Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘And to you Mr Alexander.’

  Before I hung up, I added - ‘You were joking weren’t you? About the Aga?’

  ‘Maybe Miss Baker, maybe.’

  ‘…I billed over three quarters of a million pounds last year… I decided to move on and look for a job with greater career progression… I aspire to join a company with a different culture… I want to manage a team as only I can… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mr Billinghurst… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace… I guarantee I will make you even more money…’

  ‘…I aspire to join a company with a different culture… I want to manage a team as only I can… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mrs Devine… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace…’

  ‘… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Miss Eddings… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace…’

  ‘…Mr Fisher…’

  ‘…Mrs Gregory… Mr Howard… Mr Isaacs… Jackson… Kendal…’

  I took a break at ‘L’ to make a healthy smoothie of blended frozen raspberries, banana, honey and skimmed milk. Feeling righteous, I added variety to my ‘five a day’ by scoffing down a Twix while I gazed out at the snow that was still falling, covering my view in a fifteen tog duvet. I then continued with my cold calling until lunchtime when someone thankfully called me. It wasn’t a job offer, unfortunately, but it was Heidi and I was just thankful for contact with a human who didn’t have a credit crunch story to tell.

  ‘How’s the job market, pet?’

  ‘Not nearly as much fun as the flea market I imagine. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that I’m not the only recruitment manager who’s been dumped by their company. However, those of us who have been set adrift are now like a pack of hungry dogs fighting over a single dry biscuit. It feels pretty hopeless to be honest.’

  ‘Do you want me to come over? I’ve been let off work early because of the snow. I feel like school’s out!’ Heidi giggled. ‘We could build perfect snowmen in the image of our dream fellas.’

  Yours would take a while, I thought to myself.

  ‘As tempting as that is, Heidi, I think I will have to pass and keep going. I’m going to find a job if I have to call everyone in Newcastle.’

  ‘OK but you know where I am if you need me. Oh and by the way I was thinking about that stall at the flea market we mentioned yesterday. I put our names down for Saturday.’

  ‘You did?’

  I groaned silently. I felt drained enough as it was by my current situation without having to desperately flog wares from a wonky table on a freezing cold Metro platform in the name of charity.

  ‘Great so what are we going to sell?’

  ‘Anything. I’ve got jewellery and hair accessories that I’ve customised. Roxy can bring some designer stuff and you can… well bring whatever you like. You might enjoy having something else to focus on.’

  Rather than myself, she meant. I knew that even though Heidi was too tactful to say so.

  ‘You might even like it enough to make a career of it,’ she laughed.

  From recruitment manager to market stallholder. Nothing against market stall holders but I felt my depression deepen. Knowing how much it meant to Heidi and in the spirit of Christmas and kiddies with no toys, I agreed.

  I kept working my way through my contact book, crossing off the names as I went.

  ‘… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mr Lubovic… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace…’

  ‘… Mrs Mansfield… Miss Norman… Mr Oswald…’

  Roxy called when I reached P.

  ‘I’ll have a P please, Bob,’ she laughed down the phone when I told her my task for the day. ‘Speaking of which, man, I’ve been peeing for England lately like. It’s Thierry’s fault. Very regular sex with a black man is threatening to turn my fanny into a replica of the Tyne Tunnel.’

  ‘And I need to know that why?’

  ‘Sorry I forgot you’re frigid.’

  ‘Will you please stop saying that? You’re giving me a complex. I am not frigid, Roxy!’

  ‘No, you just reject sex on a plate with a loaded, fit-arsed footballer who bought you two grand’s worth of alcohol.’

  I slumped on the window seat and pulled my legs up in front of me.

  ‘Oh, he told you.’

  ‘Nah but he told Thierry in detail about you gawping at some fella across the restaurant and your tongue falling out when he wheeled his boyfriend past.’

  I blushed.

  ‘I didn’t…’

  ‘So who was he like?’

  ‘No-one.’

  ‘Have you got a crush on a gay bloke, pet?’

  ‘No. There’s no crush and I didn’t know he was… well he didn’t feel gay.’

  ‘What does gay feel like?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When did you feel him up then?’

  ‘I didn’t! I haven’t. I just… he was the handbag thief. Or rather the handbag returner if you remember.’

  ‘Eh? Is he stalking you like?’

  ‘No. We’ve just crossed paths a couple of times.’

  ‘Only you would get yourself a gay stalker, Chloe.’

  ‘He’s not a stalker! And he might not even be gay. Maybe they were just good friends.’

  ‘Did they look just good friends? Or did they look like they were about to go home and sh…?’

  ‘Shush, Roxy, I’d rather not think about it,’ I interrupted. ‘Besides, Zachary…’

  ‘Ooh Zah-kary,’ she said in a mock posh accent.

  ‘Yes, Zachary is not the issue here.’

  ‘Really? He sounds like an issue the way you’re ranting on, man.’

  ‘I’m not ranting.’

  ‘Aye you are, you’re definitely ranting now even if you weren’t ranting a minute ago.’

  I stuck out my bottom lip and blew hair out of my eyes in exasperation.

  ‘You’re making me rant.’

  ‘Rant, rant, rant.’

  ‘You are so childish,’ Roxy.’

  ‘Me? At least I have sex like a grown up.’

  ‘You have sex like a crazed, over-sexed animal, not a grown up.’

  Roxy snorted with laughter down the phone.

  ‘Aye, fair enough.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘The reason I didn’t have sex with Carlos was not because of a gay or otherwise man I hardly know in a restaurant or because I am frigid, I just didn’t fancy Carlos.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I didn’t want to sleep with him if I didn’t fancy him.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Didn’t stop you last weekend apparently.’

  I banged head against the window frame.

  ‘You know that was out of character.’

  ‘Aye and it was mint, Chloe. It’s about time you loosened up. Carlos said you were as cold as friggin’ ice on the date like.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I didn’t want to be a slapper but neither did I want to be known as the Ice Queen.

  ‘Is it really snowing out or is it you casting an ice maideny spell on the Northeast?’ Roxy chuckled.

  ‘I’m sorry about Carlos, Roxy. I openly admit I may have been a bit preoccupied.’

  She uh-huhed in agreement.

  ‘And perhaps a little rude.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It’s just the whole job thing.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Probably not the best time to be dating.’

  ‘Are you kidding, like? That’s the perfect time. Nothing to get up for, all the time in the world to lie in bed and shag a rich fella who’ll take away the money worries. It’s a perfect time.’

  Her ethos was somewhat different from Mr Alexander’s.

  ‘Do you want me to set you up again?’

  I shook my head vigorously even though w
e were on the phone.

  ‘No please don’t. I’m going to concentrate on the work thing right now.’

  ‘Fine, be a dull cow, but if you change your mind, I’m sure if Carlos isn’t interested I can get you another one with better hair and a less irritating accent.’

  ‘You make it sound like Footballer Top Trumps.’

  Roxy laughed.

  ‘Aye, pet and I hold all the cards. Right, I’ve got to pee again so piss off back to your bob-a-job calls and stop bothering me.’

  ‘You called me.’

  ‘Ee before I go, did Heidi tell you about the flea market stall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I climbed down from the window seat and padded across the lounge towards the kitchen.

  ‘She’s mental,’ Roxy whistled, ‘do I look like a fucking pikey market trader?’

  ‘No but she’s really keen and I suppose it could be fun.’

  ‘Fun? Shopping online with Thierry’s platinum card is fun. Standing in a Baltic Metro station flogging second hand shit is not fun.’

  ‘It’s for charity,’ I said, tucking the phone under my ear as I opened the fridge.

  ‘Boring. Charity makes me sick. How can she be bothered to be such a do-gooder?’

  I had been thinking the same thing. I had felt so drained of late, I felt as if I needed whatever energy I could muster for myself rather than giving it to help others. I know that sounded selfish but… but nothing, it was purely selfish.

  ‘Let’s help her out, Roxy, we’ll have a laugh together and it’s all in aid of disabled children.’

  ‘Don’t you start. Bet they’ve had a better childhood than me. The sympathy card and all that.’

  ‘Roxy! That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘Aye whatever. I’ll donate some clothes. Gives me an excuse to buy more, but there’s no way I’m going to stand there and sell shit; I’ve got a reputation.’

  ‘You have indeed.’

  ‘Cheeky bitch. So what are you going to sell?’

  I looked at the Tupperware boxes on the second shelf. I guessed the majority of them would keep until Saturday.

  ‘I suppose I could sell some cupcakes.’

  ‘Ah well if you put it like that, as long as I can eat some, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Wow, I didn’t realise my cakes had that much pulling power.’

  ‘Are you joking, Chloe? If I was a lesbian I’d marry you for those cakes.’

  ‘But I’d have to be a lesbian too and I’m not.’

  ‘Says the girl who fancies gay men.’

  I frowned.

  ‘Right I can’t work that one out so I’m going to go. I’ve still got eleven letters of the alphabet to go.’

  ‘Break a leg and all that shite. Let me know if you get a job. Or a libido.’

  I hung up and scowled at the phone. Knowing I had to keep the cupcakes for the stall and resisting all the other comfort food in the fridge, I grabbed some carrot sticks and kicked the door shut while I dialled the next number in my contact book. I bit into the hard, crunchy vegetable. Very well, if I was thought of as an Ice Queen then that’s what I would be. Maybe being hard as ice wasn’t such a bad thing when searching for a high-powered job. It was time to get tough.

  ‘… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mr Peters… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace. I guarantee I will make you more money than any of your managers. You need me, Mr Peters and this is your chance to have me.’

  There was a pause at the end of the line. I prayed it indicated Mr Peters was hurriedly calculating how much he could pay me. Eventually he cleared his throat.

  ‘Your pitch is impressive, Miss Baker and we do actually have a position available…’

  At last, thank you, God!

  ‘But…’

  No, not another ‘but’. Why does there always have to be a bloody but?

  ‘But if you were looking for Peters and Peters, they’re in our address book marked ‘rivals’. I’m Mr Quincy.’

  ‘Ah…’

  I glanced at my book and slapped my forehead.

  ‘I appear to have made a mistake.’

  ‘Unfortunately you have,’ said Mr Quincy dryly, ‘a rather elementary one. Attention to detail is essential in this industry. Good day, Miss Baker.’

  Damn it, I had thrown away the only opportunity A to Q had offered me. With nine letters to go, one of which was X (and I didn’t have any contacts in the Basque country) I didn’t fancy my chances.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Beat until combined

  Over the next three days, I exhausted every contact I had collected over the years I had worked in recruitment. I had harboured what had now proven to be a misguided belief that my network would serve me well when eventually called upon. I had used some of the names and numbers while working as a manager to procure information and clients and even to poach staff, but now that I was outside the circle of trust, I might as well have been calling random numbers from the Yellow Pages.

  Of course, simply on the balance of probability, the task had not been entirely fruitless. I did have a reputation as a hard working, determined and successful recruitment manager. Some of the top people in many industries had found themselves jobless during the recession, so my redundancy did not automatically scream of failure to the people I called. They understood, they sympathised and three or four of them even offered me a position on a commission only basis. This meant I would potentially be working for free if I did not succeed in billing any new business. The fact that I had billed over three quarters of a million pounds the previous year should perhaps have given me the self-belief to take a risk and snap up the offer. However, my non-compete clause meant that I could not steal my old clients from Blunts and I was realistic that in the current climate, while I re-established myself and while businesses regained their confidence, failing to find new business was a real possibility. I was not usually one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it only took a quick glance at said horse to see it was very likely lame.

  My own contacts usurped and useless, I moved on to the job pages of the local papers. The fact that the pages still existed gave me some hope, but as I filtered through the ads I felt confused, bemused, over-qualified, under-qualified and scared. Nothing seemed to fit and they were just the ones with titles I understood.

  Ambulance Service Research Co-ordinator, Senior Community Link Worker, Fundraising Volunteer, Nurses band five and six, Counter Service Adviser at the Post Office, Bricklayer, Lecturer in Plumbing, Media Sales, Bookkeeper, Sperm Donor, Thai Masseuse, Adult Movie Star…

  I had, judging by the last three, reached the ‘jobs’ (in inverted commas) page. Granted there were jobs out there, but only if I changed course completely or took a more junior position just to keep myself afloat. The truth was my savings would not last forever and the thought of insecurity petrified me. Therefore, I decided if I had to work in Starbucks rather than drink there to maintain the sense of security I had always craved then so be it. I loved the coffee so I couldn’t be a hypocrite. Right?

  As the sun set on the last Thursday in November, I turned on the fairy lights, curled up on the window seat under a fleecy blanket, closed the newspaper and let it flop idly over my knees. I rested my head back against the deep wooden frame of the bay window and gazed out at the thick snow. It still shone in the approaching darkness, as if it had stored up the winter sunlight during the day. Mr Downstairs’ basil plants were no longer visible and very probably dead, despite his best efforts. The stairs to the young mother’s flat sparkled like the surface of an ice rink. I hoped she wouldn’t slip when she carried her baby buggy down the next morning. I smiled, feeling suddenly neighbourly. Not so much as to want to go out into the cold and spread salt on the steps and brush the snow from the basil, but as they say, it’s the thought that counts.

  I had never been one to read about the local community in the free paper that came through the door every week. Heidi cons
cientiously absorbed all the local news about achievements and tragedies, sponsored silences, swims and pie eating competitions and ways to help the community through volunteering (as if she needed to perform any more good deeds). I tended to flick through the football news when Thierry was featured in case they mentioned Roxy, scan the cinema listings and collect the menus for local takeaways tucked inside the front cover. However, having spent the best part of the week on the phone, leaving me with both a sore ear and a tired voice, and with the snow not tempting me out into the night, I crossed my legs and smoothed the paper out in front of me.

  The front cover was dedicated to stories about a group of OAPs at a residential care home finding their voice on the Karaoke circuit, a local Lottery winner who vowed to keep working (lucky bastard) and a singing dog. Page two told me the snow was here to stay and warned that salt was about to become as rare as kryptonite. Pages three and four concentrated on a scone making world record bid, an inspirational cancer sufferer and a fishmonger who had been robbed and stabbed with a giant prawn. The content was so diverse, my emotions were all over the place by the time I reached page five.

  Charity Shop To Close By Christmas, the headline announced.

  I peered at the grainy black and white photograph and instantly recognised the shop sign that hung beneath the window of Heidi’s flat. Standing in the doorway with her arms folded and sporting some rather inappropriate killer heels that had once belonged to Roxy, was Bridget. She wore the expression of a bulldog chewing a wasp. I read on.

  Whitley Bay’s Charity Shop to raise funds for disabled children will be forced to close its doors this side of Christmas due to rising rents and falling sales. Shop manageress Bridget Craggs described the decision as ‘heartbreaking’. She has run the shop for over a decade and has helped to raise hundreds of thousands for the charity, which is dedicated to helping amputee and paralysed children and their families.

  ‘It’s sad day when a charity can’t rely on public support anymore,’ said Bridget, ‘but every man is having to look out for himself these days and we understand times are tight. I’ve had wonderful people supporting me as volunteers over the years, none more so than Heidi who lives upstairs and gives every spare minute to the shop, but we’ve been told we’re no longer viable and that’s that.’