Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe Page 22

  ‘I’m not the real Santa,’ he said helpfully to one little girl. ‘Would you like a beard?’

  The little girl nodded, and before long Louis had turned his handiwork into a thriving cottage industry. Eventually a small woman who’d come in by herself and ordered only a green tea, then looked around for a long time and started writing furiously in a small notebook, leant over.

  ‘Can I have one?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Louis. ‘But don’t pretend to be Santa Claus. You aren’t him.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone would ever mistake me for Santa Claus.’

  ‘Or a pleesman. You’re not allowed to dress up as a pleesman.’

  The woman looked puzzled and assured Louis she had no intention of masquerading as a policeman.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pearl through her thick white beard. ‘His dad let him watch Terminator 2 and it scared him half to death.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said the woman. ‘It scared me half to death and I’m grown up.’

  Louis fixed her with his warm brown eyes.

  ‘It’s not real, lady. It just in a film. Go back to sleep.’

  The woman suddenly cracked open a huge grin and shut her notebook with a clunk. She turned towards Pearl.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I give up. I’ve had enough. It’s nearly Christmas and I’m really knackered.’ She stepped up to the counter and held out her hand to shake. ‘Abigail Lester. Super Secret London Guide. Style section.’

  Pearl took her hand politely without having the faintest idea why.

  ‘Um, hello.’

  Caroline threw herself across the counter like a skinned cat.

  ‘A-BIGAIL!’ she screeched, as if they were dearest friends. The woman looked rather nonplussed.

  ‘Um, is this your establishment?’ she said.

  ‘No, it belongs to the girl crying downstairs in the basement,’ said Pearl. ‘Hang on. ISSY!’

  ‘Can I offer you a complimentary cake … cup of hot chocolate? Glass of wine? We don’t serve wine, but we keep some for Friday nights …’ Caroline was babbling, and Pearl still couldn’t figure it out.

  ‘No, no thanks. I can tell by the happy punters that everything’s just lovely.’

  Issy clumped up the stairs feeling red-eyed and dull. It was as if the jet lag she’d brought back from the States had never gone away, but thickened, and deepened, and settled into her skin, as if she wanted to wake up, rouse herself, but couldn’t, because she knew that if she was wide awake, she would see the world as it was: a space where Austin was thousands of miles away and always would be.

  ‘Congratulations,’ someone was saying. Issy squinted and noticed the slender girl with the blonde hair. ‘We’ll officially announce it in the next issue, but you win our best-decorated independent shop award.’

  Issy blinked.

  ‘It’s the little man that swung it,’ Abigail said, looking at Louis, who knew he’d done something good and was waiting to find out exactly what. ‘Giving free Santa beards away is a level of customer service that just goes above and beyond. Well done, young man.’

  ‘Thank oo very much,’ said Louis, without prompting.

  ‘So, we’ll send a photographer round … And there’ll be a cheque for five hundred pounds. Congratulations!’

  Abigail obviously expected Issy to say something, but Issy couldn’t do much more than mumble her thanks.

  ‘Of course, the concept was all mine,’ said Caroline, moving in closer. ‘I can take you through all my suppliers and my many inspirations in the world of interior design.’

  ‘Well, I would like that,’ said Abigail. ‘Here’s my card. We’ll give you a call next week in the doldrums after Christmas – nice and quiet to take the pics.’

  Caroline snatched the card before Issy could even raise her hand.

  ‘Will do! Mwah! Mwah!’

  As Abigail departed, to a kiss from Louis, wearing her beard, Caroline turned round in triumph.

  ‘What just happened?’ asked Issy wearily.

  ‘Best-decorated shop! I KNEW we could win it. I think it was probably my clever trompe l’oeil tinsel.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ said Issy, trying to muster a smile. They’d done well without her after all. This gave her a bittersweet feeling. ‘Five hundred pounds, eh? Well, I reckon you should split it as an extra Christmas bonus. I can advance it to you if you like.’

  ‘Well, conceptually speaking it was really my …’ began Caroline, but a quick look from Issy stopped her. Pearl’s heart leapt, but she didn’t want to be unfair.

  ‘It was Caroline’s concept,’ she said. ‘And she did enter us.’

  Caroline looked at Pearl, amazed at her generosity.

  ‘No chance,’ said Issy. ‘It was Louis’ beards, she said so herself. If anything, it should be his. Plus, you’ve been cleaning and dusting all those new decorations every day.’

  Caroline couldn’t bear anyone being magnanimous without her.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t dream of taking more than my fair share,’ she said. ‘And, after all, it’s not like I need the money.’

  Pearl and Issy smiled at one another, and Issy, looking round at the beautiful shop, and the happy punters, felt that surely she ought to be able to squeeze a bit of Christmas spirit out, somewhere.

  ‘I have made your beard for you here,’ said Louis seriously, holding up stuck-together cotton wool and cardboard with sellotape loops for her ears.

  ‘Thank you, Louis,’ said Issy. And she put it on.

  The traditional crate of wine – clearly her mother hadn’t realised she’d moved house – arrived at the flat on Christmas Eve. It was kosher, she noticed. She called Marian, but no luck. Anyway, she supposed her mother didn’t celebrate Christmas any more. Not that she ever had, not really.

  Everything was ready for tomorrow, all the food prepped and covered in cling film, ready to pop into the big industrial ovens at the café. They could peel all the potatoes tomorrow, but there were many hands for the job. All the bits and bobs like cranberry sauce and buttered cabbage Issy had happily outsourced to Marks & Spencer. The kosher wine would join the bottles of champagne contributed by Caroline and the two bottles of whisky given to Ashok by a grateful patient.

  She and Helena sat up late, chatting, as they wrapped presents for Chadani Imelda, who didn’t know what was happening but knew something was, so was using it as an excuse to stay up late. Ashok was dealing with her. Every so often he would run past the sitting room door pursuing a tiny shrieking girl holding a dirty nappy above her head, and Helena and Issy would ignore it.

  They were talking about the future.

  ‘The flat above the café has come up,’ Issy was saying. ‘He’s not sure whether to rent it or sell it. He reckons he’ll get more for it because of where it is. So, basically, I’ve priced myself out of it just by making nice baking smells.’

  ‘Well, see if he’ll let you lease it. He already knows you’re a good tenant. Then you can decide what you want to do later.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe,’ said Issy.

  ‘And we won’t be here for much longer,’ pointed out Helena. ‘As soon as I start working again, we’ll get a bigger mortgage and move. We need a garden for Chadani Imelda anyway.’

  Chadani Imelda was now riding Ashok like a horse and giggling uncontrollably.

  ‘So you could have this place back.’

  ‘I could,’ said Issy, looking at the pink kitchen and the nice old faded floral armchairs, currently completely hidden under mountains and mountains of presents. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to move on.’

  ‘I’ve registered,’ said Helena. ‘With a nursing agency. Look.’ She held up a sheaf of forms.

  ‘Wow,’ said Issy. ‘What did you say when they asked why you wanted to come back?’

  ‘I said, darlings, I can be fabulous simultaneously in many arenas.’

  ‘Like that?’

  ‘Yes, exactly like that. No, don’t be stupid. I just reminded the
m how lucky they’d be to have me, and not to ask such impertinent questions.’

  ‘Heh,’ said Issy.

  ‘Now, look away,’ said Helena. ‘I need to wrap your present.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Issy.

  ‘I mean it! Look away, or you’re not getting it.’

  Grumbling, Issy went and stood in the doorway. Chadani Imelda now had pants on her head. Ashok was growling at her and pretending to be a bear. Issy watched them, smiling. It was a nice sight. Ashok realised she was watching and looked up at her. He stopped growling.

  ‘You could have had this,’ he said, seriously.

  Issy felt herself stiffen.

  ‘You two. You were very silly.’

  ‘Ashok, STOP THAT THIS INSTANT!’ came a voice from the sitting room that brooked no argument.

  ‘I just want Isabel to be happy. Do you not want Isabel to be happy? You want her off renting new flats and opening new shops instead of saying well, Isabel, it was nice when you were happy because your friends were also happy so everyone was happy.’

  ‘I’m warning you,’ came the voice again.

  Issy choked up. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said. ‘I’m not the one who left.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Ashok gathered Chadani into his arms and nuzzled her soft olive cheek.

  ‘I want you to be better than fine, Isabel.’

  Helena stomped through.

  ‘BED. Bed bed bed. For everyone.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Figgy Pudding Cupcakes

  100g unsalted butter

  100g treacle

  50g sugar

  2 eggs

  1 tsp cinnamon

  1 tsp ground ginger

  ½ tsp cardamom

  ½ tsp ground cloves

  250g all-purpose flour

  25g unsweetened cocoa powder

  ½ tsp baking soda

  2 tsp baking powder

  1 tsp salt

  100ml milk

  1 tsp brandy

  1 tsp vanilla

  Preheat oven to 170°C/gas mark 3 and butter cupcake tin.

  Combine dry ingredients and sift; set aside.

  Cream butter, treacle and sugar on medium-high speed until fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating until each is incorporated, then add vanilla and brandy.

  Mix in the dry ingredients in three batches, alternating with two additions of milk, and beating until combined after each.

  Bake for about 20–22 minutes. Ice if you like with brandy butter icing.

  ‘HAPPY CWISMAS! HAPPY CWISMAS EVERYBODY!’

  Louis kissed his mother and grandmother hard.

  ‘It’s five thirty,’ said Pearl. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘SANNA CLAUS DID COME.’

  Louis was pointing excitedly to the stocking under the little stubby tree they reused every year, and which was covered in his creations. Pearl had kept back his large gift till they got to the café; there was nowhere to hide it where they lived. But he had his little things, all wrapped.

  ‘Can you go back to sleep?’ she asked groggily. She felt bone-tired still, and the flat was freezing. She didn’t keep the heating on overnight and there’d been a really cold snap.

  ‘NOOO.’ Louis shook his head vehemently to show how much he really couldn’t. Pearl couldn’t begin to imagine how you could get a four-year-old to go back to sleep on Christmas morning.

  ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘Do you want to open your stocking really quietly …’

  ‘I’m cold, Mamma.’

  ‘… really quietly in the bed?’

  Louis clambered in happily beside her, and proceeded to very noisily unwrap the cheaply sellotaped gifts Pearl had put together late the previous evening.

  ‘MAMMA! A TOOFBRUSH!’ he cried out in delight. ‘AN I GOT AN ORANGE! AND SOME CHOCOLATES! AND SOCKS! Oh, socks,’ he said in a slightly more normal tone.

  ‘Yes, but they’re monster garage socks,’ said Pearl.

  Louis’ eyes darted round the room. There was not – could not be – a parcel big enough to be a monster garage. He tried to look nonchalant.

  ‘I doan care about monster garage,’ he said quietly.

  Pearl was suddenly wide awake, pulsing with adrenalin. She’d sneaked the monster garage in after the shop was closed; rushing down to Argos with Issy’s cheque only just deposited, heart in her mouth, clammy with excitement. She knew she had to put some of that money to one side, keep the power key charged and for the inevitable rises in her transport costs which were due in January. Really she ought, she realised as she fought her way through the freezing winds, to buy herself a new winter coat. This one was so thin … and she’d love some of those cosy-looking sheepskin boots girls seemed to wear these days. But no. She was going to make this one purchase. This one day.

  ‘Do you have a monster garage?’ she said, bursting into the shop, wild-eyed. She’d been panicked all day that there would be none left; the most successful toy of the year. There had been a piece in the paper about a fight breaking out in a large toy shop over the last one; apparently they were changing hands on eBay for hundreds of pounds. But she had to try. She had to.

  A silence had fallen over the shop, and Pearl registered that it had started to sleet outside and had soaked through her thin coat, then remembered that you didn’t ask for what you wanted in Argos, you filled in a piece of paper. Everyone was looking at her. Then the nice girl had smiled. ‘You are totally in luck,’ she said. ‘Our last delivery got delayed. It’s only just arrived, far too late for most people. I’ve had people swearing at me for a week for one of these.’

  She paused, dramatically.

  ‘But yes, we have one.’

  As Pearl filled in the order slip with shaking hands, she heard people all round her on their phones – ‘They’ve got them! They’ve got monster garages’ – and starting to rush their orders in. People began to fill the store, drawn by the news.

  ‘Whoops,’ said the girl as Pearl took hold of the large, brightly coloured box. ‘Looks like you’ve caused a stampede.’

  Pearl had bought a sheet of terribly expensive, unutterably wasteful silver wrapping paper too, and made up the parcel reverently with a giant red bow, then hidden it under the oven until the next day.

  She was nearly back home when her phone rang.

  ‘Pearl,’ Caroline was saying. ‘I need some of that money back.’

  ‘Well,’ said Pearl, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘Remember, Santa knows you go to the Cupcake Café. I think he might have stopped there. Remember, they have a real chimney.’

  ‘OH YES,’ said Louis, brightening up immediately. He dived back into his stocking and came up with a packet of stickers.

  ‘STICKERS!’

  ‘Can you be a bit quieter?’

  ‘Can you tell Santa I didn’t really mean it when I said I din care bout monster garage?’

  ‘I’m sure Santa knows that already.’

  ‘Like Baby Jesus.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Thank you for the pwesents, Baby Jesus.’

  Pearl decided to let that one roll. With a slight groaning noise, she pushed herself off the bed and went to light the Calor gas heater and make a cup of coffee. It was going to be a long day.

  Caroline woke alone in the emperor-sized bed with its pristine Egyptian cotton sheets and numerous rolls, cushions, pillows and bits and bobs (less of a bed, more of a haven for the real me, she liked to think). At first she felt a stab of pain at waking up alone on Christmas morning.

  Then she remembered the previous day. Outside, all had been sleet and freezing wind. Nonetheless, violin lessons and rugby were still on – many parents felt it wasn’t ideal to give children holidays, as it made them slack. Hermia and Achilles had got up obediently enough and were just getting dressed when Caroline appeared in their bedrooms.

  ‘Well,’ she announced, still wearing her l
ong Japanese robe. ‘I have decided.’

  The children looked at her.

  ‘It is disgusting weather outside. Who wants to stay in all day and not get changed out of their pyjamas?’

  The children had roared their approval. So Caroline had turned the heating up (normally she felt a hot house was terribly common and bad for the skin) and they had watched Mary Poppins, then played snakes and ladders, then Achilles had had a nap (overscheduled and at a demanding school, he was almost constantly tired, which explained, Caroline realised, why he whined all the time and why Louis almost never did. Caroline had put it down to Louis getting everything he wanted. She was beginning to suspect this might not be the case), and she and Hermia went upstairs and Caroline let her try on all her make-up and clothes and looked at her in the mirror and realised how her beautiful little girl would, any minute now, be turning into a beautiful adolescent (if she could improve her posture, she couldn’t help thinking), and that she would need to be armed for that.

  Then she had ordered in noodles for supper and cracked open a box of chocolates afterwards, and they had sat round the tree and Caroline had had a glass of champagne and let them both taste it, then they had opened their gifts.

  Unlike last year, Caroline wasn’t trying to make a point this year. She wasn’t trying to hurt Richard by throwing in his face how well she knew the children, or how they were her kids first, or how much of his money she could spend on them. She’d simply thought about them, and got them what she thought they would like, regardless of whether it would clutter up her minimalist space, or whether she thought it would interfere with them getting into good universities.

  So Hermia had a Nintendo with a fashion design program on it, and some fashion dolls, and Achilles had a Scalextric, which she even had the time and energy to sit down and piece together with him; and because the children were both getting so much of her attention, she noticed, they didn’t bicker and snarl at one another.