Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes

by Sue Watson

  “Christ,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief and utter embarrassment.

  “He must think you’re a bloody savage,” concluded Al in his usual, sensitive way.

  I didn’t know what to do – I should probably contact Diego but it would mean trying to get the number from Mother and confessing to her what happened. I couldn’t go there yet; it was too embarrassing and way too confusing. Knowing Mum, she’d inadvertently publish the whole bloody story on Facebook, or ‘Twatter’ it everywhere. The woman was a cyber-menace.

  Once Al and Seb had left, I tried to put the whole incident from my mind. Poor Diego might be scarred from our encounter and not look at another woman for a while but in time he’d move on. I decided to take the philosophical approach and know that it was a sign that I was never meant to be with Diego.

  Tom called later in the afternoon. It turned out he had to fly to Australia later that evening with Lizzie. “It’s all very dramatic,” he said. “The cameraman on Barry’s Barbie has been bitten by a crocodile and rushed to hospital.” Tom was a freelancer so Lizzie had called him to step in. “It’s really serious,” he said. “It doesn’t look good for whoever’s in charge – someone’s head will roll.”

  “I hope Lizzie’s head’s safe. Because I guarantee it won’t be MJ’s,” I spat. Tom knew all about our recent dealings with MJ and I think he disliked her almost as much as I did.

  “MJ went out on the pretext of making sure everything went smoothly and it’s her responsibility – she has to take the rap. Even she can’t squirm her way out of this one,” he stated. I wasn’t so sure. Al had told me recently that she is being touted for a big TV award and her career is going from strength to strength.

  “I dread working with her, but I can’t afford to turn it down, there’s no work around. I’m really sorry I won’t be able to see Grace this weekend. I miss her so much,” Tom continued. I got the feeling he was saying he missed me too, but ignored the subtext and assured him that Grace would understand and stay with him as soon as she could.

  “Look after Lizzie. She’s at the mercy of MJ…” I added, but he’d already gone.

  Lizzie called me soon after. “Sweetie, I hope you don’t mind that I asked Tom to come out to Oz. After I got the call I knew I needed to find someone quickly, he’s a freelancer and he is one of the best. I need someone I can rely on and well, he may not be the most reliable husband, but he’s certainly a great cameraman.”

  Tom was paying for Grace and we needed the money, and this type of contract could be very lucrative so I was fine with it. I was also glad because even though Lizzie was my friend, I knew he’d look after her.

  “Not a problem Lizzie, hope you’ll be OK out there. What happened?” I asked, but she was gone.

  I put the phone down, worried. I didn’t like to think of her in the jaws of the Elephant (or Rhino?) of Fate. I just hoped Tom got there before the Monkey of Revenge turned up.

  31 - Dinner at Nando’s not

  Breakfast at Tiffany’s

  Dave was late for another date. It was raining and I was soaked by the time he arrived outside the shopping precinct. He appeared through a curtain of cold, lashing water, his raincoat turned up at the collar and hair plastered to his head. “Stella, I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s work, I…”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just find somewhere warm and dry,” I said, smiling. “This bucket-of-water-over-the-head-look just isn’t working for me.” Suddenly overcome with pleasure at seeing him, I grabbed his hand and he squeezed mine as we ran through the cobbled backstreets of Worcester, splashing through puddles, stopping briefly to gaze urgently at menus in windows and eventually finding a Nando’s.

  Glad of dry sanctuary, we walked into the dimly-lit, pseudo-Portugese restaurant and were efficiently escorted to a seat. Dave smiled apologetically as he studied the menu. “I’m sorry Stella, but I can’t do a late one tonight. Have to be up early tomorrow for a vital recce, it’s really important.”

  My stomach lurched. “Oh, I hoped we’d be able to spend some time together,” I ventured. “I wondered if you’d be coming home with me. Grace is on a sleepover and…”

  “Sorry Stella, but I can’t. I just have to finish this project and then I promise I’ll be all yours again,” he said. For the first time with Dave, I felt a little twinge of anger.

  “I’m not sure you’ve ever been all mine, Dave,” I said, feeling like I was being put on hold.

  He reached his hand across the table and looked straight into my eyes; “Stel, I am all yours and I care about you, but I’m not ready for a big commitment yet. I love spending time with you and I want to make this work but I am tied up with work and Max…I need to spend some time with my son Stella”

  “I understand,” I said, trying to be reasonable, “but apart from Max, it would be nice to be put first sometimes.”

  He let go of my hand. “I don’t need any pressure at the moment, I just need you to support me. This project is really important for my career and I can’t fuck it up.”

  “I’d love to support you Dave, but you don’t tell me anything.”

  “I hate it when you do this.” He pulled his hand away, his face coloured up.

  “You hate it when I do what?”

  “Look, there’s heavy shit going down at the moment and if I’m not careful I could lose the contract.”

  “You should have told me,” I said brushing the back of his arm with my hand. I felt like a vet, calming a wounded animal, he was pink and clearly quite stressed. “Tell me all about it,” I continued.

  “I can’t tell you, can I, because it’s fucking secret,” he hissed, jabbing me with the words and moving his arm away quickly.

  I sat back, numbed by his reaction and the waitress saw her cue to wander over and take our order. I was smarting from his attack and I wanted to leave; this wasn’t how Dave Kennedy was supposed to act. When the waitress left with our subdued list of food he leaned forward, his head down, running his hands through his hair and avoiding making eye contact.

  “Stel, I’m so sorry. I just feel very isolated at the moment.”

  “I understand, I suppose it’s just the nature of your work,” I said, sipping my Diet Coke.

  For the rest of the evening we talked about the past, which always seemed a safe harbour and was far enough away from any sparks of reality. Then Dave and I parted with a chaste kiss outside Nando’s and went our separate ways.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow Stel,” he promised, not even offering to walk me to my car. I knew as I rushed to the car park in the freezing cold that he would call tomorrow but was beginning to wonder whether he wanted to, or if it was something he felt he should do.

  When I arrived home alone I realised it would be morning in Australia – so I called Lizzie long-distance. She’d only just arrived and had the crocodile nightmare to deal with, but I knew she wouldn’t mind.

  I told her about the evening; “It seems like he’s disengaged and only with me out of duty. It’s almost like he’s on autopilot. He suddenly doesn’t listen or pay attention, like he’s a robot who’s been programmed to do what a human would do. There’s no passion or spontaneity or feeling at the moment.”

  “You know Stel, they’re all pretty similar. I reckon the ‘right one’ is a myth. It’s not about finding the one you love the most – it’s about finding the one that annoys you the least,” she laughed.

  “Yeah. I can see that in time Dave would join the compulsory male chorus, telling me I was too old to wear pink bunny-ears or combat-trousers.”

  “Mmm, and he’d watch endless TV, clutching the remote control like a pacemaker for hours on end.”

  “But Lizzie, I wanted candlelit suppers and twinkling eyes and shared jokes. Life with Dave should be perfect. It should be South Pacific, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and From Here to Eternity.” I lamented.

  “Dream on, girlfriend,” she said, “most men have never seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s and if they have, they’re on Al
’s bus. I think you need to stop thinking Hollywood and start thinking Coronation Street. Or just enjoy the sex and forget the rest.”

  Part of me was beginning to wish we’d never met again and I’d just kept Dave Kennedy as a youthful crush, preserved in the jewellery box in my head. That way I could have taken him out and held him to the light every now and then to enjoy his shiny perfection. I suddenly felt achingly empty and attempted to soothe the ache by baking a batch of ‘better in the morning’ banana cakes. Made from soporific, overripe bananas which helped you sleep, the cream-cheese and peanut butter provided protein repair while the pinch of salt replaced what was lost from the shedding of tears. After about three of these delicious sweet, salty, creamy confections, I was feeling more philosophical.

  The next morning, Grace inadvertently let slip some gossip as we got ready to go to the park. It was gloriously sunny and she was talking about when she’d been to the ice-rink with her dad a few weeks before.

  “Will you come next time Mum?” she asked. I knew what she was up to – she’d been watching The Parent Trap again and imagining she could get Tom and I back together with a Lindsay Lohan-style cunning plan, without the identical twin.

  “Oh sweetie, I can’t skate,” I said.

  “Rachel can.” she stopped, suddenly, and looked at me.

  “It’s OK, sweetie,” I said, stroking her hair, “it’s nice that Rachel came with you and Dad.”

  I felt a hot rush of anger rising through my face, so, bloody Rachel was there too was she?

  Then, as kids do – Grace chatted about new skates and dropped another bombshell that she’d been sitting on for weeks halfway through the story. “I’m glad she’s gone.” This was said in passing, like it was of no consequence.

  “Who’s gone? Rachel? You mean she’s not living with Daddy now?” I said, trying hard not to pounce and fire questions.

  “No. Dad said they aren’t friends anymore and she’s gone to live somewhere else,” she said, looking up at me for a reaction.

  “Oh dear, that’s a shame,” I said, aiming for responsible-role-model-mummy and resisting a deep urge to jump up and down shouting ‘Yess! Ding dong, the bitch is dead!’

  I was still feeling smug later that day when I met Al and Seb at the tailors, to help pick out their suits for the wedding which was approaching fast. Having decided to get married, neither of them could see the point in delaying it and Al was already getting very excited. As he crooned over various shades of blue and pouted in front of the mirror, I told him of Grace’s revelation: “I know it’s not mature or sophisticated, but I’m delighted to know that Tom and the tart have split. I’m over him, I think…but I still can’t stand the thought of him with her,” I said.

  “It’s cause for celebration,” announced Al and he snatched up the glass of fizz he’d been given when we arrived. “Let’s chink to her demise.” Al, Sebastian and I chinked glasses. (Mine was actually a plastic cup of water, but the thought was there.)

  “Stella, there’s something Seb and I wanted to talk to you about,” said Al, smiling.

  “OK.”

  “We wondered…well, we wondered if you’d be our ‘best woman’. You and Lizzie have been amazing to us and we’d love to have you both and – well it would mean a lot to us,” he finished

  “Oh Al, I don’t know what to say. I’d be honoured!” I managed, before my eyes filled up and I had to find a tissue.

  “That colour is wonderful, Al,” said Sebastian, sensing my collapse and changing the subject.

  “Yes it is.” Said Al, holding the sample up against himself. “Almost as wonderful as the thought of Bitch Rachel alone in a bedsit,” he laughed.

  32 - Panic on the Streets of Worcester

  I baked a spectacular St Clement’s cake with dried oranges and lemons the following Monday whilst Grace slept peacefully in bed. It was a treat to myself, before I got stuck into the final stages of our Strictly order, the biggest and most important order we’d had so far. If we provided exactly what they wanted on time then we could be looking at a secure baking future for The Cake Fairy. The timing was going to be very tight but with all hands on deck I was sure we could finish everything in time for the event on the following Saturday. Al arrived early and we unloaded several huge bags of flour from the boot, dragging them up the drive and into the kitchen. “All good exercise,” Al shouted as we sweated and staggered to and from the car. “They drop…10 pounds a week…on The Biggest Loser…doing weights like this…doll,” he panted, trying to convince himself as much as me.

  “Yes…but they haven’t…just eaten…a whole St Clement’s cake…have they?” I panted back with straining limbs and dripping sweat.

  We were creaming tons of flour into tons of sugar when Sebastian arrived to help. “You two should be finalising your wedding preparations now. Don’t you have tailor’s appointments?” I said, sifting flour from a great height into the creamy batter.

  “This is too important not to be here,” Al said. “Even my love has to get into the queue behind Strictly.”

  The three of us spent all morning working to schedule, making basic mixes for the huge centrepiece ballroom cake and all the smaller fairy cakes. The top of the big cake would be covered in extra shiny, super smooth brown chocolate so it looked just like the polished dance floor and Al was creating (with fondant and bare hands) each dancer and their celebrity partner, in mid-step.

  Our dance-themed fairy cakes were all planned. There was the ‘Cha Cha’, which was chocolate sponge infused with a hint of chilli and adorned in shiny, chocolate buttercream ruffles and red spangles, and the ‘Foxtrot’, a delicate vanilla sponge clad in pearls and blue, silk-like icing to represent the swish of the gown. Finally the ‘American Smooth’, my red-velvet cake with cream-cheese frosting was dressed in glitter and infused with a kick of lime zest, a symbol of the exciting moves this dance brought to basic ballroom steps. It was going to take us several days, but we were on target and everything was going well.

  “Why don’t you two take the afternoon off,” I suggested when we stopped for lunch. “I can start the salsa without you and I shall foxtrot alone. Go and have a nice lunch and spend the afternoon, sorting things out for the wedding. Go on,” I made a shooing gesture.

  After a little bit of: ‘we couldn’t’ then ‘are you sure?’ they agreed and set off. I grabbed some lunch and was just about to embark on icing the first of the 500 dancing cakes when the phone rang.

  “Stella. We have a problem.” This was followed by silence. It was Sangita.

  “What?” I started to sweat.

  “An incriminating email, Stella.”

  “Sangita, what is it? What does it say?”

  “Very damaging Stella, libellous in fact, if not true.” By now I was almost hyperventilating. “I’ll read it shall I?” she said.

  “Yesss! Please.” Why does everyone I know play out the suspense instead of getting straight to the point? I’m surrounded by bloody drama-queens.

  “Dear Madam,” she started, “it has come to my attention that you are involved in a new business venture involving the procurement of cakes for corporate events, establishments and individuals. I feel it’s my duty to inform you that this ‘business’ is being operated from a domestic kitchen and as such, contravenes Food Safety Regulations. I have informed the Environmental Health and Food Standards Agency of this clear breach of hygiene and food preparation laws.”

  “What the…?”

  “It’s an anonymous email, but whoever they are it looks like they are in possession of relevant information. Is this true?”

  I was stunned. Who would do this and why?

  “Stella, I’m not going to ask you whether this is true or not. I’m sure you have all the paperwork and won’t let me down. It would be such a shame if you did. Just remember we are potentially about to sign a huge contract with one of my regular clients, an events company that only work with the best – and this could ruin everything. You need to sort it
asap, or I will have to go somewhere else. I will need all the regulation paperwork from Food Standards by 5pm today Stella – OK?”

  The phone was banged down before I could respond and in my shocked state I wasn’t sure what to say anyway. All the long days and nights of hard work and building a reputation, not to mention a solid customer-base and money to live on; it suddenly all felt so fragile. The majority of our orders, and certainly all the big ones, came through Sangita. That one email had the potential to destroy us. It was 12pm and I needed everything in place by 5pm – I wasn’t sure if that was even possible, and I only had five hours.

  I really didn’t want to call Al, he’d be about to down a large carbonara while gazing at Seb across lunchtime candlelight. Besides, he’d turn it into a Broadway production with dry-ice and dancing girls and I didn’t have the time for all that. I called Dave instead, hoping he would know what to say.

  “Dave, you won’t believe what’s happened,” I started.

  “Hi Stel. What’s going on?” I explained about the email.

  “I’d planned to hire larger commercial premises as soon as we had more orders and could afford it – but now it looks like we may have lost everything, Dave,” I was now in tears, “I…don’t…don’t know what to do.”

  “Mmm…that sounds awful. I don’t know what to say. Erm, I’m a bit tied up actually. Is there a website?”

  “A website?” I sobbed. “For what?”

  “I er…Sorry, I mean something that will tell you what to do.”

  “No Dave, there isn’t a ‘www your business is about to go bust because of some vindictive bastard dot com’. I thought it might be nice to talk to a real person, who might just care.”

  “Look Stel, I do care. It’s just that I’m really busy at the moment, I’ve got something important to deal with.”

  “Don’t worry Dave, my livelihood, my life isn’t as important as your work, this can wait,” I spat angrily.

  “Oh good, I thought so,” he answered, completely missing the sarcasm. I slammed the phone down and called Lizzie, who would have literally just landed from her last stint in Australia. I didn’t even ask her about the crocodile attack, or Tom, I just spilled out the conversation with Sangita.