The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  Downstairs there lies every type of pastry known to womankind (as I imagine we can name more varieties than mankind). We all sit down to survey the bounty, some pieces looking more shipwrecked than others.

  ‘I’ve tried everything and I just don’t know what to go with,’ sighs Zoe, although that much is obvious.

  Mum starts sampling each one.

  ‘OK then, let’s get practical,’ I say. ‘What are the competition categories?’

  Zoe digs out a flour-covered sheet which lists them: Pastry King or Queen, Lord of the Flans – you get the picture. I skim down the list and wonder which category Amanda will enter as it would be best if they weren’t up against each other.

  ‘How are your crumbles?’ I ask looking at the Duchess of Desserts category.

  ‘They’re OK but I’m not going to win with an apple crumble, am I?’ says Zoe.

  ‘This one’s nice,’ chirps up Mum and we’ll have to take her word for it as it’s gone.

  ‘And pray, what was it?’ I ask.

  ‘Key Lime Pie,’ answers Zoe, ‘I made it with a slug of margarita to give it a bit of a kick.’

  ‘Maybe we should go for this one then,’ I say pointing at the list.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Trendsetters; it sounds like quite a youthful category and you could probably make anything you like. Now, what’s trendy? Those macaroon things?’

  ‘So 2014,’ Zoe shakes her head.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ mumbles Mum who, by the way, is still sitting in the background eating her way through the table.

  ‘I couldn’t understand all that fuss; they’re only chewy biscuits in different colours.’

  ‘How about taking your Lime Pie idea and making a cocktail cabinet of cakes? Like a Black Russian Chocolate Cake,’ I suggest.

  Zoe starts looking up cake trends online.

  ‘Baking with spirits has been done,’ she tells us. ‘The next big thing is going to be baking with herbs according to this, like dark chocolate with basil. Maybe I could do a herb garden?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say, ‘we’ve got the category but I still think we should give both ideas a go. Cocktails may be passé in professional circles but adding the word artisan might make them go down very well here. You research herb cakes and I’ll do the boozy ones then we’ll pitch our ideas to each other and see which one we think would win. We could ask Patty and Mum to be the judges.’

  ‘They’re going to pick the ones with the most alcohol in,’ counsels Zoe, ‘which is not necessarily what the judges will choose.’

  ‘Then let’s invite Charlie and Peter, too; Peter is very discerning. It’ll be like Dragons’ Den,’ I say.

  ‘Great, next Sunday, the Dragons’ Doughnuts.’ Zoe shakes my hand competitively; my daughter even wants to win this stage.

  * * *

  As the month ploughs on, the sweltering heat does nothing for bookings. ‘Staycations’ became popular during the recession when everyone decided to stay at home for their holidays. They would also justify it on environmental grounds at first, but their desire to save the planet was soon beaten down by the British weather and theme park prices. It’s often cheaper to go abroad.

  Nevertheless, when the long-range forecast is for more heat and potential drought, there is little incentive to book something just to get some sunshine. Our customers don’t tend to travel during the school holidays or if they do, it’s as a babysitting resource on their family package trips.

  The Mercury Travel Club is about more than weather, so I spend the week going through our customer lists sending them details of short breaks and activities which might tempt them out of their summer hibernation. Our business plan forecasts bear no resemblance to reality at the moment.

  Charlie is working on Patty’s cruise trip.

  ‘Some of these tributes are fabulous,’ he says. ‘In fact, I have no idea how she managed to wangle her way on to this line-up.’

  I suspect having a friend who can get bums on seats has helped but I’m still impressed by the list of bands taking part. I reflect that if you’re current, you take up residency in Vegas and if you’re retro you live life on the ocean wave.

  Charlie adds a little fantasy of his own to the trip: for Mercury Club members, we’ll be hosting his little pool-side party à la Tom Cruise before showing the film Cocktail; living the dream.

  We assemble the publicity shots into an email and send it to everyone we know. The response is pretty good with customers copying each other saying, ‘Now this looks like fun.’

  A group of four books up instantly and others ask for more information.

  ‘I never thought I’d ever say these words,’ I say to Charlie, ‘but Patty might just save the day.’

  We Have to Talk about Alan

  As I open my door and leave for work, the terracotta planter reminds me that there is an issue I’m avoiding – my stalker.

  It has to be Alan, who else can it be? A gardener who doesn’t want me to forget them? He gave Gnorman a partner; he tidied up after the storm. I’m sure he must know where I live, after all.

  Why is he messing with my emotions now? When the house sale is practically complete? When I’ve thrown out his fishing gear and insulted his new woman? When I’m finally starting to feel like a person in my own right and not just one half, the insignificant half, of a couple?

  I don’t know what to do. Patty would kill me if I took him back but there are other things to consider besides her needs. Zoe would have her family back together again; we’d hold on to our home; none of us would be living in rented boxes; and the investment in the Mercury Club would feel more secure if someone were earning an income. It would be like turning the clocks back (as Cleo predicted) but with a new, improved version. I’d put my foot down about having a life of my own and keep up all the new things I’ve done like the book club and the nights out with Patty; I’d probably have to stop the friendship with Ed, though.

  It could work but am I sure that I want it to?

  Or am I even considering this for a very different, very shallow reason?

  You know the one I mean.

  The sweet taste of victory when I look into Amanda’s eyes as I saunter past with Alan.

  ‘In the end, you and your cakes just weren’t good enough. I won.’

  Despite mentally practising the scenario many times over, I haven’t acted on my suspicions. Like many others, I find the mantra ‘if in doubt do nowt’ to be fairly solid advice. To me it means, sleep on it and force the issue to start resolving itself. This is very important because the last thing I ever want Alan to be able to say is that I ‘begged him to come back’.

  I find that men have a knack at doing this; even in school I remember Martyn Jackson moping around until I asked him out. Then when he decided to move on to someone else he started moping again and I was the one who had to ask him if we’d split up.

  Not this time. If this is him and he does want me back, then he has to do a bit more than leave the gnomes to do the talking. A lot more.

  Anyway, I don’t have time to worry about him. I’m very busy trying to persuade people to take a holiday; at least Patty’s cruise is selling well if nothing else is. Come closing time I have to go online to find some innovative cake recipes, buy the ingredients and get ready to compete with my daughter on Sunday. Again I find myself wondering how on earth I managed to volunteer for this. I don’t want to win even if it were a vague possibility.

  The internet does me proud and I plan a Limoncello Drizzle Cake, a Chocolate Black Russian and a Gin & Tonic Cake. Yes, all of these delights actually exist. Who knew?

  I must look like a complete health hazard as I whizz around the supermarket shelves adding only unusual spirits, sugar and butter to my basket. And then I remember that I need lemons, thank goodness for that; they must count as one of your five-a-day. I imagine I probably have enough gin in the house but perhaps if I have a little tipple first it’ll help me to get into the swing of things. I best buy another b
ottle. After all, I mustn’t run out of gin before I get to the cake.

  * * *

  The great Bo Peep bake-off

  The clash of the cakes

  The scrummage of scones

  The battle of the buns

  Mother v. daughter in a skirmish to decide soufflé supremacy

  The billing is more impressive than the entrant – at least in my case.

  ‘Why have you made three trifles?’

  The room giggles at the innocence of Peter’s question; he doesn’t know about my childhood.

  Zoe and I have set up our tableau in the dining room while our ‘judges’ enjoy a Pimm’s in the garden.

  We don’t have to bake live at the competition, so we’ve created a display of the cakes we’d planned to make. It’s true to say that my cakes have turned out like every other sponge I ever make – flat. However, I know that the skill in these competitions is in the presentation, so I have excelled here, or so I believe.

  Using my full creative genius I have taken some very stylish cocktail glasses, broken up the sponge, added a bit of whipped cream for luck et voilà.

  I scatter little umbrellas around, add glass charms and twizzle sticks then put a shaker in the background. In my mind, I have created an artful and innovative selection worthy of the Trendsetter category.

  Following Peter’s comments, however, I see my effort more clearly and indeed it does look more like three trifles let loose on a bar crawl.

  Zoe on the other hand has surpassed herself. Her herb garden display is both rustic and contemporary with fresh green herbs and glowing nasturtiums surrounding four beautiful creations presented in little flower pots and trendy tin gardening mugs.

  She’s made Apricot and Basil Tart presented as a beautiful sunflower, Lemon and Thyme Cake, Chocolate and Chilli Mousse and some very sweet Rosemary Cookies. They look so delightful it seems a shame to eat them, but of course we have to and they taste as good as they look. I do not know how Zoe has either inherited or cultivated this skill.

  ‘The question isn’t “Can Zoe beat her Mum” because we all could.’ My mother is giving me another vote of confidence.

  ‘But are her herb recipes more likely to win than cocktail recipes?’

  There follows a debate about whether cocktails have peaked or not. We decide that cocktails in jam jars have definitely peaked, alongside food served on slate. Peter sticks to the point and looks at the list of judges.

  ‘You have an RHS winner as chair of the panel,’ he declares, ‘go with the herbs.’

  This man has so much local insider knowledge that he could probably find a category I could win, perhaps the one with the local lush as chair. Or maybe that’s a stretch too far.

  Having decided the culinary direction, Patty tries to steer the conversation on to Ed.

  ‘Have you seen Knight Rider recently?’ she asks.

  Everyone seems to stop mid-morsel and raise their eyebrows towards me; you’d think all my family and friends had suddenly had Botox injections. Given that I haven’t even mentioned him today, I can only assume Patty has been divulging my private life to everyone while I slaved away.

  ‘He’s just a friend,’ I protest, ‘I’m trying to get business, nothing more.’

  ‘Good.’

  Zoe says so much with just the one word; I know she’s hoping that I’ll get back together with her dad, so now is not the time to tell them about the gnomes and my suspicions. In the cold light of day, it seems rather far-fetched.

  There’s a short awkward silence until Charlie gets Patty warmed up.

  ‘So how are rehearsals going, Granny Lauper?’ he asks.

  ‘Would you believe, the girls wanted to discuss dropping Cyndi from the set list?’ she replies.

  And so this mid-summer eve will always be remembered for drinking cocktails at Mum’s, eating cake and debating whether Cyndi or Madonna was the real Queen of Eighties Pop.

  There are worse ways to spend the longest day of the year.

  Put Necker Island on Hold

  However, I can’t think of worse ways to spend a Monday than looking through accounts; poorly performing accounts.

  ‘With this heatwave and the downturn in bookings, we’re not achieving our cash-flow targets,’ explains Charlie. ‘We need to cut costs somehow.’

  Customers still aren’t booking the big overseas trips and we’re only taking initial deposits for the Mercury Travel Club weekends, so finances are quite tight at the moment.

  ‘What are the options?’ I ask.

  Charlie starts counting them out but runs out of ideas by the fourth finger.

  ‘We could cut trading hours, let Josie go, take pay cuts or ask customers to pay the full balance up front.’

  We both know that three of the options will send panic amongst the customers and no one will book a holiday with a company they think is in trouble. I wonder how many times Charlie has been in this situation on his own and we haven’t known about it; being the boss is tougher than it looks. I suggest the action I imagine he’s taken before.

  ‘I guess we have to shoulder the pay cuts ourselves, until things get better,’ I say.

  ‘Can you manage on less?’ asks Charlie.

  I have no idea but I know from reading the autobiographies of successful entrepreneurs that many go through hard times. I’m so busy romanticising this and thinking how good conquering a downturn will sound in my top businesswoman acceptance speech, I don’t even think of the implications when I say, ‘I’ll find a way Charlie, how much less?’

  ‘How about we only take the minimum until autumn?’ he suggests.

  I’m nodding while my mental calculator whirrs away; if the house sale goes through as planned, I’ll be OK. I won’t be able to buy anywhere else yet but I wasn’t ready to put down roots anyway.

  The most important thing is to hold our heads up high and act as if everything is going brilliantly; people are attracted to success. I need our local paper to run another feature on how well we’re doing, but they’re reluctant as they’ve only just done one. I have to give them something new.

  ‘Patty,’ I project as if she’s miles away, not at the end of the phone, ‘how do you fancy being the centre of attention?’

  ‘Ha, ha very funny,’ she replies.

  My idea is to tell the Chronicle about her astounding success: ‘From Karaoke to Cruise Ship’; how a night out with the girls led to sharing the stage with a host of 1980s icons. They’d be able to feature pictures of the stars and mention that tickets are available from us. It’s worth a try and she’s up for it so agrees to call the editor as I’ve pestered him too much recently.

  Ed calls. ‘Hi there,’ he says, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you.’

  ‘Not if you’re about to make lots of bookings for The Chapter,’ I say.

  He laughs so my cheerful veneer must be effective.

  ‘Perhaps when this heatwave dies down. Right now we’re making the most of the rare UK sunshine.’

  Same as everyone else then – damn.

  ‘I just wondered if you fancied getting some food after work?’ he continues.

  My entourage would warn me this is far too close to date territory, but I need cheering up and if I’m on minimum wage, I need someone else to start paying for my food.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I tell him.

  We meet up for the early bird menu so both the time and the restaurant declares that we’re just friends out for a meal rather than on a date. I’m slightly disappointed by this but it doesn’t surprise me that Ed would want to take it slowly.

  It’s a warm and homely Italian place: not so child friendly that we can’t hear ourselves chat over screaming crayon-wielders but not so couple-y that we’re embarrassed by everyone except us holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Alan and I used to play a game in restaurants; we’d eye up each couple and make up back stories for them.

  ‘They met line-dancing; it was love at first sight and they
haven’t let go of each other’s hands for six weeks. They even go to the loo together,’ we said of one particularly nauseating couple.

  ‘He met her at uni when they were both wild but now she’s in corporate law and she chooses all his clothes for him. It’ll be over by the end of the year.’ Then we watched a real power-dresser straightening the lapels of her hangdog companion.

  We found it quite entertaining and one night we watched a family having a blazing row in sign language. I’ve never seen such emotion silently expressed; it must be fantastic to be able to do that. Her parents obviously didn’t like her boyfriend that’s for sure.

  I tell Ed about the game and he smiles.

  ‘My ex and I used to play Punching Above Their Weight. We’d pick the most unlikely couple in the room and decide which one had won the lottery when it came to other halves.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ I say, ‘if everyone plays these games, it means someone is probably checking us out right now.’

  ‘They’d definitely say that I’d won the lottery,’ says Ed.

  I groan at the cheesiness but am secretly pleased and in danger of blushing; I’m extremely grateful when the bruschetta arrives.

  It’s the first time he’s mentioned an ex and I decide to make polite enquiries as casually as I can.

  ‘So how did it end – with your ex?’ I ask.

  ‘I guess she decided she was punching above her weight. What about you?’

  ‘Ditto,’ I add.

  So we’ve managed to get through that part with the minimum level of knowledge being offered or acquired by either of us. Men certainly don’t talk the way women do.

  Plates are cleared and pasta arrives, mine heaving with a creamy sauce. Although everyone thinks they can make a carbonara at home, there is NOTHING that beats this dish in a good Italian restaurant.

  There is apparently a scientifically proven fact that the right combination of fat in a food can send signals to your brain cells and simulate an orgasm. This is true (you can google it), I have not made it up; it’s why you become addicted to chocolate. I have a vision of a science lab where hundreds of women are sitting with stainless steel colanders on their heads. They’re attached to a pleasure-measuring machine with jump leads and a scientist is feeding them pasta and cake. I wonder how I sign up for such experiments.