Cupcake Couture (35 page)

I met Roxy half an hour later in the car park of the Newcastle United Darsley Park training ground. She knew everyone by name and we were swiftly waved through towards the indoor training facility that the club used when the ground was under ice and snow, as it was today. We passed a crowd, eighty percent of whom were young girls dressed up as if they were queuing for a nightclub. Blue skin on chubby legs was a reason not to wear a mini-skirt in December in Newcastle.

‘Roxy, over here, it’s me, Rara!’ screeched one of the girls.

She waved enthusiastically, her waist-length side-ponytail that did not match the rest of her hair, swinging into the eye of the girl beside her.

‘Roxy,’ I chuckled, nudging her in the side, ‘I think your friend Rara is trying to get your attention.’

Roxy dipped her chin to glare at me over the top of her enormous sunglasses (even though the sun had not made an appearance in the Northeast for several months). She looped her black leather studded bag over her left arm and strutted up the stairs towards the double doors of the training centre building.

‘That little whore bag shagged eight of the top eleven and Thierry is next on her list, which is the only reason she wants to be my friend. And she did actually write a list. Carlos saw it.’

‘Carlos? Did he…?’

Roxy nodded.

‘Several times I think, but don’t let that make you feel dirty.’

Her mouth turned up at the corners when she saw my obvious discomfort.

‘Would you believe she knitted booties for us the other day and gave them to Thierry, the freak?’

‘Eugh,’ I said with a grimace, ‘that is a bit weird.’

‘Aye,’ said Roxy as she nodded politely to the man at the door, ‘I mean hand-knitted booties? You must be fucking joking. This baby will have style, just like its mother.’

I smiled and followed her inside, while taking a moment to note that it was the first time I had heard my friend describe herself as a ‘mother’.

Training had finished within the hour so most of the men had showered and changed by the time we tracked them down in the dressing room. Sweaty football shirts hung from pegs around the room and boots lay discarded on the floor. The air was thick with steam and the scent of manly shower gels and Deep Heat. Men with broad shoulders and tree trunk thighs pulled on jackets and shoes while shouting banter at each other through the dense atmosphere. Some sipped tea from plastic cups while others drank blue sports drinks and munched on muesli bars. I recognised a few faces either from the television and magazines or from some of the nights out I had been on with Roxy and Thierry since they had been dating. The unmistakeable orange glow of Carlos’ skin and the glint of the chain around his neck hit me from across the room. He waved while, I noticed with some embarrassment, kneading his penis into his shiny black trousers before zipping them up. When he approached me with the same hand outstretched, I gripped my box of cakes with both hands and let him kiss me on both cheeks. The offending hand then touched my shoulder and slid down my arm, probably leaving a snail trail of baby oil dotted with pubic hair on my sleeve. Thierry followed with the air kisses, while he kept a protective hand on Roxy’s shoulder. His skin smelled of cocoa butter and expensive fragrance. He smiled and nodded at the box.

‘You bring us gateaux, Chloe?’

I nodded. I couldn’t help but smile like a giddy teenager whenever Thierry said my name. Chloé,
Clo-ay
, it sounded so much sexier in French.

‘Are there any other French players in the squad?’ I whispered to Roxy as we made our way to the cafeteria.

‘I thought you didn’t want a footballer boyfriend, like,’ she smirked.

‘I can change my mind.’

Roxy ran her tongue over her teeth.

‘Mm, maybe by the end of the tasting session, one of them will be getting more than cake.’

I gasped and pushed her jovially through the canteen doors.

I felt like a schoolteacher holding court in front of the most macho, fit, handsome, well dressed and rich group of students ever brought together in one room. When I first took my place in the centre of the group of professional footballers, my eyes flitted from one to the other, noting their good, fine and even finer points: blond hair, blue eyes/Italian style, beautiful mouth/muscular chest, cheekbones you could crack eggs on/cashmere jumper and scarf, skin seemingly as soft/come-to-bed expression and a wallet on the table in front of him thicker than most mattresses…

If my array of cakes was a mouth-watering display for the men, then the array of men gazing at the cakes was a mouth-watering display to the only single woman in the room.

Unfortunately, the minute I started speaking, my mouth dried up, with all the moisture apparently being sucked into my armpits. Despite my years of experience giving presentations to the high and mighty of the recruitment world, my mind went blank and my voice shook as I began to explain the reasons for the cake tasting
session and to thank them all for coming. To be fair to myself, this meant so much to me. Also the high and mighty of the recruitment world tended to look more like Russell Blunt, with over-fed stomachs hanging over the waistband of pinstripe suit trousers and pasty faces that had spent far too many hours under office strip-lights. This select market research group would not have looked out of place in a L’Oréal hair products casting. I smiled to myself. The scenery on this new career path was, it had to be said, far more delicious than the old one.

Fortunately for my ability to string a comprehensible sentence together, it soon became apparent that beauty and talent did not always go hand in hand with intellect. Not to say that all footballers were so dense that light bent around them, after all Thierry spoke three languages fluently and he wasn’t the only one, but a fair number of my cake group would have had trouble if I had made them count beyond ten different flavours, or at least they would have had to take their socks off and start counting on their toes.

‘Is this the chocolate one or is this it?’ asked the one with the cheekbones.

He held up two cakes, one of which was brown and distinctly chocolate coloured and the other of which was yellow sponge dotted with moist cranberries.

‘Er, the chocolatey looking one in your right hand,’ I said kindly.

‘No, your
other
right hand.’

I began to relax into the task.

‘So, we have dark chocolate and raspberry coming in at number one, followed by vanilla and strawberry and then cookies and cream.’

A ripple of agreement coursed around the room.

‘But the sticky gingerbread are canny amazin’ too,’ said a redheaded player I knew as Danny but the others referred to as Doughballs. Mine was not to question why. ‘I wouldn’t mind a batch of them for me lass. She’ll do anythin’ for a bit of gingerbread.’

The player beside him ruffled Danny’s hair.

‘Is that right, Doughballs, or is that just your vivid imagination as a ginge?’

The twelve men laughed. I felt a sudden surge of confidence.

‘I can make you a batch if you like, Danny, once I get this big order out of the way.’

Danny grinned and gave me a thumbs up.

‘Nice one.’

‘It’ll cost you though, man,’ Roxy chipped in, ‘these don’t come cheap like and she’s in demand.’

If one order of two-hundred that had largely been given to me out of pity could be classified as ‘demand’ then Roxy wasn’t strictly lying. I looked down at my feet.

‘Aye no bother,’ Danny said quickly, ‘I’ll pay whatever it costs.’

I lifted my eyes and caught the wink from Roxy.

‘Can I get fancy stuff on the top too, Chloe?’

Somehow the term ‘fancy stuff’ didn’t sound right coming out of the mouth of a beefy, flame-haired professional footballer nicknamed Doughballs, but his eyes twinkled at the thought of surprising his girlfriend with a batch of cupcakes designed specifically for her. I smiled.

‘Of course you can, Danny, just let me know what you want and I can design a topping for the cake to suit your lady.’

‘I wouldn’t call her that,’ Noodles snorted, which resulted in Danny throwing a cranberry cupcake at his ear.

‘What, can you put her name on and stuff she likes?’ Danny asked.

‘You should see the decorated ones,’ said Roxy before I could even answer, ‘they’re works of art, man Danny.’

‘Really?’

I blushed and fiddled with my hands.

‘Well yes, I do take great pride in the topping designs. They can be made to measure, if you like, to suit the occasion. I’m sure we can work something out.’

‘He wants photos of his ginger balls on the top of them,’ his team-mate beside him heckled, ‘closest she’ll ever get to them nasty things.’

‘Howay man, Noodles,’ Danny huffed, ‘there’s ladies present.’

Noodles raised his hand to apologise. I nodded my acceptance. This had to be the most bizarre tasting group in the history of cupcake making. It definitely wasn’t the W.I. but then again, it worked. These men were honest to the point of being brutal.

‘So the least popular with this group are the lemon ones and the cranberry.’

‘Oh bollocks but the lemon ones is my favourite,’ whined the blond haired, blue-eyed footballer whose accent was pure Essex. His nickname was Chesney, I imagined after Chesney Hawkes.

‘Then have Chloe make some lemon ones just for you, Chesney’,’ Roxy suggested.

His blue eyes opened as wide as if Santa had just appeared carrying an Audi with a bow on it.

‘Yeah, mega. I’ll get them for me missus’ birfday then. She’ll love ‘em.’

Had I just got myself two more orders?

Thierry sat back in his chair and slipped his long, slim arm around Roxy’s shoulders.

‘We men will always be impressed by a girl who can bake such magnifique cakes.’

Roxy rolled her eyes.

‘Not this girl, sunshine, but I can bake a bun in my oven.’

Thierry’s team-mates cheered. He reached over with his other hand and touched Roxy’s belly with a gentleness that made my heart melt like the centre of my molten chocolate cakes. She swatted his hand away, but could not hide the genuine smile playing on her lips.

‘Yeah I’d marry you for these cookies and cream cakes,’ called out Noodles.

‘Your missus would have something to say about that,’ laughed cashmere skin.

‘Hey, I see her first!’ Carlos huffed.

‘Yes, you saw but you did not touch!’ goaded the Italian stallion.

‘You snooze, you lose,’ said cheekbones.

‘We kiss! But I was tired that night from having to score all the goals for this bloody crap team!’ Carlos huffed.

I lowered my clipboard.

‘Do you mean we didn’t…? That we never…?’

‘No,’ Carlos sighed, ‘we never. You sleep on the sofa and I sleep in your room.’ His skin glowed red through the orange.

Carlos dropped his head while his team-mates jeered.

‘Car-
loser
!’

‘Car-
nt get it up
!’

I suppressed a smile, forcing it down to my toes that wriggled inside my shoes. I had not slept with Carlos and been so drunk I had forgotten all about it. Roxy winked at me and mouthed –
frigid
– but I had never felt so relieved to be described as such. I winked back. I was the non-WAG and proud.

‘I’ll sleep with you!’ the one with the come-to-bed eyes called out, ‘Forever if you make me them peanut butter cakes once a week!’

‘Me too,’ said cashmere skin, his hands pressed together in prayer.

I waved my hand dismissively while internally ruffling my peacock feathers.

‘I’ll take that as a positive vote for the cakes,’ I said with a smile.

‘And the cake baker,’ Thierry nodded, ‘you have these men in the palm of your hand, Chloé. You know these cakes may be magical.’ He held a chunk of dark chocolate and raspberry cake in the palm of his own hand and narrowed his eyes. ‘In France we have the world’s most incredible cakes, tu sais…’

‘Oh here he goes again,’ yawned Danny.

‘…but these cupcakes of yours would make any French patissier nervous.’

Roxy waggled her eyebrows at me as her boyfriend continued.

‘The English should not be baking patisserie as delicious as this.’

‘You’re not going to start singing the bloody Marseillaise are you, mate?’ his team-mate with the fat wallet sniggered, ‘She’s only baked a few awesome cakes, she ain’t stormed the Bastille.’

I laughed and stored up the compliments to motivate me later when I returned to my kitchen with the results of our tasting session to bake two hundred and forty more cakes for Zachary’s party.

‘Well thank you, Thierry and thank you everyone for your time. I will make sure I send a special batch of cakes to you when I’ve done my big event.’

The room erupted into spontaneous applause, chairs were scraped back and the men stood, shrugging on jackets and saying goodbye to each other and to me. I wiped the table of crumbs and smiled at Roxy who came to stand beside me.

‘Well, Chloe man, I think it’s safe to say they loved them and that’s even without the toppings.’

‘Thanks for your help, Roxy, you’re quite a saleswoman.’

She shrugged.

‘Those cakes could sell themselves, pet.’

‘They didn’t manage to do that at the flea market. Thanks, I owe you one. Or two, or many.’

‘Just keep feeding me cake, like, I’m eating for two.’

I watched her rub her hand over her belly in a smooth, caressing circle.

‘Well I hope I can repay you by being a good Auntie to that little person in there some day.’

‘Auntie?’

‘Yeah, well I know I’m not a
real
Auntie but I was kind of hoping…’

‘You’re not getting away with just being a pretend Auntie, Chloe man,’ Roxy interrupted, ‘you’re the frigging Godmother.’

I gasped and pressed a hand to my chest.

‘Godmother, me?’

‘Why aye.’

‘But what about Heidi?’

Roxy lifted a cake box and held it out for me to carry.

‘I love Heidi, she’s lush man, but if I make her Godmother I’d be scared the kid will start buying clothes in charity shops and making me drive it to Do-Gooders-R-Us every weekend, you know what I mean? I’ve got a reputation to maintain here.’