At least she had plenty to take her mind off things. She made sure the photographer got good shots of the cakes, pulling Beth into the frame by getting her to stand next to her own entry, which was an elaborate triumph of royal icing and a fondant holly wreath. Then she persuaded the Managing Director, Leonard Hill—it didn’t take much—to say a few words. Quite a few words. Yawns were being stifled and watches surreptitiously checked by the time he got to the end of his yarns about Portman Brothers’ proud history of altruism, its success, the tradition, the forward-thinking attitude, the bright young staff, the old, loyal staff . . . it went on and on. Eventually he got to reading out who had won each of the six classes. Wayne was pink in the face when he took first place for his raised pie. Shy Will was lauded for his salted caramel brownies, which went straight to the cake counter to be sold to shoppers that day, with all resulting funds going to the Apple Café. The final category, the Christmas cakes, was hotly contested between Wayne, Pat, Beth, Brian, and several others. When Beth won, she was ecstatic, giving a little jump on the spot and clutching her hands together in glee.
Eventually, it was the auctioneer, a slim, glamorous woman in her forties who had been signing autographs all the while, who slid in next to the Managing Director with a beaming smile and pointedly started the applause to thank him for his efforts before apologizing for being in a hurry and starting the bidding at a frantic pace.
Kate was worried. How would they make a thousand pounds just from cake? Perhaps they should have found a way of selling the mince pies rather than giving them away, she fretted. She kicked herself again for not thinking of collecting tins. What was the matter with her? She had reached a point where—every day—she did something to mess up. That was no good for Jack. She was a failure as a mother and a human being. And so the vicious inner voice continued as—on the outside—Kate smiled and clapped politely. That did it. They must only have raised about five hundred pounds at the most and there were only the Christmas cakes to auction now. People were being generous—Wayne’s pie had made an astonishing fifty pounds—but she would be held responsible for the one performance measure on which the management team would use for this task: the money. And that would be that. Job gone. Game over.
An unattractive thought of Mr. Wilkins popped into her mind, rudely interrupting her spiraling negative thoughts. And then she realized why; his aftershave, a miasma of grubbiness and cloying musk, had filled her nostrils. And there he was, beside her. She looked up and gave him a rictus smile. He grinned back, smugly and smoothed his thinning and greasy hair back from his forehead with a habitual swipe of his hand.
Sandra, the auctioneer, had left Beth’s cake until last.
“And now,” she announced, holding the cake up triumphantly, “the winning cake from the most prestigious category in this competition, ladies and gentleman, the most succulent, the most elegantly decorated, the pièce de résistance, the—if you will allow me”—she winked confidingly at the smiling crowd—“the icing on the cake . . .”
There were a few groans, but largely the amiable gathering was amused and entertained. Beth, Kate noticed, was standing next to Will. They were holding hands and he was gazing at his new girlfriend admiringly in her big moment, as if he could hardly believe his luck at the fortunate turn of events.
Kate forced herself to smile encouragingly at Mr. Wilkins. “Will you be bidding?” she said.
“I did say to the missus I’d sort out the cake,” he admitted, looking anxious, as he generally did when his wife came, however briefly, into the conversation.
“Here’s your chance, then . . .”
“Do I hear fifty pounds,” said Sandra in ringing tones.
Daniel put up his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” she nodded at him approvingly, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, through a gap in the crowd, he looked straight at Kate, giving her a sharp head jerk of command. She frowned at him, and he flicked his head slightly toward Mr. Wilkins again in silent instruction. She nodded back.
“You’re not going to let him get it are you?” she asked Mr. Wilkins. “He’s not even staff. I think the board would be awfully impressed if you got it instead, don’t you?”
Mr. Wilkins shuffled nervously and then stiffened with resolve. “I will,” he said suddenly, shooting up his hand, just as Sandra cried, “Do I hear seventy-five?”
“Here!” shouted Kate, just to make sure Sandra noticed, but she had, of course and immediately took on an expression like the cat that got the cream. Competition. An auctioneer’s dream.
“So, which of you lovely gentlemen are going to take this cake home to the wife for Christmas?” Sandra said. “She could only be grateful . . . the quality, the taste, the look of it. This cake is set to be the centerpiece of the Christmas tea table and you—gentlemen—have the priceless opportunity to put yourself in your wife’s good books . . . I firmly believe a cake like this gets you off the washing up until at least the new year. Do I hear a hundred?”
Daniel immediately shot up his hand, and so did Mr. Wilkins. “Bidding against yourself there, sir,” Sandra joshed to Mr. Wilkins, who blushed.
“Do I hear one-fifty?”
Whenever an increasingly nervous Mr. Wilkins agreed to a bid, Daniel’s hand immediately shot up again. Quickly, and almost unbelievably, the bidding rose to four hundred pounds, the crowd gasping and laughing in amazement. Beth’s eyes were like saucers as she bounced up and down in excitement, still with her hand in Will’s.
Kate did a swift calculation. If the price went to five hundred pounds she was sure she would have made her one-thousand-pound target. The local papers would love it, and her appraisal over her future employment would definitely go better. Daniel was an idiot. She was sure he told her he didn’t even like fruitcake the other day . . .
Daniel shot her another significant look and put his hand up again. The bid stood at four hundred and seventy-five pounds. In response, Kate put her hand on Mr. Wilkins’s arm and breathed, “Wow, Mr. Wilkins, this is so amazing of you. I reckon five hundred pounds would seal the deal.”
Mr. Wilkins puffed his chest out a little more and raised his hand.
“Five hundred pounds!” crowed Sandra triumphantly. “Do I have any more bids at five hundred pounds? Going, going, gone—to the gentleman at the back of the room standing next to the elf.”
As Mr. Wilkins, looking slightly green at what he had done, went up to pay and to claim his cake, Daniel worked his way through the crowds to Kate’s side.
“That was daft,” she said, when he got to her. “What if he’d let you outbid him?”
“I did get a bit worried at the end,” he admitted. “I thought I’d pushed him too far.”
“What would you have done?”
“Coughed up, I suppose.”
“You told me you don’t even like fruitcake.”
“Hate it,” he agreed. “Now, I’m glad I caught you . . .”
Just then, visions of Daniel with the girl with the pink hair flooded into her mind again. What was the point? She knew now their easy friendship was over. She wanted more. She couldn’t have it. Being around him was therefore too painful to bear. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve really got to go.” She didn’t want him to see her with tears in her eyes. Again, she fled.
By the time she had ensured the local paper had its photos and she had caught up with Brian on the amount raised, what to do with the money from the cakes sold in the café and how soon she was going to call in with Jack, Kate barely had time to get home, sort out some supper for her son, and get changed for the staff party.
Pat had been right; her black dress was not festive. It was boring, she realized, looking at herself in dismay. If she had to find a dress that summed up her failure to find the joy she was determined to rediscover this Christmas, this was it. It had been her go-to dress for years. She and Tom had bought it together. He hated shopping, but when he saw her in it—a structured, curvy number, demurely on the knee but sexy in the
way it clung to her body—he insisted on paying for it, even though it was the most expensive item of clothing she had ever owned.
She would never get rid of it. She just needed to fill out a bit—reacquaint herself with her boobs, which seemed to have disappeared. She rummaged in the drawer where she kept her makeup and dashed on some scarlet lipstick. Worse. Now she looked like a recently exhumed corpse that an undertaker has labored to present in a positive light. It was like putting a cherry on a turd, but it would have to do. She grabbed a silver scarf, one of her favorites, and wound it around her neck. That would help. At least it partly hid the gaping neckline where her tits used to be.
Mrs. Akintola was already there, and she could hear the older woman and Jack chatting as she fixed his tea.
“My Daryl still loves my sweet potato fries,” Mrs. Akintola told Kate as she took a delicious-smelling tray out of the oven. “It’s the thing that keeps bringing him home to his mama.”
“They look delicious,” she told her. “Thank you so much for this.”
“You’re welcome, my darling, now you have a lovely time and don’t worry about a thing. Don’t rush back either. You don’t get out often enough. I want you to make the most of it.”
“I really won’t be late,” said Kate, dropping a kiss on the top of Jack’s head. “Now don’t let this one tell you he’s allowed to stay up ’til God knows when,” she said. “He’s had a few late nights recently. I want him in bed asleep by eight o’clock. You hear?” she added, catching Jack’s eye.
“Go,” said Mrs. Akintola firmly, shooing her out of the door.
To a hard core of Portman Brothers staff, the Christmas party was a key event in the social calendar. Most of the women were dressed up to the nines, some with comedy Christmas earrings complete with little snowman baubles and flashing lights. Spirits were high by the time Kate got there.
Standing around clutching a glass of warm white wine that smelled of armpits, Kate felt her head swimming a little. The noise from the conversations seemed to come from far away and yet to pound painfully into her head like a jackhammer.
She surveyed the room. Mr. Wilkins had already got rid of his suit jacket and had large patches of sweat under his arms. He was swigging from a pint of beer, his full lips folding around the edge of the glass and coming away wet and shiny. Kate watched him with horrified fascination. He noticed and fixed her with a stare and a wink. She looked away, trying not to allow her face to contort into the disgust she felt.
Wayne was there, with too much hair gel and a close-fitting shirt that showed off his bulky, weight-lifter arms. He seemed in high spirits, doubtless buoyed by his success in the baking competition. Amused, Kate watched him scanning the room, his eyes resting on a young woman from Accounts—Jessica, Kate thought she might be called—who had all her fixed assets on display, along with a few of her variable ones.
Weary of standing, Kate took her seat at the long tables laid for dinner. The cafeteria staff had done their best with the Christmas decorations. Swags of tinsel lined the walls and each place setting had a folded paper napkin with robins and holly on it. She looked at the place settings opposite and beside her. There was Pat’s name, thank goodness, and a girl from the Food Hall on her left whom she didn’t know well but who seemed sweet. Then, to her horror, she checked the place on her right. Malcolm Wilkins. The very smell of the man would make it impossible for her to eat. She already felt sick. It was probably the wine. She had just reached out to swap his card with someone else’s—anyone would do—when his fat, hairy hand appeared on the back of the chair next to her, his wedding ring looking uncomfortably tight on his sausage-like fingers.
“This is me,” he announced. “How nice. We can talk about the Apple Café project. A good result, I felt.”
“Thank you,” said Kate, faintly, accepting her fate with resignation. “You were really generous, and it is a good cause.”
“Aren’t you too hot with that scarf on?” he asked as he sat down, taking the opportunity to have a good look down the front of her dress as he did so. “Shall I help you take it off ?”
“I’m fine thanks, Mr. Wilkins,” said Kate, trying to smile. “I’d prefer to keep it on.”
“Pity,” he said, with a lick of his lips. “And do call me Malcolm,” he added. “No need to stand on ceremony—it is Christmas after all.”
Thankfully, Mr. Wilkins was distracted for much of the meal by a pretty girl on his right who looked terrified at being noticed by someone so senior.
Kate began to relax but then, as dessert was cleared away—a solid and bitterly curranted Christmas pudding with lumpy white sauce which was not nearly as delicious as the Apple Café one would be—Malcolm turned back to her with a glint in his eye.
“Let’s dance,” he said, holding out a hand glistening with sweat. Slade was playing now, the music growing insidiously louder as the evening progressed, and a few other—quite drunk—employees were venturing onto the temporary dance floor.
“I don’t really . . .”
His gaze hardened. “I think we have to set an example, don’t you?”
Kate wasn’t sure what positive example was being set by seeing senior managers pawing junior staff on the dance floor, but she accepted her fate.
Malcolm was immediately handsy, grabbing her around the waist and holding her so tight she could feel him squeezing her rib cage.
“There’s not much of you, is there?” he murmured in her ear as they jigged from side to side, more or less in tandem. “You need feeding up.”
“A few more Christmas dinners like that, and I’ll be the size of a house,” countered Kate.
“Like my wife,” he said. “She’s a well-built woman.” He shook his head, clearly keen to shake off the thought, but Kate was happy to keep his mind on his wife by way of distraction.
“What does she do, your wife?”
“Spends my money. And eats,” he replied. “But let’s talk about you . . .”
He then proceeded to talk about himself, bellowing in her ear as someone turned the music up even higher. She could feel flecks of spit hitting the side of her face. His voice was now difficult to distinguish from all the other noise around her. The fluorescent ceiling lights were turned off. The only illumination came from the candles on the tables and the swirling, multicolored disco lights that throbbed and spun, catching sweaty, laughing faces and jerking limbs as even the older staff, emboldened by free alcohol, strutted their stuff.
Kate wondered how soon she could slip away. She longed desperately to be curled up on the sofa in her pajamas with Jack snuggled under her arm and the duvet on, watching Christmas movies.
“I must just . . .” she bellowed, thinking desperately of an excuse. “I must just go for a wee.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said immediately.
“I don’t think you’re allowed into the ladies’.”
“I want to talk to you,” he said, nodding portentously. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
God, he was really drunk, she realized, horrified. When he nodded, his entire body moved to counterbalance his head. Even with this precaution, he nearly lost his equilibrium and would have fallen if she hadn’t reached out to steady him.
He looked at her hand on his arm delightedly. “Can’t keep your hands off me, eh?” he slurred. “That’s understandable . . . c’m ’ere, gorgeous,” he added, grabbing her around the waist and more or less frogmarching her out of the cafeteria. In the corridor, she quickly discovered that maneuvering him nearer to the wall seemed to steady him in a way that allowed her to detach herself slightly. She could feel a cool draft where his sweaty hand had made her dress damp around her waist. She shuddered, which was a mistake.
“You’re cold, my gorgeous,” he said, noticing, and wrapping his arm around her again. “I’ll keep you warm.”
And so, they staggered down the corridor as far as the stockroom.
“It’s in here,” he said, suddenly veering off an
d pulling open the door. They fell into the room, which was dark, and Malcolm let go, turning his back.
Kate sighed with relief and stepped back toward the doorway, grateful for the light from the corridor at least. She had better play out this ridiculous charade with him. He wasn’t going to be dissuaded, but she was dying to get to the loo, not just because she needed to pee but also because the leaden Christmas pudding, a world away from the one she had tasted at the Apple Café, was threatening to make a reappearance.
Malcolm fumbled with his trousers and then turned. “Ta da!” he said, his face shining red and sweaty in the light filtering in from the corridor.
Kate’s face must have shown her confusion. A moment passed and then Malcolm looked down at himself. Kate followed his gaze.
“Mr. Wilkins!” she said, in horror.
“Come on, darlin’,” he leered. “You know you want to.”
At that, he lunged forward, his hands outstretched. “Just let me have a little feel,” he muttered, reaching for her.
She sidestepped him and rapidly backed toward the door. “Mr. Wilkins, no,” she said firmly, like you would to a dog about to steal a packet of sausages.
He reacted to her words as if he had been slapped, stopping dead in his tracks for a moment, which was a mistake. At the sudden change in trajectory, he overbalanced, nearly recovered himself, and then—gravity and alcohol getting the better of him—he fell backward, heavily, with a crump sound, onto a head-high pile of cardboard boxes. The top two fell onto the floor between them, blocking his way. She didn’t wait for a second chance. She ran.
She suppressed her desperate urge to run outside and not look back. To get home to Jack, she would need to grab her bag from the table where she had left it. She forced herself to walk to the table, head down, and was nearly out of the door with her bag in her hand, when Pat intercepted her. “Kate! Whatever has happened to you?”
“I have to get back to Jack,” shouted Kate, in Pat’s ear, over the thumping music.
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