Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  “One of the researchers on Dream Homes knows Bitch Rachel,” he revealed. “It seems she’s a complete tart and apparently chases men all the time. Tom’s not the first married man she’s had either.”

  “Who? When?” I begged, wanting but not wanting to know the details.

  “I don’t know exactly, but apparently she’s had her eye on Tom for a while, and was always playing ‘helpless’ around him. I’m sorry to tell you, Stel, but she decided she was going to have him and she did.”

  He went on to say that Rachel was chameleon-like in her adulterous adventures. It would seem she was prepared (for a short time) to become whatever the bored husband wanted. “Apparently, she developed a passion for cricket and a deep desire to live on a remote Scottish island the week she met Tom,” he spat. “She did her homework and turned up everywhere he went, appearing on shoots and arriving in the office all breathless, saying her car had broken down or her cat had died.”

  “Yes, and he’s a sucker for a damsel in distress,” I added bitterly, finding it hard to believe this was my Tom we were discussing.

  “What a complete knob he is,” slurred Lizzie, who was warming to the theme and becoming quite aggressive, “to believe her when she told him she shared his dreams of England winning the bloody Ashes and life in the fucking Highlands, the bastard!”

  “Exactly!” hissed Al. “He fell hook, line and sinker. Especially as she was wearing figure-hugging tops and swishing past his lens every five minutes with her tits out. Tom didn’t stand a chance. Darling, you are Jennifer to their Brangelina!”

  Despite having a macabre fascination for all this – I had to make them stop. It was all too painful and I didn’t want to hear any more of Al’s colourful analogies or Lizzie’s announcements about Tom’s likeness to the male organ. Al and Lizzie were still hissing and spitting about the whole thing and, being more sober than they were, I felt we should move on so offered to make coffee. As I got up from the table I realised that Sebastian had gone to the toilet ages ago and hadn’t returned. “Al, is Sebastian OK?” I said; I was the hostess after all.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” smiled Al, “he’s very low maintenance. He’s lovely, isn’t he girls?”

  “Yes he is,” we both chimed.

  “But it must have been really boring for him to sit and listen to my marital woes all night,” I added, feeling very guilty. “I’ll go and find him and apologise for being such a drunken, boring old cow.”

  “It’s OK, doll. I’ve told him what you’re like. He knows,” giggled Al.

  I put the kettle on then discreetly popped upstairs to knock on the bathroom door and ask Seb if he’d like coffee. However, as I walked towards the bathroom I could see the door was wide open and the light was out. I hoped he hadn’t gone home, bored and horrified by his hostess. Standing outside the bathroom I became aware of soft voices coming from Grace’s room. “Grace, are you OK?” I called softly. I tiptoed into her room and there was Sebastian, sitting beside her and reading from her latest Jacqueline Wilson book.

  “Stella, I hope you don’t mind but Grace called out and well, we got chatting and…”

  “And Sebastian wanted to be a chef just like the boy in my book and now he is – how cool is that?” Grace chimed excitedly.

  “That is way cool,” I said smiling at Sebastian, “and now I want Sebastian to come and talk to his other friends downstairs because you’re hogging him.”

  He stood up and patted her hand. “Goodnight Grace, we’ll carry on with the book another time.”

  “Ooh yes please,” she said then she turned over and was almost immediately asleep. Sebastian left the room with such a tender look on his face I felt quite touched. Linking his arm as we walked downstairs together I said; “Thanks for reading to her, Grace loves that story.” He smiled and I wondered if he’d deliberately left us alone so I could talk privately with Lizzie and Al; if I was right, Al was definitely onto a winner.

  Over coffee I felt I needed to bring Sebastian into the fold. “So Sebastian, you’re a chef?”

  “Yes I am,” he answered, clearly a bit uncomfortable to have the spotlight on him.

  “He’s being modest, he owns a restaurant,” said Al proudly. “It’s in Worcester, it’s called ‘Sebastian’s’, it’s French, and the food is delicious.”

  Sebastian smiled shyly. “I’m lucky. My father was French so he taught me how to cook. You must be my guests one evening.”

  “You bet,” said Lizzie slurping on her wine. “Ooh, all that butter and garlic, French food is so creamy and rich, not like those bloody vegan joints, where cheese is a dirty word.”

  “So, what about your work situation, Stella?” Al asked, changing the subject and cutting to the chase as usual.

  “Well, I don’t have any work as yet but I have applied for a few things,” I lied.

  Lizzie then stepped in. “Have you thought of working that fabulous body of yours up a pole sweetie?” she said, giggling into her wine.

  “Oh doll, I can see it now, you with your Vaselined thighs, sliding up and down like a woman possessed and gyrating in laps,” screamed Al, slapping Seb’s back.

  They were all laughing hard. “Thanks guys, for your vital input,” I said. I thought Al was going to choke on his Merlot.

  “OMG! At one pound fifty a dance she’ll be dancing on laps ‘til dawn.” This descended into the two of them conjuring up ‘hilarious’ images of me as Page Three girl, Playboy Bunny and kissogram.

  Once the laughter had died down regarding my pole-dancing career, Lizzie staggered into the garden for a cigarette accompanied by Sebastian, who was attempting against all the odds to keep her upright. Al and I were smiling at him through the window as Lizzie leaned on his shoulder and told him her life story while blowing smoke in his face.

  “Seriously, Stella, you know I could lend you some money to keep you going for a bit,” Al said, leaning across the table and touching my hand.

  “Thanks Al. I really appreciate the offer, but I need a more long-term solution.” I replied. The problem was, I just didn’t know what it was yet.

  18 - Fat Brides and Fairy Cakes

  As spring blossomed and the days got warmer the money situation got more and more desperate. Grace and I spent weeks eating out of the freezer and raiding the cupboards for old packets of Cup-a-Soup and Alphabetti Spaghetti. It wasn’t easy, but we discovered some new and interesting food combos that were surprisingly tasty when you were hungry and had no alternative. For example, I didn’t realise one could create such culinary delights from a tin of tomatoes, a jar of herbs and four frozen pitta-breads. Grace had also created her own concoctions involving fish fingers, frozen peas and ice-pops, a sure favourite with child nutritionists everywhere. However, there was definitely a silver lining; I couldn’t bring myself to eat some of the more adventurous combos so lost six whole pounds.

  Tom and I also finally had the awkward discussion about money and access to Grace, which made everything seem horribly real. We met on neutral ground at a coffee shop in town one Saturday, while Lizzie babysat. Apart from when he picked her up some weekends, it was the first time I’d really spoken to him and my stomach churned as I waited, breaking up my skinny muffin nervously. He walked through the door looking almost as tense as me.

  “Hi Stella,” he said, and smiled hopefully.

  “Hello Tom,” I replied, stonily. “Let’s talk.”

  We agreed that Grace and I would stay in the house as it was her home. Tom had worked out a monthly maintenance payment figure and when he showed it to me, I snorted in disbelief.

  “That’s hardly realistic, Tom,” I spat.

  “It’s all I can afford, Stella. I have to pay for two places now. It’s not easy.” I had to hold on to everything I had not to throw my double skinny latte in his face.

  “I’m sorry”, he said, looking like he genuinely meant it. “But I think you are going to have to get a job, Stella.”

  After our meeting, I did apply fo
r a few jobs, but without much success. I didn’t want to go back into telly again and besides, I suspected that after the ‘Perfect Peach incident’, MJ would do everything she could to prevent me working in that industry again. What I really wanted was something that was interesting but with child-friendly hours. To my dismay it seemed that there were very few 10am-to-3pm jobs out there and if I had to pay for After School Club I wouldn’t have much to show for my efforts. I did click on a couple of jobs that said ‘flexi-time’ only to discover they were shifts in the supermarket – and I didn’t feel ready to go down that road just yet.

  However, logging on one day I noticed that there were one or two office-based jobs with suitable hours so I excitedly sent off my CV to the recruitment agency handling the position. I didn’t hear anything back for days, so in desperation I rang them and got put through to Mandy.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that you’ll be hard to place, Stella,” Mandy said, cheerfully.

  “Why?” I replied, incredulous. “I’ve worked all my life!”

  “Yes I know. But you’ve worked in a specific industry, which you say you don’t want to go back in to. You aren’t really qualified to do anything else, you know.”

  “But I type well, and I’m a wiz on the computer,” I lied.

  “Even so – most of our jobs are nine to five and require specific experience. So sorry about that!” she said, and added thoughtfully, before she hung up; “have you ever considered check-out work?” Ironic really – I’d spent all that time wishing I could be at home, and now I needed a job it seemed I wasn’t suitable for anything. Each time Tom’s money came through into my bank account I was desperate to go to the supermarket and splurge on goodies. But I was almost too scared to spend it. I had to eke the money out and make it last, as there was nothing edible left in the house. I knew we couldn’t go on like this much longer or it would all end in tears and a Gilbert and George sandwich.

  When Easter came around and I couldn’t afford to buy any eggs – or worse – make any biscuits, I finally decided enough was enough. It seemed I’d given up everything for Lent without even intending to. It’s one thing not being able to feed yourself and your child, but quite another when you have to use your credit card to bake. I’d arrived at the last resort and with Mandy’s reference to my ‘job situation’ still very much on my mind I sat at the kitchen table and made a call to the local supermarket about check-out work. The woman on the other end of the phone was very nice but seemed a bit surprised and decidedly unimpressed with my TV career. “Put it all down in writing and send in your CV,” she said, fobbing me off. Presumably in an attempt not to raise my hopes in these recession-ridden times, she added: “We’re actually laying people off, dear.”

  I put the phone down feeling very deflated because it had taken all my courage to call.

  On a more positive note, Mum had finally returned from her latest trip to Africa and was coming to stay. Before she arrived later in the afternoon I nipped out for some essentials and did some therapeutic baking as a special treat for her visit. The cake was mocha-flavoured and I swirled rich, coffee buttercream into the middle of the two fat-but-light-as-a-feather sponges. I piped it with the coffee buttercream and wrote in dark chocolate, ‘I must get a job’ on the top.

  Mum arrived at about 4pm in a flurry of excitement. She trundled down the hall with her wheelie bag and tribal feathers shouting “Hola! I’ve returned from the wars because those bastards at the Embassy want to mess with my vista again.”

  “You mean your visa, Mum,” I said, hugging her.

  “Well, both, I suppose,” she laughed, then yelled, “Where’s Gracie?”

  Grace heard Mum’s voice and crashed down the stairs into her embrace. “I like your feathers, Nan,” she said and Mum put them on her head.

  “They suit you, Gracie,” she said, “I’ll ask the Chief to send some more.”

  “Chief?” I asked.

  “Of the Hi Hi tribe. We got quite friendly.”

  Once we’d unpacked her bags and settled her in, Mum, Grace and I sat together in the warm kitchen.

  “Lizzie texted me while I was away,” Mum announced over a cup of tea and the welcome-home cake. This took me by surprise, because Mum can’t text and Lizzie hadn’t mentioned it to me.

  “What did she want?” I asked.

  “There was a bit of confusion with the texting,” Mum muttered, sipping her tea. “Anyway, in the end, Lizzie phones me up and says ‘Is that you Ellie? Stop sending me full stops!’ She’s a card!” Mum giggled, shaking her head, like Lizzie was the crazy one.

  “Now, what did she say?” Mum said, gazing round the kitchen like the answer was written on the buttermilk walls. “I remember there were two things.” This wasn’t about Mum’s age; she’d always been like this.

  “Oh yes, the first thing is, she wants to take you to Spain for a holiday and asked if I could come and look after Grace.” My heart sank. I love her to bits but a holiday with Lizzie was the last thing I needed.

  “Er that’ll be a big, fat no. Moving on, you said there was something else, Mum?” I asked, hoping for better news.

  “Oh bugger! I’ve just remembered – the other thing Lizzie said was not to tell you because it was going to be a surprise.”

  Perhaps telepathically sensing Mum’s slip Lizzie called a short while after and sang down the phone, “I’ve got a big surprise for you.” I couldn’t go through the charade and told her Mum had spilled the beans.

  “It’s a lovely idea, Lizzie, but I really can’t go. I haven’t got any money and besides, I am far too busy at home,” I lied.

  Mum was ear-wigging; it was funny how she suddenly became quick as a fox when it suited her.

  “I don’t know about being busy around the home love. You’re the original ‘lady who lunches’ – constantly. You haven’t put your fork down long enough to pick up your sweeping brush, looking at the state of this place.”

  I ignored her and returned to Lizzie who was never going to take no for an answer.

  “Lizzie. It’s really kind of you and it would be nice to enjoy some sunshine but I really am too fragile for anything else.”

  “Absolutely my darling – you need rest and relaxation. We fly to Ibiza next Thursday and it’s my treat so get your teeny bikini packed.”

  I smiled. So I was fated to visit a hot country that sold alcohol with Lizzie – who, live and unleashed, would make Pete Doherty look like an altar boy. I hung up the phone and went back to my tea and cake.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing with your life, Stella,” Mum said as she bit into the thick, coffee-cream frosting, “but I’ll tell you something I do know – you bake a mean sponge cake, love.”

  The following Tuesday morning, in the middle of trying to get Grace ready for school, finding her games kit under the kitchen table and making a cup of tea for Mum, the phone rang. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Hello, is that Stella? It’s Anne here. I’m Katie’s mother – Grace’s friend, Katie Richards?”

  “Of course, hello Anne,” I said, desperately trying to put a name to the face and a face to the name.

  “I wonder if you can help, we’ve got a bit of a problem,” she said. “My eldest daughter Jessica’s thirteenth-birthday party is three days away and we have had a disaster.”

  “OK,” I said, unsure of where this was going.

  “We had ordered a special birthday cake and unfortunately the company we approached to bake the cake have taken our deposit and gone out of business,” she wailed. “Not only have we lost money – but we have no cake. Then Katie remembered Grace’s beautiful birthday cake and we wondered if you would be prepared to make a cake for Jess. She wants a big pink and green-iced cake with pink ribbons and roses?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Grace’s cake was a one-off, I don’t…”

  “Look, I know it’s really short notice and a massive ask but Jess is so upset, please say yes?”

  She sounded distraught and I
felt really sorry for her but the thought of trying to bake, compile and ice a proper cake was daunting to say the least – not to mention in two days. “I’m so sorry Anne, I can’t – I’m going on holiday on Thursday,” I said, truthfully, and very relieved to have this perfect excuse.

  “Oh no. You were our last hope. I’m at my wits’ end – it’s such a special birthday. Well, thanks anyway.”

  She was about to put down the phone when I heard myself say; “Hang on, let’s check the dates. It’s now Tuesday – I might be able to do something before I go away.”

  “Oh Stella, if you could that would be wonderful! You’ve no idea what this will mean to her.”

  It was at this point, reality set in and I panicked. “I have to point out, Anne, that I’ve never made a professional cake before – I can’t promise miracles, but I will make something.” She tearfully thanked me and we discussed cake flavours and colours and I agreed to make and ice the cake by Thursday and drop it off on my way to the airport.

  “So, let me get this right, honey. You’re going to shop for, bake and ice a big fuck-off birthday cake in two days, then deliver it without incident on route to the airport where you will get on a plane – without using the sick bag – all the way to Ibiza? Good luck with that!” Al commented sarcastically when he called in for coffee later that day.

  “I couldn’t say no could I? I felt sorry for her. And they’ll probably cover the cost of the ingredients.”

  “Oh, they’ll ‘probably’ cover the cost will they? That’s sooo nice of them. And you didn’t talk about dirty money did you lady? Ew, no – filthy stuff. Who do you think you are, the bloody Queen?”

  “No, there’s only room for one queen round here,” I said blowing a kiss with my left hand and reaching for another chocolate digestive with my right. “Al, I know it’s stupid but I couldn’t bring myself to start demanding money over the phone could I? Poor woman, I didn’t want to upset her all over again.”