Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  I wore a deep purple velvet dress that clung to the curves I usually preferred to avoid things clinging to, but the cut of the dress and the oversized belt cinching in my waist somehow made the most of what I had. It was expensive and it looked every penny I had paid for it. I had bitten the bullet when I had looked at myself in the mirror in Fenwicks and I had had to look twice to be sure it was me. I may not have had job security, but I still had enough pride to not let Roxy pay for my outfit. She had, however, threatened to stab me with a black satin platform heel if I refused to let her buy the shoes for me. I was now approaching five feet seven in my three-inch heels. Statement jewellery studded with pink and purple gems from Heidi’s colourful collection, fake eyelashes, sultry lips, nails painted with Chanel Vendetta dark purple varnish and a wavy bob all combined to make me feel and look like a different person. A more polished, glamorous, girlfriend of a rich boyfriend version of myself. In fact I was so unaccustomed to my reflection, I even smiled and said ‘good evening’ to myself in the mirrored lift as Carlos and I made our way to the top of the Gateshead skyline.

  ‘Señor Ferron, we are delighted you and your beautiful lady friend are joining us this evening. Please follow me. We have reserved your favourite table.’

  I felt a thrill run up my control pants (Roxy had not got her way when it came to the underwear) as the Maître D’ complimented me, bowed his head and then led us into the stunning minimalist restaurant.

  The wooden floor and the chairs were black, the curved ceiling and tables were white. Infrequent, confident plants dotted around the long room dared to inject some green into the pallet. The walls on both sides of the restaurant were floor-to-ceiling spotless glass, offering a spectacular view over the city. The lights below twinkled in the darkness, making Newcastle look as glossy as New York in a Hollywood film, only with more sky than skyscrapers. From six floors up, one would be forgiven for imagining a perfect city below us with no litter, no homeless folk and no drunks puking in the streets. I smiled at Newcastle’s magnificence when viewed from above. The bridges spanning the River were spectacularly lit up, the Millennium Bridge changing colour every so often. We may have been dining in a contemporary art gallery but few works of art could have competed with the panoramic view. I could concentrate on nothing else as the Maître D’ directed us to our cosy table by the window, pulled out my chair and handed me a menu.

  ‘Would you like to begin with an aperitif?’ he asked.

  I glanced at the wine list, my eyes falling on the prices of wines by the glass. Prosecco was relatively reasonable and bubbles always helped to perk up a dinner conversation. I opened my mouth to order but Carlos opened his first.

  ‘Champagne,’ he said nonchalantly.

  ‘Certainly, Señor, would that be two glasses or a bottle?’

  ‘A bottle, claro.’

  He pointed at the menu.

  ‘Which would you like, guapa?’

  I felt the eyes of my date and the Maître D’ on me as I focused on the list of champagnes. They ranged from just under fifty pounds to … surely that had to be a misprint?

  ‘Twelve hundred pounds? For champagne? Does that come with a free holiday to France to collect it?’

  ‘You like this one?’ said Carlos.

  ‘No, no I was…’

  ‘We’ll have this one, gracias.’

  He nodded and the Maître D’ scurried away, probably to do a victory dance in the kitchen.

  ‘Carlos, you can’t order that champagne,’ I hissed across the table.

  His face fell.

  ‘Oh but why? You not like Dom Perignon Oenotheque?’

  ‘At twelve hundred pounds a bottle I can’t say I’ve had the opportunity to like or dislike it.’

  Carlos beamed, his teeth as white as the polished ceiling. His hand touched mine on the table.

  ‘Then this is your chance, my love,’ he winked. ‘We are celebrating.’

  Celebrating our first date on a Saturday night in November. It hardly called for champagne made of liquid gold. I felt beads of sweat burst onto my forehead for two reasons. One, if parking the Porsche in a disabled bay had made me rather uncomfortable then this extravagance made me even more so. Two, I was all for equal rights but I hoped to God we weren’t splitting the bill.

  We ate pan-friend scallops and carpaccio of yellow fin tuna to start, washed down with the champagne that tasted beautiful but whether it was one hundred times better than the bottle I bought from Morrisons for special occasions I couldn’t really say. I was so intent on not spilling a drop because of its price tag, I found it hard to relax. Carlos was as charming as he could be with his limited English and his passion for football and cars, which were two subjects I would definitely not choose if I were ever to go on Mastermind.

  ‘You see the Panamera Turbo it has five hundred horse power at six thousand rpm with a top speed of three hundred and three kilometres per hour,’ said Carlos, his eyes sparkling as mine glazed over, which he mistook for a calculation problem. ‘Lo siento, I’m sorry I think in kilometres still, this is one hundred and eighty something miles per hour.’

  How glad I am you cleared that up.

  I smiled and sipped my champagne.

  ‘And with zero to sixty miles per hour in four seconds, this means I can get away from my screaming fans and’ – he touched my knee under the table, making m jump and spill probably about thirty pounds worth of champagne – ‘into your bed much much quicker than if I had chosen the Panamera S.’

  I gulped.

  ‘It is ironic no that I pick the special metallic purple, they call it amethyst, for my car instead of carbon grey and it matches you perfectly.’

  His eyes ran over my dress, down to my nails and back up to my eyeshadow. I blinked and looked down at his hand that was creeping up my thigh like ivy.

  ‘I did notice the beautiful colour,’ I said, sounding every bit the dumb blonde. Not that I was of course, I just had rather minimal knowledge of cars. Or rather I didn’t really give a shit.

  Thankfully the arrival of the main courses stopped Carlos’ hand venturing in pastures where he may or may not have been the previous Friday evening.

  For the main course I had ordered fillet steak with béarnaise sauce, which was presented on a breadboard that looked as lusciously edible as the meat. Carlos opted for sea bream with a prawn risotto, but spent most of the meal staring at my steak until I offered him a piece, at which point he grabbed my dish and wolfed down the meat like a hungry dog. A bottle of Margaux red wine with yet another eye-watering price tag carried us towards the desserts until my head was starting to feel distinctly pickled. I had vowed after the previous week’s events not to let myself get drunk in order to avoid embarrassing situations. I hardly knew this man after all and I owed it to myself to keep my guard up. However, I was nervous in his company, which made me drink faster.

  ‘I must just pop to the Ladies’ room,’ I said as Carlos happily chewed my last piece of steak.

  ‘Shall I follow you there?’

  Carlos winked again and his hand moved up to the top button on his black silk slim-fit shirt, which he instinctively unbuttoned. I say top button but what I actually mean is the top button he had bothered to fasten, which was somewhere around the base of his sternum. I had been treated to flashes of tanned, oiled flesh all evening and glimpses of a diamond pendant nestling between two incredibly pert pectoral muscles. There was no denying the fact my date had a body more edible than anything on the stunning haute cuisine menu and he had a very attractive face, which was all cheekbones and lips. His hair was somewhat stuck in the Eighties but, to give him his dues, it was very well conditioned. It was just a shame the only spark was the one fuelled by alcohol and animalistic desire. There was no connection between our brains or hearts.

  ‘Howay man, Chloe,’ I could hear Roxy comment in my mind, ‘sex only needs one connection to make it work and it’s not via your brain. Get it done. Let yourself go. Live a little.’

  The
re was living a little and there was living a little too close to the edge. Having sex in the toilet of a posh restaurant was the latter. I patted Carlos on the thigh in the way I might pat my neighbour’s cat and smiled.

  ‘It’s a lovely offer but I don’t think this is that sort of establishment, Carlos.’

  I stood to leave the table.

  ‘Then hurry and I will order dessert. You look so beautiful I am not sure I can wait much longer before I explode!’

  He almost shouted the last word. I felt a sudden reflux of béarnaise sauce. Swallowing, I turned and walked away as fast as possible in my ridiculous heels. I could feel his hungry eyes burning through the clingy velvet on my bum and all the way through to my control pants as I attempted to slink my way across the restaurant towards the Ladies’ Room.

  I should have been buzzing with happiness and excitement. I was dressed to the nines in one of the city’s best restaurants with one of the city’s top footballers, drinking ludicrously priced liquid and eating unimaginably delectable food while he gazed into my eyes and told me I was so beautiful he could not wait to ravage me after driving me home in his Porsche Turbo that did nought to sixty in four seconds. I should have been soaking up the compliments, preparing myself for a night of passion, letting myself go, living a little. Yet as Carlos jabbered merrily on, my mind and my eyes kept drifting out through the wall of windows to the streets below, to the other side of the river where my office block nestled in the shadows of the Tyne Bridge. My open plan, strip-lighted, non-descript office painted in company colours, that was neither plush nor cosy but that I missed dreadfully.

  For years I had worked solidly all week in that place to be able to buy myself a house and a car and a life that was considered successful. It had given me everything I thought I had wanted out of life, especially security and self-esteem. Now here I was a fortnight later, unemployed but six storeys up in a world seemingly untouched by recession, looking down at my old life and feeling as if it had been lived by another person. Maybe I could have it all. I could be like Roxy and have a very attractive, admired, talented, rich man who would happily order me a bottle of twelve hundred pound champagne if I took a mad notion. I wouldn’t have to work. Money wouldn’t be an issue. Granted, Carlos hadn’t actually asked me out and there was a good chance he was only after sex, but it was a possibility. It was also a dream for many young girls. Yet, as I stood under the dimmed lights of the Ladies’ Room and looked soberly at the glamorous, sexual woman staring back at me, I felt nothing but emptiness. This wasn’t me; the footballer date, whom I had only agreed to go for dinner with to make a bunch of empty-headed twenty year-olds jealous; the all singing, all dancing car parked in a disabled bay; the fake eyelashes (mine) and big hair (both of us); the mind-numbing conversation only building up to one thing, sex, very probably of the kinky kind. No, this wasn’t me at all. Yet, without my work to define me, I wasn’t exactly sure who I was anymore. Perhaps it was the time to redefine. But how?

  With teardrops still glistening on the end of my fake lashes and my eyes focused on my new shoes, I gathered myself and left the Ladies’ Room.

  I walked smack bang into a man in a suit. I shrieked, he shrieked and grabbed my arms to stop me falling. His oaky scent wafted over me. I raised my chin and wobbled when his peridot eyes stared back at me.

  ‘Chloe,’ he breathed.

  ‘Zachary,’ I gasped.

  ‘You look, you look…’

  He took a step back and looked me up and down twice without even trying to disguise the fact. One hand cupped his chin and the other rested on his hip. I shifted my feet.

  ‘I feel like you’re sizing me up for a coffin.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s just you look, well, gosh, I don’t know the word… polished, glamorous, different and taller, yes definitely taller.’

  I smiled – ‘Heels can do wonders.’

  ‘Yes but it’s not just the heels, it’s the, well the everything. You don’t look like the same person.’

  Something in the way he said the last sentence made me uncomfortable. Then again, perhaps I was just feeling paranoid after my moment of self-doubt in the Ladies’ Room. After all, he seemed unable to control the journey his eyes were taking over my body. I clenched. When his focus returned to my face, we both blushed and looked at the floor, a heavy silence hanging between us.

  I clutched my bag in front of me and tried to think of something to say. I knew we were both thinking about the excruciatingly embarrassing incident in my flat the last time we met. The incident with the man I was now having dinner with. Damn it.

  Zachary slid his hands into the pockets of his charcoal grey suit trousers. I saw a flash of purple silk when his suit jacket flapped open. His tie coordinated with the jacket lining, both of which matched my dress and nail varnish. If we could have run to the lift and escaped in Carlos’ purple car, we would have been the perfect match.

  ‘How have you been?’ asked Zachary just as I said – ‘I’m sorry about last time.’

  We both laughed nervously.

  ‘I have to apologise,’ I said firmly, ‘that was very out of character for me. Not that anything had happened between him and I, but I know how it must have looked. It was just, well, it was nothing but it was certainly awkward.’

  ‘I will admit it was that,’ Zachary said, his mouth turning up at the corners.

  His smile had an innocence, creasing his soft skin that did not need baby oil to shine. Zachary Doyle seemed to sparkle from the inside out, unlike Carlos who needed jewellery and shiny cars to stand out from the crowd. Zachary exuded a kind gentleness that made my heart melt. He was neither flash nor overtly masculine and sexual but he was, I instantly knew, the man I would rather have been returning to the table to share dessert with; one chocolate cake, two spoons.

  I envied the woman he had taken out to dinner.

  Zachary brushed his hand through his hair.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise to me,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t even know you. I can’t expect anything of you. And I did call round uninvited.’

  ‘Which you are welcome to do again,’ I heard myself say too quickly, adding after a pause, ‘if you happen to be passing and you need a glass of water or a coffee or a quick bite to eat before you head off again.’

  My flat had apparently metamorphosed into a Little Chef.

  Zachary smiled.

  ‘Well I could definitely be tempted by those cakes again. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. You know, Chloe, they might be the best cakes I’ve ever tasted and believe me, I’ve tasted a lot in my time. The pecan pie in this restaurant is to die for. In fact it’s the reason I eat at this place at least once a week. I have a definite pecan pie addiction, but I can safely say your cupcakes kick it to the kerb. They could be the best cupcakes in the world.’

  I lit up like the city’s giant Christmas tree in Northumberland Street at his compliment, which affected me so much more than Carlos’ assurances of my beauty. Zachary Doyle thought I made the best cakes he had ever tasted. The best cupcakes in the world! He wanted more. He loved them. He loved me!

  OK so I may have been jumping the gun with the last inference.

  ‘So who are you here with?’ he asked, which brought me quickly back down to earth.

  ‘Er, who am I…?’ I coughed. ‘I’m um, just here for dinner.’

  ‘A restaurant is a great place to choose for dinner,’ he smirked.

  ‘Yes, ha ha. I was hungry so I just came to this restaurant, for dinner, with a friend. Just a friend.’

  ‘Right.’ He paused. ‘It’s funny, I was just thinking about you…’

  My heart hurdled several beats, pushing my head into overdrive. He had just been thinking about me. I was on his mind. I wondered whether I could skip dessert and get Carlos out of the restaurant before Zachary left the Mens’ Room. Probably not, men could be irritatingly swift in that department whe
n we girls needed a bit of time alone for things like reapplying lipstick and getting Spanish footballers out of the building. Mind you, maybe he wouldn’t even remember Carlos. Was he the sort of man one remembered?

  ‘…I actually just saw that man who was in your flat and it made me think of you.’

  Bollocks.

  I had to go and pick a fluorescent orange man, with wild highlighted hair, flash jewellery and muscles. I felt like stabbing myself with my shoe.

  ‘Yes,’ I coughed, ‘that’s my f… friend.’

  I saw a muscle twitch in Zachary’s cheek and the smile faded from his eyes.

  ‘I guessed as much. I also guess a man like him wants a girl to look’ – his head dipped towards my feet – ‘like you look.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I bristled.

  ‘Nothing, I just mean, you know…’

  ‘No, I don’t know.’

  I felt very untimely tears trying to force their way through the ducts. No, I would not cry in front of him. Not again. I lifted my chin.

  ‘What are you trying to say? That I look tarty?’

  ‘No, no, you don’t look tarty.’

  ‘What then?’

  He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair again.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all, forgive me. As I said you look very glamorous.’

  I had always thought ‘glamorous’ was a compliment but as I stood there in my fuck me shoes and slinky dress with everything sucked in so far I was in danger of becoming a black hole, I felt stupid and awkward and out of my comfort zone. How did this man whom I hardly knew have the ability to make me feel as if I was trying to be someone I wasn’t? It was as if he could see right through me. Great, so despite the big hair and inches of make-up, I was not only a black hole, I was also invisible.

  ‘You’re very rude,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I don’t mean to be.’

  Zachary dipped his head and took a step back.