‘If you need tasters, I’ve got a reet good palate,’ said Janice.
‘Rr…right,’ I said uneasily.
Shirley rolled the cigarette butt between her fingertips and jabbed it against the doorframe before flicking it onto the ground.
‘Aye and I guess if you need a stockist, ours is the best bloody bakery this side of the Tyne,’ she said before turning on her Scholl clog and stomping inside.
There was a second surprise waiting for me at my front door when I got back from the village. I would like to say it was a huge bunch of roses tied with a velvet bow from Zachary, but instead it was a blast from the past. The not so distant past but a time in my life that now felt so far in my past it was as if it had happened to a different person.
Which I supposed I now was to a certain extent.
‘Russell,’ I said to the ruddy-faced, rotund little man standing nervously at the top of my steps, ‘what are you doing here?’
He had the same newspaper under one arm and a boxed bottle of very nice whiskey in the other.
‘Ah,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘I er…’
He shuffled his brogues that had wet stains creeping around the toes. I walked up the steps and jangled my keys but made it clear from my closed body language that I was not about to invite him into my home, my sanctuary, the flat I had been scared I would lose thanks to him and his father making me redundant.
Russell dipped his loose chin down towards the company tie and then looked me in the eye, which was something the nervous little weasel never did. I pressed my lips together and waited for him to speak. I was not going to make this easy for him.
In the seconds while I waited, my mind raced. Was he about to offer me my old job back? And if he did, would I take it? Three weeks ago, maybe even a fortnight ago, I would have bitten his hand off for the job and the chance to have my old routine back but now… now I really wasn’t sure. In fact…
‘This is the bottle of whiskey the company is awarding to all its best managers and all its top people for Christmas,’ Russell burbled, interrupting my sudden clarity of thought, ‘it’s a single malt, very expensive. I don’t know if you drink whiskey but…’
I did not reply.
‘Yes so, anyway,’ he carried on, ‘I was given this bottle by Da… my fa… Mr Blunt Senior and I have been feeling so awful for what I had to do to you that day and I know you were right. You were the best bloody manager in our company and you were certainly not dead wood. In fact you were the most attractive wood in the whole place.’
I raised an eyebrow. He shuffled his feet again.
‘You were too good. I think they should have kept you but then no-one cares what I think, I’m just there because of my genes and because I can’t do anything else.’
I pressed a finger to my lips, feeling momentarily guilty. I felt a word of apology begging to escape.
‘I want you to have the whiskey, you deserve it more than I do.’
He thrust the box towards me. I took it.
‘Merry Christmas, Chloe and congratulations’ – he tapped the newspaper – ‘I knew it wouldn’t take you long to be a success.’
There was a very awkward moment when I thought he might try and kiss me but thankfully Russell rushed away down the stairs and up the street, the metal skegs on the soles of his brogues clip-clopping into the distance. I looked from one hand to the other, then I also descended the stairs to where Mr Downstairs was tending his rather dead looking plants while his splodgey cat looked on.
‘Merry Christmas, neighbour,’ I said brightly.
Mr Downstairs looked at first frightened, then surprised and then happy as I handed him the box containing the expensive single malt.
‘Why thank you, lass,’ he said, his voice soft and gentle.
I turned to walk back up the steps but then stopped and added – ‘I’m starting a cake tasting group in my flat in the New Year. You know, neighbours and friends coming together to try my cakes and have a bit of fun and conversation. I work from home you see, so it can be lonely.’
‘I understand loneliness,’ he said with a wry smile while softly stroking his cat.
‘Well if you’d like to come, I’d like that too. And maybe the young mum next door. I see you talking to her from time to time.’
‘Ching,’ he nodded, ‘aye she’d love that, lass.’
‘Great,’ I beamed, ‘I’ll let you know.’
He doffed his cap. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘It’s Chloe,’ I said.
‘And I’m Charlie.’
Ching and Charlie, my neighbours. I felt more like Heidi and even less like my old self as I skipped up the steps and into my flat. Even my flat seemed brighter and more welcoming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Swirl onto cakes and decorate with imagination
LOCAL WOMAN BRINGS COUTURE TO CAKES FOR CELEBRITIES read the headline. I skimmed through the description of the 3D Christmas party, the list of invitees, the blurb about the Doyle brothers, the Charity auction and the proceeds going to Heidi’s beloved charity. There was a photo of Heidi and Hurley handing a cheque to the head of the charity surrounded by beaming children in wheelchairs, their faces ecstatic and largely focused on the piles of presents surrounding them like a colourful moat.
‘Good on you, Heidi,’ I laughed before my eyes ran back to the first column and started re-reading.
Celebrity party planners Zachary, Malachy and Hurley Doyle are never upstaged, not even by a recession. Their extravagance this year was not, Zachary Doyle explained, ‘to fly in the face of the economic crisis and to act as if they had been untouched by it, but to wave goodbye to a difficult year for many with a bit of sparkle, a bit of hope and a lot of money from those more well-off given to those who would find Christmas a struggle this year.
I skimmed a couple of paragraphs then read on.
Local Tynemouth business woman, Chloe Baker, in early November found herself a victim of the recession but took this as an opportunity to change her life instead of seeing it as over.
Did I? I thought with a blush. I think I fairly wallowed at the time, to be honest.
‘I think Chloe’s story should be an inspiration to other people,’ said Zachary Doyle of the cupcake couturière whose breathtaking creation was unlike any cake any of the guests had ever seen and tasted just as good, ‘she had a childhood dream to be a cake designer but life took her in another direction, as did mine. When the curve ball came, I wanted to help her see that these things can happen for a reason. Perhaps someone was trying to tell her to get out there and live the life she dreamed of once. I’m doing it and I’m very thankful for that. Not everyone can live the dream but how will you know unless you try?’
I only realised I was crying when a heavy droplet fell on the page I was reading and smudged the cheap ink of the local paper. I pulled my hands up to eyes and dragged the tears away. When they were clear, I concentrated on the photographs. What had Roxy been talking about when she had said - ‘I told you so’?
I looked at the first picture of Zachary and I standing in front of the cakes, then at the second, the third, the fourth. The whole event was a double-page spread so there were many photographs, large and small, some layered over others to give a collage effect. In some, I was in the centre, in others I was in the background. In all of them, Zachary Doyle was gazing at me adoringly as if I was the present he had been waiting for every Christmas until that day.
I clasped my cheeks and shrieked.
I had been trained to read body language in my job as a recruitment manager so that I could interview candidates and tell when they were lying or lacked confidence. I was also not stupid; I could see when a man fancied a woman.
‘He did want to shag me,’ I spluttered, my laughter falling out like notes out of the end of a clarinet.
I jumped up and ran around like a dog chasing its tail until I remembered I did not have my mobile phone, which had Zachary’s number stored inside it
.
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ I exclaimed while I shuffled through the mountains of business cards in my flat, ‘I had two of his cards, why can’t I bloody well find just one of them now?’
I sat down on my bed. The power light glinted green on my laptop, like Zachary’s eyes. I flipped it open and checked my email. There was one from 3D Events. I crossed the fingers on my left hand and, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl, clicked on Open.
It was from Malachy.
Hey Chloe Baker the cupcake maker! Grand to hear from you. When we saw your car we thought you might be lying in the bottom of the pool, which would be a bit of a mess all in all! Glad you had fun, we did too, not that I remember much after Diversity danced, I got waaaaay too excited.
I laughed out loud. I had missed Diversity after my fainting episode.
Your cakes were stunning, thank you. Zachary was beside himself with joy. He has your phone by the way. You left it by the pool (hence us thinking you’d topped yourself until Heidi told Hurley you hadn’t and… anyway). He’s running around like a crazy person (Zachary not Hurley obviously)…
I grimaced. They had such bad taste in jokes.
… this week with all the Christmas dos and demanding clients but he says to tell you if you meet him Christmas Eve at Tynemouth Metro at 6pm, he’ll give you the phone. Sorry he can’t fit you in till then…
Charming!
… Not a very romantic meeting place I know, but he said it had meaning. Anyway, Merry Christmas cupcake girl and hope we see you soon xxx Malachy p.s. here is your password…
He wrote just as he spoke.
My mind was a whirl of questions. Zachary could not ‘fit me in’ for two days. That was not exactly a positive. Then again, he was very busy at this time of year. He also wanted to meet me at the Metro station, which was the place we had first met and he had ‘said it had meaning’. Why would Malachy even mention romance if he didn’t think there was a chance of some? Although I suspected even from meeting him briefly that Malachy lived in a constant state of romantic attraction.
Nevertheless, looking at the photographs over and over, I knew I had to give it a chance.
I threw myself into designing and baking cupcakes with fervour. The whisking and pouring and icing was very therapeutic and helped the time pass quicker. I was not even thinking about Christmas, but about Christmas Eve; the day of many of my cake deadlines and the day I would meet Zachary at the train station and find out how he really felt.
Or at least get my phone back.
I checked my new email address and swayed with shock when I saw how many requests I had for orders and quotes.
‘One step at a time,’ I reassured myself before I reverted to being a workaholic, ‘you can’t rush creativity.’
I made boxes for Danny and Chesney’s cakes, tied them with ribbon I bought at the village haberdasher’s and even unearthed my old painting set from the back of a cupboard to hand paint Cupcake Couture labels. I felt uneasy at first letting this artistic side of me out, but I reasoned with myself that it was necessary until I could afford proper packaging and that I would stop if at any time I was tempted to roll a spliff, run naked through the streets or adopt a child from a far off nation.
I could hear my parents bursting with excitement when I called them on the morning of Christmas Eve and told them I was painting again.
‘Come to the life class, Clover,’ my mother urged, ‘Julian’s modelling next week.’
‘No thank you, Jemima,’ I laughed, ‘I’m more comfortable when he has his clothes on and my name’s Chloe.’
‘Alright then, Chloe,’ she laughed, ‘I hope we see you over Chrimbo sometime.’
‘Yes,’ I said with a smile, ‘I will see you over Chrimbo sometime.’
At lunchtime on Christmas Eve, I poured myself a fourth cup of coffee, frothed milk to top it and stood looking out at the view from my window. Mr D… Charlie saw me and waved. I waved back. The snow had, of course, melted two days before Christmas in typical British fashion, leaving everything looking wet and a little bit grubby instead of the pristine ‘White Christmas’ we sang hopefully about. It had just started to drizzle. Yet, despite the freezing weather and dull aspect, my heart felt bright. My flat smelled of freshly baked cupcakes, which my clients would soon come to collect for their loved ones. I had met my deadline, I was not bankrupt and I still had some ingredients left. I sipped my coffee and smiled. I had one more cake to bake.
The wind stung my face as I tramped down the wet streets towards the Metro station. I wore my puffa jacket, a hat and mittens with my jeans tucked into my wellies. It was not exactly the romantic, floaty dress of the rom coms but then this was the North East of England in December where the rain formed icy needles to pierce the puddles on the uneven, grey pavements. I clutched the cake box to my chest in an attempt to keep me warm. The orange glow of the streetlights lit my path, matching the fake tan of two girls in sequinned hotpants and cropped bolero jackets who passed me by, tottering on peep-toe heels towards Front Street. I opened my eyes wide and shivered. Girls from Newcastle were obviously built with a layer of industrial insulation under their skin. There was no other explanation for their lack of clothing in sub-zero temperatures. Honestly, if Shackleton had been a Geordie lass, he would have strutted to the South Pole in a mini skirt and heels with a bottle of Bacardi Breezer in one hand and a kebab in the other without a word of complaint.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said a middle-aged couple who wandered past in the opposite direction with a damp, forlorn dog on a lead.
‘Same to you,’ I replied.
I patted the spaniel who looked like he would rather be curled up on the sofa than trudging along dark, wet streets.
The sounds of raucous laughter and drunken antics reached me from a nearby pub. It was just before six and Christmas Eve was a big day for drinking in the North East. How people survived family Christmas Days hungover without killing each other was beyond me.
I entered the Metro station through the archway and looked around. It was empty except for a group of students dressed as Santas, elves, fairies and one who had inexplicably come as a giant panda. They bounded up the double staircase, chased each other across the bridge spanning the train lines and bounced happily around on the opposite platform. The same Christmas CD from the flea market played from the speakers.
I approached the platform where I had first met Zachary and checked to see if I had company. Other than the blinking lights of the ticket machine and a Greggs the Baker’s bag blowing around on the floor, my breath was the only thing visible. I hummed We Wish You A Geordie Christmas to myself while I waited.
A train arrived on my platform, the doors slid open and people got off. Many stumbled drunkenly towards the exit. There was no sign of Zachary.
‘Stand clear o’ the doors, please,’ announced the automated Geordie message from inside the train before the doors closed and train pulled away.
I sang Geordie Bells and jogged on the spot.
A train arrived on the opposite platform. The students got on and waved at me from the brightly lit train as it pulled away. I waved back with my mitten-covered hand.
I was now alone in the station with just the ticket machine, the Greggs bag and the crackling Christmas CD for company. I sniffed and rubbed the end of my nose. I thought back to the countless cold mornings I had stood on this very platform and waited for the 8.15 to Monument to take me to my office at Blunts. I thought about Naomi, Margaret, Nigel, Ben, Kimberley and the rest of my staff and wondered whether they had missed me at all and if they had seen the article in the paper. I wondered whether I should have sent them a Christmas card. What was the etiquette when you were pushed from your job and forced to leave those people behind?
I thought back to that day. My birthday. I had been late because I had been buying Shirley’s limp cakes then there was the suicide on the line. I felt a pang of remorse for begrudging that poor, desperate, lonely person the chance to make a mark on a
ll our lives that morning by keeping us late. I felt sorrow for that person’s family and friends, if they had any, left behind to mourn them at Christmas. That day seemed like a lifetime away to me now but to those people it would very probably still feel like a fresh wound slowly forming into a scar. They would be working through Denise’s five stages of grief. I had felt the pain of those stages and all I had been mourning was a career cut short, not, as I now realised, an entire life.
The day of my redundancy had felt like the end of my world at the time, but perhaps the saying was true that everything happened for a reason or perhaps it was just that everything happened and then those of us who had the strength and the support and encouragement of others dealt with it and later applied our reasoning. All I knew was that if it had not happened that day, I would not now be the self-employed (less well-paid but starting to be paid a little) owner of my very own business, Cupcake Couture.
What was it Nigel had said when I had told them about my baking hobby?
‘Because you’re…a bit…’
Well I wasn’t a bit that way anymore. I wasn’t a corporate robot and I was thankful for that. Next year, I would not forget my own birthday and I would have a bloody brilliant cake, that was for sure.
I sang Hark The Toon Army Sings.
A train arrived and departed on the opposite platform. People got on and off. Some tramped over the bridge above my head. I peered across the train line but did not see Zachary. I looked at the clock. Six forty-five.
I rubbed my nose to try and keep warm, wishing I had a hot coffee cup warming my hands. I smiled when I thought back to Zachary finding me sobbing over a spilt coffee. Then my smile faded when I realised he probably wasn’t coming. My eyes welled up and morose thoughts began to replace the positive ones in my head. I wondered what Mr Alexander was doing this Christmas, estranged from his son, his business and reputation in tatters, watching the clock and hopefully sticking a turkey and not his head in the Aga. I had done as he had advised me to do; I had grabbed my life with both hands and given it a good shake but I was also standing here frittering away that most precious asset; time. What was the point in wasting time on a man who was probably rubbing his head between two cannonball boobs at that very moment? It was Christmas Eve and I was alone on a freezing cold Metro platform waiting for a man, a business associate, who had had more than one chance to snog me and had never taken it. So he had been caught gazing adoringly at me in the photographs, but then everyone was half-cut that night, including myself. Why was I standing here desperately waiting for him to ‘fit me in’ while people around me celebrated together, walked soggy dogs together and dressed up as elves and giant pandas? They were in warm pubs sipping mulled wine in front of roaring fires while I was waiting, clutching a cake box and hoping I had not been forgotten about.
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