Bridget will now join the crowds of people unemployed in the North East. At seventy, she still wants to work. As for the charity, Bridget added sombrely, ‘The kiddies won’t be getting the kind of Christmas they deserve this year. Let’s pray they make it to next.’
I clasped my chest and lowered the paper. Poor Bridget and poor Heidi. She loved working in the shop and helping out the charity that supported some of her young patients. Not to mention the poor kids whose financial support would be affected. A tear ran down my cheek as I pictured the children sitting beside an undecorated Christmas tree in their wheelchairs waiting for a Santa who never came, as Heidi had described. In my head it was all very Dickens A Christmas Carol look with the kids wearing raggedy knickerbockers and eating gruel.
For the best part of three weeks I had been thinking solely about myself while people like Heidi went around performing good deeds and raising money for charity. So I had been made redundant from a very well paid job, which I thought had had prospects. So I had suddenly found myself in limbo without my routine. Yes they were bad things and yes life had put a bloody great ninety-degree corner in my Roman Road, but I was still alive, I had my health and I had savings. I wasn’t destitute. Heidi was not the most well off girl in the world, but as long as she had the roof of her two bedroom flat in Whitley Bay between the Charity Shop and the Vets over her head and as long as she had her job and her friends and family, she devoted any spare minute she had to others. She was a giver. She did good deeds, great deeds, while Roxy and I (and Roxy would be the first to admit it) took, took, took. Heidi didn’t even look for recognition of how great she was. In fact, she would be embarrassed to have been mentioned by Bridget in the article. Not to mention, come to think of it, possibly a little afraid of weirdos taking it upon themselves to find out what good-hearted Heidi ‘who lives upstairs’ looked like. Heidi would have trotted outside to my neighbour’s steps and laid salt on them to make them safe for the morning and she would have brushed off Mr Downstairs’ basil plants on the way back in, without caring whether anyone noticed.
Heidi was right when she said I needed something to focus on other than myself. There were people way worse off than I was and it was about time I stopped wallowing and started making my life a little more worthwhile. More worthy if you like. After all, as Mr Alexander had said, time was a great asset. While I had no job, I had time. Time that I should put to good use while I worked out what I would become in a professional sense. I had personally achieved so far in life when it came to climbing the career ladder and buying a flat and nurturing my friendships, but had that security really made me happy? Was there not something missing from life? OK, right now there was a bloody great hole where a job should be but other than that? What had I done for others to make my mark on the world and make me better rounded? Not a whole lot. Not compared to Heidi and she was probably the most content person I knew. My poor friend would be so sad to hear about the shop closure, she would need my support for a change.
I glanced down at the paper again and a smile spread across my face. I made a decision. Rather than spending my Friday wallowing in my own misfortune and making cold calls to recruitment companies that would only depress me further, I would spend it doing a good deed. Our stall would not have stale cupcakes that had been sitting in my fridge for over a week, our stall would have the best cupcakes I could make. The best bloody cupcakes in the world in fact.
‘Do you hear that Mr Zachary Doyle?’ I shouted to no-one. ‘I am going to make the best cupcakes the world has ever known and you and your boyfriend will miss out, big time!’
We would do a roaring trade, make pots of money and then spend it all on making Christmas special for children whose lives had already been tough enough.
Imagine the looks on their faces, I thought to myself.
We might even get in the paper.
Not that I was looking for recognition of course.
Hmm, what would I wear for the photo shoot…?
I called Roxy to spur her into action.
‘Imagine their little faces, Roxy. We may even get in the paper.’
‘Big wow,’ Roxy yawned, ‘I’m in the paper all the frigging time.’
‘Yes but you could be in the paper for something you’ve done rather than for something Thierry’s done. How good would that feel?’
I imagined she shrugged when she did not reply.
‘Heidi will be so disappointed about the shop closing. She’s always supporting us so now it’s our turn to support her. We have the power to do a good deed, Roxy. I am going to take a leaf out of Heidi’s book, take my mind off my own worries and think about someone worse off than myself.’
‘Sounds shite to me like.’
‘Cake tasting group at mine tomorrow night to sample the stock.’
‘Why aye,’ Roxy laughed, ‘that sounds more like it. See you then. Will Heidi be there?’
I balanced the phone on my shoulder while I retrieved my cake recipe notebook from the shelf.
‘Probably, why?’
‘No reason. Just something I’ve got to tell you both.’
‘Ooh, are you and Thierry getting married? Can we be bridesmaids?’
‘Fuck off Barbara Cartland,’ she said before she hung up.
She was an incurable romantic.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Whisk egg, vanilla extract and remaining milk in a separate bowl
My hardback notebook of cake recipes was decorated in pastel deckchair stripes and tied with a satin ribbon that was fraying at the tips. I had been filling it with scribbled recipe ideas, sketches, cut outs from magazines, photographs and tasting reports for so many years, it had become my cake baking Bible. I had had a similar one during my teenage years, which I had filled with ideas and treasured, but which I had misplaced when I left home. Huddled under the duvet with a cup of hot chocolate, I worked on my recipe ideas for our charity stall into the night. I felt so creative and inspired. It made a refreshing change from writing notes about recruitment. I had, however, decided to treat the task like a business by making a plan according to my customer profile. There would be no point baking two dozen pistachio and chocolate cupcakes if they didn’t sell on the day. As I wrote notes about the customers the flea market attracted and the cakes suitable to the time of year, I began to feel more like Chloe Baker the businesswoman, only without the regimented boundaries I had been used to at Blunts. For once, I could let my imagination run wild. A business plan was something I enjoyed doing. A business plan with a real sugar coating was even more of a buzz.
I designed rose cupcakes for the well-to-do older ladies who frequented the market to peruse the antique furniture and furs. Essence of rose oil added to a light vanilla sponge, decorated with pale pink fluffy icing, tiny white sugar flowers made to look like porcelain and real crystallised rose petals, inspired by the frozen landscape outside my window. Served in cases to which I would add a handle, these cupcakes would be as delicate and feminine as an antique floral tea set and the perfect accompaniment to a cup of Earl Grey.
As a homage to the Great British takeaway breakfast of bacon, sausage and egg sarnies and steaming coffee that always went down a storm at an event as chilly as the flea market, I designed a hearty breakfast cupcake; a generous sized coffee flavoured sponge amusingly decorated with a layer of white and yellow fondant made to resemble a fried egg, topped with fondant bacon rashers and sausages and a dollop of ketchup (or in this case sweet strawberry jam). The fondant decorations would take time to get right but I knew I had the ability to pull them off.
With it being just four weeks until Christmas Eve, I decided a batch of festive cupcakes would be a guaranteed favourite with the flea market customers humming along subliminally to the Christmas Carols CD on repeat. I had to look no further than the view from my window for the inspiration. I decided on a sumptuous chocolate and Moreno cherry sponge decorated with vanilla frosting set in thick snowy peaks. This would be topped with fresh cherries, crystal
lised basil leaves and dark chocolate sprinkles for the adults and marzipan snowmen and Santas for the kids (big kids included).
Finally, I designed a cupcake with the many men in mind who had been dragged to the market by their other halves and would much prefer to be at home in front of the television preparing to watch the match. Newcastle United football cupcakes; marbled sponge, decorated with fondant in the team colours of black and white then topped with individually crafted fondant footballers kicking blown sugar footballs across green buttercream icing. They would be very time-consuming so I settled on making just the first eleven players. The substitutes and reserves would have to try harder to make Team Cupcake. I was so engrossed in sketching and planning and letting my creative juices flow that it was gone three o’clock in the morning before I even noticed the time. I realised as I finally lay my head on the pillow, that I hadn’t thought about my work predicament for hours. I slept well that night.
‘Thank fuck it’s Friday,’ Roxy growled when I opened the door.
Heidi laughed and pushed her gently from behind into my flat.
‘But you don’t work, Roxy, so how does the day make any difference?’
I took their coats and closed the door.
‘Because Thierry has got an away match tomorrow so he can get out of my fucking hair for a day,’ she grumbled. ‘I mean he’s only at training four mornings a week and the rest of the time when he’s not doing physio or photo shoots, he’s hanging around wanting to cook for me and take me to lunch and buy me stuff and have sex.’
Heidi and I looked at each other.
‘You poor thing, honestly I don’t know how you cope. Sit down and let me get you a drink,’ I said.
Roxy dumped a Louis Vuitton holdall by the door.
‘That’s shite to sell on our stall,’ she said, wafting her hand over it.
The pattern of a Pucci dress was visible through the half-open zip. I distinctly remembered Thierry buying it for Roxy as a surprise what could only have been two months previously. She had worn it to a night out on the Quayside where she had attracted a lot more attention than the waterfront view in the delicate shift that skimmed her hipbones and stopped mid-way down her thighs. It had fitted her like a second skin.
‘You’re not selling the Pucci are you?’
‘I don’t like it, it doesn’t fit right,’ she replied nonchalantly over her shoulder.
‘I wish clothes didn’t fit me right like that,’ I sighed.
Roxy kicked off her stilettos, flopped back onto the sofa and tucked her feet up under a cushion. I peered out of the window as I made my way to the kitchen.
‘Roxy, did you wear Jimmy Choos in the snow?’
‘Aye, what did you expect me to wear, bleedin’ wellies?’
We all glanced at Heidi’s feet, Heidi included.
‘What’s wrong with wellies?’ she laughed.
Her shin length boots were covered in a green leaf pattern.
Roxy fanned her thick hair out over her shoulders and raised an eyebrow.
‘Is that what the fuck they are? I thought you’d stepped in a couple of cabbages and just kept on walking.’
‘Well I like them, they’re practical.’
‘Prat-ical you mean,’ Roxy snorted as she flicked open Grazia magazine.
Heidi gave a carefree laugh and yanked her boots off to reveal pink hand-knitted socks that matched her bobble hat, which had an oversized pompom. She pulled it off, tucked it in the pocket of her green duffle coat that I had hung on a hook by the door and padded over to join Roxy on the sofa.
‘It smells pure gorgeous in here, Chloe. Is that from all the baking?’
‘Yes. Much better than wasting money on scented candles.’
I removed a bottle of pink Cava from the fridge and held it up.
‘Drink?’
Heidi nodded enthusiastically. Roxy’s mouth twitched as if a fishing line had hooked one side.
‘Howay man, Cava? No scented candles? Next thing we know you’ll be knitting your own knickers and burning fucking joss sticks.’
I grabbed three glasses and carried them and the bottle to the coffee table.
‘I’m unemployed. I have to start budgeting.’
Roxy’s hand clasped her chest.
‘Come on, Chloe, you’re starting to sound like a chava. I can’t be mates with you if you’re a chava.’
‘Thank you for your support through thick and thin,’ I said, handing her a glass of pink bubbly.
She took a small sip and pouted.
‘Thick doesn’t bother me, pet, and thin is always a positive. Unless you’re thinner than me like, which wouldn’t be good. Not being up for regular shopping and drinking this sort of cheap shite I just can’t accept.’
Heidi and I laughed as we all clinked glasses.
‘Ah my profound friend, Roxy, the salt of the earth,’ I said with a wink.
I took a couple of gulps of the Cava, (which was surprisingly tasty and made me wonder why I had been spending over twenty pounds a bottle on Champagne when Morrisons had been harbouring this £4.99 pink fizzy all along), then returned to the kitchen for the cupcakes. I had filled four cake stands with each type of cupcake, which I carried carefully to the table one by one. Heidi’s gasps grew louder with each new arrival and even Roxy looked up from Grazia and stopped moaning long enough to notice.
‘Wow, Chloe,’ Heidi gasped, clapping her hands excitedly, ‘these cakes are amazing! Did you bake all these? Look, Roxy, they’re like works of art and they look so Christmassy. They’re just perfect for the market. Are they real rose petals?’
She was on her knees beside the coffee table, her eyes wide. Roxy leaned her elbows on her thighs and craned her neck to look.
I nodded.
‘Yes. I was inspired by the plants in the snow.’
‘They’re gorgeous. You’ve definitely got your parents’ creative gene.’
‘I suppose, even if I am loath to admit it.’
Heidi moved her head around the four stands.
‘These must have taken hours.’
I shrugged.
‘Yes they did but it was actually very gratifying. I think they’re my best yet. I just wanted to do something to help you, Heidi, when I heard about the shop closing.’
Heidi looked at me with watery eyes then pulled me into a tight embrace.
‘Thanks so much, pet, I really appreciate it and I’m sure the bairns will too when they get their pressies at Christmas. But look at them, they’re too good to eat.’
‘Aye right,’ Roxy huffed, ‘give us one, I’m fucking starving.’
She reached out and grabbed a football cupcake then turned it around to look at the number on the back of the miniature fondant footballer’s shirt.
‘Huh, funny that, it’s number nine, my Thierry. Can I lick him?’
Roxy wrinkled her nose then bit off Thierry’s head. Her smile grew wider as she chewed.
‘Peace and fucking quiet at last,’ she said before swallowing up the rest of him.
I refilled mine and Heidi’s glasses, which were both almost empty already while Roxy had hardly toughed hers, the snob.
‘Roxy,’ I said, ‘I’m getting the feeling all is not well at the palace. Would I be right?’
She pouted at me and the steely look in her eyes made me nervous.
‘You’re not breaking up with him are you? Was that the news you had to tell us?’
‘Ah poor Thierry,’ said Heidi sadly, ‘he’s a little pet and he loves you.’
Roxy finished off the cupcake and reached for another.
‘He’s not little in any sense of the word believe me.’
I grimaced.
‘And he’s not a bleedin’ pet. Maybe if I’d got a fucking dog instead it would have saved me the bother.’
Heidi tilted her head while wiping buttercream frosting from her top lip.
‘But not many dogs have fast cars and swanky apartments.’
‘And you’d have to
look after it, which might be an issue.’
Roxy narrowed her dark eyes at me.
‘What’s that supposed to mean like?’
‘Well you’ve got to admit you quite like being the one being looked after rather than the one doing the looking after.’
I squirmed as my friend’s stare burned into me.
‘I could look after a pet if I wanted. I just haven’t wanted to that’s all.’
I raised my hands defensively.
‘Of course you could, I’m sorry.’
‘I just don’t particularly like the thought of picking up their shite and wearing Stella McCartney customised with dog hair.’
We all silently munched our cakes while Roxy seethed in the corner of the sofa. She was clearly not in a good mood and Roxy in a bad mood was like a hurricane building in the Pacific with nobody knowing exactly where it would hit.
‘How long have you been with Thierry now?’ said Heidi eventually. ‘Nearly nine months?’
I had hoped she would change the subject, seeing as it appeared to be a particularly touchy one, but Heidi always liked to get to the heart of the issue (or perhaps in Roxy’s case the eye of the storm) and try to fix it.
‘That is a record.’ I raised my glass in a toast. ‘Give the poor man a trophy.’
‘He’s already got one,’ Roxy smiled stiffly, pointing at herself.
‘That he polishes every day,’ Heidi giggled.
‘Ah fuck off you two,’ Roxy growled with more intensity than I expected.
‘Ooh, who rattled your cage?’
‘Aye, fucking cage would be right. I’m trapped.’
I glanced at Heidi who grimaced. Looking more closely at Roxy I noticed her eyes were rimmed with dark circles and she looked paler than usual (height of British summer tan as opposed to spray tan). I felt a twinge of sympathy for Thierry if Roxy had decided to throw him atop the very large pile of men she had worked her way through. Once she made up her mind on something, changing it was like trying to force the tide to turn. For one thing, Thierry clearly adored her and had made it his priority to keep her happy in the time they’d been together, fussing over her, pandering to her every need and whim and placing her on a pedestal as if she were the World Cup Trophy. He was of course a very handsome and rich footballer, so I doubted he would be alone for long if he chose not to be, but he was also a kind, caring man and he deserved more than your average Wag. Roxy was certainly that. Secondly, though, whenever Roxy decided to ditch a relationship, Heidi and I experienced a kind of parental anxiety while waiting to meet her next conquest. Footballers, actors, gangsters, hardened criminals, entrepreneurs, models, a selection of nutters and himbos, her choices over the years had never been dull. I had always dreaded meeting the new addition in case he would turn out to be someone we would have to endure rather than enjoy or, worse, to be the man we would eventually have to save her from.
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