Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

by Jenny Colgan

  Issy smiled wanly. ‘Well, at least we got cake.’

  ‘We did,’ said Pearl.

  Chapter Five

  Peppermint Creams

  For you, as sweet as you are.

  1 egg white

  1 lb icing sugar

  peppermint essence

  Beat the egg white until frothy – do not overbeat. No, that is just enough. Perfect. Stop now.

  Sieve in the icing sugar and now the mixture should be stiff. Yes, there is a lot of icing sugar on the floor. Don’t worry about that now. Don’t stand in it. Don’t … OK, your mother is going to have a fit.

  Right, just a couple of drops of peppermint essence … just a couple, otherwise it’ll taste like toothpaste.

  OK, are your hands clean? Now, make it into paste – yes, like playdough. No, you can’t eat playdough. Now, we’re going to roll it out and you can cut out circles. Well, yes, or I suppose you can have animal shapes … a peppermint cream horsie, that’s fine. Oh, a dinosaur? Well, yes, I don’t see why not … There we are. Now we have to put them in the fridge for 24 hours.

  Well, no, I suppose we could test just one.

  Well, I suppose they don’t all have to go in the fridge. Or, no, any of them.

  Love, Grampa

  If Issy shut her eyes, she could smell the sweet peppermint creams, melting on her tongue.

  ‘Come on,’ Helena was berating her.

  ‘I am a brave person,’ Issy was trying to say in the mirror, brushing her teeth.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Helena. ‘Do it again.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Issy. She was about to spend the day marching cold into estate agencies and asking for work. She thought she was about to throw up.

  ‘I am a brave person.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I can do this.’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘I can handle inevitable repeated rejection.’

  ‘That’s going to be useful.’

  Issy turned round. ‘It’s all right for you, Len. The world is always crying out for nurses. They’re hardly going to start closing all the hospitals.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Helena. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Issy. ‘One day they’ll get robots to do it all and then you’ll be out of a job and sorry you weren’t more sympathetic to me, your best friend.’

  ‘This is better than sympathetic!’ retorted Helena, stung. ‘This is useful!’

  Issy was starting near the flat. If she could find a job within walking distance, so much the better. No more wet bloody mornings standing outside Pear Tree Court and forcing her way on to the 73 – well, at least that was a nice thought.

  The door to Joe Golden Estates pinged as Issy went in, her heart in her mouth. She reminded herself she was a calm professional, with experience in the property trade. There was only one man in the office, the same distracted-looking balding chap who had been showing that woman around the shop.

  ‘Hello!’ said Issy, too surprised to remember why she was there. ‘Aren’t you renting Pear Tree Court?’

  The man peered up at her with a wary look in his eyes.

  ‘Trying to,’ he said gruffly. ‘Bit of a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, suddenly remembering where he was and switching into salesman mode. ‘It’s a fabulous property, so much character and loads of potential.’

  ‘Hasn’t every business that’s gone in there failed miserably?’

  ‘Well, that’s because … that’s because they’re not approaching it the right way.’

  I will make friends with him then ask him for a job, Issy told herself. I will ask him for a job … shortly. Soon. In a bit. Yes.

  But what actually came out of Issy’s mouth was, ‘I couldn’t take a look at it, could I?’

  Des, of Joe Golden Estates, was sick of his job. He was sick of his life, if he was being honest. He was tired of the market, tired of being on his own in an empty office, tired of endless to-ing and fro-ing with this stupid Pear Tree Court property as one person after another thought they could make a go of it, when, pretty as it was, it remained a commercial property that didn’t actually face a road. People got dreams in their heads that were nothing to do with business. This looked like another one.

  Then he had to go home and sympathize with his wife. It wasn’t that he didn’t adore their baby, it wasn’t that at all, it was just he did need a night’s sleep now and again and he was sure that everyone else’s baby wasn’t still waking up four times a night at five months. Maybe Jamie was sensitive. It still didn’t explain why Ems hadn’t got out of her pyjamas since the birth. It had been a while now. But if he ever mentioned anything, she started screaming at him that he didn’t understand what it was like to have a baby, then Jamie would start screaming, plus her mother was usually over, sitting in his spot on the sofa, slagging him off, he suspected. Then it would all get so noisy he’d wish himself back at work again for five minutes’ peace and quiet. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do.

  For the first time in what felt like weeks, Issy sensed a tiny flame of curiosity spark inside her. As Des somewhat reluctantly opened up the heavy door with three different keys, she glanced around, just in case the scary blonde lady was behind her somewhere, and would scream at her to get the hell out of her shop.

  Because she could see at once that while there were all sorts of problems with it (no road frontage being only the most glaringly obvious), 4 Pear Tree Court had a lot of plus points too.

  The large glass window faced west, which would let plenty of sunlight into the shop in the afternoon, making it a nice place to come and sit and linger over coffee and a cake when business typically was quieter. Issy tried not to let her imagination run away with itself. Although the alley had rubbish and a stray bicycle skeleton in it, it also had cobbles and, although it was as unhealthy, stunted and metropolitan a specimen as one could hope to find anywhere, there was a real live tree next to the ironmonger’s. A real live tree. That was something too. Once you were inside the court, the noise from the traffic seemed to fade away; it was as if you were stepping back to a quieter, gentler time. The little row of shops was higgledy-piggledy and jammed together and looked a little like something out of Hogwarts, and number 4, with its low wooden doorway, odd angles and ancient fireplace, was the sweetest of them all.

  The frontage had been left dusty and uncared for, with pieces of old shelving strewn everywhere, along with mail for previous owners from yoga retreats, fair trade children’s clothing manufacturers, homeopathic societies and the local council. Issy waded through them.

  ‘Oh yes, I should probably have moved those,’ murmured Des, looking slightly embarrassed. You should have, thought Issy. If one of KD’s agents showed a property like that … Mind you, he did seem very tired.

  ‘Things busy in your line of work these days?’ she asked nonchalantly. Des looked down, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘They just repossessed our snazzy little cars.’

  ‘The little Minis with the rock bands stencilled on them?’ asked Issy in horror. They were a staple of bad London parking.

  Des nodded. His wife had been furious.

  ‘But apart from that, amazing,’ he said, trying to pull it back together. ‘In fact, I’ve just taken an offer on this place, so if you wanted it you’d have to be quick.’

  Issy narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Why are you showing it to me if someone else has already offered on it?’

  Des cringed. ‘Well, you know. Want to keep the market buoyant. And I’m not sure if it’ll go through.’

  Issy thought about the blonde woman. She’d seemed very sure.

  ‘The client is, ahem, just going through some “personal issues”,’ said Des. ‘And we do often find that an initial burst of enthusiasm for new ventures can … ahem, tail off when the settlement comes through. One way or the other.’

  Issy raised her eyebrows.r />
  ‘And what were you thinking of doing with it?’ asked Des. ‘It has B/C/D permission.’

  She looked around. She could visualize the whole thing – little mismatched tables and chairs; a bookshelf where people could bring books to exchange; the lovely low-slung glass catering desk where she could array her cupcakes in different flavours and pretty pastels, making sure there were cake stands in the windows to tempt people in off the road. Making up little gift presentation boxes for parties, maybe even weddings … could she cater on such a level, though? That was huge. Mind you, if she took someone on …

  Issy realized through her reverie that Des was waiting for an answer.

  ‘Oh, I was thinking a little café,’ she said, feeling her ever-present blush rising to the surface. ‘Just something small.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a great idea!’ said Des enthusiastically.

  Issy felt her heart leap. It couldn’t … she couldn’t really be serious about this, could she? Although, here she was …

  ‘Sausage sandwich and a cup of tea for a pound fifty. Perfect for round here. All the builders and commuters and council workers and nannies and that. Scone and jam a pound.’

  His face had become quite animated.

  ‘Actually, I was thinking more … a kind of bakery place,’ she said. Des’s face fell.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘One of those poncey joints where they charge two fifty for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Well, there’d be delicious cakes,’ said Issy.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Des. ‘Actually the other bidder wants to open a café too, just like that.’

  Issy thought back to the blonde woman. Hers would be nothing like that! she thought indignantly. Hers would be warm, and inviting, and cosy and indulgent and somewhere to come and enjoy yourself, not somewhere to come and feel like you were atoning for bad behaviour. Hers would be a lovely focal point for the community, not for people to neck raw carrots while typing on their BlackBerries. Yeah. Exactly!

  ‘I’ll take it!’ she said suddenly. The agent looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how much it is?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Issy, suddenly totally flustered. What on earth was she thinking? She wasn’t qualified to run a business! How could she manage? All she could do was bake cakes and that would never be enough, surely. Although how, a little voice inside her said, how will you ever know unless you try? And wouldn’t you like to be your own boss? And have your lovely cleaned-up, gorgeous local café in this perfect spot? And have people come from far and wide to taste your cupcakes and sit and relax for half an hour, read the paper, buy a gift, enjoy a little bit of peace and quiet? Wouldn’t that be a nice thing to do every day: sweeten people’s lives, give them a smile, feed them? Wasn’t that what she did in her life anyway; didn’t it make sense to take it to the next level? Didn’t it? Now she had this once-in-a-lifetime cash; this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, confused. ‘I’m jumping way ahead of the gun. Can I just have a brochure?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Des. ‘Have you just got divorced by any chance?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Issy.

  She studied the brochure for hours and hours. She downloaded forms from the internet; tried working out some rough costings on the backs of envelopes. She spoke to a small business adviser, and wondered about a cash-and-carry card. Issy felt so excited she couldn’t contain it. She hadn’t felt this alive in years. At the back of her mind, all she could hear was one thing: I could do this. I could really do this. What was stopping her?

  The following Saturday, Issy made good use of the slow bus up to Gramps’s home; she worked on some calculations and schedules in her newly purchased notebook, and felt a little rising bubble of excitement. No. She mustn’t. It was a daft idea. Although, after all, when else was she going to have the chance to do something like this? On the other hand, would it be a total disaster? What would make her different from everyone else who had gone into that space and failed miserably?

  The Oaks was an austere ex-stately home. The organization had done its best to keep some kind of a homey feel – the baronial hall remained intact. There had been money left over when Gramps had sold his bakeries and Helena had recommended the Oaks as the best of its kind. But still. There were handrails; the industrial cleaning scent; the wing-backed chairs. It was what it was.

  Taking Issy up, the plump young nurse called Keavie was as kind as usual, but seemed a little distracted. ‘What’s up?’ asked Issy.

  Keavie fidgeted. ‘You should know,’ she said, ‘he’s not having one of his better days.’

  Issy’s heart sank. Since he’d arrived at the home, although it had taken him a couple of weeks to settle in, he’d seemed to adjust pretty well. The old ladies fussed round him nicely – there were hardly any men there – and he’d even enjoyed the art therapies. In fact, it was a young intense-looking therapist who’d convinced him to start writing down his recipes for Issy. And Issy was so happy to know he was warm and safe and comfortable and well fed. So to hear those words was chilling. Steeling herself, she popped her head round the door.

  Joe was propped up in bed, a cold cup of tea by his side. Never a fat man, his weight, she noticed, had fallen away even further; his skin was beginning to sink and drop off his bones, as if it had somewhere better to be. He had kept his hair, though it looked now like fine white fluff on top of his head, oddly like a baby’s. He was a baby now, thought Issy sadly. Without the joy, the anticipation, the wonder of a baby: just the feeding, the changing; the carrying around. But she loved him still. She kissed him fondly.

  ‘Hi, Gramps,’ she said, ‘thanks for the recipes.’ She perched at the end of the bed. ‘I love getting them.’

  She did. Apart from Christmas cards, no one else had sent her a handwritten letter for about ten years. Email was great, but she did miss being excited by the post. That was probably why people did so much internet shopping, she reckoned. So they had a parcel to look forward to.

  Issy looked at her grampa. He’d had a funny turn before, just after he’d moved, and they’d put him on some new medication. He’d seemed to zone out a lot, but the staff had assured her that he could hear her talking, and that it probably helped. At first she’d felt a complete idiot. Then she’d actually found it quite restful – a bit like therapy, she thought, probably. The kind where the therapist doesn’t actually say anything, just nods their head and writes things down.

  ‘Anyway,’ she found herself saying now – almost as if trying it out on her tongue, just to see what it sounded like – ‘I’m thinking of … I’m thinking of doing something new. Of opening a little café. People like little cafés these days. They’re getting sick of the same old chains. Well, that’s what I read in a Sunday magazine.

  ‘My friends aren’t actually being very helpful. Helena keeps telling me to think about VAT, even though she has absolutely no idea what VAT is. I think she’s trying to be those scary guys off the telly that make fun of your business ideas, because she always says it in a really growly voice, then snorts like this,’ she snorted, ‘when I say I hadn’t thought about VAT, like she’s a total millionaire mogul and I’m just some idiot, not fit to run a business.

  ‘But all sorts of people run businesses, don’t they, Gramps? Look at you, you did it for years.’

  She sighed.

  ‘So obviously I remembered to ask you all the intelligent questions about it while you were still in a fit position to answer them. Gramps, why didn’t I ask you about running a business? I’m such an idiot. Please help me.’

  Nothing. Issy sighed again.

  ‘I mean, our local dry-cleaner has the IQ of a balloon and he runs his own business. It can’t be that hard, can it? Helena reckons he can’t look at himself in the mirror without seeing someone else who wants to pick a fight with him.’

  She smiled. ‘He is a terrible dry-cleaner though.

  ‘But when will I have the chance
to do this again? What if I put all the money into my mortgage then don’t find a job for eight months? I may as well … I mean, it will be like nothing ever happened. Or I could go round the world but, you know, I’d still be me when I got back. Except a bit older, with sun damage.

  ‘Whereas this … I mean, there’s tax and red tape and health and safety and food standards and hygiene practice and fire regulations. It’s doing it the way you want it, subject to an incredibly narrow prescribed range of things that are actually allowed … It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought of, totally doomed to fail, bankrupt me, all of that.’

  Issy looked out of the window. It was a cold, clear day; the grounds of the home were beautiful. She saw an old lady, bent over, gardening in a tiny flower bed. She was completely engrossed in what she was doing. A nurse came past, checked she was all right and then went on her way again.

  Issy remembered coming home from school – her horrible modern comprehensive full of horrible girls who made fun of her frizzy hair – and making a strawberry tart from scratch, pastry as light as air, and the glaze as fine and sweet as fairies’ breath. Gramps had sat down in silence with a fork and not uttered a word as he savoured every bite, slowly, and she stood at the end of their terraced kitchen, at the tiny back door, hands clasped over the front of her now far too small apron. When he had finished, he had put down his fork carefully, reverently. Then he had looked at her.

  ‘You, love,’ he had said, deliberately. ‘You are a born baker.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap,’ her mother had said, who was home that autumn, doing a course to become a yoga teacher that she never finished. ‘Issy’s got brains! She’s going to go to college, get a proper job, not one where she has to get up in the middle of the night for the rest of her life. I want her in a nice office, keeping warm and clean. Not covered head to toe in flour, passed out from exhaustion in a chair every night at six pm.’