Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s (48 page)

I turn on my heel, and for the second time today, I leave the room as quickly and quietly as I can. Only this time, Eddie isn’t sitting outside to extend a consoling hand, and there aren’t any tears. Just a stunned realisation, deep down, that it might really be over between Tom and me. No chance of us making up. And no matter how much of a brave face I try to put on things with my fighting talk and bluster, if Tom doesn’t want to be with me, then, realistically, there isn’t much I can do about it. I can’t force him to want me. A shudder rattles right through me as a feeble sob catches in my throat.

The warm Christmassy smell of nutmeg and orange cocoons me like a comfort blanket as soon as I push open the door to Sam’s café. Instantly, I feel myself calming down. Whenever I come in here, it’s as though I’ve entered an oasis of calm, a stark contrast to the vibrant festive atmosphere just a few floors below.

I’ve just finished work and couldn’t face being on the draughty damp bus and then sitting at home all alone with a mince pie and custard to keep me company. Not when I could have been wearing black lace underwear and having incredible sex with a man who, only yesterday, I seriously thought might be the one. My happy-ever-after. I swallow before biting down hard on my bottom lip.

‘Hey, are you OK hun? You look frazzled.’ Sam appears, wiping her hands on a candy-pink-striped apron as she comes around the counter towards me.

‘Not really. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’ I pull a face and grip the strap of my handbag before hoisting it further onto my shoulder.

‘Well, you grab a booth and I’ll get us some cakes. They always make things better.’ She smiles and rubs my arm before heading off to the kitchen. Stacey, one of the waitresses, beckons me over to the best booth in the far corner, with full view of the café. Perfect for chatting and keeping an eye out to see who is coming or going.

‘Thank you,’ I say, flinging my bag down into one of the reclaimed train seats. Crimson red velvet, they’re arranged in booths of four around low tables, with frilly shaded lamps that radiate a golden glow to create an authentic steam-train carriage feel. It’s just like being in an old black-and-white film, or aboard the Orient Express, circa 1920, and very in keeping with the elegant Art Deco style of the nine-floor Carrington’s building.

Sinking down into a seat, I study the rich burgundy flock wallpaper, counting the sequence of the pattern before it repeats all over again, and I can’t help wondering if Kelly will want to rip it out and modernise everything. Install harsh strip lights and clinical tiled flooring, like some of the big chain stores up in London.

I’ve been thinking about things all afternoon in between serving seventeen customers. Mostly women, clutching paper lists as they try to get a head start with their Christmas shopping. I got so caught up in worrying about my wide-angled bottom being on TV that I didn’t actually stop to think about the real impact for Carrington’s of being in Kelly’s show. She changes things! Improves businesses, supposedly. But what if her idea of improvement is dire? What will happen then? Tom’s not even here to keep an eye on her. I can’t believe he’s disappeared at a time like this. I just hope the board know what they’re doing – surely Kelly will have to run big changes past them first?

Take the new pet spa next door – I bet she had to get authorisation to do that, she must have done. Well, if it comes to it, then I’m sure Tom’s Aunt Camille will step in and put a stop to it. She has in the past, when things have got out of hand.

I pull my phone out of my bag and check again. Still nothing. And then I realise that I don’t know how long the flight is. Tom might not even be there yet. He could be sipping champagne or having a deep-tissue massage in the business lounge, or whatever it is people do in there.

I’m contemplating sending him a text message, my finger is poised, when Sam appears and I realise that this really needs to be sorted out in person. Or at least in a proper telephone conversation. I resolve to call Tom later instead.

‘There. Get your laughing gear around this,’ Sam grins as she pushes a red velvet cupcake up to my lips. I manage a weak smile as I take the cake. After running my index finger over the buttercream icing, I pop it into my mouth. Mm-mmm. My favourite. ‘So, tell me all about it,’ she says, sitting down next to me and simultaneously sliding a three-tiered floral cake stand crammed with every cake imaginable onto the table. There is even a selection of macaroons – salted caramel, chocolate, pistachio, raspberry and vanilla. And Stacey appears with two enormous mugs of hot chocolate piled high with swirly peaks of marshmallow-topped cream. ‘I’ve dropped a nip of brandy in yours. Thought you could do with it,’ Sam says, giving me a cheeky wink as she takes a mug from Stacey and hands it to me.

‘Thank you. Do I look that bad?’

I smile at Stacey as she places the other mug on the table, before heading back to the counter to serve a couple of old ladies who are nudging each other and chuckling naughtily as they point to two gooey chocolate éclairs inside the glass display cabinet.

‘So, tell me all about it,’ Sam says.

‘I will. But first … I want to give you this,’ I pull the gift-wrapped parcel of three little Christmas-themed romper suits from my handbag. I called Poppy in Childrenswear, right after serving the fake customer and his son, and she had them waiting for me to collect on my way up here. She’s included a really cute rattle too. It has reindeer bells and pictures of snowflakes on.

‘Aw, thanks honey.’ Sam shakes the parcel, making the bells jingle. ‘Ooh, it sounds just like Christmas. Santa in his sleigh.’ Her eyes light up. I smile. I’m really pleased I got it for her.

‘So how are you feeling?’ I ask, flitting my eyes downwards towards her stomach.

‘Fine thanks. A bit tired, but to be expected I guess.’ She rolls her eyes and grins.

‘Well, just don’t be overdoing it,’ I say, pretending to be stern.

‘You sound like Nathan’s mum, Gloria. She’s gone all mother hen since Nathan gave her the news this morning. We just couldn’t wait, we’re so excited. Anyway, she emailed me a link to some article she read about first trimester do’s and don’t’s.’ Sam laughs and shakes her curls back.

‘It’s nice that she cares though. I bet she’s over the moon,’ I say, remembering how Gloria was on the night of their wedding. She’d joined me on the veranda as I looked out across the lush green fields, bathed in the glow from an orange sunset, just to ask me to confirm again that Sam definitely wanted lots of babies. ‘You can’t be too careful these days with you girls leaving it later and later,’ Gloria had said, her eyes all eager and sparkly as she clasped my hands in hers. And Sam isn’t even thirty yet!

‘It is, but … ’ Sam’s voice trails off and she looks away.

‘I know,’ I say, reaching across the table to stroke her arm.

‘Dad would have been so thrilled. And he’d have made a wonderful doting granddad. Probably have set up a trust fund and registered the baby for the best schools in the country by now,’ Sam says, smiling wryly and giving her stomach a stroke.

‘You can still do that,’ I say gently, thinking of Sam’s massive inheritance. She’s a woman of considerable financial means and could certainly afford to take her pick of schools. ‘If you want to, of course.’

‘We’ll see. But not boarding school. Even though I loved it, I’m not sure I could bear being away from my child. Not like … ’ Sam picks the side of her nail and I wonder if she’s thinking about her mum. ‘I’ve been pondering on whether or not I should try to contact my mother?’ she adds, confirming my thoughts.

‘Have you?’ I ask softly, not really sure of what else to say. Sam has never mentioned this before.

‘I don’t know. Being pregnant has changed things in my head, made me curious to understand how she could just leave me. A little girl.’

‘Oh Sam, she didn’t leave you. She left your dad, Alfie.’

‘Maybe. But then why didn’t she ever call me from LA? Was it really too much trouble for her to pick up a phone to ask how I was?’

‘Perhaps she just wasn’t cut out to be a mum,’ I say quietly, and immediately feel anxious, scared in case I’ve crossed an imaginary line. A short silence follows. ‘I bet she thinks about you every day, though,’ I quickly add. Sam shrugs. ‘And you will be a fantastic mother. You’re lovely and warm and caring, just like Alfie was.’

‘Thank you.’ Sam turns to face me. ‘Anyway, I’m convinced there are twins in here,’ she says to change the subject. After casting a quick glance around the café to make sure nobody is looking, she quickly loops her apron off over her head and pulls up her top before pushing out her tiny, size-six waist. ‘Have you seen the size of me?’

‘Don’t be daft. Your tummy is still flat.’

‘Hmmm. But not for much longer, and I intend on making the most of it.’ She nudges me gently before taking a massive forkful of a very gooey-looking slice of chocolate cheesecake. ‘Soo, tell me about your day,’ she says, wiping crumbs from her lips. Sam is one of those people that really can eat whatever they want and stay slim. I imagine she’ll have a tiny bump despite eating for two … or even three.

‘Oh Sam, it’s the story of my life. Well “love life” to be precise. Tom and I are over before we really began,’ I say, keeping my voice low so as not to be overheard.

‘What do you mean, over?’

‘Over! As in split up.’

‘
Whaat?
I don’t believe it. Just like that?’ Sam makes wide eyes.

‘Yep, just like that.’

Sam lets out a long whistle. I’ve told her everything. The NDA. Tom thinking I’d love the surprise of being in a reality show. Hannah and her colour chart. Zara snaffling two high-end designer bags for herself. Right down to her having the hots for Tom and practically chewing her own collar right through to escape Carrington’s, just so she can sink her perfect veneers into him in Paris – the city of love, after all.

‘So, let me get this straight – he suggested you call it a day and you agreed?’ Sam says, raising an eyebrow as she scoops off a marshmallow and pops it into her mouth.

‘That’s right. Two can play at his game.’

‘But hang on … you didn’t actually want to split up?’

‘Of course not,’ I say, feebly.

‘Hmm, and how do feel now?’ she asks.

‘Like I wish I’d never said the things I did.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Talk to him, I guess?’

‘Good, because one of you has to be sensible. You can’t just split up over nothing.’

‘It’s not nothing.’

‘OK, he kept a secret, and not for the first time, granted – but still, it would be such a shame. You two are good together.’ I manage a wry smile. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. You can sort this out. I promise.’ Sam points to a generous slice of Battenberg on the top shelf of the cake stand and raises her eyebrows encouragingly. I waver before shaking my head.

‘No, thank you. I’m stuffed.’ I’ve already eaten my way though a red velvet cupcake and a delicious Christmas stollen slice smothered in dusty white icing sugar with an edible sprig of holly on top. I clutch my stomach.

‘Why don’t you just call him now and see if you can sort it out?’ Sam tilts her head to one side. I hesitate.

‘Because, I, well … ’

‘You want him to contact you?’ she finishes for me, and I nod. ‘From what you’ve told me, you could have a wait – you know how “gentlemanly” he can be?’ Sam does speech marks in the air and smiles. ‘That year he spent at the exclusive polo school in Argentina certainly wasn’t wasted. They turn out royalty too, you know.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘So, my guess is he’ll respect your decision, even if he didn’t really want to split up and it was just all in the heat of the moment. If he’s gone away thinking it’s what you want, then … ’

‘But what if Zara does go to Paris? You’ve seen how stunning she is. She makes Rosie Huntington-Whiteley look dowdy, for God’s sake.’

‘Georgie, have a bit more faith. You’re gorgeous too. Plus Tom isn’t like that. He’s not going to jump straight into bed with Zara. She may well fancy him, but that doesn’t mean the feeling is mutual. Besides, he’ll probably be back soon, won’t he? And then you two can talk properly?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t you ask?’

‘No, I just wanted to get out of his office as fast as I could,’ I say, mulling over what she’s said.

‘Never mind. Eddie will know. Look, if it’s really going to play on your mind, then let’s stalk her.’ Sam smiles mischievously as she licks cake crumbs from her fingertips.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Google her, of course. Knowledge is power and all that,’ she laughs. ‘Hold on.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘You’ll see.’

Five minutes later, Sam returns with her iPad under her arm and sits down next to me.

‘Right. Let’s see what we can dish up on the handbag snatcher,’ Sam sniffs, before flipping open the case and tapping the screen.

‘I’ll start with that. Not sure if it’s her real name, but there’s bound to be something,’ Sam says authoritatively and, a few seconds later, a list of entries appears on the screen. ‘Ahh, here we go.’ She clicks on a link titled
Zaramakesasplash
and we both start reading.

‘Hmmm.’ Sam stretches the screen to enlarge a picture of Zara in a cherry-red tasselled monokini that nicely accentuates her spectacular handspan waist and silicone missile boobs.

‘She has her own swimwear range.’ The words come out of my mouth but it’s as if somebody else is saying them. My heart sinks. I can’t compete with a swimwear model – the last time I dragged my boring black Speedo out of the cupboard it was covered in mildew.

‘Well, I’ve never heard of it,’ Sam snorts, and she should know: her vast array of bikinis, tankinis, wraps and Havaianas have their own sunshine-yellow-painted beachwear wardrobe installed in her summer season dressing room. Sam has two dressing rooms in her beachfront villa, one for Spring/Summer wear and the other for Autumn/Winter. ‘Let’s carry on. I saw that episode last season and she ends up skidding on a wet patch on the deck before practically cramming her face into the belly of a rotund man who was busy downing a very frothy lager. Hence the “lather” line. He spilt the whole pint over her.’

Sam scrolls through the entries before hesitating. Her finger hovers.

‘What is it?’ I ask on seeing her face.

‘Err, nothing,’ she mutters.

‘Click it then.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Just click it please.’ And she does.

Saliva drains from my mouth. There, on the screen right in front of me, is a picture of Zara standing outside a nightclub, with her arms wrapped around Tom. Her lips are pressed on his. And the caption underneath says …