by Jenny Colgan
‘I’ve prepared this presentation,’ she began. ‘Now. Extensive market research undertaken by me has shown that seventy-four per cent of people say they find it hard to get their five a day, with a further sixty per cent saying that if fresh fruit and vegetables were more readily and temptingly available, they’d be fifty-five per cent more likely to up their vegetable intake …’
It was relentless. There were screeds of it. Caroline had gone in, out and round the houses. She had categorized the postcodes, designed the website and sourced organic carrots being grown on an allotment on Hackney Marshes. Nobody was going to beat her on this.
‘We’ll source locally as much as possible, of course,’ she simpered. Mr Barstow watched the entire presentation in silence.
‘Now, have you any questions?’ she said after twenty minutes, her look defiant. She knew she’d done well. She was going to show him. Start a hugely successful business and then he’d be sorry.
Issy’s insides had begun to shrink. A few days’ Googling was definitely not up to scratch here. In fact, she couldn’t give a presentation after that one, so immaculately researched and explained. She would look like a total idiot. Mr Barstow looked Caroline up and down. She really was extremely impressive, thought Issy. She’d give it to her.
‘So what you’re saying …’ he began. He still hadn’t removed the sunglasses he’d been wearing when he came in, even though it was only February. ‘What you’re saying is, you’re going to stand there all day, in an alleyway off the Albion Road, three hundred metres from Stoke Newington High Street, and try and push beetroot juice.’
Caroline was unperturbed.
‘I believe my extensive in-depth customer-based statistical analysis, commissioned from a leading marketing agency …’
‘What about you?’ said Mr Barstow, pointing at Issy.
‘Uh …’ Suddenly all Issy’s hastily gleaned knowledge seemed to fall straight out of her head. She knew nothing about retail, nothing about business, not really. This was sooo stupid. There was a long pause in the room as Issy searched her brain. Her mind had gone completely blank. This was a nightmare. Des raised his eyebrows. Caroline smirked nastily. She didn’t know, though, thought Issy suddenly. They didn’t know about her secret weapon.
‘Um,’ said Issy. ‘I make cakes.’
Mr Barstow grunted.
‘Oh yeah? Got any?’
Issy had been hoping for this. She opened the tin. As well as the lemon getting-what-you-want cake, which few could resist trying, she’d gone for a selection of cupcakes to show her range: white chocolate and fresh cloudberry (the acid of the cloudberry neutralized the overweening sweetness of the white chocolate if you got the balance right, which, after extensive experimentation last winter, Issy had, but it was very much a seasonal cupcake); cinnamon and orange peel, which tasted more Christmassy than Christmas cake; and a sweet, fresh, irresistible spring vanilla, decorated with tiny roses. She’d brought four of each.
She could see Caroline raising her eyebrows at the lemon cake, which looked cracked and messy. As she’d known he would, Mr Barstow stuck a fat hairy hand in the box and took a piece, as well as a vanilla cupcake.
Before anyone else dared move, he took a bite out of each of them. Issy held her breath as he chewed, slowly and deliberately, his eyes closed as if he were a top wine taster at work. Finally he swallowed.
‘All right,’ he said, pointing straight at her. ‘You. Don’t muck it up, love.’
Then he picked up his briefcase, turned round and left the office.
For Caroline, it felt like the final straw. Issy went from disliking her to feeling very sorry, particularly as Caroline would never even know that it was her who’d given Issy the idea in the first place.
‘It’s just, the kids are going to nursery and school now, and that shit’s messing me about and I just … I just don’t know what to do with myself,’ she sobbed. ‘And I’ve got one of those big houses just behind the shop and it would be perfect, and I thought I would show him. All my girlfriends said it would be great.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Issy. ‘My friends keep telling me it’s a terrible idea.’
Caroline stared at her as if just realizing something. A thought struck her.
‘Of course my friends lie all the time,’ she said. ‘They didn’t even tell me the Bastard was having an affair, even though they all knew about it.’ Caroline swallowed painfully. ‘Do you know, he takes her to lapdancing classes? With his own colleagues? On company expenses?’ She let out a strangulated giggle. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. Obviously I’m boring.’
This was directed at Des, who’d just let out a huge yawn.
‘No, no, not at all, colicky baby,’ stuttered Des. ‘I’m … I’m really sorry, Mrs Hanford, I don’t know what to say.’
Caroline sighed. ‘Try saying, “I’m a weasel estate agent who double-let the property.’’’
‘Uh, for legal reasons, I can’t …’
‘Would you like a cake?’ said Issy, not sure what else to say.
Caroline snorted. ‘I don’t eat cake! I haven’t eaten cake in fourteen years.’
‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘Don’t worry. Des, I’ll leave a couple for you and take the rest home.’
Caroline looked longingly at the tin.
‘But the children might like them.’
‘When they get home from school,’ said Issy, agreeing. ‘But they have white sugar in them.’
‘He can pay the dental bills,’ snarled Caroline.
‘OK,’ said Issy. ‘How many would they like?’
Caroline licked her lips. ‘They’re … they’re very greedy children.’
Slightly discomfited, Issy passed over the whole tin.
‘Thanks,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ll … I’ll bring the tin back to the shop, shall I?’
‘Yes please,’ said Issy. ‘And … good luck with finding a venue.’
‘“Get a little job,” he said, “to distract yourself.” Can you believe that’s what he said to me? Can you believe it? The Bastard.’
Issy patted her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Get a little bloody job. Bye, Desmond.’
And Caroline banged the door on her way out.
Des and Issy looked at one another.
‘Do you think she’s scoffing them all in her Range Rover right now?’ said Des.
‘I’m worried about her,’ said Issy. ‘I think I need to make sure she’s OK.’
‘I’m not sure she’d appreciate it,’ said Des. ‘I’ll give it a couple of days and ring her.’
‘Will you?’
‘Yes,’ Des said stoically. ‘And now, you and I have quite a lot of paperwork to go over.’
Issy obediently followed him through to the back of the office.
‘Did she really take that entire tin of cakes?’ said Des sadly. He hadn’t liked the look of the lemon cake, but the rest of it had seemed delicious.
‘I’m sure I have a spare in tinfoil in my handbag,’ said Issy, who’d been saving it for a celebratory or commiserative treat, whichever was needed. ‘Would you like it?’
He did.
Issy arrived home with a bottle of champagne. Helena, who got back after her shift weary after stitching up a bottle-throwing incident that had got well out of control, suddenly perked up. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘You got it!’
‘It was Gramps’s cakes,’ said Issy with feeling. ‘I can’t believe he’s repaying me like this for putting him in a home.’
‘You didn’t put him in a home,’ said Helena, exasperated to be having this conversation yet again. ‘You moved him somewhere safe and comfortable. What, you want him here, messing about with your Bosch oven?’
‘No,’ said Issy, reluctantly, ‘but …’
Helena made an ‘enough’ gesture with her hands. Sometimes it was very reassuring, Issy thought, that she was so bossy and knew her own mind.
‘To Gramps,’ said Helen
a, raising her glass. ‘And to you! And the success of the Cupcake Café! Full of hot men. Do hot men go to cake shops?’
‘Yes,’ said Issy. ‘With their husbands.’
The two friends clinked glasses and hugged. Suddenly, Issy’s phone rang. She moved to pick it up.
‘Maybe it’s your first customer,’ said Helena. ‘Or that scary-sounding landlord, calling to threaten to whack your kneecaps as a warning.’
It was neither. Issy stared at the number on the phone, then pulled out a strand of her hair and wrapped it round her index finger, thinking. Watching the phone, almost, to see what it would do. Naturally, it rang again, startling her once more. Frozen, she slowly – so slowly, and yet the idea of a message being left was more than she could bear – reached out her hand. Helena caught her expression – half terror, half longing – just in time, and wanted to reach out, stop her from answering the phone. With that odd sixth sense of close friends, she had known immediately who it would be. But it was too late.
‘Graeme?’ said Issy huskily.
Mind you, reflected Helena, Issy had given her loads of good advice about Imran. And how long had it taken her to stop seeing him? Eighteen months. When he got married. She sighed.
‘Babes, where have you been?’ said Graeme, as if they’d last chatted about two hours ago and he’d been looking for her in a shopping centre.
It had taken more from Graeme to make this phone call than Issy could know. At first he’d told himself that things would have come to an end anyway; he wasn’t ready to settle down, it wasn’t like they were serious or anything. And he had a lot of work to do.
But then, gradually, as the weeks had gone on and he hadn’t heard from her, he’d felt an unfamiliar emotion. He missed her. Missed her gentleness, and her genuine interest in him and what he was doing; missed her cooking, obviously. He’d gone out with the lads, pulled a couple of really fit-looking birds, but when it came down to it … there was something about being with Issy that was just so easy-going. She didn’t give him hassle, didn’t nag his ear off or want to spend his money. He liked her. It was that simple. Although normally he didn’t like to look back in his life, he decided to give her a call. Just to see her. Sometimes after a long day she’d run him a bath and give him a massage. He’d like a bit of that too. And what had happened at the office … it was just business, wasn’t it? She had to be let go, that was just how things were at the moment. She’d probably have another job by now anyway. He’d written her an amazing reference, a bit more than her admin skills deserved, and Cal Mehta had too. She’d be over it by now. By the time he picked up the phone, Graeme had managed to convince himself that it would all be cool.
Issy, deliberately not looking at her flatmate, got up and left the room, still carrying the phone. It took her a long time to speak – so long, in fact, that Graeme had to say, ‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there?’
Over the last few weeks she had lain tossing and turning in bed; the shame and the pain of losing her job would then be overtaken by the misery and frustration of losing Graeme. It was unbearable. Awful. She hated him. She hated him. He had used her like some kind of stupid office perk.
But he hadn’t, she heard herself say on one level. There had been something there. There had. Something real. He had told her things …
But had he just been saying those things to any willing ear? Was she a trustworthy place to dump stuff? Was it useful having a professional confidante who would also cook for you and sleep with you? Just handy for him on his way up the career ladder – after all, he was only thirty-five. He had years yet before he even had to think about settling down. And really, why would someone so handsome and successful be interested in her? Those were the 4am thoughts, when she felt so worthless and inadequate that it was almost funny. Not funny, but almost.
And now the café coming along – that had seemed providential; perfect really. Something good and concrete she could pour her energies into; a new door into a new life. A way to leave all her old worries behind her. Start afresh.
‘You still there?’
She panicked. Should she play it cool, pretend she’d hardly been thinking about him – when she had, compulsively? She remembered storming out of the office in that huge fit of pique. She remembered some of the more, ahem, inappropriate toasts she’d made about him at her leaving bash. How for the first few days she was sure he’d ring, sure of it, say he’d made a terrible mistake and that he loved her and please could she come back, life was crap without her. Then those days had turned into weeks and over a month and she had a new course now, finally, and there was no going back …
‘Hello?’ she said finally, her voice coming out like a strangled whisper.
‘Can you talk?’ said Graeme. This riled her for some reason. What on earth did he think she was doing?
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’m in bed with George Clooney and he’s just gone off to open a fresh bottle of champage to top up the jacuzzi.’
Graeme laughed. ‘Oh Issy, I have missed you.’
Issy felt, out of nowhere, a sob hit her throat and desperately tried to gulp it back down. He hadn’t missed her! He hadn’t bloody missed her! Because if he’d thought about her at all, for one tiny second, he’d have realized the one single solitary time she needed him more than anything or anyone in the world had been after she’d lost her job; her boyfriend; her entire life. After he had decided that she should lose her job. And he hadn’t given a shit.
‘No you haven’t,’ she managed, finally. ‘Course you bloody haven’t. Now you’ve got rid of me and everything.’
Graeme sighed. ‘I didn’t think you’d be like this.’
Issy bit down on her lip. ‘As opposed to what – grateful?’
‘Yes, well, you know. Maybe a bit. Grateful to be given the opportunity to go out and do a bit more with your life. You know you’re capable, Issy. And anyway, how could I have contacted you before? It would have been completely inappropriate, you must understand that.’
Issy didn’t say anything. She didn’t want him to think he was sounding reasonable.
‘Look,’ he said honestly. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot.’
‘Have you really? When you just dumped my job and then dumped me?’
‘I didn’t dump you!’ said Graeme, sounding exasperated. ‘Your job disappeared. Everyone’s job was at risk! And I was trying to protect you from the fact that you and I had a personal relationship, then you went and shouted about it all over the office! That was really embarrassing to me, Issy.’
‘They all knew about it anyway,’ said Issy sulkily.
‘Well, that’s not the point. You yelled about it in front of everyone and made some pretty off-colour remarks down the pub, from what I heard.’
There is no loyalty in offices, thought Issy crossly.
‘So why are you calling me now then?’ she asked.
Graeme’s voice went soft.
‘Well, I just wanted to see how you were. What, you think I’m a complete bastard?’
Was it possible? Issy wondered. Was it possible that she had got it wrong? After all, she had stormed out of his office, shouting. Maybe she wasn’t the only injured party here. Maybe he’d been as shocked and upset as she was. Maybe it had taken quite a lot of guts for him to make this phone call. Maybe he wasn’t the arse; maybe he was still – you know – the one.
‘Well …’ she said. Just at that moment, Helena marched into her room without knocking. She was carrying a hastily erected sign, scrawled on the back of a council tax reminder. In big black letters was written ‘NO!’
Helena punched her fists in the air like they were at a demonstration, mouthing, ‘No! No! No!’ very ferociously in her direction. Issy tried to wave her away, but she just advanced even more. Helena was reaching out a hand to grab the phone.
‘Shoo!’ said Issy. ‘Shoo!’
‘What’s that?’ said Graeme.
‘Oh, it’s just my flatmate,’ said Issy. ‘Sorry.�
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‘What, the large one?’
Unfortunately Graeme’s carrying voice came right over the phone.
‘Right!’ said Helena, and made a lunge for the telephone.
‘No!’ shrieked Issy. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t need saving, OK. But we do need to talk. So would you mind pissing off for five minutes and giving us some privacy?’
She stared hard at Helena until she retreated back to the sitting room.
‘Sorry about that,’ Issy said finally to Graeme. But he sounded much perkier.
‘Are we fine? We’re fine,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘Oh good. That’s great.’ There was a pause. ‘Want to come over?’
‘No!’ said Issy.
‘You’re not going,’ said Helena, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, and giving Issy the look she gave drunks who turned up at 1.30am bleeding from the head on a Saturday night. ‘You’re not.’
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ said Issy. ‘He’s been feeling terrible too.’
‘So terrible he lost his phone for weeks and weeks,’ said Helena. ‘Issy, please. You’re making a clean break.’
‘But Helena,’ said Issy, fired up. She had necked the glass of champagne as soon as she’d come off the phone, and felt a warm glow through her whole body. He had called! He had called!
‘He’s … I mean … I mean, I really think Graeme might be the one.’
‘No. He’s the boss you had a crush on and you’re nearly thirty-two and in a panic.’
‘That … that’s not it,’ said Issy, trying to get her point over. ‘It’s not. You’re not there, Helena.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Helena. ‘I’m back here, nursing you through tearful nights or mopping you up when he’s let you walk home in the rain again, or accompanying you to parties as your plus one because he doesn’t want to be seen out and about with you.’