Cupcake Couture (13 page)

She was the tallest of the group with the biggest hair, which corresponded directly to the size of her mouth. She wore an orange dress that was like camouflage against her tan.

‘What the fuck’r you laughing at?’ she spat, jutting out a sharp hip and placing her hand on it with exaggerated force.

Her three friends followed with the same movement before they started strutting towards me. It was like being attacked by The Saturdays. In the cubicle I heard Roxy’s phone ring and she answered it. Damn it, when it came to being a tough Geordie lass in situations such as these, Roxy was definitely the one we hid behind, even if she was the most petite. I pressed my lips together and looked away as Heidi turned and smiled graciously at them.

‘Come on girls, let’s not be silly,’ she said softly.

‘Shut your mouth you fat cow,’ said the big haired leader, ‘you look like one of them hippos in a tutu.’

Heidi glanced at her skirt. I thought better of returning the compliment to the roundest of the four friends who had chosen a multi-coloured mini dress and looked like a bag of marbles with a head. My challengers came to a stop inches from my legs and looked sneeringly down at me.

Orange girl, whom I imagined to be called something modern like Chutney, said - ‘Were you laughing at me, Grandma?’

Clearly she had chosen to move on from size to age. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. I cleared my throat and tried to smile up at them without appearing to be looking up their rather minimal skirts.

‘Of course I’m not laughing at you. Why would I be laughing at you?’

‘Why would I be laughing at you?’ she repeated, mocking my accent, which had never become convincingly Geordie, ‘Aren’t you too old for Top Shop?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there was an age limit. How very discriminatory. You want to hope they don’t discriminate according to skin colour or you might find yourself restricted to shopping at Orange.’

I couldn’t help myself.

Chutney flared her nostrils and raised a stiletto heel above my leg just as Roxy came out of the cubicle holding out her crystal studded mobile. Like Gollum gazing at the ring, the girls recoiled in horror as they focused on the sparkly pink phone. The green monster wrapped his hands around their necks and squeezed.

‘Chloe, Thierry’s on the phone from St. James’. They’re in the dressing room and Carlos wants to chat to you.’

Carlos. My Spanish footballer with the arse like… (you know). The six-packed, coked up, pretty boy who had ruined any chance I may (or may not) have had with Zachary Doyle by emerging from my bedroom in such a tactless manner. Granted, his presence in my bedroom was not entirely his own fault, but I had yet to get to the bottom (for want of a better phrase) of what had happened that Friday night. Not that I’d tried. In fact I had spent the past week deliberately trying to avoid going anywhere near the bottom of what had happened that Friday night for fear of what I may unearth.

Roxy handed me the mobile before she noticed the girls.

‘What the fuck are you staring at satsuma girl?’ she said, facing them with not a hint of trepidation. ‘I don’t give autographs.’

Chutney and co pouted at Roxy but instinctively knew they were not as hard as my friend. They shrugged and turned to leave in a choreographed movement.
However, their curiosity got the better of them as I began to speak and they loitered close enough to eavesdrop.

‘Carlos! How are you, guapo?’ I said over-enthusiastically. ‘Yes I had a lovely time last Friday night too.’

Did I?

‘I know, we had so much to talk about, didn’t we?’

Did we?

‘Ha ha.’ My giggle ran up and down a scale of do-re-mi.

‘Would I like to have dinner with you?… There? Oh but that’s very expensive.’

The expressions of shock and… yes it definitely was jealousy, sweet jealousy (
yes!
) etched on the faces of the wannabe Wags spurred me on.

‘I would love to, Carlos.’

Earth to Chloe, what the hell…?

‘Hasta tonight,’ I said, chirping like a manic canary, ‘Ciao!’

I never said ‘ciao’. I also never made kissing noises into the phone before I hung up. On this occasion I did both.

Heidi’s eyebrows had taken shelter beneath the giant bow flopping about on her head and Roxy looked like she might explode with laughter, but she held her composure long enough for Chutney and co to absorb the fact I had just been asked out by the footballer friend of my friend’s footballer boyfriend. Swallowing the bile that was undoubtedly in their already sour mouths, my orange attackers tottered back to their cubicles. Chutney, bless her, even attempted to slam the curtain. The effect was underwhelming.

‘Were you really talking to someone or pretending?’ said Heidi in a loud whisper.

‘I might have gone a little crazy of late, Heidi, but I haven’t quite resorted to making dates with imaginary men.’

I held out my arms and she pulled me up.

‘But I thought you didn’t like him.’

I sniffed and looked down at my shifting feet.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him. How could I not like him when I have absolutely zero recollection of spending the evening with him?’

Roxy laughed and pulled on her coat.

‘I’ve had that happen loads. Remember the time we went to the Metro Centre for the day and when we got back at night I found that fella locked in my flat who I’d totally forgotten I’d shagged?’

Heidi shook her head.

‘I’m starting to think my two best friends are cheap slappers.’

‘I might be a slapper, pet,’ Roxy winked, ‘but I’m definitely not cheap!’

She waved a platinum card in the air and then nodded at Heidi’s outfit.

‘Now are you getting that or not?’

Heidi twirled around, the chiffon skirt puffing out around her like a cloud.

‘I don’t know. Do you think it makes me look like a hippo in a tutu?’

‘No, it’s cute.’

‘Aye, the skirt’s canny,’ Roxy sniffed, ‘but give the fucking enormous hair bow a miss. You look like your head’s shrunk.’ She shooed Heidi back into the cubicle. ‘Now get a wriggle on, Heidi, we’ve got to find Chloe a pulling outfit.’

‘What for?’ I frowned.

‘For your date with a Newcastle United football player, pet. Or were you planning to wear a hoodie and football boots?’

I groaned.

Had I really just made a date with a perma-tanned Spanish footballer whom I may or may not have slept with the previous Friday night? Whom I had been trying to push into the darkest corner of my mind all week while focusing on job applications in order to forget the look of sheer horror on Zachary Doyle’s face. Lovely Zachary Doyle who had run from my flat never to be heard from again.

Not that I cared.

Not much anyway.

‘Do I really have to go?’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t want to spend any money and I was only doing it to try and make those girls jealous.’

How old was I, fourteen?

Roxy linked her arm through mine and led me out of the changing rooms with Heidi following behind, her arms full of chiffon.

‘My treat. Or rather Thierry’s treat.’

‘No I can’t…’ I began as she dragged me towards the rails of dresses that all looked very trendy, very sequinned and very very small. Maybe Chutney had a point about the age limit. My heart sank.

‘You can. He never even checks his statements. I could buy you a car and he’d probably never know.’

Oh how the other half lived
.

‘It’ll do you good, Chloe,’ said Roxy breezily, ‘and like you said it’s not like you’ve got a job or a boyfriend, so why not?’

My pride rolled away across the floor underneath a rack of size six mini skirts.

‘Thanks Roxy,’ I grumbled as Heidi sympathetically patted my arm.

‘Not at all, Chloe man, what are friends for? Now, try this one on, it’ll show off your boobs at dinner. Carlos has got an arse to die for so there’s no point even trying to compete with that and then we better get you some sexy kegs for the’ – she made inverted commas in the air – ‘after party in the bedroom. If I know footballers, I know they expect more than comfy cotton. And you know that I do know footballers.’

Oh God, what had I done?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Preheat oven to 170
°
C/325
°
F/Gas 3

The Baltic Flour Mill was a landmark building that stood proudly on the Gateshead bank of the River Tyne. A six-storey structure in red and sand-coloured bricks, it resembled a building a child would construct out of cereal packets and matchboxes. The only outside indication that it had been stylishly brought into the twenty-first century as a contemporary arts centre was the glass box suspended from the fifth floor that contained a viewing platform for visitors and the glass rooftop restaurant on the sixth floor, aptly named ‘Six’. It was here that Carlos had booked a table for our date and it was in the disabled parking space that he swung his Porsche Panamera at breakneck speed, causing me to stab my heels sharply into the plush carpeted mat in the hope that it might have dual controls.

‘I don’t think you can park here, Carlos,’ I said pointing at the disabled sign, adding with a nervous laugh – ‘Although if you keep driving like that, you might be eligible for a badge before you know it.’

My wit was lost in translation.

Carlos laughed and turned off the engine.

‘When you have hundred grand car, guapa, you can park where you want.’

He fixed his shiny, waxed hair in the mirror, smoothing his dyed blond curls behind his ears, in which shone two dazzling diamond studs. He then licked his fingers and ran them over his styled eyebrows before producing a small jar of lipbalm from his inside pocket, which he smoothed on his already glistening lips. I half expected him to get out his make-up bag and start slapping on foundation and
mascara but thankfully he stopped preening just as I was starting to feel awkward. Not to mention outdone in the grooming stakes.

I have to admit, though, I had pulled out all the stops in preparing for my first date with a famous footballer. Or rather I had stood there like a mannequin while Roxy and her assistant Heidi had pulled out, plucked, preened and perfected the stops. Even if I said so myself, I scrubbed up alright.

I wore a deep purple velvet dress that clung to the curves I usually preferred to avoid things clinging to, but the cut of the dress and the oversized belt cinching in my waist somehow made the most of what I had. It was expensive and it looked every penny I had paid for it. I had bitten the bullet when I had looked at myself in the mirror in Fenwicks and I had had to look twice to be sure it was me. I may not have had job security, but I still had enough pride to not let Roxy pay for my outfit. She had, however, threatened to stab me with a black satin platform heel if I refused to let her buy the shoes for me. I was now approaching five feet seven in my three-inch heels. Statement jewellery studded with pink and purple gems from Heidi’s colourful collection, fake eyelashes, sultry lips, nails painted with Chanel Vendetta dark purple varnish and a wavy bob all combined to make me feel and look like a different person. A more polished, glamorous, girlfriend of a rich boyfriend version of myself. In fact I was so unaccustomed to my reflection, I even smiled and said ‘good evening’ to myself in the mirrored lift as Carlos and I made our way to the top of the Gateshead skyline.

‘Señor Ferron, we are delighted you and your beautiful lady friend are joining us this evening. Please follow me. We have reserved your favourite table.’

I felt a thrill run up my control pants (Roxy had not got her way when it came to the underwear) as the Maître D’ complimented me, bowed his head and then led us into the stunning minimalist restaurant.

The wooden floor and the chairs were black, the curved ceiling and tables were white. Infrequent, confident plants dotted around the long room dared to inject some green into the pallet. The walls on both sides of the restaurant were floor-to-ceiling spotless glass, offering a spectacular view over the city. The lights below twinkled in the darkness, making Newcastle look as glossy as New York in a Hollywood film, only with more sky than skyscrapers. From six floors up, one would be forgiven for imagining a perfect city below us with no litter, no homeless folk and no drunks puking in the streets. I smiled at Newcastle’s magnificence when viewed from above. The bridges spanning the River were spectacularly lit up, the Millennium Bridge changing colour every so often. We may have been dining in a contemporary art gallery but few works of art could have competed with the panoramic view. I could concentrate on nothing else as the Maître D’ directed us to our cosy table by the window, pulled out my chair and handed me a menu.

‘Would you like to begin with an aperitif?’ he asked.

I glanced at the wine list, my eyes falling on the prices of wines by the glass. Prosecco was relatively reasonable and bubbles always helped to perk up a dinner conversation. I opened my mouth to order but Carlos opened his first.

‘Champagne,’ he said nonchalantly.

‘Certainly, Señor, would that be two glasses or a bottle?’

‘A bottle, claro.’

He pointed at the menu.

‘Which would you like, guapa?’

I felt the eyes of my date and the Maître D’ on me as I focused on the list of champagnes. They ranged from just under fifty pounds to … surely that had to be a misprint?

‘Twelve hundred pounds? For champagne? Does that come with a free holiday to France to collect it?’

‘You like this one?’ said Carlos.

‘No, no I was…’

‘We’ll have this one, gracias.’

He nodded and the Maître D’ scurried away, probably to do a victory dance in the kitchen.

‘Carlos, you can’t order that champagne,’ I hissed across the table.

His face fell.

‘Oh but why? You not like Dom Perignon Oenotheque?’

‘At twelve hundred pounds a bottle I can’t say I’ve had the opportunity to like or dislike it.’

Carlos beamed, his teeth as white as the polished ceiling. His hand touched mine on the table.