Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe Read online

  Praise for Jenny Colgan

  ‘This funny, sweet story is Jenny Colgan at her absolute best’ Heat

  ‘She is very, very funny’

  Express

  ‘A delicious comedy’

  Red

  ‘Fast-paced, funny, poignant and well observed’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Sweeter than a bag of jelly beans … had us eating up every page’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘A smart, funny story laced with irresistible charm’

  Closer

  ‘Chick-lit with an ethical kick’

  Mirror

  ‘A quirky tale of love, work and the meaning of life’

  Company

  ‘A smart, witty love story’

  Observer

  ‘Full of laugh-out-loud observations … utterly unputdownable’

  Woman

  ‘A fabulously sweet concoction of warmth, wit and lip-smacking childhood treats’

  Candis

  ‘A chick-lit writer with a difference … never scared to try something different, Colgan always pulls it off’

  Image

  ‘A Colgan novel is like listening to your best pal, souped up on vino, spilling the latest gossip – entertaining, dramatic and frequently hilarious’

  Daily Record

  ‘An entertaining read’

  Sunday Express

  ‘Part-chick lit, part-food porn … this is full on fun for foodies’

  Bella

  Also by Jenny Colgan

  Amanda’s Wedding

  Talking to Addison

  Looking for Andrew McCarthy

  Working Wonders

  Do You Remember the First Time?

  Where Have All the Boys Gone?

  West End Girls

  Operation Sunshine

  Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

  The Good, the Bad and the Dumped

  Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

  Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-1-4055-1468-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Jenny Colgan 2012

  ‘Baking your first cupcake’ piece, copyright © The Caked Crusader 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  To anyone who still leaves a mince pie out for Santa

  (and a carrot for the reindeer).

  Contents

  Praise for Jenny Colgan

  Also by Jenny Colgan

  Copyright

  A Word From Jenny

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Baking your First Cupcake by The Caked Crusader

  A Word From Jenny

  Chapter One

  Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams

  Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

  West End Girls

  Operation Sunshine

  Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend

  The Good, The Bad and the Dumped

  A Word From Jenny

  Hello! Even though Meet Me at the Cupcake Café was my thirteenth novel, I found it was a harder one to leave behind than some of the others. Maybe because it was the longest book I’d ever written, I really felt that I’d grown fond of the characters. I found myself going into Christmas mode after it came out – I love Christmas – and starting to make my Christmas cake and some mince pies and thinking – I know this makes me sound totally ridiculous, by the way – I wonder how Issy would do them? So I figured I’d better just write them down. Plus, if you enjoy the recipes, it’s nice to have a few together just for this time of year. We’ve also reprinted (so when you see it, don’t think SWIZZ!), the Caked Crusader’s brilliant introductory guide to baking cupcakes from the last book, in case you’re just starting out.

  It’s weird, because although I like reading sequels, I’ve never written one before. There are a couple of things I sometimes don’t like about them, though, so I have tried to avoid paragraphs like: ‘Jane walked into the room. “Hello, Jane!” said Peter. “How are you ever since you were abandoned in that shipwreck and had to take part in human cannibalism then a dolphin picked you up and gave you a ride home where you married your true love who turned out not to be your brother after all?” “Fine,” said Jane.’

  I have also tried to avoid the opposite, where you have to remember everything yourself (come on, we’re all busy), like: ‘“This is worse than Bermuda,” spat Jane, hurling her prosthetic leg across the room.’

  So. Instead of having to shoehorn everyone in, here’s a quick rundown (and also, welcome if you’re new!).

  Issy Randall lost her job in an estate agency, and threw her redundancy money into opening the Cupcake Café in Stoke Newington, which is a mixed, villagey area of London (her grandad, Joe, had been a baker in Manchester and she had always loved to bake and decided to turn it into a career).

  She employed Pearl McGregor, who is bringing up Louis mostly single-handedly, although his dad, Benjamin Kmbota, swings by from time to time; and Caroline, who is in the process of divorcing her rich husband. And Issy broke up from her estate agent boyfriend Graeme, who was horrible, and has started dating Austin Tyler, the local bank manager, who is raising his brother, Darny, after their parents died. Austin was offered a new job overseas, but that got delayed – it’s now over a year since the last book, if that makes sense. Well, anyway, Louis is four now, and in reception, Darny is eleven and in his first year of secondary school, and Issy’s best friend Helena, a nurse, has had a baby with her doctor boyfriend Ashok.

  So hopefully we’re all up to speed!

  With grateful thanks to BBC Books and Delia Smith for allowing me to use her recipe. And another thanks to The Little Loaf for the recipe in Chapter fifteen. For more recipes go to http://thelittleloaf.wordpress.com

  Let us know at www.facebook.com/jennycolganbooks or @jennycolgan on twitter if you try any of the recipes, and may I wish you the merriest of Christmases.

  Very warmest wishes,

  Jenny

  Author’s Note

  All these recipes have been successfully tested by me, many repeatedly and greedily. If you have time to do the Christmas cake a good four weeks in advance, it really helps!

  NB: altitude cookies are very, very sweet indeed at ground level.

  Sitting under the mistletoe

  (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

  One last candle burning low,

  All the sleepy dancers gone,

  Just one candle burning on,

  Shadows lurking everywher
e:

  Some one came, and kissed me there,

  Walter de la Mare, ‘Mistletoe’

  Chapter One

  Gingerbread

  This is not for gingerbread men, which is more of a cookie recipe as it has to stay hard and crunchy. And it is not for gingerbread houses, unless you have endless time on your hands and (let’s say it quietly) are a bit of a show-off who would rather their cakes were admired than devoured. No, this is old-fashioned soft, sticky gingerbread. It doesn’t take long to make, but you’ll be glad you did.

  NB Oil the container before you fill it with treacle. Otherwise you and your dishwasher are going to fall out really badly.

  50g white sugar

  50g brown sugar

  120g butter

  1 egg

  180ml treacle

  300g self-raising flour

  1 tsp baking powder

  1 tbsp powdered cinnamon

  1 tbsp powdered ginger (or a little more if you like)

  ½ tsp ground cloves (I just threw in a ‘lucky’ clove)

  ½ tsp salt

  60ml hot water

  Preheat oven to 175°C/gas mark 3. Grease a loaf tin or square baking tin.

  Cream sugar and butter together (you can do this entire thing in the mixer), then add the egg and the treacle.

  Mix the spices, baking powder, flour and salt. Fold in to wet mixture. Add the water, then pour into baking tin and bake for 45 minutes.

  You can sprinkle icing sugar on the top, or make an icing glaze, or just slice it like it is – proper yummy, sticky Christmas gingerbread. Serve liberally to people you like.

  The scent of cinnamon, orange peel and ginger perfumed the air, with a strong undercurrent of coffee. Outside the rain was battering against the large windows of the eau-de-nil-painted exterior of the Cupcake Café, tucked into a little grey stone close next to an ironmonger’s and a fenced-in tree that looked chilled and bare in the freezing afternoon.

  Issy, putting out fresh chestnut-purée cupcakes decorated with tiny green leaves, took a deep breath of happiness and wondered if it was too early to start playing her Silver Bells CD. The weather had been uncharacteristically mild for much of November, but now winter was truly kicking in.

  Customers arrived looking beaten and battered by the gale, disgorging umbrellas into the basket by the front door (so many got left behind, Pearl had commented that if they ran into financial difficulties, they could always start a second-hand umbrella business), then would pause halfway through wrestling with their jackets as the warm scent reached their nostrils. And Issy could see it come over them: their shoulders, hunched against the rain, would slowly start to unfurl in the cosy atmosphere of the café; their tense, anxious London faces would relax, and a smile would play around their lips as they approached the old-fashioned glass-fronted cabinet which hosted the daily array of goodies: cupcakes piled high with the best butter icing, changing every week depending on Issy’s whim, or whether she’d just received a tip-off about the best vanilla pods, or a special on rose hips, or had the urge to go a bit mad with hazelnut meringue. The huge banging orange coffee machine (the colour clashed completely with the pale greens and greys and florals of the café itself, but they’d had to get it on the cheap, and it worked like an absolute charm) was fizzing in the background, the little fire was lit and cheery-looking (Issy would have preferred wood, but it was banned, so they had gas flames); there were newspapers on poles and books on the bookshelves; wifi, and cosy nooks and corners in which to hide oneself, as well as a long open table where mums could sit with their buggies and not block everybody else’s way.

  Smiling, people would take a while to make up their minds. Issy liked to go through the various things they had on offer, explain what went into each one: how she crushed the strawberries then left them in syrup for the little strawberry tarts they did in the summer; or the whole blueberries she liked to use in the middle of the summer fruits cupcake; or, as now, making customers smell her new batch of fresh cloves. Pearl simply let people choose. They had to make sure Caroline had had enough sleep or she tended to get slightly impatient and make remarks about the number of calories in each treat. This made Issy very cross.

  ‘The “c” word is banned in this shop,’ she’d said. ‘People don’t come in here looking to feel guilty. They’re looking to relax, take a break, sit down with their friends. They don’t need you snorting away about saturated fats.’

  ‘I’m just trying to be helpful,’ said Caroline. ‘The economy is in trouble. I know how much tax avoidance my ex-husband does. There’s not going to be the money to pay for cardiac units, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Pearl came up from the basement kitchen with a new tray of gingerbread men. The first had been snapped up in moments by the children coming in after school, delighted by their little bow ties and fearful expressions. She saw Issy standing there looking a bit dreamy as she served up two cinnamon rolls with a steaming latte to a man with a large tummy, a red coat and a white beard.

  ‘Don’t even think it,’ she said.

  ‘Think what?’ said Issy guiltily.

  ‘About starting up the entire Christmas shebang. That isn’t Santa.’

  ‘I might be Santa,’ protested the old man. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Because this would be your busy season,’ said Pearl, turning her focus back to her boss.

  Issy’s eyes strayed reluctantly to the glass jar of candy canes that had somehow found their way to being beside the cash till.

  ‘It’s November!’ said Pearl. ‘We’ve just finished selling our Guy Fawkes cupcakes, remember? And don’t make me remind you how long it took me to get all that spiderwebbing down from Hallowe’en.’

  ‘Maybe we should have left it up there for fake snow,’ wondered Issy.

  ‘No,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s ridiculous. These holidays take up such a long time and everyone gets sick of them and they’re totally over the top and inappropriate.’

  ‘Bah humbug,’ said Issy. But Pearl would not be jarred out of her bad mood.

  ‘And it’s a difficult year for everyone,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ve told Hermia the pony may have to go if her father doesn’t buck up his ideas.’

  ‘Go where?’ said Pearl.

  ‘To the happy hunting grounds,’ said Caroline promptly. ‘Meanwhile he’s going to Antigua. Antigua! Did he ever take me to Antigua? No. You know what Antigua’s like,’ she said to Pearl.

  ‘Why would I?’ said Pearl.

  Issy leapt into action. Caroline was a good, efficient worker, but she definitely lacked a sensitivity chip since her husband left her, and now he was trying to cut her maintenance. Caroline had never really known anything other than a very comfortable life. Working for a living and mixing with normal people she still tended to treat as something of a hilarious novelty.

  ‘Well, it is nearly the last week of November,’ said Issy. ‘Everyone else is doing red cups and Santa hats and jingle bells. Frankly, London is not the place to be if you want to escape Christmas. It does the most wonderful Christmas in the world, and I want us to be a part of it.’

  ‘Ho ho ho,’ said the fat man with the white beard. They looked at him, then at each other.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Pearl.

  ‘No, don’t!’ said Issy. She was so excited about Christmas this year; there was so much to celebrate. The Cupcake Café wasn’t exactly going to make them rich, but they were keeping their heads above water. Her best friend Helena and her partner Ashok were going to join them with their bouncing (and she was very bouncing indeed) one-year-old Chadani Imelda, and Issy’s mother might come too. The last time Issy had heard from Marian, in September, she’d been on a Greek island where she was currently making rather a good living teaching yoga to women who were pretending they were in Mamma Mia. Marian was a free spirit, which was supposed to make her romantic, but didn’t always make her very reliable, mother-wise.

  And then of course there was Austin, Issy’s gorgeous, distracted b
oyfriend with the mismatched socks and the intense expression. Austin was curly-haired and green-eyed, with horn-rimmed spectacles he tended to take on and off again a lot when he was thinking, and Issy’s heart bounced in her chest every time she thought of him.

  The door pinged again, unleashing another torrent of customers: young women in to have a sit-down after some early Christmas shopping. Their bags overflowed with tinsel and hand-made ornaments from the little independent shops on the pretty local high street, and their flushed cheeks and wet hair meant they brought the cold in with them in a riot of shaken anoraks and unwrapped scarves. Perhaps just a quick chain of fairy lights above the coffee machine, thought Issy. Christmas in London. Best in the world.

  Christmas in New York, thought Austin, looking up and around him, dazzled. It really was something else; as dramatic as people said. Early snow was falling, and every shop window was lit up with over-the-top displays and luxury goods. Radio City Music Hall had a tree several storeys high and something called the Rockettes playing – he felt as though he had fallen through time and emerged in a movie from the fifties.

  He adored it, he couldn’t help it. New York made him feel like a child, even though he was supposed to be here very much as a grown-up. It was so exciting. His bank had sent him here on an ‘ideas-sharing exercise’ after the American office had apparently requested somebody calm and ‘not a bullshit artist’. It appeared New York had tired of its crazed, risk-taking bankers and now desperately needed anyone with a reasonably level head to hold things together. Austin was disorganised and a little impatient with paperwork, but he rarely made loans that went bad, and was very good at spotting who was worth taking a risk on (Issy had most definitely been one of those) and who came in spouting pipe dreams and the latest management jargon. He was a safe pair of hands in a financial world that, increasingly, appeared to have gone completely crazy.

  Issy had helped him pack, as otherwise he couldn’t be trusted to keep hold of matching socks. She’d kissed him on the forehead.