Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  After more kissing and giggling I slowly stood up, gathering my clothes from around the floor. As I bent down to pick up my dress I brushed against him and his hand caught me gently by the wrist.

  “I think before the bed test I need to re-examine your floor technique,” he said pulling me down again.

  29 - Strictly Cupcakes

  Things with Dave continued in a whirlwind. We spent wonderful evenings in fancy restaurants and, when Grace was staying with Tom, these were often followed by equally wonderful nights of passion. It was like we were just taking up where we’d left off twenty years before and I felt like that young, excited woman again. I flushed easily, bought new underwear and agonised over the right shade of lipstick for the first time in years. As the nights began to get shorter, Dave and I cosied up together and I started to really relax around him. The only thing that was missing from all this girlie joy was that Lizzie wasn’t around to share it because she was filming in Oz with Big Barry. I sent the odd text, but she was busy and I was happy to wait because I wanted the pleasure of telling her all the details over a few glasses of wine when she got back.

  The best thing of all was that I was starting to feel young again. Being with Dave meant revisiting those days when I had plans for a future with so much life ahead of me that anything was possible. He had such a great imagination and ambition; he wanted to make bigger, better programmes and start his own TV company.

  “I’ll build up a company, retire and sell the business for a song. We’ll move abroad, somewhere warm. Or buy an old farmhouse by the sea,” he said one afternoon as I iced cakes for Grace’s school fête.

  “I don’t want to live anywhere too remote,” I said, thinking about Tom’s Scottish isle and holding a rediced cake parcel up to the light for scrutiny. “I need a Marks & Spencer or a Waitrose within spitting distance. That will be written into my contract.” I loved imagining a future with Dave but the only slight problem was business. Since our debut in London, The Cake Fairy had received steady orders but nothing on the scale of the Fashionista event, and Al and I weren’t saying it but we were starting to get a bit worried about how long we could survive on lots of small, local orders.

  “What else will be written into your contract?” he asked, with that twinkle.

  “Well, Grace is at her friend’s, sleeping over tonight…” I said.

  “Oh yeah?” he answered absently, reading the Guardian.

  I feigned a theatrical yawn; “And I think sex on demand would be a good thing to have in a contract,” I said provocatively.

  “Come here,” he said, throwing the paper to the floor. He gently pushed me back onto the kitchen table, where all thoughts of school fete fairy cakes left me. Here, among the icing sugar and papercases, we performed a dramatic reconstruction of the sex scene in The Postman Always Rings Twice.

  Dave was making coffee and I was just putting my clothes back on and contemplating a post-coital scone, when the doorbell rang. “Oh no,” I said, laughing and quickly pulling my sweater over my head as Dave buttoned himself up.

  “I’ll go, you straighten your hair and make like you’re icing,” he said, smiling to himself and walking out of the kitchen. I heard the door open and lots of squealing.

  Arriving in the kitchen in a hysterical frenzy, Al screamed from the doorway: “Doll, I’ve had a call from Sangita. She wants us to provide all the cakes for the launch of the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. If we make this rock, it could lead to all sorts of work; not only does this company cater for BBC events, they also organise red-carpet premières, doll – in LA! This time next year we could be crafting cupcakes for Brangelina in La-La Land!”

  “Oh wow!” I said, sitting down and taking this in.

  “Two sugars please my love,” Al instructed Dave. Dave dutifully sugared Al’s coffee, handed me mine, then after a quick slurp of his own said he’d get off.

  “That’s right, love me and leave me,” I joked, kissing him and slapping him on the bum.

  Just as Al and I were contemplating what this big order would involve, the phone rang. “Sangita here,” she was as terse as ever.

  “Oh Sangita, we’re so excited about the order – Al’s just told me.”

  “Right then, let’s talk business.”

  “Er, ok. I’ll get a pen,” I said, rolling my eyes at Al.

  “OK? We’re talking shiny floor and show-class dancers.”

  “I’ve got it, shiny floor, show-class,” I repeated, writing it down.

  “And not tacky, Stella.”

  “Not tacky, yes.”

  “And 500 dance-themed fairy cakes. Clear?”

  “Yep, thanks I…”

  “This is at TVC. Shep Bush. Big job. If you do it well, it’s future work for you. I’ll send details on email, no time now. Bye.”

  I spent the rest of the evening planning various cakes around the featured dances and Al demonstrated them, humming the tunes and singing instructions while I worked out the aesthetics and prosthetics. Later, when the restaurant had closed the multitalented Sebastian came over and was soon knee-deep in computers and costings. The email from Sangita with all the details had finally arrived at about 8pm and once I’d read it I had to restrain Al, who was beside himself with delight. It turned out that the cakes were for the glitzy, red-carpet event where the celebrities would meet their dance partners for the first time, which was filmed well before the show began in the autumn. And they wanted all the celebrities depicted on the big ballroom-dance cake – which meant we would have to know who they were before nearly anyone else in the country.

  “This is AMAZING doll, wait until François hears about this!” Al squealed, jumping around the room.

  “Al, Sangita says we’ll have to sign non-disclosure agreements, so no gossiping, OK?” I said.

  “Yes, yes I know, it’s just so exciting!”

  I smiled. I was excited too and the Cake Fairy might well be dancing her way to success.

  30 - Barry’s Smokin’ Barbie

  Up to our necks in dancing cupcakes Al and I were busy for a couple of weeks with our colossal order and though this was great business, I hadn’t had much of a chance to see Dave so I gave him a call. I knew he’d been busy too but I didn’t want this relationship to suffer like mine and Tom’s had through spending too long apart. I had some free time coming up at the weekend and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to make some time for each other.

  “We could go to the coast or somewhere,” I suggested, remembering the seaside cottage idea. “Tom has Grace at the weekend so we could have some time alone together.”

  “Sorry Stella. I’m so busy with this new project, I can’t spare the time,” he sighed.

  “I know we’ve both been up against it recently,” I said, “but we really need to make some time for each other.”

  “I just have to get through this,” he replied, like he was talking about an operation or something. I put the phone down feeling a little uneasy. I was also very disappointed; I thought he’d be as keen as I was to get together and more importantly – I’d missed him.

  Instead I invited Al, Seb and Lizzie over for a special dinner, to celebrate Lizzie’s (albeit fleeting) return from Australia. She’d flown in a couple of days before and I couldn’t wait to see her. Al and Seb had been so supportive with all the Cake Fairy stuff and I wanted to hear all about MJ from Lizzie. Apparently, MJ had been out there, ‘working’ with the team and I knew she’d have loads of gossip for us to bitch about regarding the Queen of Mean.

  Grace and I went into Birmingham to buy gifts for these friends who had helped me through what had probably been the toughest time of my life. We decided to shop in the curvaceous Selfridges, a silver-studded spaceship juxtaposed with the neighbouring, gothic St Martin’s Church in Birmingham city centre. “Mum, it looks like it’s covered in thousands of silver Smarties,” Grace yelled, running across the paving and down the stone steps. I smiled, wondering how I could achieve the same look on a c
ake and planning a bulk buy of Smarties and edible glitter.

  Once inside, we fingered luxury fabrics and wafted ourselves in profanely-priced perfume. We finally chose fluorescent pink swimming trunks for Al, a pair of blue for Seb and a beautiful, jewelled lighter for Lizzie. I also allowed Grace the best present of all: to have her ears pierced. She’d wanted this since she was five years old and I’d held out until now. As the gun pinged in her ear, I felt a ping in my heart; my baby was growing up.

  After the ear-piercing we went back into Selfridges for coffee. “Cappuccino please, Mum,” she said, sauntering over to a table and making like a world-weary eighteen-year old. She’d never had coffee before but seeing as I’d just paid someone to punch two holes into her ears, what harm could a frothy coffee do?

  Al and Lizzie arrived about 8 o’clock; unfortunately Seb’s chef had called in sick so he had to work. We all drank pink Aussie sparkly, to celebrate Lizzie’s return from Oz and Grace showed off her new ears and joined in with pink lemonade.

  After Grace had gone to bed, Al and I tried to prise out what was happening with Lizzie and Barry. “I’ve been dying to know how everything’s going with Barry and his smokin’ barbie – and you never text me back,” Al wailed. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh it’s just been tough out there, with MJ breathing down everyone’s necks,” she said, rolling her eyes at the thought of it all. “It’s been a gruelling shoot and I’ve been tied up in edits since I came back. Sorry I haven’t been able to text much.”

  “How’s it all going?” said Al, carefully.

  “Fine,” she replied, tersely. “We’ve finished editing the first show, which will première to the industry soon. There are a few more bits to film so I’ll have to fly back tomorrow, for about a week. But on the whole, we’re done. Thank God.”

  “It’s a long way to go just for a week, doll,” said Al, watching her.

  “I know,” she fired back. “But I can’t leave MJ to wrap on her own, can I? She’s incompetent.” Al and I looked at each other. I had a feeling that there was something else she wasn’t telling us and Al and I both suspected things weren’t going well with her and Barry.

  “Has his wife found out?” Al asked, straight to the point as usual.

  “Found out what?” she said. Lizzie wasn’t one to easily share every aspect of her personal life but as her best friends, she’d always give us a big hint and in the end we’d tease it out of her. This time was different and I was intrigued and just a little worried.

  “We’re your friends Lizzie. We know you and Barry are together, were together? What’s going on?” I said, touching her arm.

  “Stella, trust me, you don’t want to know,” she snapped. “I’m sorry, but he’s just not worth talking about,” she answered firmly, taking a big gulp of wine and draining her glass. “Now let’s open another bottle and talk about someone who is worth talking about. How’s delicious Dave?”

  “It’s going well I think – I’m behaving like a bloody teenager – what’s wrong with me?” I said.

  “Sounds like Dave’s doing you the world of good,” she said, reaching for her wine. ‘You go, girl!’

  “The only problem is, he won’t talk about work or his family,” I said, “and sometimes when we talk on the phone he seems…I don’t know, distant.”

  “Uh-oh! Here we go again,” said Al, filling our glasses.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “I hope we’re not in Tom territory. Dave hasn’t suddenly found some bit of stuff and lost interest already has he?”

  “Nicely put, Al” Lizzie said, incredulously. “Dave’s probably busy working all the time Stel – in fact I saw him at Media World when I popped in yesterday.”

  “Did you? Well, he’s really busy with this new project – I think it’s about MI5 – all very ‘hush, hush’. He was probably using the editing facilities,” I confirmed.

  “Mmm. But it is a bit odd that he’s using Media World, given that he rejected MJ’s advances on the fashion doc,” Al said.

  “Yes. I must admit that is a bit stupid. If he’s not careful, MJ will torture the editor to try and find out about his secret project then knowing her, she’ll blow it wide open just for revenge,” I joked.

  “Oh yes. Old MJ never, ever forgives – or forgets,” Lizzie added chillingly. We all looked at each other and pulled a face.

  “Ooh Lizzie, you’re scaring me now,” said Al, “let’s open another bottle.”

  The evening continued and we teased each other and swapped safer gossip while eating my homemade crab pâté followed by chicken risotto and tangy lemon mousse, washed down with Amaretto coffees. Frustratingly, Lizzie wasn’t going to elaborate and provide any real gossip we could get our teeth into about our old enemy. Thinking about it, I’d go as far as to say Lizzie had almost appeared uncomfortable earlier when we’d bitched about the Queen of Mean. Her comment about MJ not forgiving or forgetting was loaded and I wondered what she meant. I just hoped she hadn’t let her guard down while they were in Oz.

  The following morning I was working hard on my ‘American Smooth’ dance cakes (red velvet with cream-cheese frosting and a sprinkling of showbiz glitter) when Mum rang. She was banging on about Facebook again. Whenever she was bored Mum loved to surf the net and Facebook was now her latest craze.

  “It’s better than that eBay – and Twatter,” she said, then went on to talk about her great Facebook friends, the Hi Hi tribe, who she had stayed with on her last jaunt. “They base their philosophy on a strong belief in things happening in threes,” she went on, while I put her on loudspeaker and whisked.

  “In their culture, everything has an animal to represent it – hence the Monkey of Revenge. Oh and fate is an elephant.”

  I thought she might have been a bit confused because she’d said fate was a rhino last week. I tried to say goodbye when she suddenly moved on from elephants of fate to ask; “What happened with Diego? You know, Diego the doctor?”

  “Yes I know who you mean. I’ve heard exactly nothing, Mother,” I said, bored now and wanting to get on with my life. “He never called me again. Sorry, I thought I’d told you.”

  There were a few seconds silence where I suspected Mum was doing that séance thing, of trying to channel spirits in an attempt to remember.

  “Did you make him a cake?” she asked. If she hadn’t been my mother I’d have just turned the phone off.

  “No Mum, I didn’t make him a cake,” I said in monotone sticking my finger in buttery, sweet batter and slurping hard. “He didn’t stick around long enough for me to make him a cake. What is this with you and Diego and cake? I’m really very busy.” I said, desperately looking for an escape.

  “I gave him your card so he could call you about the cake. You know, for his daughter’s birthday? Don’t you remember dear? Katerina, I think she was called.”

  I started to feel very warm, too warm in fact. “Mum, hang on a second. You said he was going to call me to ask me out on a date?” I almost whispered, dry-mouthed, willing this to be so.

  “Oh. Has he asked you out on a date?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a shame. It was her birthday, Katerina – he wanted a cake for her birthday. I told him how you make wonderful cakes.”

  I suddenly felt the ground move beneath me. Either a) we were having an earthquake or b) I had the wrong end of a messy stick and had made a complete fool of myself in a faux-Australian bar in front of a very eligible South-American doctor.

  “Mum, have you seen him at the hospital recently?” I wheezed, losing my voice.

  “No dear. I took Beryl with her leg last week, but no sign. Such a nice chap, over here to be with his daughter. Don’t know what’s happened to him.”

  I thought I might.

  “Sorry Mum. Lovely to chat but I’ve really got to go, the other phone’s ringing.” I said shakily and turned her off.

  Once I’d sat down with a hot cup of coffee and a piece of w
arm ginger sponge, the sweet spicyness offset by sharp lemon frosting, I calmly retraced the evening in my mind. “Did he at any time mention cake?” I asked myself out loud, realising the truth as I said it. Fuck! He did – he was obsessed with it, but I had thought that was because he was obsessed with me!

  I called Al and he shrieked in horror when I told him what had happened. Later he and Sebastian turned up wanting all the gory details about my horrible discovery, clutching their stomachs and falling around the kitchen as they laughed hysterically.

  “All that poor man wanted to do was order his only daughter’s birthday cake but every time he tried to bring it up, I talked over him with too much information about my tragic life-story.” I wailed, putting the kettle on and cutting them some sponge.

  “He must have been very surprised when you arranged to meet in a rowdy wine bar covered in kangaroo pelts and corked hats,” laughed Seb.

  “Surreal I know but I thought we were on a date! As he was a guest in my country, I took the lead.” I said, defending myself.

  “I meet an Engleesh lady to order my Katerina’s birthday cake,” started Seb. “She wouldn’t speak of cake but drinks wine and talks of husband and some beetch person. She swears a lot, falls out of bar and lies in gutter until taxi driver takes her home,” he continued, on a roll.

  “Well, now we know why he didn’t call,” screamed Al, red-faced and breathless from laughing.

  “And the writing on my wrist,” I sighed, head now in my hands.

  “Oh doll,” Al yelped, through fresh hysteria and reminded Seb that I was going through my ‘change your life with a ballpoint pen’ phase. He couldn’t tell him all the details for laughing, and he and Sebastian were now holding each other up.

  “Babes, he thought he was there to order a cake and within half an hour she’s lurching towards him, lips puckered and ‘bunny boiler’ scratched on her wrist in biro,” he screamed. I thought they would both need resuscitating, they laughed so hard.