Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  Excuse me but doesn’t this kiss feel horribly familiar? said the part of me that was too sensible to completely forget the drunken events of the previous evening.

  I gasped as Roxy’s footballer friend, the new Spanish centre whatsit with the bum like a hamster chewing two golf balls released my lips, winked, slapped me on my bum and purred – ‘Gracias for a fantastic evening, Clare. We must do this again.’

  With that, he spun on his single shoe, wiggled his sunglasses at Zachary and crashed out of the door, dragging my pride along the floor behind him.

  It was fair to say, the moment was a tad more embarrassing than the cake maker/tutu revelation. I forced myself to look up at Zachary who was standing as still as a waxwork, still holding out his business card, his face stunned.

  ‘I didn’t, we didn’t…’ I began. ‘He’s just …’

  A friend? My cleaner?

  I momentarily lost the ability to speak.

  Zachary cleared his throat and then cleared it again. I smiled like a manic cat.

  ‘You were saying…’ I said hopefully.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You were about to ask me if I wanted to…?’

  My mouth froze in an ‘o’ waiting for Zachary to fill the silence. He blinked twice, opened and closed his mouth then shook his head as if to rid his memory of the image. I squirmed, willing him to forget what just happened and return to the ‘moment’ we had been sharing before the untimely interruption. I reached out for the business card but he did not let go.

  ‘You were definitely about to ask me something,’ I said keenly.

  ‘Hmm? Was I? No, I don’t think I was.’

  He pulled the business card towards him.

  ‘Oh you were, you definitely were.’

  I tugged it back towards me.

  ‘It’s gone clear out of my mind,’ he said with another tug.

  I gritted my teeth.

  ‘Try to remember.’

  I yanked the card and almost fell over backwards as it slipped from his grasp. I shoved it into my pocket and looked up at him. His once sparkly eyes had visibly dulled.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, I didn’t realise you had company.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ I muttered.

  A slightly hysterical laugh escaped from my throat. Zachary remained steadfastly laugh-free.

  ‘I must be off, things to do,’ he said, his eyes focused on the floor.

  He shoved his big hands deep in his pockets and turned to leave. My heart sank. Why had I chosen last night of all nights to be a slapper? It was so unlike me, but Zachary would never believe me no matter how much the lady doth protest.

  ‘More cake?’ I sighed as a last-ditch attempt to salvage the situation.

  ‘No thank you.’

  He bobbed his head graciously and stepped over the threshold.

  ‘Good day to you, Clare.’

  ‘It’s Chloe.’

  ‘I know.’ Zachary fixed his green eyes on me and added – ‘I would have bothered to remember.’

  I could not bear the shame as he turned and walked away. Quickly, I closed the door, rested back against it, slid to the floor and let the embarrassment wash over me in the hope I might drown.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Makes 12

  Newcastle city centre was packed with shoppers either attempting to avoid the inevitable December stress by purchasing all their presents before the end of November or purchasing party wear for the rapidly approaching Christmas party season. There was already a sense of anticipation in the air, which was strengthened by the decorations twinkling in many shop windows and the Christmas song CDs playing on repeat. November still had a good week left to offer but retailers and consumers strained to look ahead to the approaching Christmas chaos.

  I sat on the floor of the Top Shop changing rooms with my feet pressed up against the wall and my hands over my ears.

  ‘I swear if I hear Driving Home For Christmas one more time today I will start smashing things up. Where the fuck is he driving from, Australia?’

  ‘Howay man, Chloe, don’t be a humbug,’ Roxy laughed from inside her cubicle, ‘Christmas is lush.’

  ‘It is if you’ve got a job and, or a doting boyfriend with a weekly salary that is more than most people earn in a year for kicking a ball around a pitch.’

  ‘Aye I know, it’s champion,’ Roxy laughed. ‘You should get yourself one.’

  She emerged from the changing room, pressed her boobs together and looked herself up and down in the mirror that covered an entire wall. Every female face in the room turned to look at her tiny figure and their faces turned a visible shade of green. If looks could kill, my stunning friend would have turned to ash on the spot. In the gold body con dress, she looked like an award ceremony trophy. I peered up at her as Heidi bounced out of her cubicle wearing a floral jumper, knee-length pink chiffon skirt, lace leggings and an oversized red bow in her hair. In complete contrast to Roxy, she was what in a bygone era would have been described as ‘buxom’ and her choice of clothes were anything but sultry. However, Heidi’s individuality and complete indifference to the opinions of the bitchy girls in the changing rooms made her naturally sexy. Both of them were extremely attractive while being so different. It just went to show that it was in aspiring to be someone from a magazine rather than their true self was where some girls went wrong.

  Roxy wrapped her fingers around her waist, blew a giant pink chewing gum bubble and tutted.

  ‘This feels tight. Does it look tight?’

  ‘It’s a body con dress, Roxy, it’s supposed to look tight.’

  Heidi lowered her purple glasses onto her nose from her head and peered at the label on Roxy’s potential purchase.

  ‘It’s a size four, pet,’ she laughed lightly. ‘If it didn’t feel tight I’d be worried you had no internal organs.’

  ‘Aye but usually a four fits perfect and this just feels uncomfortable.’

  I clasped my cheeks.

  ‘Dear God no. Imagine the humiliation if you had to purchase a’ – I silently mouthed the last words – ‘size six.’

  Roxy stuck her fingers up at me, blew another bubble and waltzed back into the cubicle.

  ‘It’s mint anyway so I’m getting it,’ she shouted, adding - ‘I’ll just have to have more energetic sex!’

  A lady leaving the adjacent cubicle covered her young daughter’s ears. Heidi mouthed – ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure Thierry won’t mind,’ I sniggered.

  ‘Aye or whoever else,’ she called back. ‘Did I tell you the manager said Thierry’s not allowed to have sex for two nights now before every match?’ Roxy stepped out of the cubicle wearing just an Agent Provocateur lace bra and a thigh-length pencil skirt. ‘I mean he’s a bleedin’ football player, man, he didn’t sign up for the fucking priesthood.’

  Heidi and I laughed. A group of four blonde girls in their twenties span around at the words ‘football player’ like a pack of dogs hearing the word ‘biscuit’. The girls all had backcombed sexy hair, thick black lashes, spray tans and acrylic nails. They stood in a line admiring themselves as they tried on identical skin-tight (and in some cases inadvisably tight) Lycra mini-dresses in a spectrum of neon colours. Their heavily kohled eyes on spray-tanned faces narrowed in Roxy’s direction, resembling black permanent marker lines drawn on an orange. Roxy obliviously slipped back into the cubicle.

  ‘Like she’s going out with a football player,’ one girl hissed, ‘I doubt it like.’

  ‘Slag,’ said another.

  ‘Fat slag,’ added her friend.

  ‘Yeah, fat cow,’ said the fourth.

  Ooh what sharp wit, I thought, like a hot knife, slicing to the very heart of my size four friend. I wished I had the same ability to incite jealousy wherever I went. I looked at Heidi who was still playing with the chiffon layers of her potential purchase and we laughed. Unfortunately, one of the girls saw me laughing and decided if she couldn’t compete with Roxy, she would fight her dump
ier friend instead.

  She was the tallest of the group with the biggest hair, which corresponded directly to the size of her mouth. She wore an orange dress that was like camouflage against her tan.

  ‘What the fuck’r you laughing at?’ she spat, jutting out a sharp hip and placing her hand on it with exaggerated force.

  Her three friends followed with the same movement before they started strutting towards me. It was like being attacked by The Saturdays. In the cubicle I heard Roxy’s phone ring and she answered it. Damn it, when it came to being a tough Geordie lass in situations such as these, Roxy was definitely the one we hid behind, even if she was the most petite. I pressed my lips together and looked away as Heidi turned and smiled graciously at them.

  ‘Come on girls, let’s not be silly,’ she said softly.

  ‘Shut your mouth you fat cow,’ said the big haired leader, ‘you look like one of them hippos in a tutu.’

  Heidi glanced at her skirt. I thought better of returning the compliment to the roundest of the four friends who had chosen a multi-coloured mini dress and looked like a bag of marbles with a head. My challengers came to a stop inches from my legs and looked sneeringly down at me.

  Orange girl, whom I imagined to be called something modern like Chutney, said - ‘Were you laughing at me, Grandma?’

  Clearly she had chosen to move on from size to age. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. I cleared my throat and tried to smile up at them without appearing to be looking up their rather minimal skirts.

  ‘Of course I’m not laughing at you. Why would I be laughing at you?’

  ‘Why would I be laughing at you?’ she repeated, mocking my accent, which had never become convincingly Geordie, ‘Aren’t you too old for Top Shop?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there was an age limit. How very discriminatory. You want to hope they don’t discriminate according to skin colour or you might find yourself restricted to shopping at Orange.’

  I couldn’t help myself.

  Chutney flared her nostrils and raised a stiletto heel above my leg just as Roxy came out of the cubicle holding out her crystal studded mobile. Like Gollum gazing at the ring, the girls recoiled in horror as they focused on the sparkly pink phone. The green monster wrapped his hands around their necks and squeezed.

  ‘Chloe, Thierry’s on the phone from St. James’. They’re in the dressing room and Carlos wants to chat to you.’

  Carlos. My Spanish footballer with the arse like… (you know). The six-packed, coked up, pretty boy who had ruined any chance I may (or may not) have had with Zachary Doyle by emerging from my bedroom in such a tactless manner. Granted, his presence in my bedroom was not entirely his own fault, but I had yet to get to the bottom (for want of a better phrase) of what had happened that Friday night. Not that I’d tried. In fact I had spent the past week deliberately trying to avoid going anywhere near the bottom of what had happened that Friday night for fear of what I may unearth.

  Roxy handed me the mobile before she noticed the girls.

  ‘What the fuck are you staring at satsuma girl?’ she said, facing them with not a hint of trepidation. ‘I don’t give autographs.’

  Chutney and co pouted at Roxy but instinctively knew they were not as hard as my friend. They shrugged and turned to leave in a choreographed movement. However, their curiosity got the better of them as I began to speak and they loitered close enough to eavesdrop.

  ‘Carlos! How are you, guapo?’ I said over-enthusiastically. ‘Yes I had a lovely time last Friday night too.’

  Did I?

  ‘I know, we had so much to talk about, didn’t we?’

  Did we?

  ‘Ha ha.’ My giggle ran up and down a scale of do-re-mi.

  ‘Would I like to have dinner with you?… There? Oh but that’s very expensive.’

  The expressions of shock and… yes it definitely was jealousy, sweet jealousy (yes!) etched on the faces of the wannabe Wags spurred me on.

  ‘I would love to, Carlos.’

  Earth to Chloe, what the hell…?

  ‘Hasta tonight,’ I said, chirping like a manic canary, ‘Ciao!’

  I never said ‘ciao’. I also never made kissing noises into the phone before I hung up. On this occasion I did both.

  Heidi’s eyebrows had taken shelter beneath the giant bow flopping about on her head and Roxy looked like she might explode with laughter, but she held her composure long enough for Chutney and co to absorb the fact I had just been asked out by the footballer friend of my friend’s footballer boyfriend. Swallowing the bile that was undoubtedly in their already sour mouths, my orange attackers tottered back to their cubicles. Chutney, bless her, even attempted to slam the curtain. The effect was underwhelming.

  ‘Were you really talking to someone or pretending?’ said Heidi in a loud whisper.

  ‘I might have gone a little crazy of late, Heidi, but I haven’t quite resorted to making dates with imaginary men.’

  I held out my arms and she pulled me up.

  ‘But I thought you didn’t like him.’

  I sniffed and looked down at my shifting feet.

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him. How could I not like him when I have absolutely zero recollection of spending the evening with him?’

  Roxy laughed and pulled on her coat.

  ‘I’ve had that happen loads. Remember the time we went to the Metro Centre for the day and when we got back at night I found that fella locked in my flat who I’d totally forgotten I’d shagged?’

  Heidi shook her head.

  ‘I’m starting to think my two best friends are cheap slappers.’

  ‘I might be a slapper, pet,’ Roxy winked, ‘but I’m definitely not cheap!’

  She waved a platinum card in the air and then nodded at Heidi’s outfit.

  ‘Now are you getting that or not?’

  Heidi twirled around, the chiffon skirt puffing out around her like a cloud.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think it makes me look like a hippo in a tutu?’

  ‘No, it’s cute.’

  ‘Aye, the skirt’s canny,’ Roxy sniffed, ‘but give the fucking enormous hair bow a miss. You look like your head’s shrunk.’ She shooed Heidi back into the cubicle. ‘Now get a wriggle on, Heidi, we’ve got to find Chloe a pulling outfit.’

  ‘What for?’ I frowned.

  ‘For your date with a Newcastle United football player, pet. Or were you planning to wear a hoodie and football boots?’

  I groaned.

  Had I really just made a date with a perma-tanned Spanish footballer whom I may or may not have slept with the previous Friday night? Whom I had been trying to push into the darkest corner of my mind all week while focusing on job applications in order to forget the look of sheer horror on Zachary Doyle’s face. Lovely Zachary Doyle who had run from my flat never to be heard from again.

  Not that I cared.

  Not much anyway.

  ‘Do I really have to go?’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t want to spend any money and I was only doing it to try and make those girls jealous.’

  How old was I, fourteen?

  Roxy linked her arm through mine and led me out of the changing rooms with Heidi following behind, her arms full of chiffon.

  ‘My treat. Or rather Thierry’s treat.’

  ‘No I can’t…’ I began as she dragged me towards the rails of dresses that all looked very trendy, very sequinned and very very small. Maybe Chutney had a point about the age limit. My heart sank.

  ‘You can. He never even checks his statements. I could buy you a car and he’d probably never know.’

  Oh how the other half lived.

  ‘It’ll do you good, Chloe,’ said Roxy breezily, ‘and like you said it’s not like you’ve got a job or a boyfriend, so why not?’

  My pride rolled away across the floor underneath a rack of size six mini skirts.

  ‘Thanks Roxy,’ I grumbled as Heidi sympathetically patted my arm.

  ‘Not at
all, Chloe man, what are friends for? Now, try this one on, it’ll show off your boobs at dinner. Carlos has got an arse to die for so there’s no point even trying to compete with that and then we better get you some sexy kegs for the’ – she made inverted commas in the air – ‘after party in the bedroom. If I know footballers, I know they expect more than comfy cotton. And you know that I do know footballers.’

  Oh God, what had I done?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Preheat oven to 170° C/325° F/Gas 3

  The Baltic Flour Mill was a landmark building that stood proudly on the Gateshead bank of the River Tyne. A six-storey structure in red and sand-coloured bricks, it resembled a building a child would construct out of cereal packets and matchboxes. The only outside indication that it had been stylishly brought into the twenty-first century as a contemporary arts centre was the glass box suspended from the fifth floor that contained a viewing platform for visitors and the glass rooftop restaurant on the sixth floor, aptly named ‘Six’. It was here that Carlos had booked a table for our date and it was in the disabled parking space that he swung his Porsche Panamera at breakneck speed, causing me to stab my heels sharply into the plush carpeted mat in the hope that it might have dual controls.

  ‘I don’t think you can park here, Carlos,’ I said pointing at the disabled sign, adding with a nervous laugh – ‘Although if you keep driving like that, you might be eligible for a badge before you know it.’

  My wit was lost in translation.

  Carlos laughed and turned off the engine.

  ‘When you have hundred grand car, guapa, you can park where you want.’

  He fixed his shiny, waxed hair in the mirror, smoothing his dyed blond curls behind his ears, in which shone two dazzling diamond studs. He then licked his fingers and ran them over his styled eyebrows before producing a small jar of lipbalm from his inside pocket, which he smoothed on his already glistening lips. I half expected him to get out his make-up bag and start slapping on foundation and mascara but thankfully he stopped preening just as I was starting to feel awkward. Not to mention outdone in the grooming stakes.

  I have to admit, though, I had pulled out all the stops in preparing for my first date with a famous footballer. Or rather I had stood there like a mannequin while Roxy and her assistant Heidi had pulled out, plucked, preened and perfected the stops. Even if I said so myself, I scrubbed up alright.