Saint Kate of the Cupcake: The Dangers of Lust and Baking

by Fenton, L. C.

  “Crispin, come and meet Kate.” He drew Crispin back across the room, and I stood as they approached. Crispin was around my height with unruly blond hair and spots. I tried to see some resemblance between the two brothers but failed. Jack was taller and broader, though Crispin was likely still growing. Beneath the pimples, Crispin’s face was rounder, and he would probably always be baby-faced, while Jack was more angular.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said as I smiled at Crispin. He looked at me through his hair and mumbled something. I just assumed it was a similar greeting.

  “How is school?” Jack asked.

  “Okay…boring,” Crispin answered with a grimace.

  “What are you going to do next year?”

  “Don’t know…whatever…same as you, I guess. It will keep Mummy happy.” He shrugged.

  “Hmm…yes.”

  “Is there something else you’d rather do?” I blurted out.

  “Umm…yeah, but she wouldn’t go for it, so there’s no point.” Crispin and Jack shared a look. I didn’t really understand why they couldn’t just do what they wanted, but they didn’t volunteer anything else. Luckily, I didn’t open my mouth to question them further because, at that moment, their mother finally swept in, and I started to understand.

  Jack’s mother wasn’t a tall woman, but what she lacked in height she made up for in barely controlled ferocity. Her graying brown hair was waved and set into a Margaret Thatcher-like coiffeur, her plump body swathed in a blue and green tartan kilt and matching green wool jumper with a white round lace-collared shirt underneath. Stockings and navy court shoes completed the ensemble. Her whole demeanor was reminiscent of the Queen, if one could imagine the Queen as a not-so-benevolent dictator.

  When she saw me, her brows drew together in displeasure, and I had the sudden image of an angry Persian cat pop into my head. I felt the corners of my mouth turn up and I had to use every bit of willpower I had not to giggle. I knew even then that laughing at Edwina would not be good for my health. In all the years after, I could take some comfort from this first meeting. She disliked me before I had uttered a word, so her later vindictiveness could not have been personal as she knew me not at all. She hated me for what I was, not who I was, and nothing I did would ever have changed that.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, managing to peer down her nose, even though she had to look up, and made even that simple greeting sound scornful, as if I had soiled the rug at her feet.

  “Hello, Lady Preedy,” I replied. “Thank you for having me to stay for the weekend.” I smiled blandly, not sure how to deal with such instant, overt hostility. Most people at least made an attempt to fake friendliness for a bit first.

  “Yes,” she said with a sniff. “We do encourage Jack to have people to stay to keep him entertained.” Her voice was loaded with disapproval, though I wasn’t sure at what. That Jack needed “entertaining”? That she would need to specify what sort of people he brought next time, because clearly I wasn’t the “right” type, even for entertainment purposes?

  “Hello, I’m Arthur.” Jack’s father was an older version of Jack, a tall, thin man with a beautiful thatch of gray hair, with a perfectly bald circle at the back. He smiled at me warmly until he caught Edwina’s eye. His smile disappeared, and he moved away quickly to the drinks cabinet where he poured himself a large whisky in a crystal tumbler. Those were the only words he spoke all night, though occasionally he would give me an absentminded wink, though that might have been just a facial tick, I couldn’t be sure.

  After that, I was largely ignored by Edwina. Throughout the formal dinner, most of her comments were addressed to Jack, Crispin, or the staff, and occasionally her husband, though he rarely replied. I think he had tuned her out and simply didn’t register that she was speaking to him, as she talked so much and most of it was complete drivel. Minute details of gardening things or long convoluted stories about people I didn’t know. Her soliloquies had so many tangents that I was utterly confused.

  “You know Helen, of course. She was married to Paul for years, and they lived in the old vicarage near the river. Shoddy builder, though, who did their renovations. He went out of business shortly after, and they couldn’t get him to fix the problems. That’s the difficulty with thatch rooves. So many of the old places used to have them, and now the blasted heritage people want everyone to put them back as they were. Great business to get into; there’s no one around here doing it since old Mr. Smith went into the retirement. His back was gone, though his daughter…”

  I think it was actually impossible to follow what she was saying, and as no one else seemed to even be trying, I gave up. Jack, Crispin, and their father appeared to be in a competition as to who could be the most silent while consuming an enormous amount of alcohol. Even Edwina would have drunk the best part of a bottle of wine over dinner, not that it slowed her down or cheered her up.

  Rather than drive us apart, as I’m sure was the intention, Edwina’s hostility toward me brought us closer together. Jack became protective whenever she came near, shielding me whenever possible. We snuck off, giggling, when we heard her coming, hiding out in spare rooms and cupboards to avoid her. It was childish but surprisingly fun.

  Saturday afternoon, Jack was showing me around the beautiful gardens, resplendent in the autumnal colors, when we heard Edwina coming. Jack grabbed my hand and started running past the ornate stone and glass orangery to the more functional greenhouse.

  We were hiding inside with Edwina striding around the gardens looking for us. I think she had seen us from a window and come rushing out, but we had managed to escape her before she caught us by slipping through the hedges and circling around. We were crouched low behind the oranges in their large pots, the scent of citrus mingling with the earthier underlying scent of the greenhouse. We heard her calling us, and Jack placed his hand over my mouth to quiet my laugh as she walked by right outside the window.

  As her voice faded as she got further away, I looked over at him with laughing eyes, and he was suddenly serious. He slowly removed his hand and, closing his eyes, replaced it with his lips. We kissed slowly, exploring, something more serious than before. Jack was an excellent kisser, just enough passion to be exciting without being overwhelming, but this time he wasn’t so tentative.

  The build-up was slow enough that I could have objected to anything, if I wanted to. I decided that I didn’t. Pulling us up so we were standing, he slowly slid his hand from my back, around the sides to the front of my white cotton shirt to cradle my breast. He ran his fingers lightly over my nipple, which contracted sharply. He played there for a moment before moving up to slowly undo each button. We stopped kissing and paused, looking at each other from only a few centimeters apart.

  In answer to his silent question, I reached one hand behind his head, pulled him closer, and started kissing him again. He reached around and put his hands on my bottom, pulling me against him so I could feel the hardness in his pants against my belly. I arched my back to bring our contact closer. Breathing hard, he broke away and unrolled some turf onto the concrete floor before coming back to me and kissing me more urgently.

  He guided me to the turf bed, and unbuttoning my shorts, I wiggled them and my underwear down my hips and off over my legs. I lay down and spread my legs for him, and he fumbled off his pants and underwear in his haste to answer my clear invitation. Then he was on me and in me, finally, and I let go, enjoying the sensation of having him inside me. After so long waiting, I was ready and about to combust. I felt the waves of pressure building at the feel of him until it surged suddenly to a peak of pleasure. I surrendered to it, and I felt him throb as he came, which prolonged my orgasm, the added intensity making me let out a short squeal. He groaned and thrust again, my contractions squeezing him. He groaned one last time and collapsed on top of me.

  “Good God! That was amazing, woman,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Thank you,” I responded, slightly smugly. “You weren’t bad either.” I kis
sed him lightly on the lips.

  After that, Jack followed me around everywhere, pulling me into corners of the house to have his way with me, not that I minded. By the end of the weekend, I was slightly sore, and there were many fewer rooms in his parents’ house that we had not had sex in. I think we were caught by some of the staff on occasion, but they tactfully withdrew and started knocking on every door before entering. I was a bit shocked, but Jack laughed it off, and none of the staff gave any indication that they were aware of anything. I couldn’t help but admire their professionalism.

  Jack finally found a job in London, doing something in banking, though I wasn’t sure exactly what. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to take up a lot of time or require onerous hours. There was a bit of work he had to do on his own time at home, but he was still able to go out with friends until the early hours of the morning and either go straight to work or just go home for a quick shower and change. My job wasn’t particularly hard, but I certainly wouldn’t have been able to do it hung over and without sleep. Still, he was seemingly always available and constantly attentive, which was incredibly flattering. Although he nominally had his own place, he spent most of his time at mine as I lived alone now, Megan having moved in with her South African boyfriend.

  Our relationship changed too as we became more familiar with each other on a physical level. Jack seemed to be interested in parts of my life that I wasn’t used to a boyfriend delving into.

  “Let’s go shopping today, Katie,” he announced one Saturday over breakfast.

  “Huh?” I grunted, still not fully awake. He ruffled my sleepy head playfully.

  “We go to so many parties for me, and I want to buy you something to say thanks.”

  “That’s okay, really. I have a few black dresses which work for most of them.”

  “Ah…actually…don’t take this the wrong way, but there have been some comments on how you wear the same thing all the time.”

  “What?” I spluttered, fully awake now. I was taken aback that it mattered what I wore, or that Jack was listening to snipy comments by those bitchy girls in his group. Since when do men care what you wear?

  “It’s not a big deal!” He waved his hands, backtracking. “I know it’s stupid, but people pay attention to those things. Just let me help you out…”

  “I don’t need help with money,” I answered, my tone frosty. “I have a perfectly good job. I just choose not to waste ridiculous sums of money on designer things that don’t really suit me anyway.”

  “I’ll help. We’ll do it together,” he pleaded. God, I really was embarrassing him, which was mortifying. I nodded, unable to speak at that moment.

  Jack dragged me to Selfridges, and I submitted to the pressured shopping with as much grace as I could muster. I really didn’t think I was a prime candidate for a makeover—it wasn’t like anyone had complained about my style before. Admittedly, I was no fashionista, but I had always thought I was reasonably well put together, though I did run toward the simple and conservative. Jack produced outfit after outfit, all of which were the sort of things the other girls wore. I felt worse and worse with every change, as if I was stripping away layers of my personality with my clothes.

  I realized I was being melodramatic. After all, they were just bits of material, and they would make me fit in better with Jack’s friends, rather than shout my Sydney roots and my otherness. Suck it up, I told myself sternly. How many women would kill to be in my position, shopping with their gorgeous boyfriend who wanted to buy them clothes?

  Jack sat happily on the couch outside the change room, smiling encouragingly when I emerged in a new outfit. I had to admit, the clothes didn’t look bad; they just weren’t what I would normally wear—velvet blazers with leather elbow patches, floaty silk dresses in pale pinks and creams, knitted vests, and way too many things with checks on them.

  “That one is perfect!” he exclaimed as I emerged in a midnight-blue velvet evening gown.

  “Really?” I asked skeptically.

  “I’m buying it. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Okay. Thanks!” I said, mustering a smile. I felt uneasy about this whole situation, but I also wasn’t sure what I could do about it. I didn’t want to offend Jack, and I wanted him to be happy, but still.

  “We’ll get that, the jacket and the black tailored pants, and the silk shirty thing. That will do for a start. How about a headband to match the jacket?” he asked.

  I checked to see if he was joking. Unfortunately, he wasn’t.

  “Absolutely not,” I said firmly. There were lines that I would never cross.

  “Okay. But you need some pearls.”

  Swearing under my breath, I went back into the change room to put on my jeans.

  “I can hear you!” he called out, amused.

  We didn’t buy the pearls, but they turned up as a gift the following week. I now had a Sloane Ranger uniform, but could I actually wear it out in public without feeling like I was dressed as someone else? That was the thousand-pounds-of-Jack’s-money question.

  “Have you ever thought about getting blond streaks?” Jack asked over dinner the following Saturday night. I was starting to see a bit of a pattern here.

  “No, have you?” I shot back.

  Jack laughed. “I thought everyone was getting them now,” he replied conversationally.

  “Not when you have hair as dark as mine. It would just look strange and skunk-like.”

  “Hmm,” Jack murmured.

  “Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. Was I a fixer-upper for Jack? With a bit of renovation, could I be a better girlfriend? It’s not like he had suggested anything too radical, but I wasn’t used to a man who was this concerned with my appearance.

  “Are you trying to change me?” I asked, deciding to be upfront about it.

  “No!” He looked surprised. “I’m sorry. I think you’re perfect. I just want to be interested in the things you’re interested in. Don’t girls talk about hair and clothes and stuff?”

  “Yes, but not like that.” I laughed, relieved my fears were unfounded. “It feels like you’re trying to change me into a clone of the other girls in your group, and that’s not who I am. It makes me question why you’re with me when what you seem to want is one of them.”

  “I don’t want one of them!” he shouted. “God, it would make my life easier if I did. I want you.”

  “Why?” Part of me was terrified to hear the answer, but this conversation was long overdue. “Why are you with someone who makes things difficult, particularly with your mother?”

  “That’s what’s so fantastic about you; you’re not with me because of all that. You actually look at me and see the person inside. Everyone else just seems to see the other stuff and my ‘potential.’”

  I sat there stunned, trying to take in what he said. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but it did seem honest. He reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it.

  “I’m sorry; I probably didn’t say that right. But in my defense, I spent most of my formative years in boy’s prison, fallaciously referred to as a school, so I don’t really know what I’m doing with the whole relationship thing. I really am trying not to fuck things up with you. I love you.”

  My heart melted. “You’re adorable.” I kissed him gently, which now quickly led into other things.

  We had been seeing each other for just over five months when we had “the talk.” We were spending a lazy Sunday morning in my warm bed, reading our books, when he put his down and turned to face me. He pulled my book out of my hands and placed it on the bed and then put his head on the pillow next to mine and looked into my eyes.

  “Hey! I was reading that!” I objected, trying to lean over him and retrieve it.

  “What do you want out of this?” he asked. Surprised, I lay back down. His hand started stroking my stomach almost absentmindedly.

  “What do I want out of what?” I asked, distracted by the movement of his hand and the randomness of the quest
ion.

  “From us, from me.” Oh! Now I knew where he was going.

  “Um…I don’t know. What do you want?” I hedged.

  “I asked first.”

  “Do we need to do this?” There was more than a hint of pleading in my voice. I was still enjoying the lassitude that came from lying around in bed with him and not having to get up for work. I had a strong feeling this conversation would kill it off.

  “Maybe I want to know,” he said stubbornly.

  “Okay. What specifically do you want to know?” I pushed myself up onto one elbow, resting my head on my hand.

  “Are you going to leave to go back to Australia?”

  “Well, yes,” I said slowly, “but I still have a year left on my visa.” I watched his face carefully.

  “I don’t want you to leave.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me in closer so we were skin to skin.

  “That’s really sweet, but my work isn’t sponsoring anyone at the moment and getting a visa on my own isn’t easy. Also, I miss home a bit.” I kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “What about through me? We could move in together,” he suggested.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of that, even though I was sure he meant it. “Your mother would have a fit! I’m pretty sure living with someone wouldn’t be the ‘done thing.’” Thinking of Edwina’s reaction to my living in sin with her son was hilarious. I wondered if she would actually spontaneously combust. “You might be disinherited,” I said teasingly.

  “Why don’t you marry me then?” he said, eyes sparkling. He had been playing with me before, intending to get to this question all along.

  I looked at him closely, trying to see if he was joking. I half-expected him to grin and laugh and say “just kidding,” but he didn’t.

  “We’ve only known each other for five months. Isn’t that a bit soon?” I said carefully.