Cupcake Couture (36 page)

I laughed and piled the other cake boxes on top of the first. I could not hide the smile that spread so far across my face that I felt my cheeks straining. This was a moment I would treasure forever. Being asked to be a godmother felt like I was a being handed an official badge to say I had passed some sort of test in life, like a beach being awarded the blue flag for cleanliness or a bottle of wine being stamped with a gold medal. I felt flushed with contentment and pride.

‘So you’re saying I’m the best of a bad bunch as your unemployed, single friend then, Roxy?’

‘Aye well you better hurry up and make some fucking money before I change my mind.’

She grinned and popped a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, which was a permanent fixture since she had thankfully given up smoking. I was impressed with her willpower because Roxy and cigarettes went together like hot toast and butter, but she chewed constantly and vigorously like Alex Ferguson used to while watching a stressful Man United match. She carried on.

‘Hopefully we got the ball rolling today and where better to do that than in a football club hey? I think we got you some orders for this business of yours if you’re still determined to be a fucking glorified Shirley.’ She paused while chewing and slung her studded Louboutin bag over her arm. ‘I’m proud of you, Chloe man, of how you’ve dealt with this whole job thing. I’m not totally stupid, I do know what it meant to you, like.’

She hugged me, almost squashing the cake boxes between us and when we pulled away I saw tears glistening on her eyelashes. Roxy never cried.

‘Roxy! Are those real tears?’

‘Fuck off,’ she laughed, punching me on the shoulder, ‘I’m probably allergic to your cheap perfume.’

Thierry appeared behind her and lovingly gripped her shoulders. He leaned towards me and whispered.

‘Hormones, Chloé, she is up and down like a yo-yo.’

‘I am not crying! And shut your face, Thierry, or I’ll make you buy a fucking people carrier and then Rara won’t give you a second glance in the car park.’

Thierry winked at me, his wide smile an advert for how happy he felt to be having a baby with my loud-mouthed, pushy, far from easy to live with, friend. I momentarily wished I had what they had.

We walked together to the exit. Danny Doughballs caught us up before we reached the double glass doors. He handed me a card.

‘Here’s my number. Give me a call about the cakes right?’

I took his card, smiled and shook his hand.

‘Absolutely, Danny, I will.’

‘Tezza,’ he nodded to Thierry, ‘we should do this every week, man.’

Tezza
(which suited the suave Frenchman as much as calling the Eiffel Tower a glorified pylon) nodded thoughtfully. Danny left through the doors only to be replaced by Chesney who handed me a scrap of paper.

‘And here’s my number, Chloe, so give me a call yeah? But if the missus answers, pretend you’re from a call centre or someink ‘cause she’ll get suspicious.
Not that she’s got any reason to be suspicious of me or nuffin but you know’ – he rolled his eyes – ‘women.’

I smiled and slipped the scrap of paper into my pocket. Thierry laughed and playfully massaged my neck.

‘Mademoiselle Baker is a hit with the football team,’ he chuckled.

‘I think it’s the cake that are the hit, not me,’ I laughed.

I nodded towards the car park.

‘Maybe I should share my secret with those girls out there. The way to a macho footballer’s heart is with pretty little cupcakes.’

Roxy laughed and Thierry clasped his chest.

‘Oh lá lá, we will be nicknamed the cupcake boys! We will be laughed out of the Premiership!’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll just have to get the lovely Alan Shearer, the Geordie King of football on my team and then all the macho men will follow suit, isn’t that right?’

‘What team would that be then?’

I clamped my mouth shut and spun around to see where the voice had come from. Beside me I felt Thierry smartly zip up his jacket. Even Roxy smoothed back her hair and seemed to stand to attention. We stood stiffly like a row of performers at the Royal Variety show preparing to be greeted by the Queen.

From the direction of the cafeteria came a man whose face even I, lover of no sports involving big groups of men, a ball, beer and hooliganism, recognised as Alan Shearer. I might have been about to become a godmother in a few months time, but this man had long since been the godfather of Geordie football. Born and raised in the city, Shearer had played for Newcastle and for England and had returned to manage the Toon briefly after his retirement. He was a smartly dressed TV pundit alongside
Gary Lineker on
Match of the Day
. He was more revered in Newcastle than the real royal family. Car bumper stickers bore his name, children and adults alike wanted to be him and girls like Rara still wanted to ‘do’ him. Zachary and I along with the other flea market attendees had been
Walking in a Shearer Wonderland
according to the song. He was a very important man in this club and all six feet of him were headed straight for me in a sharp black shirt and trouser combo. He wore a bemused smile. I pressed my lips together to stop my jaw hanging open. Shearer, as he was known, stopped two feet away from me and shoved his hands in his pockets. An expensive watch glinted on his wrist. I cleared my throat.

‘What team am I joining?’ he said again.

I glanced at Thierry who urged me to speak with a nod of his head.

‘The er, the um cupcake team, Sir Alan,’ I tried to say, but which came out as a squeaked - ‘The um cupcake team Sralan.’

Shearer threw his head back and laughed.

‘I’m not a Sir, just an OBE and please don’t say you mixed me up with Alan Sugar.’

I shook my head vigorously while my brain ordered my mouth to speak like a normal human being.

‘So you’re the cupcake girl?’ he said before I could get my muscles in order.

I nodded equally as vigorously.

He nodded too.

‘The lads were just raving about them in there.’ He gestured towards the cafeteria. ‘I know they’re all the fashion these days. You know maybe we should get you in to do our party cakes at the end of the season, what do you say, Thierry?’

Shearer turned to wink at Thierry who smiled and also nodded, which gave me a minute to catch my breath.

‘Do you have a card, cupcake girl?’

I blinked at Roxy and Thierry who were both staring at me with wide eyes.

A card. He wanted a card. I handed him a card.

Good job, Chloe
.

‘Right, this appears to be Danny Doughballs’ card.’

Bad job, Chloe
.

I snatched the card back and opened my mouth just as Roxy decided to save me.

‘She ran out of cards, Alan, she’s been asked for so many lately, but Thierry here will give you the details and we’ll sort that out for you.’

Shearer’s face broke into a smile.

‘Thanks, Roxy. Great news about the baby by the way.’

He kissed Roxy on both cheeks, shook Thierry’s hand and then shook mine.

‘I look forward to tasting your cakes,’ he said with a polite nod before striding through the doors.

The crowd of fans outside the training centre erupted as I finally exhaled and Roxy exploded with laughter.

‘Nice one, Chloe,’ she laughed, wiping her eyes, ‘you floored him with that sales banter, pet.’

I clasped my cake boxes to my chest and groaned.

‘I wasn’t ready. I mean it was Alan Shearer and I wasn’t wearing a suit and I don’t have any business cards or even a name. I’m not even a proper cake business yet, I haven’t even completed my first order and I’ve only ever sold two and oh my
God, I just feel a bit out of control with all this and… damn, was I completely bonkers?’

They looked at each other, looked at me and nodded.

Roxy was still laughing when we reached my car. While Thierry signed autographs for adoring fans, Roxy turned me around and held my shoulders. She peered into my eyes, her false eyelashes so long and thick they acted like fans on my skin when she blinked.

‘You don’t need a suit anymore, Chloe, you’re not in that stiff office now. It’s about networking and getting people to taste your cakes. You’ve got to grab the opportunities by the balls, fly by the seat of your pants a bit, let loose. You’ve got a product that people want and that’s all you need. Well, that and the ability to speak when spoken to would help.’

I groaned again, inwardly and out.

‘Maybe you need me more than I thought,’ she laughed.

‘Thanks, Roxy, you seem surprisingly adept at this stuff despite the fact you’ve never had a real job.’

‘I applied the same idea to getting myself a fella,’ she shrugged, ‘I didn’t get all this from not grabbing opportunities… and fellas, by the balls.’

She laughed, flicked both hands out beside her shoulders and gestured to the car park that was dotted with six figure price tag cars. I looked around.

‘You’re right, Roxy. Here I am at Newcastle United holding a cake tasting session for hunky footballers and bumping into Alan Shearer when just weeks ago I would probably have been in a meeting with Russell bloody Blunt helping him make money for Daddy’s company that the clueless, dim-witted brat will inherit. Who’d have thought?’

‘I would,’ Roxy said with a shrug of the bejewelled shoulder of her Dolce and Gabbana coat.

‘Really? I just can’t believe I’ve got real orders for cupcakes. Imagine if I get to make the cakes by order of Alan Shearer! That would be even better than by appointment to Her Majesty in this city.’

‘Dare to dream, Chloe man,’ said Roxy, ‘I told you dreams don’t stop coming true just because we turn thirty.’

‘I feel like this is one big dream and I’m going to wake up in a minute and realise I’m just unemployed and none of today actually happened.’ I balanced the boxes on my thigh as I unlocked my car and then placed the boxes on the back seat. ‘Mind you, if I don’t get home and get on with Zachary’s order, it could very soon turn into a nightmare. I’ve got three days to make two-hundred and forty cakes.’

‘How will you fit all them in the oven?’

‘Well obviously not all at once. I can fit twenty four in at a time comfortably.’

‘Ee, so you’ve got to do like…’ - Roxy screwed up her nose – ‘like five…
loads
of ovens full.’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re going to need a bigger oven, pet.’

‘Maybe one day. Right now I can just about afford the ingredients. OK, I’m off, wish me luck.’

‘Good luck.’

Roxy kissed my cheeks again then turned and saw Thierry signing an autograph for Rara who was swinging her side ponytail so manically I was surprised it didn’t swing right off her head.

‘Fucking slapper must have enough of his autographs to wallpaper her bedroom with. She probably sells them on e-Bay,’ Roxy growled. She cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered – ‘Thierry, man, your mam called, she’s making your favourite smiley faces and beans for tea!’ I sniggered and she turned nonchalantly back to me. ‘Right, Chloe, call me before this do on Friday because we’re going to have to help you.’

‘You’ve already done enough, Roxy and I can’t expect you to carry two hundred cakes there in your condition.’

Roxy laughed and waved her hand repeatedly from my head to my feet as if casting a spell.

‘I’m not talking about carrying bloody cakes, pet, get a skivvy to do that. I’m talking about you, we’ll have to get you ready. Clothes, hair, shoes, make-up, glamour. Thierry and I are invited so we cannot have you turning up to your first client’s do looking like something dragged off Coronation Street.’

I gasped, peered at my reflection in the car window and fiddled with my hair.

‘Coronation Street? Well I admit I may have let my hair appointments slip a bit since I lost my job but I didn’t think… I don’t need to be glamorous, Roxy, I’m just the cake maker. And Zachary doesn’t really like “glamorous”’ – I made inverted commas in the air – ‘not that I’m bothered what he likes. Besides I’m not even sure it’s a glamorous sort of party, it’s just Zachary’s work Christmas do. They arrange conferences and corporate stuff I think. At least it will be a good practice before the big Newcastle United gig, hey?’

Roxy pursed her lips and raised a plucked eyebrow.

‘Then you obviously haven’t spoken to Heidi.’

‘No, why? What did Heidi say about it?’

‘Did you not Google him?’

I frowned.

‘Google who? Zachary? No, why would I want to Google him?’

Roxy flicked her ever-glamorous hair over her shoulders and raised her palms.

‘Nothing, don’t worry about it, just go and make the cakes.’ She shooed me into the car.

‘But I am worried now, what did Heidi say? Do you always Google people? Have you Googled me?’

Roxy shut the door. I rolled the window down.

‘Howay, Chloe, why would Mr Google waste time writing about you?’

‘Charming.’

‘Look, just do the manual labour, pet, make the cakes and then call me,’ she said. ‘The glamorous bit is my department.’

She blew me a kiss and strutted away on her killer heels to drag her famous footballer back into line. I rolled up the window and felt my stomach churn uncomfortably. Dear God, I hoped it wasn’t down to the cake mixture.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

1 cup fresh strawberries, puréed

Two-hundred and forty cakes, twenty four per oven, ten oven loads, seventy-two hours to go, one-hundred and twenty dark chocolate and raspberry, one-hundred and twenty vanilla and strawberry, forty eggs, forty tablespoons of fine strawberry jam, three thousand two-hundred and fifty grams of self-raising flour, five blocks of butter, five tubs of soft margarine, twenty tablespoons of cocoa powder, two-thousand four hundred grams of caster sugar, ten tablespoons of vanilla, ten tablespoons of milk, four punnets of fresh raspberries, two hundred and fifty grams of high quality dark chocolate, silicone cupcake cases, ten hours of electricity, immeasurable elbow grease, three days of brain ache, blood, sweat and tears, and that was even before I started on the toppings.

I questioned the sanity of my decision to accept a job from Zachary to bake so many cakes as my first step on the ladder as a Master Baker when I had only ever made small batches of cakes for my friends before. The ingredients cost a small fortune, which I had not considered when I had proudly told Zachary over the phone to pay me at the end of the job. I was sure builders did not fork out from their own pocket to build an entire house before the client coughed up any funds. Granted I was not building a house but, at times over the days leading up to the event, it felt as if I had agreed to build a skyscraper built entirely of sponge cake.