Cupcake Couture (11 page)

‘You have a beautiful home,’ he said as if reading my mind, ‘do you live alone?’

‘Why? Does it look like I live alone?’

He blinked.

‘No, yes, I’m not sure really, I…I was just making conversation.’ He paused. ‘I love the fairylights.’

‘Do you?’

Damn it, maybe he was gay like his brother
.

‘I know men aren’t supposed to like fairy lights but there’s something magical about them, don’t you think? Like it’s permanently Christmas.’

I nodded.

‘My thoughts exactly.’

I stretched for the cake plate and offered him one. His hand hovered between the blue and the pink. What with the strawberry scented tissues, his appreciation of
handbags and boots and his love of fairy lights, if he opted for the pink one I would send my hormones back to the locked box they came from.

He chose a blue cake dotted with white chocolate buttons and topped with a pink jelly baby. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

By the time there were only cake crumbs left on the plate, I had discovered Zachary Doyle came from an Irish Catholic family of three sons. He had lived in Galway until the age of ten at which point the family had moved to Newcastle where his father had worked in the now defunct shipyards. He had a faint hint of Irish in his predominantly Geordie accent. He also had the conversational flow and easy wit of an Irishman. The hypnotic green eyes and the Guinness coloured hair completed the package.

I crossed my legs and tried to concentrate on his story.

Zac’s mother was a seamstress who had dreamed of being Coco Chanel but had been far too busy dealing with three boisterous sons and a demanding husband to follow her own dreams. His father had tragically died of a sudden and massive heart attack the day his redundancy from Swan Hunters was announced.

‘He was broken as a man,’ Zachary said openly, ‘as if all his self-worth had come from his job, which was ridiculous of course. But we humans often let work define us. We would have loved him whatever he did but the thought of not being the man he wanted to be frightened my father. It was as if he scared himself to death.’

I nodded sagely. I could relate to the feeling of heartbreak even if my own heart had so far weathered my own work-related storm.

As the oldest boy, Zachary had immediately left college and found a job to become the family breadwinner. He had been a businessman ever since.

‘What sort of business do you work in?’ I asked.

He tipped back his coffee cup to drain the contents and endearingly ran his finger inside the rim of the cup to catch the foam, which he then licked. I smiled at his uninhibited behaviour. He acted as if we had been friends for years.

His finger licked clean, (lucky finger) he wiggled his hand.

‘Oh events mostly. Functions, you know that sort of thing. It’s just work but it’s a family business and I love it. I realised one day what was important and doing something you love with people you love makes the days much better.’ He stopped suddenly and slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Forgive me, here I am wittering on about myself like I’m on an episode of
Who Do You Think You Are?
and I haven’t even asked about your job situation. I hope I didn’t upset you with the stuff about my father.’

I watched his hand move from his forehead to my thigh.

‘I’m sure you’re not about to have a heart attack,’ he said.

The way it’s carrying on inside my chest right now, I wouldn’t be so sure
.

I focused on trying to stop my thigh jigging.

‘How are you?’ he said.

‘You mean am I still weeping openly at Metro stations?’

He smiled and thankfully removed his hand before my thigh turned to Silly Putty under his touch. I took his cup and shrugged.

‘Oh I’m fine. Getting there. Adjusting. Driving myself mad alone in my flat but I’ve got my girlfriends who have been a good help.’

‘No boyfriend?’

I smiled.

‘No. No man-bag carrying boyfriend. In fact you’re the first man this flat has seen for quite a while.’ I cringed at my rather sad admission. He somehow drew
honesty from me. I added, ‘By choice of course. I mean I could have had men here if I’d wanted to and I have had offers, believe me, but I’m very fussy and I’m not the sort to just pick someone up. Believe me,’ I said again.

‘I believe you,’ he said with a grin.

Flustered, I moved the conversation on.

‘And as for the job thing, I’m just not used to not having a focus if you know what I mean?’

‘I do. My business has been my focus for a long time since… well, for a while for one reason and another. It’s been all work and very little play so I know I’d be lost without it. But that’s through choice and the business I’m in does have a bit of sparkle. It does improve lives I suppose in one way or another and we play while we work.’

No mention of a partner. I punched the air in my imagination.

‘All work and no play sounds very familiar. We must have been made from the same mould you and I.’

He brushed his hair from his eyes and smiled.

‘I’m not sure about that. What your mould created is a lot easier on the eye.’

I bit my lip to stop myself rejecting the compliment. He avoided looking at me and instead looked at his thumbs that twiddled in his lap.

‘Sorry, that sounded cheesy.’

Then I like cheesy
.

‘So have you decided a new plan of action for what you’ll do next?’ he said politely, in our game of conversational tack changing.

‘Not exactly. I know the job market is tricky and I have a non-competition clause. I wallowed for most of the week to be honest but my near death experience
has actually given me a kick up the arse, so you could well have done me a favour. I just need to decide what I want to do and go out and bloody well do it.’

I looked at him. His eyes searched my face as if looking for the truth in my words. He looked concerned and perhaps a little pitying, which suddenly unsettled me. Why was I starting to pour my heart out to this man I had known for two brief encounters on dusty Metro platforms?

‘Another coffee, Zachary?’

‘Erm, sure, yes as long as you have time. I’m not a one-cup a day man I must admit. If I don’t have my two cups in the morning before work and my cup when I get into the office, I may as well stay in bed.’

‘Me too!’ I laughed. ‘And I definitely need a strong cup…’

‘After lunch,’ we said in unison.

‘Definitely,’ he smiled as I stood up to walk back to the kitchen, ‘after lunch is my B-time in the day. Coffee and chocolate is all that gets me through three o’clock meetings.’

I nodded and then stopped myself mid-agreement.

‘That’s when I had three o’clock meetings. I don’t really need a caffeine boost to get me through
Dickinson’s Real Deal
.’

‘Well I don’t know I’d agree with you there,’ he smirked.

I refilled the mugs and the cake plate, placed them on a tray and returned to the sofa. As I sat down and placed the tray down on the coffee table, my hand brushed his thigh. I tingled like a Jane Austen character and nearly dropped the tray. He steadied my arm with his hand, which only served to make me giddier. I mentally kicked myself.

Pull yourself together woman
, I scolded,
he’s just a man. Don’t be pathetic
.

‘It must be the caffeine,’ I trilled, holding out the plate, ‘another cake?’

‘These cakes are sensational,’ he groaned, leaning back against the sofa and clutching his stomach. His firm, flat, I imagined toned and tanned (although that was pure speculation) stomach.

‘Do you make other types?’

‘Of course. I like to experiment with the flavours and the toppings. I make a particularly indulgent triple chocolate cupcake with a melting centre and my gingerbread cupcakes are divine. I also make savoury ones like carrot and courgette, which may sound strange but they taste amazing and they’re almost healthy. I’ve recently developed cocktail cupcakes using Malibu and pineapple or vodka and cranberries but my latest recipe uses champagne and orange. It’s a buck’s fizz in a cake and I top it with these incredibly delicate blown sugar bubbles I’ve spent so long perfecting. Blown sugar is an art form in itself. You see I always had this vision of combining the cakes with art and design for special occasions, turning the displays almost into edible installations and each one being unique and designed specifically for what the client wants. Like haute couture only using sponge and icing…’

I stopped, my hands in the air mid-description, when his lips spread into a smile and his teeth flashed as white as icing sugar. I blushed.

‘Sorry, I’m boring you.’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’m not obsessed with cakes. I just enjoy baking and I have these silly fantasies. Would you believe I used to dream of being a cake designer?’

‘I know, as in designer of posh cakes not a posh designer of cakes,’ he grinned. ‘Which definitely suits someone with the surname Baker but I could also see you in a tutu.’

I clamped my mouth shut.

‘How do you know all that?’

It was his turn to blush. Outside the window, a seagull screeched, piercing the uncomfortable silence. I shifted away from him on the sofa. Not that a few more inches of leather would offer me greater protection from a stalker if he had come to my flat with the intention of slicing my head off and taking it home in my ‘beautiful’ Tod’s bag. I momentarily wished Tristan would pop up wielding his trusty flick knife.

He must have sensed the change in atmosphere descending on us like freezing fog.

‘I’m sorry, Chloe, I am being over familiar but I feel like I know so much about you already.’

‘Yes,’ I said, slowly clearing my throat, ‘so do I.
Too
much.’

He raised his hand to run it through his hair again. I flinched and moved further away.

‘Who are you, Zachary? You come to my rescue at Tynemouth Metro station when I’m crying. You appear at Monument Metro when I’m crying. You’re there when I have a near death handbag experience, which for all I know you may well have caused and then you turn up at my flat, returning the bag to me and telling me my inner thoughts.’ I raised my hands defensively. ‘If you’re planning to murder me can we cut the crap and get it over with?’

A guilty expression flashed across his face.

‘I read your list,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘My what?’

‘Your list of what you wanted to be when you grew up. It was a bit hard to read the first four through the scribbles but…’

My hand shot up to my mouth. I had completely forgotten about the drunkenly scrawled list Roxy, Heidi and I had made that I had shoved in my bag at the end of our night in The Stuffed Dog. We had not referred to it since. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry or curl up into a ball and die of embarrassment.

‘I know I shouldn’t have read it but it’s like when you find a diary and you know you shouldn’t but you just have a peek and then you just have to read a bit more and…’

‘Well at least I know you can’t be trusted. You make a habit of reading people’s diaries do you?’ I said with a raised eyebrow.

‘No. Damn, I’m not looking too good right now am I?’

I shook my head. He turned to face me, his leg bent up between us on the sofa. He raised his palms.

‘Just forget I read the list,’ he said.

‘Forget that even though we’ve only just found out each other’s names, you already know I wanted to be a ballet dancer, an Olympian or Mrs bloody Kipling?’

I paused and pressed my knuckles into my eyes. I couldn’t help myself as my shoulders began to shudder. Zachary groaned and immediately started to fumble in his pockets.

‘Oh please don’t cry again. Jesus, that’s three times in a row. I’ve never had this effect on a woman before.’

He thrust something towards me and the scent of fake strawberries wafted up to my nose. I wiped away the tears with my fingers.

‘I’m not crying, I’m laughing.’

‘Oh thank God.’

He hugged the strawberry tissues to his chest and started laughing too, a deep laugh that seemed to rumble through his whole body from his feet to finally light up his face. I placed my arm along the back of the sofa as the cushions bounced gently in response to our frivolity.

‘Here am I thinking you’re a weird stalker when all the while you must be thinking I’m an absolute fruit loop. I’m surprised you’re still here.’

He threw his head back and laughed, then his hand fell on top of mine along the back of the sofa, connecting our bodies by our fingers.

‘I have to admit it’s been an unusual introduction.’

He paused and we gazed at each other for a second too long before we both looked away like awkward kids at a school disco. My hand felt suddenly hot. I slid it along the back of the sofa away from his and rubbed my thighs nervously.

‘Another cake?’ I said.

He smiled and patted his stomach.

‘Tempting but no I really mustn’t. Us Irish men tend to have a fat man inside us just waiting to get out.’

He lifted his blazer from the arm of the sofa and I felt my heart sink. I suddenly didn’t want him to leave. His presence in the room was like a real fire, bringing warmth, comfort and a definite spark. I had been so busy working to climb the ladder over the past few years, it had been a long time since I had taken the time to enjoy the company of a man. Zachary Doyle was certainly that; a big, meaty, handsome, interesting, witty, kind man. He stood and slipped his arms into his blazer.

‘I’ve kept you far too long, Chloe but thank you for your hospitality and for your gorgeous cakes.’

I stood too.

‘You’re very welcome. Thank you for returning my bag.’

I followed him to the door, our feet sounding heavy on the floorboards. I was preparing to say goodbye, running it over in my head –
should I say ‘goodbye’ or ‘see you soon’ or ‘we should do this again sometime’ or ‘call me’ or a casual ‘adieu’ or you mentioned about seeing each other, or…? -
when he stopped and suddenly turned to face me. I almost crashed into him.

‘Before I go I feel I should really say something,’ he said.