Twenty minutes later, the cupcakes were cooling on wire racks and I had filled two piping bags with the icing. I fitted star-shaped nozzles to the ends and set the bags down beside the cakes while I lined up my glass jars of toppings that filled one kitchen shelf in the manner of ye olde sweet shoppe. I know they say one should resist having sweets and biscuits in the house in order to avoid temptation, but I was of the – if I deny myself and it’s not there I will just think of it twice as much and probably have to waste time going out to buy it – school of thinking. The glass jars contained a rainbow mix of sweets including jelly babies, liquorice allsorts, gummy shapes, midget gems, dolly mixtures, chocolate buttons (white and milk), revels, maltesers and… well pretty much the full range, as well as silver and gold balls, icing flowers, marzipan hearts, hundreds and thousands and mini chocolate eggs with sugar shells.
Taking first the piping bag of blue icing, I hunched over one baking tray and expertly piped a luscious crest of butter icing onto a dozen fluffy cupcakes. In between singing tunelessly to the choruses of Last Christmas (which should never, in my opinion, be restricted to the festive season), I stuck my tongue between my lips to help me concentrate and occasionally slipped sweets into my mouth. When the pink cakes had been iced, I then added the finishing touches, placing jelly babies on top of silver balls and sticking chocolate buttons through the star-shaped edges of the icing until each cake was as colourful and sparkly as a Disney fairy castle. They looked sumptuous and gaudy, quirky and cute. Loaded with sugar and calories but surely far too attractive to be bad. I stood back and admired my work. This was my art and I had to admit, I felt more relaxed and happy than I had in a long time. It was the complete opposite to my work. It was creative and messy and carefree and possibly pointless but it definitely put a smile on my face. In fact, I had totally forgotten to feel hungover. I had also forgotten to do anything important like cancel my credit cards but I would get around to that once I had cleaned up.
‘Ta da!’ I said aloud, throwing my arms wide, ‘Too good to eat.’
‘Almost.’
I closed my eyes and waggled my finger above the trays then lowered it down until I touched a cake. It was a pink one, topped with yellow, white and pink liquorice allsorts and chocolate shavings. Not to everyone’s taste admittedly but then I wasn’t making them for everyone and I liked to experiment with flavours. Taking a deep breath of sugary air, I lifted the cake to my lips, opened my mouth and shoved half of it inside. I chewed slowly and then swallowed. The cake itself was soft and delightfully vanilla flavoured. The icing and sweets added the hit of sugar I needed to pick me up and make me smile.
‘Bloody hell I’m brilliant,’ I muttered with a mouthful of sponge.
This was what I had needed all week; a fun, creative task with a calorie-laden pay-off. This was perfect ‘me’ time.
It was as I was about to take a second bite that there was a knock at the door. Not giving a second thought to the fact that my visitor would either be Roxy or Heidi or both, I danced across the lounge with half a cupcake still in one hand, opened the latch with the other and flung the door wide open.
There I froze with half a cake held in mid-air, crumbs of sponge around my mouth and globules of butter icing on my flour-dusted jumper with Wham! playing at top volume.
There he stood, Malachy Doyle’s brother, with a Tod’s bag in one hand, a fist that had very recently knocked in the other and an expression of bemusement/shock/slight disgust on his very handsome, very clean face.
‘I’m Your Man..!’ sang Wham! much too loudly.
I was speechless, my teeth largely stuck together with thick, pink icing. He turned as red as the scarf wrapped around his neck and slowly cleared his throat.
‘Well I’m very pleased you’re not crying this time,’ he said with an uncomfortable smile.
For a moment, I didn’t know quite how to react to the ebony-haired semi-stranger standing at my front door holding out my handbag. What was he doing here and how did he know where I lived? Had he come to check whether I was in and, if not, ransack the place? Or had he come to do the violating I had fretted (and wondered) about? His broad physique seemed to dominate the doorframe and block my exit that was not, if truth be told, very accustomed to male passing traffic. Suffice to say there had never been a male bottleneck while I had been living there. Unable to hold his gaze, I glanced down from his eyes, taking in a rather dapper blazer with an upturned collar around which was tied the aforementioned scarf. He wore a black jumper that looked like very touchable cashmere, off-black jeans and grey suede shoes. He was very well dressed for a burglar but then I imagined burglars had had the sense to move on from the cream pyjamas decorated with arrows and bag marked ‘swag’ look.
‘How did you…? What are you…?’
My voice trailed away as, lowering my cupcake, I looked up at him and felt my heart flutter when I focused on his eyes shining like precious peridot stones.
‘Am I interrupting something?’ he asked.
‘If you’re gonna do it, do it right, right, do it with me,’ sang George Michael excitedly as my visitor’s olivine eyes landed on my chest and stayed there.
‘What the fuck…?’ I gasped, grabbing one hand to my breasts before I realised I still had my silicone cupcake implants sticking up inside my jumper.
‘Oh, excuse me, I was just…’
Baking? Sticking cooking utensils on my breasts and singing Eighties songs to myself while stuffing my face with cake I could really do without? Making a general twat of myself, which was all well and good when I was alone but all seemed very inappropriate now I had a witness? A male witness with long legs and lovely hair and big hands and delightfully full lips.
I blinked myself back to reality, held up my palm like a policewoman directing traffic and quickly spun around with my back to him while I removed the offending articles from my boobs. As I did so, I caught sight of myself in the antique mirror hanging on the wall beside the door and gasped. My hair was covered in flour and icing sugar, resembling the ‘before’ picture in a Head and Shoulders advert. I had cake mixture smeared across one cheek and pink icing on the other. I forced myself to smile and saw the sticky remnants of my indulgence were very visible between my teeth. I rubbed them with my finger, nervously turned back to face him and peered at the floor.
‘So, er, what do you want?’ I mumbled.
‘Pardon? Oh, what do I want? I wanted to return this rather beautiful Tod’s bag to you. I thought you might be missing it. I’m sure I would.’
I frowned up at him.
‘Not that I’d miss a handbag as such,’ he continued flustered, ‘because I don’t have one obviously. Not even a man bag, although I’m sure they’re very useful for carrying the essentials and if you have friends or a boyfriend who carry one that’s fine, you know, each to their own. I just mean, I’d miss something this well made and beautiful.’
He shifted from one foot to the other and held out my (and there he was spot on) beautiful Tod’s bag. I crossed my arms, my body language defensive.
‘How did you find me?’
‘I er well I hope you don’t mind but I had a quick glance through the contents and I found a couple of letters with this address and then your driver’s license. I was going to bring it last night but I had to work. Sorry.’
As he spoke my mind quickly raced through the contents of the bag, trying to determine whether there was anything I should blush about but, short of being embarrassed about the odd Tampax, nothing sprang to mind.
Glowering at him, I took the bag, turned it over carefully in my hands to check that, other than the sliced strap, it was undamaged and then I swung it and smacked him on the arm.
‘Ouch! What was that for?’
‘Hmm, now let me see. Could it possibly be for snatching my bag in what may well have been an immature prank but which could well have ended in my grisly death on a Metro platform?’
He rubbed his arm.
‘But you…’<
br />
‘I didn’t die,’ I interrupted, ‘no thanks to you. If it hadn’t been for Tristan…’
‘Tristan?’
‘The kid with the flick knife. My saviour in a hoodie.’
‘That’s unexpected.’
‘I know. He looked more like a Kevin.’
‘Or a Sean.’
‘Yes or a Zac.’
‘Why Zac?’
‘Zac,’ I said with a drawl, ‘it’s just one of those trendy American names isn’t it? A bit common these days though. Zac, hey yo, dude, I’m Zac. It’s the new Kevin if you like.’ I paused, momentarily wondering how I had lost control of the conversation. I recovered my anger and hit him again. He yelped. ‘Anyway, Tristan’s name is not the issue. The issue is, what you did was very dangerous. I could have been killed.’
He moved his hand to his hair and swept his hand through his fringe to reveal a furrowed brow.
‘I’m sorry, Chloe…’
My eyebrows leapt when he said my name. He saw my reaction and waved his hand at my bag.
‘Pardon me, I didn’t mean to be over familiar. I’m presuming that’s your name.’
I nodded.
‘Can I call you Chloe?’
I nodded slowly again. As soon as he used my name, he no longer felt like a stranger. In a strange way, it felt as if he had been using my name for years.
‘I’m confused. I didn’t actually do anything other than see the bag sticking through the door inside the train and then realise it was attached to you who unfortunately happened to be outside the train. I know I should have pulled the emergency cord but it all happened so fast I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just trying to break the strap but it’s very good quality.’
I smiled before I could stop myself and stroked the soft leather.
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘I could have done more but I really don’t think the blame falls on me, especially when the young lady with the Prada bag and Kurt Geiger boots…’
‘Were they Kurt Geiger? I wondered.’
‘Yes, this season. Gorgeous detailing.’
My mouth turned up at the corners. This man was full of surprises.
‘Well she happened to mention that you had been swinging the bag in an attempt to get her attention and in the crush of people getting on the train, the last swing left it dangling between the doors.’
I threw my head back and laughed a hollow laugh as the blood rushed to my cheeks.
‘What a ridiculous idea. Why on earth would I do that? I hardly even noticed Miss Snooty Boots.’
He smiled at me, his eyes glinting mischievously. I crossed my legs at the ankles and rested my hand on the door.
‘Well, it’s obviously been an accident and a few misunderstandings,’ I said, wishing my cheeks would stop advertising my guilt, ‘thank you for bringing it back.’
‘You’re welcome, Chloe.’
He dipped his head in a gentlemanly fashion and outstretched his hand.
I lowered my own from the doorframe and slid my hand into his. His palm was warm and his skin softer than Tod’s best leather. I heard myself giggle like a schoolgirl and inwardly cringed.
‘I guess I should leave you to’ – his eyes gave me the once over and I remembered the state I was in – ‘whatever it is you were doing before I interrupted.’
I rubbed down the front of my jumper and a cloud of white dust rose between us.
‘I was just baking,’ I laughed.
He touched his chest.
‘Thank God, for a minute there I thought I’d stumbled across an anthrax factory.’
We smiled at each other and that feeling returned, as if I had known him for quite some time. He had a comfortable, unimposing presence despite his height and his broad shoulders and, there was no denying it, his face was very enjoyable to look at. Feeling suddenly confident, I stepped backwards and gestured for him to follow.
‘Why don’t you come in and sample some of my cakes?’
His smile broadened into two symmetrical dimples.
‘Oh well if you’re sure.’
‘I think I owe you for the kindnesses you’ve already shown me and I’ll only eat them all myself otherwise so you’ll be doing my hips a favour.’
I saw him glance quickly at my hips before he cleared his throat. What he was thinking I didn’t want to know. He nodded then and stepped cautiously over the threshold. I half expected bells and flashing lights and a TV presenter’s voice to announce – ‘Congratulations! You are the first man unrelated to Chloe Baker to enter the flat in over two years! Prepare to be eaten alive!’
I turned and walked towards the kitchen. My heart fluttered childishly when I heard the door shut and the sound of his footsteps follow behind me.
‘Would you like tea or coffee…?’ I stopped and turned towards him. ‘Sorry, how rude of me, I don’t even know your name.’
He stopped unbuttoning his blazer and gave a little cough.
‘It’s Zachary Doyle,’ he said as my mouth turned into a small ‘o’, ‘but some people call me Zac.’
CHAPTER NINE
¼ tsp vanilla extract
I set about making filter coffee with hot frothy milk. The gurgles and squirts of the coffee machine helped to fill any awkward silences and kept my hands busy so that I didn’t fiddle with them as I tended to do when I was nervous. Zachary, as I thankfully discovered he preferred to be called (although whether he had preferred Zac before I had brashly trashed his name a few moments before I was not sure) perched on one of the stools at the breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the lounge. His eyes fell on the two-dozen (minus two) frosted cupcakes filling the work surface.
‘Are you expecting company?’
I shook my head and swiftly brushed away the icing sugar that landed on my shoulders.
‘No I just like to bake. I find it’s therapeutic to indulge my creative side from time to time. I figure if I’m getting messy I may as well make it worthwhile and bake a big batch. My friends love them.’
‘I don’t doubt that if they taste as good as they look.’
I poured the coffee into large, huggable mugs and placed two cakes of each colour on a floral plate.
‘Oh they do,’ I said with a wink. ‘Come over to the comfy seats and you can be my official taster.’
After I had shushed Wham! and opted for a more atmospheric Ben Howard CD, I settled beside him on the sofa at a polite distance. We sipped our coffee and I watched him look around the room. His eyes fell on the fairy lights dancing silently from pink to white and back to pink around the windows. He smiled to himself and sipped his coffee again. I looked around and, not being accustomed to welcoming many male strangers into my personal space, I wondered what my flat said about me. Did the fairy lights make me seem rather girly and certainly single? Was the décor of cream sofas and rugs, silk cushions and statement wallpapers stylish, welcoming, or too much like a house magazine? Did I have too many romance novels on the shelves? Was my penchant for candles too much? I peered over the milk froth and blinked.
Who cares? My flat, my taste, my world. Why was I worried what Zachary Doyle thought?
‘You have a beautiful home,’ he said as if reading my mind, ‘do you live alone?’
‘Why? Does it look like I live alone?’
He blinked.
‘No, yes, I’m not sure really, I…I was just making conversation.’ He paused. ‘I love the fairylights.’
‘Do you?’
Damn it, maybe he was gay like his brother.
‘I know men aren’t supposed to like fairy lights but there’s something magical about them, don’t you think? Like it’s permanently Christmas.’
I nodded.
‘My thoughts exactly.’
I stretched for the cake plate and offered him one. His hand hovered between the blue and the pink. What with the strawberry scented tissues, his appreciation of handbags and boots and his love of fairy lights, if he opted for the pink one I would se
nd my hormones back to the locked box they came from.
He chose a blue cake dotted with white chocolate buttons and topped with a pink jelly baby. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.
By the time there were only cake crumbs left on the plate, I had discovered Zachary Doyle came from an Irish Catholic family of three sons. He had lived in Galway until the age of ten at which point the family had moved to Newcastle where his father had worked in the now defunct shipyards. He had a faint hint of Irish in his predominantly Geordie accent. He also had the conversational flow and easy wit of an Irishman. The hypnotic green eyes and the Guinness coloured hair completed the package.
I crossed my legs and tried to concentrate on his story.
Zac’s mother was a seamstress who had dreamed of being Coco Chanel but had been far too busy dealing with three boisterous sons and a demanding husband to follow her own dreams. His father had tragically died of a sudden and massive heart attack the day his redundancy from Swan Hunters was announced.
‘He was broken as a man,’ Zachary said openly, ‘as if all his self-worth had come from his job, which was ridiculous of course. But we humans often let work define us. We would have loved him whatever he did but the thought of not being the man he wanted to be frightened my father. It was as if he scared himself to death.’
I nodded sagely. I could relate to the feeling of heartbreak even if my own heart had so far weathered my own work-related storm.
As the oldest boy, Zachary had immediately left college and found a job to become the family breadwinner. He had been a businessman ever since.
‘What sort of business do you work in?’ I asked.
He tipped back his coffee cup to drain the contents and endearingly ran his finger inside the rim of the cup to catch the foam, which he then licked. I smiled at his uninhibited behaviour. He acted as if we had been friends for years.
His finger licked clean, (lucky finger) he wiggled his hand.
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