Cupcake Couture (17 page)

‘No, no, I can walk from here, the exercise will do me good.’

I hugged my friend and walked away across the cobbled street towards my flat. It was time to get things moving on the job front. As I walked, snowflakes began to fall, becoming larger and falling heavier by the second. By the time I had reached my front steps, they were already settling like a layer of icing sugar on a cake.

They could be the best cupcakes in the world
. Zachary’s words buzzed around in my head.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I retorted aloud, ‘they’re just bloody cakes.’

I stamped on the fine snow, entered my flat and slammed the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gradually pour in half the milk

The following morning, I opened the curtains and gasped. Several inches of fresh snow covered every surface and flakes were still falling. Cars that were not four-wheel drives and had been given the day off snuggled under white blankets. Tree branches strained to support their additional load. The pavements merged into the road, next door’s wrought iron balcony looked as if it had been painted white and Mr Downstairs’ cat had left comically perfect paw prints along the wall. The whole scene looked so peaceful it made me smile. It was funny how frozen rain could turn a grim world into a wonderland, but then even the worst cake could be transformed by thick buttercream frosting.

Resisting the urge to slip into my wellies and run outside to make snowmen, I showered, styled my hair, applied a light make-up, dressed in a smart black wool dress, grey tights and matching cardigan, slipped my feet into fluffy slippers (because heels would have felt inappropriate indoors) and poured a mug of filter coffee. Sitting on a breakfast bar stool with my contact book open on ‘A’, my phone in one hand and a shiny pen in the other, I felt and looked as if I were ready for a job interview (the fluffy slippers aside). After a fortnight of greatly reduced self-esteem, I needed to power up for the day’s task and dressing for action was part of the plan. By the end of the day, I vowed to myself, I would be well on my way to being the old Chloe Baker. I had a non-compete clause in my contract to stop me stealing clients and working within the local area for six months in exactly the same field, but I knew enforcing the contract would take time and money on my previous employer’s part and many of the
clauses did not stand up when scrutinised because it was hard to deny someone the right to work. I figured if Blunts were in financial trouble, chasing me would not be high up on their list of priorities, especially after they had already succeeded in cutting my future salary and bonuses from their balance sheet. Times had changed and it had not taken me long to realise the job market was sure as hell not going to come knocking on my door. I had to give myself a metaphorical kick up the arse and go bang down its door. With both fists. In fact, I was going to sledgehammer the bloody thing and get myself back inside the reputable jobs club if it killed me.

I took a few hits of strong coffee, applied fresh lipstick (somewhat psychological but I was sure I spoke more professionally with lipstick on) and dialled the first number in my contact book. The book was like a recruitment Bible, which contained the details of every mover and shaker and stagnant yet influential bod in the industry that I had gathered over the years. Mr Alexander of
Alexander and Son
was my first port of call. He was a gracefully aging English gentleman with salt and pepper hair and the rosy glow of a man who had lived, eaten and drunk well during his latter years. I remembered as the phone was ringing that he had a son called Zander Alexander, but that Mr Alexander Senior had ill advisedly impregnated his young, busty P.A. and was now estranged from the heir to his recruitment company. I wondered whether he would be changing the company name if his son didn’t forgive him.

‘Mr Alexander, hello it’s Chloe Baker, how are you?’

I forced myself to focus and launched into my self-promotion.

‘…I know you’re aware of my reputation. I billed over three quarters of a million pounds last year… I decided to move on and look for a job with greater career progression… I aspire to join a company with a different culture… I want to manage
a team as only I can… Mr Alexander, I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace… I guarantee I will make you even more money…’

There was a heavy silence when I finished my spiel. Resisting the urge to fill the gap in the conversation, I crossed my fingers, my toes, my legs and even attempted to tie my tongue in a knot until Mr Alexander finally spoke.

‘Miss Baker, I really do appreciate your call, I have always admired your work…’

Yes!

‘… and you will be well aware that I personally tried to headhunt you on several occasions…’

Hunt away, this head is all yours baby!

‘…your billing record is impressive and I was surprised when I heard of your untimely demise at Blunts…’

You heard?

‘… to be honest I think they are bloody fools to let you go…’

Hear hear! Their loss is your gain as they say, Mr A!

‘… but…’

Oh, there’s a ‘but’?

‘… I am rather surprised that you profess to having heard great things about my company in the recent marketplace, which leads me to think that you may be slightly out of touch…’

It’s a big ‘but’ isn’t it?

‘… because if you had your finger on the pulse, Miss Baker, you would know that the heart of my company stopped beating approximately ten days ago and we are now dead in the water.’

‘Right,’ I said, clearing my throat, ‘I didn’t know that, I’m sorry.’

I suspected Mr Alexander’s rosy glow was not quite so rosy.

‘Thank you, Miss Baker, I’m sorry too, but sorry will neither pay my mortgage and my creditors nor redeem my shattered reputation.’

Any words that came to mind stuck in my throat like piece of dry cream cracker.

‘I do however wish you luck, Miss Baker,’ he continued, ‘you are young and you have the opportunity to change your life, to grab it with both hands and give it a bloody good shake. Take my advice, Miss Baker and do it before it’s too late. Before you get to where I am when the preferable option seems to be sticking my head in the Aga.’

‘Would that actually work, sticking your head in an Aga? Wouldn’t you just get gradually too hot?’

‘I don’t know,’ he mused, ‘but it might be worth a try.’

I paused.

‘I hope things work out for you, Mr Alexander and thanks for your time.’

‘Time is something I have now I have no job. Funny how I never seemed to have enough and now I have too much, hanging like a noose around my neck. I’m not used to having time. I don’t know what to do with it.’

‘I can relate to that, Mr Alexander.’

‘How foolish we business folk are,’ he said with a low chuckle. ‘We work our fingers to the bone trying to scrape together assets as if they are the most important
thing in life, when all along, time is the greatest asset and the most fragile. We can’t get it back. It’s priceless yet we fritter it away. Now I have hours in the day and I’m scared of them while all the years I should have treasured have gone forever and here I am a lonely, grey, suddenly poor old man who wishes he could start again.’

A tear trickled down my cheek and I sucked back a sob. I hadn’t figured on job-hunting being this profound.

‘I dreamed of being a chef once,’ he sighed, ‘I wonder how that would have turned out.’

We sat in silence; two business associates who had never engaged in a personal conversation but who, having been stripped of our suits and our business confidence, now saw the world in a whole new light.

‘Good luck, Miss Baker.’

‘And to you Mr Alexander.’

Before I hung up, I added - ‘You were joking weren’t you? About the Aga?’

‘Maybe Miss Baker, maybe.’

‘…I billed over three quarters of a million pounds last year… I decided to move on and look for a job with greater career progression… I aspire to join a company with a different culture… I want to manage a team as only I can… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mr Billinghurst… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace… I guarantee I will make you even more money…’

‘…I aspire to join a company with a different culture… I want to manage a team as only I can… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mrs Devine… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace…’

‘… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Miss Eddings… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace…’

‘…Mr Fisher…’

‘…Mrs Gregory… Mr Howard… Mr Isaacs… Jackson… Kendal…’

I took a break at ‘L’ to make a healthy smoothie of blended frozen raspberries, banana, honey and skimmed milk. Feeling righteous, I added variety to my ‘five a day’ by scoffing down a Twix while I gazed out at the snow that was still falling, covering my view in a fifteen tog duvet. I then continued with my cold calling until lunchtime when someone thankfully called me. It wasn’t a job offer, unfortunately, but it was Heidi and I was just thankful for contact with a human who didn’t have a credit crunch story to tell.

‘How’s the job market, pet?’

‘Not nearly as much fun as the flea market I imagine. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that I’m not the only recruitment manager who’s been dumped by their company. However, those of us who have been set adrift are now like a pack of hungry dogs fighting over a single dry biscuit. It feels pretty hopeless to be honest.’

‘Do you want me to come over? I’ve been let off work early because of the snow. I feel like school’s out!’ Heidi giggled. ‘We could build perfect snowmen in the image of our dream fellas.’

Yours would take a while
, I thought to myself.

‘As tempting as that is, Heidi, I think I will have to pass and keep going. I’m going to find a job if I have to call everyone in Newcastle.’

‘OK but you know where I am if you need me. Oh and by the way I was thinking about that stall at the flea market we mentioned yesterday. I put our names down for Saturday.’

‘You did?’

I groaned silently. I felt drained enough as it was by my current situation without having to desperately flog wares from a wonky table on a freezing cold Metro platform in the name of charity.

‘Great so what are we going to sell?’

‘Anything. I’ve got jewellery and hair accessories that I’ve customised. Roxy can bring some designer stuff and you can… well bring whatever you like. You might enjoy having something else to focus on.’

Rather than myself, she meant. I knew that even though Heidi was too tactful to say so.

‘You might even like it enough to make a career of it,’ she laughed.

From recruitment manager to market stallholder. Nothing against market stall holders but I felt my depression deepen. Knowing how much it meant to Heidi and in the spirit of Christmas and kiddies with no toys, I agreed.

I kept working my way through my contact book, crossing off the names as I went.

‘… I’m sure my reputation precedes me, Mr Lubovic… I’ve heard such great things about your company in the recent marketplace…’

‘… Mrs Mansfield… Miss Norman… Mr Oswald…’

Roxy called when I reached P.

‘I’ll have a P please, Bob,’ she laughed down the phone when I told her my task for the day. ‘Speaking of which, man, I’ve been peeing for England lately like. It’s Thierry’s fault. Very regular sex with a black man is threatening to turn my fanny into a replica of the Tyne Tunnel.’

‘And I need to know that why?’

‘Sorry I forgot you’re frigid.’

‘Will you please stop saying that? You’re giving me a complex. I am not frigid, Roxy!’

‘No, you just reject sex on a plate with a loaded, fit-arsed footballer who bought you two grand’s worth of alcohol.’

I slumped on the window seat and pulled my legs up in front of me.

‘Oh, he told you.’

‘Nah but he told Thierry in detail about you gawping at some fella across the restaurant and your tongue falling out when he wheeled his boyfriend past.’

I blushed.

‘I didn’t…’

‘So who was he like?’

‘No-one.’

‘Have you got a crush on a gay bloke, pet?’

‘No. There’s no crush and I didn’t know he was… well he didn’t feel gay.’

‘What does gay feel like?’

I shrugged.

‘I don’t know.’

‘When did you feel him up then?’

‘I didn’t! I haven’t. I just… he was the handbag thief. Or rather the handbag
returner
if you remember.’

‘Eh? Is he stalking you like?’

‘No. We’ve just crossed paths a couple of times.’

‘Only you would get yourself a gay stalker, Chloe.’

‘He’s not a stalker! And he might not even be gay. Maybe they were just good friends.’

‘Did they look just good friends? Or did they look like they were about to go home and sh…?’

‘Shush, Roxy, I’d rather not think about it,’ I interrupted. ‘Besides, Zachary…’

‘Ooh
Zah
-kary,’ she said in a mock posh accent.

‘Yes, Zachary is not the issue here.’

‘Really? He sounds like an issue the way you’re ranting on, man.’

‘I’m not ranting.’

‘Aye you are, you’re definitely ranting now even if you weren’t ranting a minute ago.’

I stuck out my bottom lip and blew hair out of my eyes in exasperation.

‘You’re making me rant.’

‘Rant, rant, rant.’

‘You are so childish,’ Roxy.’

‘Me? At least I have sex like a grown up.’

‘You have sex like a crazed, over-sexed animal, not a grown up.’

Roxy snorted with laughter down the phone.

‘Aye, fair enough.’

I took a deep breath.

‘The reason I didn’t have sex with Carlos was not because of a gay or otherwise man I hardly know in a restaurant or because I am frigid, I just didn’t fancy Carlos.’

‘So?’

‘
So
I didn’t want to sleep with him if I didn’t fancy him.’

She laughed.

‘Didn’t stop you last weekend apparently.’