away with the caterer). She smiled ruefully at the expensive albums and the stories they did not tell.

  But there were other stories, too, real ones. Hermia putting her nursery angel on the Christmas tree, one branch totally weighed down by decorations (Caroline had immediately tidied the tree up once the children had gone to bed, so it looked nice). She glanced over at this year’s tree. It was exquisitely tasteful in silver and white. But it didn’t have Hermia’s nursery angel on it. Caroline wondered where it had gone.

  There was Achilles, in the same kind of footsie babygro Donald had been wearing. Her little snuggly boy, who now looked hostile and rebellious if she suggested he change his shirt or put down his DS. He was sitting in Richard’s lap; Richard had just unwrapped an enormous, ridiculous puppet he’d brought back from a business trip somewhere. It was a huge gawky parrot with a purple and pink feathered crest and a manic grin. It had been hideous; Caroline had given it to Oxfam the second Christmas was over. In the picture, though, father and son were breathless with laughter and suddenly looked very like each other. It was a beautiful shot.

  Caroline swore under her breath. Perdita had left, and the house – secondary glazed, of course, well set back from the road – suddenly seemed very quiet, only the ticking of the beautifully restored pale French grandfather clock in the hall disturbing the silence. Caroline didn’t want to look at photo albums any more. She wanted to gather her children close to her, feed them pie, apologise on some level for the family she had put in the photo albums, and the family they had turned out to be.

  On impulse, she went to pick them up from school – normally they stayed late for homework hour so she could have some me-time. The other mothers at the gate smiled at her nervously, but didn’t engage her in conversation. Obviously they thought divorce was catching, like nits. Caroline ignored them. She also ignored the surprise – and, if she was being completely honest, worry – on the children’s faces as they emerged in their smart hats and blazers, marshalled by a teacher who looked suspicious that they were skipping homework club.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ said Achilles.

  ‘Nothing at all, darling,’ lied Caroline. ‘I just wanted to see you, that’s all.’

  ‘Has something happened to Granny?’ asked Hermia.

  ‘No, but don’t worry, when it does, you’re getting a new pony. No, come on, let’s all go home together.’

  ‘I made a decoration!’ said Achilles, holding up a misshapen Santa with a huge head.

  Normally Caroline would have smiled politely. Today she picked it up. ‘That’s fantastic!’ she said. ‘Shall we put it on the tree?’

  The children looked nervous.

  ‘I thought we weren’t allowed to touch the tree,’ said Achilles.

  ‘I would never say that,’ said Caroline. ‘Did I? Did I say that?’

  The children swapped glances.

  ‘OK, OK, never mind. Today it will be different. And I’ve made supper! Pie!’ She caught Achilles’ hand. Unusually, he let her hold it.

  ‘What kind of pie?’

  ‘Surprise pie.’

  Their faces fell.

  ‘Now, tell me all about your day.’

  And to her surprise, they did. Normally she got Perdita to pick them up for karate or swimming or Kumon maths or whatever it was they were supposed to have scheduled that evening. But just walking along with them, she was amazed when Hermia launched into a long and detailed description of how she and Meghan and Martha and Maud had been best friends, but now they couldn’t all be best friends and they had said to her that they would let her be best friends again when they’d got enough space and when she didn’t have a tummy any more, and Caroline listened carefully to the saga, which Hermia told in a completely flat tone of voice, as if of course it was the way of things that a group of small girls would turn on you sometimes and explain that you couldn’t be in their gang any more. She looked at Hermia’s wilfully black, tufty hair, inherited directly from Richard, and mentally contrasted it, as she so often did, with the smooth blonde locks of her friends’ daughters. Then she gave Hermia a big hug.

  ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ she said.

  Hermia shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘I get scared at Grandma Hanford’s.’ Richard’s mother was a terrifying old horsey bag who lived out in the middle of nowhere in a spooky old house that she refused to heat.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Caroline. ‘We’ll have a proper celebration the next day.’

  When they arrived home, Achilles unpacked his school bag. There were mountains of books and homework.

  ‘I know for a fact that Louis McGregor gets no homework till he’s nine,’ said Caroline. ‘Do you get this much every night?’

  Achilles winced, and suddenly his face, which often seemed discontented and mulish to Caroline, looked simply exhausted. He was such a little boy. Such a small thing to be sitting in rows at old-fashioned desks, competing with other children who were also overscheduled and anxious and doing their best to please everyone. Caroline stroked his face. She wondered if it would really be the worst thing in the world if Richard stopped paying the school fees. Maybe if they went to Louis’ school, with their black history months and potato cut-outs and … No. That would be ridiculous.

  A horrible smell was coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Shall we see if this pie is really terrible?’ she said. �
��And if it is, shall we call out for pizza?’

  ‘Can we eat it in front of the TV?’ said Achilles, pouncing on their mother’s moment of weakness. Between the Aubusson carpet and the pristine reclaimed oak floors, this was absolutely verboten; no food, shoes, wine or animals were allowed in Caroline’s front room. It was, she liked to tell the interviewer in the imaginary Homes and Gardens piece she occasionally did in her head, her oasis; a sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of London life. She would add that she often used the room to perform her meditations, even though she’d given up meditating when the divorce had started, because when she wasn’t busy doing something, she started thinking about how much she wanted to kill Richard.

  Caroline rolled her eyes. ‘OK. Just this once.’

  She scanned through the Sky TV guide.

  ‘It’s Christmas. They must be showing The Wizard of Oz.’

  They were.

  Issy’s favourite Christmas song was Sufjan Stevens singing ‘Only At Christmas Time’. It was so beautiful, and at the moment she seemed to be hearing it everywhere. It accompanied her as she did a huge food shop (Helena had come with her, then Chadani Imelda had kicked off like a maniac at the selection boxes, so Issy had sent them home), its refrain following her up and down the aisles: ‘Only to bring you peace/ Only at Christmas time/ Only the King of Kings … Only what once was mine’.

  She felt as if she was regarding the world from behind a fuzzy mask, or through the wrong end of a telescope; all around her were families – she had none – and children – no – and happy couples giggling and pointing at mistletoe, and here she was piling loads of sprouts into the trolley because Ashok’s relatives were vegetarian, and even though Ashok had assured her that they’d bring food, she was hardly going to greet guests with empty plates and a hopeful expression.

  She threw in pâté and stuffing and mounds of potatoes and lots of nuts for the nut roast, and tutted loudly at the ingredients in the mince pies, and added an extra four boxes of crackers. Ashok had insisted on paying for the food, but as many of his relatives didn’t drink either, she reckoned she’d have to do the booze, or perhaps everyone could contribute. She stood in front of the special seasonal shelves of spirits and liqueurs and lots of things she couldn’t imagine people wanting to drink ordinarily, and sighed. She didn’t know how she’d feel on the day; whether her awful black mood would bring everyone else down and she’d have to get a bit squiffy to perk herself up. Or the opposite; she’d be able to put a brave face on it until she’d had a couple of glasses, then she’d be a puddle on the floor.

  A woman, younger than her, pushed a buggy into her and grimaced apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just so busy.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Issy. ‘Not at all. It’s me who was … just standing …’

  The woman smiled. ‘Oh, you’re so lucky. If I stop moving, he screams the place down.’

  Issy smiled politely. She didn’t feel lucky.

  ‘So are we going home, or what?’ said Darny. They were back in the New York City Cupcake Store. Kelly-Lee was absolutely triumphant when she saw that Issy had gone.

  ‘Will she be back soon?’ she asked pointedly. Austin tried to half-smile at her in a distracted way, then forgot about her completely.

  ‘We can’t go to Issy’s mum’s,’ said Darny. ‘They don’t have Christmas.’

  Austin bit his lip. He knew Issy wasn’t staying at his house. He called the number deep into the night, letting it ring on and on, even though he knew it was stupid, and pointless. Although he guessed she must be at Helena’s, he didn’t call there. Just dialled his own number, letting it go, letting himself imagine, just for a second, that she’d creep downstairs in that terrible old fleece he had left over from his diving days, complaining about the cold wooden floors, which creaked everywhere, and stand, bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes, telling him off for ringing her so late when she had to get up so early, then immediately forgiving him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Merv’s invited us out with his family. If we want to. He said there’ll be millions of them there, we’ll fit right in.’

  Darny stared glumly at his stale apple and cinnamon muffin.

  ‘We won’t,’ he said. ‘We’ll be the weirdo foreigners with the funny accents that everyone wants to pinch.’

  ‘I know,’ said Austin. ‘But here’s the thing …’

  He remembered last year. Giggling under the duvet. Refusing to get dressed, but wearing their ‘formal pyjamas’ that Issy packed away the next day and insisted they could only have on special occasions. Playing chicken with the Quality Streets until only the toffee ones were left. And later, when Darny had gone to bed, Issy had lit the candles and put in her new diamond earrings, and her pale skin had glowed in the light …

  Austin blinked twice, hard. No. It was time to come back to reality. To do what he always did: make the best of it. Which meant it was time to break the news to Darny. He took the letter out of his pocket.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Darny. And I know I’m supposed to be cross with you, but I don’t really know how, because I think, apart from the fact that you’re really, really annoying, that you’re doing brilliantly well.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Darny, reading the letter upside down. The swagger left his face and he immediately seemed about two years younger. ‘Expulsion? Really?’

  Austin shrugged. ‘Oh come on, Darny, you’ve been asking for it.’

  ‘True,’ said Darny.

  ‘You really pushed it with them.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And you hated that school.’

  ‘I hated that school.’

  Darny swallowed. He was, Austin saw, genuinely upset.

  ‘I thought … I kind of hoped …’

  ‘What?’

  Darny kicked the table leg. ‘It’s stupid …’

  ‘What?’

  Darny grimaced. ‘I thought they might kind of come round … maybe think that kids should have a voice.’

  Austin sat back. ‘Tell me this isn’t about your Children Should Vote campaign.’

  ‘We should,’ said Darny. ‘Nobody listens to us.’

  ‘That’s all anybody does,’ said Austin. ‘Oh, bloody hell. They’re going to bring this up when you’re bloody prime minister.’

  Darny suddenly looked very tiny.

  ‘I didn’t mean … I didn’t think it would be a big problem for you.’

  Austin took perhaps the deepest breath of his life. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, you didn’t. Because you are eleven, and you can’t think like that yet. But oh, Darny. I really wish you had.’

  ‘Am I going to have to go to King’s Mount?’ said Darny, with a note of panic in his voice. ‘They skin kids there, Austin. Especially wee kids. Remember that gang who branded all those year sevens?’

  ‘I do remember,’ said Austin sombrely. King’s Mount was very rarely out of the local paper. ‘And that’s why,’ he glanced round, ‘that’s why I think we’re just going to stay here, Darny. They have amazing schools here, places you wouldn’t believe, that like independent thinkers and do all sorts of amazing, cool things, and you’ll get to meet kids from all over the world, and, well, I really think you’d like it …’

  ‘We’re staying? In New York?’

  Darny looked at him. Austin was prepared for tears, shouting, defiance – anything but this.

  ‘All right!’ said Darny, punching the air. ‘Can’t be worse than that shit hole. Cool! I wish Stebson could see me now! Living in New York! Yeah! When’s Issy coming back?’

  ‘She … she might not be,’ said Austin. ‘It’s hard for her to leave the shop.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Darny. ‘Of course she can leave the shop, there’s loads of people there.’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ said Austin. ‘It’s her business.’

  Darny just stared at him. ‘She’s not coming?’

  Kelly-Lee came over. ‘Is everything OK over here? And I’m sorry, I
couldn’t help overhearing – is it true you’re staying?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Austin.

  ‘Oh, that’s WUNNERFUL! I’ll be your new friend.’ She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Show you around. And you, sweetie. I’m sure we’re going to be the best of friends.’

  Darny looked at her without saying anything and rudely kicked the table. After a while he said quietly, ‘I think it was me. I think it was my fault.’

  Austin squinted at him. ‘What?’

  ‘That Issy’s not coming.’

  ‘You think you drove Issy away?’

  ‘I was bad at school, then I was mean to her.’ Darny’s face was terribly distressed. ‘I didn’t mean to, Austin. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ssh, sssh,’ said Austin, who suddenly found himself wanting to swear. ‘No. Of course not. Of course it wasn’t you. She loves you.’

  Darny started to cry.

  ‘It was me,’ said Austin. ‘Being a selfish idiot. And things moving and changing and me thinking, like an idiot, that it would be great and I should just go along with it, and well, here we are …’

  Darny no longer looked like a truculent pre-teen. He looked like an upset, terrified little boy.

  ‘Please make her come back,’ he said. ‘Please, Austin.’

  Austin swallowed hard. He didn’t answer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Issy had unpacked all the food and drink down in the basement, along with as many small random gifts as she’d been able to grab charging through Boots in a tearing hurry. Upstairs, Maya was still on her rounds, and Pearl and Caroline were bickering happily about what age children should be told the truth about Santa Claus. Caroline felt that if the parents had worked hard for the money, children should appreciate that and learn the cost of things. Pearl did not agree. It was the Saturday before Christmas, and Louis was making a Santa beard for himself out of a huge roll of cotton wool and cardboard and sticky tape. He also had a Santa hat on that Big Louis had given him, and was smiling benignly at other children coming into the shop.