Cupcake Couture

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘You bring us gateaux, Chloe?’

  I nodded. I couldn’t help but smile like a giddy teenager whenever Thierry said my name. Chloé, Clo-ay, it sounded so much sexier in French.

  ‘Are there any other French players in the squad?’ I whispered to Roxy as we made our way to the cafeteria.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want a footballer boyfriend, like,’ she smirked.

  ‘I can change my mind.’

  Roxy ran her tongue over her teeth.

  ‘Mm, maybe by the end of the tasting session, one of them will be getting more than cake.’

  I gasped and pushed her jovially through the canteen doors.

  I felt like a schoolteacher holding court in front of the most macho, fit, handsome, well dressed and rich group of students ever brought together in one room. When I first took my place in the centre of the group of professional footballers, my eyes flitted from one to the other, noting their good, fine and even finer points: blond hair, blue eyes/Italian style, beautiful mouth/muscular chest, cheekbones you could crack eggs on/cashmere jumper and scarf, skin seemingly as soft/come-to-bed expression and a wallet on the table in front of him thicker than most mattresses…

  If my array of cakes was a mouth-watering display for the men, then the array of men gazing at the cakes was a mouth-watering display to the only single woman in the room.

  Unfortunately, the minute I started speaking, my mouth dried up, with all the moisture apparently being sucked into my armpits. Despite my years of experience giving presentations to the high and mighty of the recruitment world, my mind went blank and my voice shook as I began to explain the reasons for the cake tasting session and to thank them all for coming. To be fair to myself, this meant so much to me. Also the high and mighty of the recruitment world tended to look more like Russell Blunt, with over-fed stomachs hanging over the waistband of pinstripe suit trousers and pasty faces that had spent far too many hours under office strip-lights. This select market research group would not have looked out of place in a L’Oréal hair products casting. I smiled to myself. The scenery on this new career path was, it had to be said, far more delicious than the old one.

  Fortunately for my ability to string a comprehensible sentence together, it soon became apparent that beauty and talent did not always go hand in hand with intellect. Not to say that all footballers were so dense that light bent around them, after all Thierry spoke three languages fluently and he wasn’t the only one, but a fair number of my cake group would have had trouble if I had made them count beyond ten different flavours, or at least they would have had to take their socks off and start counting on their toes.

  ‘Is this the chocolate one or is this it?’ asked the one with the cheekbones.

  He held up two cakes, one of which was brown and distinctly chocolate coloured and the other of which was yellow sponge dotted with moist cranberries.

  ‘Er, the chocolatey looking one in your right hand,’ I said kindly.

  ‘No, your other right hand.’

  I began to relax into the task.

  ‘So, we have dark chocolate and raspberry coming in at number one, followed by vanilla and strawberry and then cookies and cream.’

  A ripple of agreement coursed around the room.

  ‘But the sticky gingerbread are canny amazin’ too,’ said a redheaded player I knew as Danny but the others referred to as Doughballs. Mine was not to question why. ‘I wouldn’t mind a batch of them for me lass. She’ll do anythin’ for a bit of gingerbread.’

  The player beside him ruffled Danny’s hair.

  ‘Is that right, Doughballs, or is that just your vivid imagination as a ginge?’

  The twelve men laughed. I felt a sudden surge of confidence.

  ‘I can make you a batch if you like, Danny, once I get this big order out of the way.’

  Danny grinned and gave me a thumbs up.

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘It’ll cost you though, man,’ Roxy chipped in, ‘these don’t come cheap like and she’s in demand.’

  If one order of two-hundred that had largely been given to me out of pity could be classified as ‘demand’ then Roxy wasn’t strictly lying. I looked down at my feet.

  ‘Aye no bother,’ Danny said quickly, ‘I’ll pay whatever it costs.’

  I lifted my eyes and caught the wink from Roxy.

  ‘Can I get fancy stuff on the top too, Chloe?’

  Somehow the term ‘fancy stuff’ didn’t sound right coming out of the mouth of a beefy, flame-haired professional footballer nicknamed Doughballs, but his eyes twinkled at the thought of surprising his girlfriend with a batch of cupcakes designed specifically for her. I smiled.

  ‘Of course you can, Danny, just let me know what you want and I can design a topping for the cake to suit your lady.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call her that,’ Noodles snorted, which resulted in Danny throwing a cranberry cupcake at his ear.

  ‘What, can you put her name on and stuff she likes?’ Danny asked.

  ‘You should see the decorated ones,’ said Roxy before I could even answer, ‘they’re works of art, man Danny.’

  ‘Really?’

  I blushed and fiddled with my hands.

  ‘Well yes, I do take great pride in the topping designs. They can be made to measure, if you like, to suit the occasion. I’m sure we can work something out.’

  ‘He wants photos of his ginger balls on the top of them,’ his team-mate beside him heckled, ‘closest she’ll ever get to them nasty things.’

  ‘Howay man, Noodles,’ Danny huffed, ‘there’s ladies present.’

  Noodles raised his hand to apologise. I nodded my acceptance. This had to be the most bizarre tasting group in the history of cupcake making. It definitely wasn’t the W.I. but then again, it worked. These men were honest to the point of being brutal.

  ‘So the least popular with this group are the lemon ones and the cranberry.’

  ‘Oh bollocks but the lemon ones is my favourite,’ whined the blond haired, blue-eyed footballer whose accent was pure Essex. His nickname was Chesney, I imagined after Chesney Hawkes.

  ‘Then have Chloe make some lemon ones just for you, Chesney’,’ Roxy suggested.

  His blue eyes opened as wide as if Santa had just appeared carrying an Audi with a bow on it.

  ‘Yeah, mega. I’ll get them for me missus’ birfday then. She’ll love ‘em.’

  Had I just got myself two more orders?

  Thierry sat back in his chair and slipped his long, slim arm around Roxy’s shoulders.

  ‘We men will always be impressed by a girl who can bake such magnifique cakes.’

  Roxy rolled her eyes.

  ‘Not this girl, sunshine, but I can bake a bun in my oven.’

  Thierry’s team-mates cheered. He reached over with his other hand and touched Roxy’s belly with a gentleness that made my heart melt like the centre of my molten chocolate cakes. She swatted his hand away, but could not hide the genuine smile playing on her lips.

  ‘Yeah I’d marry you for these cookies and cream cakes,’ called out Noodles.

  ‘Your missus would have something to say about that,’ laughed cashmere skin.

  ‘Hey, I see her first!’ Carlos huffed.

  ‘Yes, you saw but you did not touch!’ goaded the Italian stallion.

  ‘You snooze, you lose,’ said cheekbones.

  ‘We kiss! But I was tired that night from having to score all the goals for this bloody crap team!’ Carlos huffed.

  I lowered my clipboard.

  ‘Do you mean we didn’t…? That we never…?’

  ‘No,’ Carlos sighed, ‘we never. You sleep on the sofa and I sleep in your room.’ His skin glowed red through the orange.

  Carlos dropped his head while his team-mates jeered.

  ‘Car-loser!’

  ‘Car-nt get it up!’

  I suppressed a smile, forcing it down to my toes that wriggled inside my shoes. I had not slept with Carlos and been so drunk I had forgotte
n all about it. Roxy winked at me and mouthed – frigid – but I had never felt so relieved to be described as such. I winked back. I was the non-WAG and proud.

  ‘I’ll sleep with you!’ the one with the come-to-bed eyes called out, ‘Forever if you make me them peanut butter cakes once a week!’

  ‘Me too,’ said cashmere skin, his hands pressed together in prayer.

  I waved my hand dismissively while internally ruffling my peacock feathers.

  ‘I’ll take that as a positive vote for the cakes,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘And the cake baker,’ Thierry nodded, ‘you have these men in the palm of your hand, Chloé. You know these cakes may be magical.’ He held a chunk of dark chocolate and raspberry cake in the palm of his own hand and narrowed his eyes. ‘In France we have the world’s most incredible cakes, tu sais…’

  ‘Oh here he goes again,’ yawned Danny.

  ‘…but these cupcakes of yours would make any French patissier nervous.’

  Roxy waggled her eyebrows at me as her boyfriend continued.

  ‘The English should not be baking patisserie as delicious as this.’

  ‘You’re not going to start singing the bloody Marseillaise are you, mate?’ his team-mate with the fat wallet sniggered, ‘She’s only baked a few awesome cakes, she ain’t stormed the Bastille.’

  I laughed and stored up the compliments to motivate me later when I returned to my kitchen with the results of our tasting session to bake two hundred and forty more cakes for Zachary’s party.

  ‘Well thank you, Thierry and thank you everyone for your time. I will make sure I send a special batch of cakes to you when I’ve done my big event.’

  The room erupted into spontaneous applause, chairs were scraped back and the men stood, shrugging on jackets and saying goodbye to each other and to me. I wiped the table of crumbs and smiled at Roxy who came to stand beside me.

  ‘Well, Chloe man, I think it’s safe to say they loved them and that’s even without the toppings.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Roxy, you’re quite a saleswoman.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Those cakes could sell themselves, pet.’

  ‘They didn’t manage to do that at the flea market. Thanks, I owe you one. Or two, or many.’

  ‘Just keep feeding me cake, like, I’m eating for two.’

  I watched her rub her hand over her belly in a smooth, caressing circle.

  ‘Well I hope I can repay you by being a good Auntie to that little person in there some day.’

  ‘Auntie?’

  ‘Yeah, well I know I’m not a real Auntie but I was kind of hoping…’

  ‘You’re not getting away with just being a pretend Auntie, Chloe man,’ Roxy interrupted, ‘you’re the frigging Godmother.’

  I gasped and pressed a hand to my chest.

  ‘Godmother, me?’

  ‘Why aye.’

  ‘But what about Heidi?’

  Roxy lifted a cake box and held it out for me to carry.

  ‘I love Heidi, she’s lush man, but if I make her Godmother I’d be scared the kid will start buying clothes in charity shops and making me drive it to Do-Gooders-R-Us every weekend, you know what I mean? I’ve got a reputation to maintain here.’

  I laughed and piled the other cake boxes on top of the first. I could not hide the smile that spread so far across my face that I felt my cheeks straining. This was a moment I would treasure forever. Being asked to be a godmother felt like I was a being handed an official badge to say I had passed some sort of test in life, like a beach being awarded the blue flag for cleanliness or a bottle of wine being stamped with a gold medal. I felt flushed with contentment and pride.

  ‘So you’re saying I’m the best of a bad bunch as your unemployed, single friend then, Roxy?’

  ‘Aye well you better hurry up and make some fucking money before I change my mind.’

  She grinned and popped a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, which was a permanent fixture since she had thankfully given up smoking. I was impressed with her willpower because Roxy and cigarettes went together like hot toast and butter, but she chewed constantly and vigorously like Alex Ferguson used to while watching a stressful Man United match. She carried on.

  ‘Hopefully we got the ball rolling today and where better to do that than in a football club hey? I think we got you some orders for this business of yours if you’re still determined to be a fucking glorified Shirley.’ She paused while chewing and slung her studded Louboutin bag over her arm. ‘I’m proud of you, Chloe man, of how you’ve dealt with this whole job thing. I’m not totally stupid, I do know what it meant to you, like.’

  She hugged me, almost squashing the cake boxes between us and when we pulled away I saw tears glistening on her eyelashes. Roxy never cried.

  ‘Roxy! Are those real tears?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she laughed, punching me on the shoulder, ‘I’m probably allergic to your cheap perfume.’

  Thierry appeared behind her and lovingly gripped her shoulders. He leaned towards me and whispered.

  ‘Hormones, Chloé, she is up and down like a yo-yo.’

  ‘I am not crying! And shut your face, Thierry, or I’ll make you buy a fucking people carrier and then Rara won’t give you a second glance in the car park.’

  Thierry winked at me, his wide smile an advert for how happy he felt to be having a baby with my loud-mouthed, pushy, far from easy to live with, friend. I momentarily wished I had what they had.

  We walked together to the exit. Danny Doughballs caught us up before we reached the double glass doors. He handed me a card.

  ‘Here’s my number. Give me a call about the cakes right?’

  I took his card, smiled and shook his hand.

  ‘Absolutely, Danny, I will.’

  ‘Tezza,’ he nodded to Thierry, ‘we should do this every week, man.’

  Tezza (which suited the suave Frenchman as much as calling the Eiffel Tower a glorified pylon) nodded thoughtfully. Danny left through the doors only to be replaced by Chesney who handed me a scrap of paper.

  ‘And here’s my number, Chloe, so give me a call yeah? But if the missus answers, pretend you’re from a call centre or someink ‘cause she’ll get suspicious. Not that she’s got any reason to be suspicious of me or nuffin but you know’ – he rolled his eyes – ‘women.’

  I smiled and slipped the scrap of paper into my pocket. Thierry laughed and playfully massaged my neck.

  ‘Mademoiselle Baker is a hit with the football team,’ he chuckled.

  ‘I think it’s the cake that are the hit, not me,’ I laughed.

  I nodded towards the car park.

  ‘Maybe I should share my secret with those girls out there. The way to a macho footballer’s heart is with pretty little cupcakes.’

  Roxy laughed and Thierry clasped his chest.

  ‘Oh lá lá, we will be nicknamed the cupcake boys! We will be laughed out of the Premiership!’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll just have to get the lovely Alan Shearer, the Geordie King of football on my team and then all the macho men will follow suit, isn’t that right?’

  ‘What team would that be then?’

  I clamped my mouth shut and spun around to see where the voice had come from. Beside me I felt Thierry smartly zip up his jacket. Even Roxy smoothed back her hair and seemed to stand to attention. We stood stiffly like a row of performers at the Royal Variety show preparing to be greeted by the Queen.

  From the direction of the cafeteria came a man whose face even I, lover of no sports involving big groups of men, a ball, beer and hooliganism, recognised as Alan Shearer. I might have been about to become a godmother in a few months time, but this man had long since been the godfather of Geordie football. Born and raised in the city, Shearer had played for Newcastle and for England and had returned to manage the Toon briefly after his retirement. He was a smartly dressed TV pundit alongside Gary Lineker on Match of the Day. He was more revered in Newcastle than the real roya
l family. Car bumper stickers bore his name, children and adults alike wanted to be him and girls like Rara still wanted to ‘do’ him. Zachary and I along with the other flea market attendees had been Walking in a Shearer Wonderland according to the song. He was a very important man in this club and all six feet of him were headed straight for me in a sharp black shirt and trouser combo. He wore a bemused smile. I pressed my lips together to stop my jaw hanging open. Shearer, as he was known, stopped two feet away from me and shoved his hands in his pockets. An expensive watch glinted on his wrist. I cleared my throat.

  ‘What team am I joining?’ he said again.

  I glanced at Thierry who urged me to speak with a nod of his head.

  ‘The er, the um cupcake team, Sir Alan,’ I tried to say, but which came out as a squeaked - ‘The um cupcake team Sralan.’

  Shearer threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘I’m not a Sir, just an OBE and please don’t say you mixed me up with Alan Sugar.’

  I shook my head vigorously while my brain ordered my mouth to speak like a normal human being.

  ‘So you’re the cupcake girl?’ he said before I could get my muscles in order.

  I nodded equally as vigorously.

  He nodded too.

  ‘The lads were just raving about them in there.’ He gestured towards the cafeteria. ‘I know they’re all the fashion these days. You know maybe we should get you in to do our party cakes at the end of the season, what do you say, Thierry?’

  Shearer turned to wink at Thierry who smiled and also nodded, which gave me a minute to catch my breath.

  ‘Do you have a card, cupcake girl?’

  I blinked at Roxy and Thierry who were both staring at me with wide eyes.