Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘You’re welcome. So, if you’re “not exactly” going into business, how exactly can I help?’

  I stopped, he stopped and I turned to face him. Only when I glanced past his shoulder at a couple kissing on a bench did I realise I had come to a stop directly across the street from my old office. It was as if my feet were pre-programmed to this destination on the Quayside path and couldn’t walk past it. Zachary looked over his shoulder, his eyes only seeing the couple who were so engrossed in their heavy petting, they seemed to have no idea we were there.

  ‘What is it with everyone tonight?’ Zachary laughed. ‘Does no-one have to get up for work on a Monday anymore?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m over it now. As they say, everything happens for a reason, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he nodded, his eyes following a glamorous couple who strode past wrapped in each other’s arms.

  ‘This river must be some sort of aphrodisiac. Is there something in the water?’ he said.

  A drunken girl who clung to a man twice her age stumbled between us. As they carried on walking and she licked the man’s neck like a lollypop, I saw her skirt was tucked into her knickers.

  ‘Or something in the vodka,’ I laughed, stealing Roxy’s line from earlier.

  Zachary laughed too and then we fell silent. An awkwardness threatened to descend on us as the sounds of enthusiastic snogging and groaning emanated from the couple on the bench just a few metres away. I coughed and flicked my eyes back up to the neon BLUNTS RECRUITMENT AGENCY sign on the building behind them.

  Focus, Chloe, focus.

  Inside my brain, I blew dust off the circuit board marked ‘business’ and plugged it in.

  ‘Zachary,’ I said boldly, ‘I would like to take you up on the offer of making the cakes for the upcoming event you mentioned. Of course, that is, if we can agree a suitable price for my services. They are, after all, the best cupcakes in the world.’

  Zachary stared at me for a moment, his eyes competing with the moon in terms of brightness. I swallowed, my brain flitting between wanting to convince this man to effectively give me a job and wanting to grab his face and stick his lips to mine. The same lips that now slowly parted into a warm smile.

  ‘I see. So you’re not exactly committing to going into business as a posh cake designer, but you are going to commit to baking me some cakes for my event in return for’ – he cast his eyes towards the snowy sky – ‘I’m guessing a quite substantial fee just to see how it goes. Am I right?’

  I wriggled my nose as a hefty Geordie snowflake landed on its tip.

  ‘Er, yes, that sounds right.’

  ‘Even though,’ he continued, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and tipping his upper body towards me like a television detective coming to the conclusion of his investigation, ‘the one and only time you tried to sell said cakes, you sold two, one of which was to me at a hugely inflated price and then you basically ended up wearing the rest.’

  I popped my lips.

  ‘Yes, that would be right too.’

  This was the funniest, most enjoyable and quite frankly the most ridiculous job interview I had been to in my life. Considering I used to interview people for a living, I had been to many.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Zachary, taking one hand out to catch snowflakes, ‘so in effect you are using me as your business guinea pig.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said boldly.

  Either Julian had put something in that banana cake or the mad as a box of frogs/throw caution to the wind vibe of my parents’ home had finally rubbed off on me.

  ‘And this event of mine, which incidentally is one of the biggest dates of the year on our business calendar and which requires a cake that is second to none, could go tits up, pardon my French, if I put all my eggs into your mixing bowl and if I have got you all wrong and you let me down.’

  ‘Um, yes to that too,’ I shrugged.

  If you give me this job, you’re crazier than I am.

  ‘OK,’ said Zachary, a mischievous grin flashing across his face, ‘I admire your honesty, you’ve got the job.’

  I resisted the urge to throw my arms around him by interlinking my fingers behind my back.

  ‘For the right fee,’ I said.

  ‘For the right fee,’ he agreed.

  I shivered and let my eyes wander back to the Blunts sign. Standing here on a Sunday night in my Ugg boots in the snow talking about baking cakes for a Christmas do, I felt like a completely different Chloe Baker to the one who, not so long ago, used to strut confidently through those doors day after day in a power suit and heels with a briefcase in my hand and a fire in my belly. Tonight, I had something stirring in my belly but I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a fire or fear.

  Did agreeing to give this cake thing a go mean I was, right at this moment, accepting the old Chloe had gone forever? After just a few short weeks of trying and failing to find a job that compared to my old one, would I be forsaking the sharp suits and briefcase for a sharp knife and flour-covered apron? Would my salary be limited to the small profit margin I could realistically add to the cupcakes I succeeded in flogging? Would all my future business be done not with board members and hotshots seeking six figure sums, but with neurotic mothers wanting cupcakes for Little Bluebell’s third birthday and Bridezillas who didn’t care what the damn thing tasted like because they had been dieting for a year to squeeze into an overpriced meringue as it was? I swallowed, the neon sign of the company I had considered to be like my family before they had turfed me out onto this street, blurring before my eyes. I shook my head and thought back to the days I had spent calling my old business contacts and one man’s words came to my mind.

  ‘Mr A was right,’ I said almost to myself, ‘I have the opportunity to change my life and I have to do it before it’s too late. So I’m doing it. Tonight. Which is why I called you at nine o’clock on a Sunday.’

  ‘I don’t know who Mr A is but I thank him all the same. And don’t worry about the time, I was working anyway.’

  ‘Really? On a Sunday night? Was it a party?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, just business, you know, fairylight management and the like,’ he laughed.

  I raised an eyebrow. Now I came to think of it, I didn’t actually know anything about Zachary and Hurley’s ‘events’. I could just have committed to baking cupcakes for Swingers Anonymous.

  Well, at least then my parents would get to taste them.

  ‘I’m sorry if I called you away from your work, I wasn’t really thinking straight.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think you were. And don’t worry I’ll happily go back to work now. Since my dad passed away, I’ve never been afraid of a bit of hard graft.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of that either,’ I assured him. ‘I used to love working hard but then I suppose in the past few weeks I’ve realised I didn’t have a whole lot to fall back on.’

  He blinked and lowered his eyes and I felt a pang of guilt. Just because my work situation had been forced to change, did not mean I had to push my new ethic on everyone else.

  ‘I suppose we’re all afraid of that,’ he said towards the cobblestones.

  ‘Well I’m not afraid,’ I said confidently.

  ‘Good,’ he nodded, raising his eyes to look at me, ‘I’m glad to hear that and I’m sorry if I ever doubted you.’

  ‘And I’m not scared of branching out on my own because I’m independent.’

  ‘You are. Very. I gathered that much when, last time we spoke outside your flat, you basically advised me stick my business advice up my a…’

  ‘And if nothing comes of it well, at least I’ve tried,’ I interrupted.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more and I’m very glad you’re trying because I really need cakes.’

  ‘And I like cakes,’ I continued, staring at the pavement, lost
in thought, ‘I love making them but they’re never going to make me rich. People don’t become rich from baking a fluffy sponge do they?’

  ‘I don’t know, look at…’

  ‘Mr Kipling being the obvious exception.’

  ‘… Mr Kipling.’

  ‘As much as I like cakes, I like being able to pay my mortgage more.’

  ‘Take it one step at a time, Chloe. I’m sure you won’t be stepping out on a limb here. I’m sure there will be people to help you.’

  Help us, help you read the sign in Blunts’ window above the boards advertising ‘situations vacant’. Well paid situations vacant in established businesses that had ridden up and down the dips during the recession and would make it through to the other side. Businesses with open plan, strip-lighted, non-descript offices painted in company colours that were neither plush nor cosy but were regimented, routine and safe.

  I wrung my hands in my gloves, suddenly doubting myself.

  ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.’

  Zachary’s lilting laughter made the couple stop kissing long enough to take a breath and look at us. He reached out and touched my arm, which made me hold mine.

  ‘It’s only a few cakes, Chloe, you’re not investing your life savings in a company making roller skates for dogs.’

  I laughed and looked up at him.

  ‘You have a funny way of looking at the world,’ I smiled.

  The BLUNTS RECRUITMENT AGENCY sign buzzed and flickered behind his head before there was a fizzing sound and the neon lights went out. I opened my eyes wide.

  ‘Now that is a sign,’ I grinned, nodding over his shoulder, ‘or at least it was.’

  Zachary’s forehead creased and he glanced behind him again at the couple. The man had his hand up the girl’s skirt and was rooting around as if he’d lost his car keys up there. When Zachary looked back around at me, his frown had deepened.

  ‘Is it?’ he said, clearing his throat.

  I looked from his startled eyes, to the couple and then up at my old company’s sign that was now in complete darkness. I laughed and touched his arm.

  ‘No, not the drunken snoggers, I meant that sign there.’

  I pointed. He looked back again and shrugged.

  ‘Where? I don’t see a sign.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, beaming.

  Blunts was in the past and that’s where it was going to stay. I owed it to myself to give this venture, however pie in the sky a go. And let’s face it, this respectable, so-far reliable businessman of Irish descent wasn’t the worst guinea pig a girl could ask for. I outstretched my hand.

  ‘Zachary, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you and congratulations on becoming my first customer.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Chas man, the prozzers around here take their work seriously don’t they?’ grunted a man to his mate who passed by with half-drunk pints sloshing around in their hands.

  ‘I don’t know, like Baz, the outfit’s not the usual. I think I prefer it when they wear stilettos and suspenders.’

  ‘Hope you get what you’re paying for, man,’ the first one called out to Zachary.

  ‘Aye divn’y let her shaft you, like.’

  ‘I think he wants a bit of shafting, Chas, that’s the whole point.’

  They burped and kept on walking.

  Zachary snorted with laughter and accepted my handshake.

  ‘Will I get what I’m paying for?’ he said with a wink.

  I shook his hand firmly and grinned.

  ‘With buttercream and a cherry on top.’

  We let go and simultaneously glanced at our watches. It was approaching ten o’clock. I realised this man, who was doing me a huge favour… who in fact had done me nothing but favours… probably wanted to be at home in his lovely, warm house finishing his unfinished business and preparing for his Monday morning meetings, not standing under the Tyne Bridge talking about cupcakes beside two people who were now basically having sex on a bench.

  ‘I should go,’ I said, clapping my hands together.

  ‘Yes, yes, me too,’ he said, clapping his.

  His gloves thudded and he stomped his feet on the spot.

  ‘Right well’ – I pointed towards the bridge – ‘I’m that way.’

  He pointed in the opposite direction.

  ‘I’m this way.’

  We paused and I wondered about the correct etiquette for such an impromptu ‘business’ meeting with my sort of friend/business acquaintance. I stepped towards him and held out my hand just as he stepped towards me and leaned in to kiss my cheek, which resulted in us banging noses and I punched him in the abdomen.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry…’ we both stuttered.

  He reached out his hand, while I stood on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. We both missed for a second time.

  I laughed, my cheeks burning despite the wind chill. Zachary blushed and raised his outstretched hand to brush his fringe away from his forehead.

  ‘Does your fringe not annoy you after a while?’ I said, tilting my head and squinting at him, ‘only you’re always brushing it out of your eyes.’

  And what a damn shame it is to cover those eyes.

  He stopped himself brushing it back again.

  ‘Oh, not really, I guess I just do it when I’m nervous.’

  ‘Nervous? Why would doing business with me make you nervous? I thought you did this sort of thing all the time.’

  He pushed his shoulders back and smiled.

  ‘Yes of course, business… I didn’t mean nervous, I meant to say tired.’

  ‘Right.’

  We glanced at our watches again, even though only a minute had passed since we had last looked.

  ‘Well I should let you go, Zachary. Thanks for coming.’

  This time, I kept my distance and held out my hand.

  ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for calling.’

  He shook my hand politely.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to work out the details,’ I said before I turned away to walk towards my car.

  I glanced at the couple who were lying spread-eagled on the bench, the man having apparently fallen asleep mid-coitus. Coitus interruptus, apparently.

  ‘You know, you’re welcome to come back to mine,’ I heard Zachary say.

  I turned back. He was looking awkwardly at the couple too.

  ‘To yours?’ I said slowly.

  ‘Yes, to um,’ he cleared his throat and moved to push his hair back but stopped his hand in mid air and tickled his ear instead – ‘to discuss the details of our arrangement.’

  I pressed my lips together and my eyes found his. I felt a frisson of attraction pass between us, until the man groaned on top of the woman, before dragging himself to the edge of the bench and vomiting very close to her ear. The sound of diced vegetables in bile splattering on the icy pavement made my toes curl. I held my breath.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ I said.

  ‘Good idea,’ he nodded, holding his nose.

  Deal done, we turned and went our separate ways.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  80g unsalted butter, softened

  Where time had dragged itself along like a drunken tramp in the street while I had little to do to fill it, the days marched on with far too much purpose now that I had a deadline. Zachary and I talked on the phone on the first of December to discuss the details of the party for which I would be baking the cakes. It was the event company’s Christmas party for clients, friends and special guests and was to be held in Newcastle on December the eighteenth. He needed cakes for two hundred people, he said. I wondered whether he was being overly ambitious with the numbers. After all there were so many events in the lead up to Christmas, people rarely accepted every invitation. Then again I knew very little about his ‘clients’. I just hoped it wouldn’t be a stuffy affair. I couldn’t very well serve pink, glittery cupcakes to sixty year-old councillors in pinstripe suits. To get a better idea of what cakes I should design, I asked Zachary who my target ca
ke customer should be. His response was that the company’s clients were so varied, he could not define a ‘type’. In what I considered to be a rather unhelpful response, he told me he trusted my instincts implicitly and that I should use my imagination and make something ‘exceptional’, ‘unforgettable’ and ‘fabulous.’

  Simple.

  ‘Am I a self-employed cake designer? Or am I just an unemployed person with nothing else to do who is baking a few cakes to keep busy? What I’m saying is, am I being positive or just delusional?’

  I posed the conundrum to Roxy while we were sorting through the dwindling stock in the Charity Shop the following Saturday.

  ‘He’s your client isn’t he?’ asked Roxy.

  I nodded.

  ‘And you’re getting paid, like?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Then you’re a self-employed cake designer, man. What do you want, a badge from the Queen?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ I sighed. I raised my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Cupcakes by royal appointment to Her Majesty, that would shift a few.’

  ‘Now you’re being delusional,’ Roxy snorted.

  ‘I’m scared to start. I know the party is in less than two weeks now and I should be designing the cakes and testing recipes but I’m afraid to start the work in case I realise I can’t do it. Do you understand what I mean?’

  Roxy flicked through a rack of clothes, her nose turned up as if she was likely to catch something from them.

  ‘Aye well, me and work never really did get on so I kind of get it,’ she shrugged. ‘Why you want to go baking hundreds of cakes for folk when you could’ve just gone out with a footballer is beyond me.’

  ‘I need a job, Roxy, a career, a focus, I need to make my mark on the world and feel as if I’m here for a reason.’

  She looked at me blankly as if I had just spoken in Slovakian.

  ‘Jesus would you look at this thing.’ She held up a red and black, laced bustier. ‘Is Bridget turning this place into a sex shop instead of a childrens’ charity shop in a last ditch attempt to make money like?’