Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  Roxy’s jaw dropped open.

  ‘What? Fuck off, I am not drinking a mocktail.’

  ‘Correction,’ said Heidi with surprising directness, ‘you are not drinking.’

  I sniggered as the barman’s head flicked from one to the other on the sofa as if he were watching a ping-pong game. Roxy’s herd of adoring male fans behind leaned closer to listen in.

  ‘We’ll have mojitos,’ Heidi said to the barman, ‘she’ll have a mocktail.’

  ‘I will not!’

  ‘Which one do you want, Miss? The virgin colada,’ he said, his cheeks turning red at the word virgin, ‘or the bloody shame?’

  ‘Bloody shame,’ Roxy tutted, ‘aye that just about sums it up.’

  ‘It’s like a bloody Mary only without the vodka.’

  ‘What’s the point in that?’ Roxy tutted. ‘I may as well sit here and drink a tin of bloody tomatoes.’

  ‘The point is,’ said Heidi slowly, as if talking to one of her patients, ‘you have a baby to think about now and that baby does not want to be born a binge drinker.’

  The barman’s mouth dropped open wide enough for Thierry to kick a ball into. Some of her admirers stood still and stared while a few turned and stomped away. One started dialling on his mobile and another looked like he might burst into tears.

  ‘You’re carrying Thierry Agnes’ baby,’ the barman gasped. He stretched out his hand towards Roxy’s stubbornly flat stomach. ‘In there?’

  ‘Aye well that’s usually how it works,’ Roxy growled. ‘Thanks, Heidi, man. I’d say the cat is well and truly out of the fucking bag and streaking down the street.’

  It was Heidi’s turn to blush.

  ‘I’m sorry, Roxy, sometimes I forget you’re a celebrity around here.’

  She reached out to touch Roxy’s arm but Roxy snatched it away. Heidi looked like she also might cry. I jumped in before things went even further downhill. This was supposed to be a night of celebration after all.

  ‘Heidi was just being kind, Roxy.’ I smiled at the barman. ‘We’ll all have one white wine spritzer each to begin with.’

  He continued to stare at Roxy’s stomach as if she were carrying the Messiah. I shooed him in the same way Roxy had shooed me to the toilets.

  ‘Spritzers man, go, before she dies of thirst and Thierry blames you.’

  He was back at the bar before I could say “plonker”.

  Roxy crossed her arms over her stomach and frowned. Heidi clasped her hands to her cheeks. I yanked my chair closer to talk to them over the hubbub of the increasingly busy bar and the music.

  ‘Look, Roxy, there’s no harm done and Heidi does have a point. You can’t go drowning it in alcohol. I don’t think the womb is meant to be one part amniotic fluid, two parts vodka.’

  Roxy blinked her long, stuck-on lashes several times while Heidi held her breath.

  ‘Aye,’ she mumbled eventually, ‘alreet.’

  I glanced at Heidi and we both smiled.

  ‘Are you having this baby because you feel you have to or because you love Thierry?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I like the stupid fucker quite a lot,’ Roxy shrugged.

  We both reached out for one of Roxy’s hands and clasped them tight. She did not resist. Roxy had never been one for deep emotional discussions and public displays of affection. For her, this moment was a huge step forward. Calling Thierry the “stupid fucker” she liked quite a lot whose baby she wanted was equivalent to Juliet dramatically swallowing the poison for her beloved Romeo. Love was not a regularly used word in her vocabulary. I squeezed her hand again.

  ‘You’ll be a fantastic mum, I know it. That is one lucky child in there having you to stand up for it.’

  ‘Doesn’t have a choice does it, like?’

  Roxy allowed herself a tight smile.

  ‘And I bet you’ll be skinny right to the end,’ added Heidi.

  Roxy’s teeth broke through to widen her smile.

  ‘You bet I will, man. I am going to take yummy fucking mummy to a whole new level!’

  The barman arrived at that moment with our spritzers. We clinked them together and sipped our drinks. Only weeks before, we might well have downed them and racked up a second round. It may have taken thirty-six years but were we finally grown-up, responsible women?

  The kitchen stopped serving roast dinners on a Sunday at five o’clock and it was already gone seven but, Roxy having suddenly decided she was ravenous and only a roast dinner would do, the barman had scurried off to make it happen. It was as if, with the news of her pregnancy no longer a hushed secret, Roxy’s baby had asserted its presence, knocked on her womb and shouted – ‘Oi, you’re eating for two now and I am f*+@ing starving!’ (I hoped it wasn’t swearing yet but if its mother was anything to go by, I wouldn’t have bet on it.)

  Our plates were piled high with great British comfort food – thick slabs of moist beef, crispy roast potatoes, carrots and sweet parsnips swimming in thick, rich gravy alongside cauliflower smothered in cheese sauce and puffy Yorkshire puddings the size of beanbags. In sympathy with Roxy’s alcohol free diet, we drank orange juice followed by the infamous mocktails. Sunday nights in Newcastle were notoriously busy with people determined to increase their weekend binge-drinking quota before the weekend ran out. I, in contrast, had always favoured an early night on a Sunday to help me start off the working week fresh and motivated, but judging by the state of the two women I had seen in the toilets, who were now wearing cocktail umbrellas behind their ears and were draped drunkenly over two equally intoxicated men, I had been the exception rather than the rule.

  ‘You know, it’s actually nice to not have to get up for work on a Monday morning,’ I said.

  Roxy punched me lightly on the arm

  ‘That’s my girl. You’re coming around to my way of thinking, pet.’

  ‘It’s alright for you two,’ said Heidi, waving her Yorkshire at us on her fork, ‘I’ve got my first appointment with a patient at seven thirty tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh yeah, who’s that?’ Roxy sniggered. ‘Does his name begin with H and end in urley? It’s the ‘urley worm that catches the bird.’

  We exploded in fits of giggles while Heidi huffed and puffed, clearly flustered. She looked over both shoulders.

  ‘Hurley is not my patient,’ she whispered, ‘and he never was. Let’s just be clear about that.’

  We looked at her intense expression and suppressed our laughter.

  ‘So, Heidi,’ I said, ‘are you planning to see him again after yesterday?’

  Heidi looked down at her plate and slowly moved the Yorkshire around the sea of gravy. I slapped my hand to my mouth.

  ‘You already did see him didn’t you?’

  ‘No way!’ Roxy whooped. ‘Did you do the dirty with the cripple? I’ve always wondered how that would work.’

  Heidi slapped Roxy’s arm.

  ‘Don’t call him that, it’s nasty and no of course I didn’t “do it”. We went for a lovely lunch at Lui’s and we ate and laughed and read the papers and had nice conversation and…’

  Roxy and I waited for what was to come after the ‘and’ but Heidi just smiled and popped almost an entire Yorkshire pudding in her mouth.

  ‘And what?’ I said.

  ‘Howay man, spill the beans,’ said Roxy.

  We pushed our plates to one side and leaned towards her on our elbows. Heidi chewed as slowly as a contended cow chewing on the cud.

  ‘Come on, Heidi, don’t keep us hanging on. Are you an item?’

  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I felt my stomach tighten, which could have been due to the enormous plate of food I had just deposited in it, but which I suspected was due to the fact that I felt as if Heidi had beaten me to it. She had nabbed a Doyle brother, which would make the other Doyle brothers off-limits. Anything else would feel almost incestuous.

  Heidi swallowed her giant mouthful, wiped gravy from her lips and beamed at us.

  ‘O.M.G. you’ve got a B.F.!�
�� I cooed in a fake American accent.

  ‘L.O.L.! Now Chloe’s the only one in the frigid club,’ Roxy laughed.

  ‘R.O.F.L.’ I scowled.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Heidi frowned.

  ‘Roll on floor laughing.’

  ‘R.O.F.L.copter,’ Roxy snorted.

  ‘I’m losing track of this conversation,’ said Heidi.

  ‘Me too. Tell us all about him, Heidi and don’t leave out any details.’

  ‘Apart from the ones about how it all works down there,’ Roxy sniffed, ‘I’ve just eaten.’

  Heidi explained how Hurley had texted her first thing that morning while she lay in my bed with her wellies on nursing a hangover and wondering where I had gone. While she talked, I quickly sneaked a peek at my mobile just to make sure she was the only one of us who had received a text from a Doyle brother in my bed that morning.

  She was.

  Heidi was in the throes of telling us how funny and sweet and romantic and thoughtful and interesting and handsome and yeah, yeah, whatever… Hurley had been all day when a man approached our table wearing a black leather thigh-length coat that had seen better days, scruffy suede shoes and chinos. His face was partially hidden by a navy flat cap with an oversized peak but I could see a square, unshaven jaw and pale skin. He carried a notebook and a chewed Bic biro.

  ‘Excuse me, can I just ask, you’re Thierry Agnes’ WAG aren’t you?’

  Roxy’s back stiffened and she swivelled around to look up at him.

  ‘If you think that’s a polite way of introducing yourself, man then you can just shove that cheap pen up your arse right now.’

  He tapped the pen agitatedly against the notebook. Behind him stood one of the men whom I recognised as one of Roxy’s earlier suitors who had been making calls on his mobile phone. He now carried a camera.

  ‘It’s Roxy,’ he said to the first man.

  ‘Right and who the fuck are you two? Tweddledum and Tweedledee? If you don’t mind, I’m having dinner with my mates and we’re in the middle of a private conversation.’

  Roxy swivelled her legs back around and stamped her clogs hard under the table. The man with the notebook flinched.

  ‘Carry on, Heidi, did you snog him or not?’

  Heidi’s mouth opened and closed.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ said the man. ‘I just wanted a quote.’

  Roxy made quotation marks in the air with her fingers and said – ‘Fuck off.’

  The man scribbled in his notebook.

  ‘F u c…’ Roxy spelled out.

  ‘I’m a local journalist and what I’d like to know is when the baby’s due.’

  Roxy’s mouth snapped shut and she gripped her knife and fork. I had a fleeting moment of fear that she might turn around and stab the man who was bothering her but suddenly, she glanced down at her stomach and let out a sigh. Heidi and I said nothing as she lowered her cutlery, ran her tongue along her lips and brushed her hands through her long tresses. She then reached down into her enormous bag and somehow retrieved a lipstick without requiring GPS. We all waited while she smoothed it expertly over her perfect pout. The journalist shuffled his worn shoes on the shiny wooden floor while he waited. Roxy then looked up at us through her thick eyelashes. She was always a woman in control.

  ‘Sorry girls, this will just take a minute.’

  Roxy swivelled her legs back around to face the man and lifted her chin. His eyeline dropped to her shimmery cleavage.

  ‘Well I suppose the story’s out and you’re first past the post,’ she said sweetly, ‘but baby’s are expensive so what I’d like to know is how much you’re offering for the scoop.’

  Roxy turned in her toes, angled her hip (which did jut out like a bull bar despite her bun in the oven), placed her hand on it and smiled coyly at the photographer through her spritzed hair. It was her usual, practiced paparazzi pose and she looked every inch the celebrity. The one difference today was that Roxy’s other hand came to rest on her stomach just below her belly button.

  ‘Smile for the nice man, baby,’ she called down to her miniscule bump, before parting her lips to reveal her usual white-toothed smile, her eyes twinkling.

  It was Roxy and Thierry’s child’s first paparazzi shot of many and it wasn’t even born yet.

  After the photographer had filled his memory card, Heidi and I emerged from the shadows. Roxy yawned. Being adored was so tiring.

  ‘So, we’ve just told the whole bloody world I’m going to get fat,’ she said, ‘and Heidi has admitted she’s got a BF, but you were the one who called the meeting, Chloe, so what was your news?’

  ‘Oh God, pet, I’m so sorry, I was so wrapped up in myself I forgot to ask,’ Heidi gasped.

  I wrapped my arms around my two best friends and smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry, it was nothing important. I’ve just had a good day, that’s all. One of those days where you start seeing life in a whole new light. You know what I mean?’

  They both looked at me and nodded.

  ‘There must be something in the air,’ said Heidi.

  The two recruitment women, now barely able to stand, stumbled past us. One fell over the chair and the other tripped over Roxy’s foot and landed in a heap on the floor with her tailored mini dress up around her hips, displaying a rather unflattering nude coloured thong.

  ‘There must be something in the vodka,’ Roxy snorted.

  ‘And for once, it’s not us,’ I said with a smile. ‘You know girls, I think this could be the first night of the rest of our lives.’

  Heidi’s eyes lit up and she hugged me before ushering us to lift our glasses.

  ‘To new adventures!’ she said raising hers towards the ceiling.

  ‘New adventures!’ I agreed, raising mine.

  Roxy raised her glass of Bloody Shame and grimaced.

  ‘I feel like the Famous fucking Five and you’re not supposed to toast without alcohol it’s bad luck or something.’

  ‘Bad luck for you being preggers,’ I sniggered.

  Roxy pursed her lips then, whether consciously or not, ran her hand over her stomach and smiled to herself. She clinked her glass against ours.

  ‘New adventures,’ she said, raising an eyebrow and allowing the smile to linger on her lips, ‘or some shite.’

  Ten minutes later, I kissed them goodbye on the banks of the River Tyne. It was nine o’clock and the Quayside was busy with weekend revellers spilling out of the bar. I pulled on my woolly hat and zipped up my puffa jacket to keep me warm on the snowy walk back to my car. I watched as Roxy sashayed away, elegant as ever in heeled clogs, beside Heidi who skipped along in her wellies, her arms swinging from side to side like a child. I smiled and turned away. I then opened my bag and glanced at the notebook nestling inside before I rummaged for my phone and my wallet. From inside the wallet’s credit card slots, I pulled a business card. My eyes drifted over the lettering, reading it twice. I took a deep breath, read it for the third time, typed the number into my phone and made the call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  250g icing sugar

  ‘Meet me now. Where are you?’

  ‘Now? But it’s nine o’clock on a Sunday night,’ I said.

  And I’m not dressed up, I thought but didn’t say.

  ‘If we don’t meet now, you’ll change your mind and I don’t want you to do that, so tell me where you are in town and I will come and find you.’

  It was business, that’s all. Granted, I would never have dreamed of doing business in a puffa jacket, Uggs and woolly hat a month previously but then a lot had changed since then.

  ‘I’m by the Millennium Bridge.’

  ‘Stay warm, I’ll be there in five,’ said Zachary before he hung up.

  I leaned on the railing and peered down into the water of the Tyne that was as black as an oil slick dotted with the reflection of the stars in the clear night sky. The temperature had plummeted and snowflakes fell slowly and stiffly, as if falling through custard. I shi
vered and shoved my hands under my armpits.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  I glanced at my watch. It had been exactly five minutes.

  ‘Wow, did you come by helicopter?’

  I turned to look at him and caught my breath. Why did he insist on looking so bloody gorgeous and well groomed all the time? Zachary smiled and brushed a gloved hand through his hair.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ he said, his breath visible between us.

  ‘I wasn’t going to, it being Sunday. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. I always have time for a business deal.’

  I pressed my lips shut and nodded.

  Zachary paused and then rubbed his hands together. ‘I do love this city but it is bloody freezing. They had the right idea when they named that.’

  He nodded up at the Baltic art museum, where we had met on my disastrous date with Carlos.

  ‘Shall we walk and talk in case we freeze to death on this bridge?’ he suggested. ‘Which way is home for you?’

  ‘My car’s up that way.’

  I fell into step beside him and we headed along the river towards the famous Tyne Bridge past the Law Courts and towards my old office.

  ‘So, you’re going to take my advice and go into business, Chloe?’ he said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

  ‘Not exactly, Zachary. I’m sure you’re aware that fifty percent of small businesses fail within the first year, especially in this financial climate.’

  ‘Which also means that fifty percent succeed,’ he said, his eyes finding mine over the upturned collar of his coat, ‘and something tells me you’ve always been the sort of woman to be in that statistical group.’

  I smiled and we stepped around a couple who were kissing passionately against the railings running along the river. Our pace quickened.

  ‘Granted I have been successful in business up until recently but I was part of a big, powerful recruitment company, I wasn’t a lone soldier. Who’s to say I wouldn’t desert at the first sign of war?’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  We separated to let two fashionable young men who seemed to be attached at the hip, not to mention the lips, pass by, then we fell back into step. The heels of his boots clicked purposefully on the cobbles that rose up from the snow like steppingstones.