Meet Me at the Cupcake Café Read online

  Issy was furious.

  ‘Issy. I’m so sorry.’

  She gritted her teeth.

  ‘You’re sorry? You’re blooming sorry! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Well, of course I couldn’t tell you. Company confidentiality. They could have sued me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have told them it was you!’ Issy was stricken that he didn’t even trust her that much. ‘But I could have had some warning; some time to prepare myself, get myself together a bit.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t have been fair for you to have that advantage,’ said Graeme. ‘Everyone else would have liked the same.’

  ‘But it’s not the same,’ shouted Issy. ‘For them it’s just a job. For me it’s a job and it’s not getting to hear it from you.’

  She became aware of a large group of people behind her, listening in through the open door. She turned round furiously.

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Me and Graeme have been having a secret affair. That we’ve been keeping from the office.’

  There were some murmurs but not, Issy noticed in her heightened emotional state, the surprised gasps she’d been expecting.

  ‘Well yes, everyone know that,’ said François.

  Issy stared at him. ‘What do you mean, everyone?’

  The rest of the office looked slightly sheepish.

  ‘Everyone knew?’ She turned back to Graeme. ‘Did you know that everyone knew?’

  To her horror, Graeme was also looking sheepish.

  ‘Well, you know, I still don’t think it’s good for morale to have people flaunting personal relationships at work.’

  ‘You knew?!’

  ‘It’s my job to know what my staff are talking about,’ said Graeme primly. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t.’

  Issy gazed at him, speechless. If everyone knew, why all the creeping around and the secrecy?

  ‘But … but …’

  ‘Issy, would you like to sit down so we can start the meeting?’

  Issy became aware of five other devastated-looking people inching their way into the boardroom. François was not among them, but Bob from Marketing was. He was scratching what looked like a new patch of psoriasis on the side of his head, and suddenly Issy hated the firm … Graeme, her colleagues, property management and the whole damn capitalist system. She turned on her heel and stormed straight out of the office, catching her box of cakes with her hip as she went, and scattering them everywhere.

  Issy needed a friendly ear, and pronto. And Helena was only ten minutes away. She wouldn’t mind.

  Helena was stitching up a young man’s head, none too gently.

  ‘Oww,’ he was saying.

  ‘I thought you did stitches with glue nowadays,’ said Issy, once she’d stopped snivelling.

  ‘We do,’ said Helena grimly, pulling the needle tight, ‘except when some people sniff glue then think they can fly over barbed-wire fences. Then they don’t get any glue.’

  ‘It wasn’t glue, it was lighter fluid,’ said the pasty-looking young man.

  ‘That’s not going to make me give you any glue,’ said Helena.

  ‘No,’ said the man sadly.

  ‘I just can’t believe it, Len,’ said Issy. ‘I can’t believe that bastard would let me walk into work in the rain knowing all the time that, one, he was going to fire me, and two, everyone knew we were going out together. They must all think he’s a bell end too.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Helena non-committally. She had learned over the years not to diss any of Issy’s men; she often dragged them back in again, and that was uncomfortable for everyone.

  ‘He sounds like a bell end,’ said the young man.

  ‘Yeah!’ said Issy. ‘You sniff glue and even you know he’s a bell end.’

  ‘It’s lighter fluid actually.’

  ‘Well, you’re better off out of it all,’ said Helena. ‘You know you’re always saying you don’t like … being a medical student,’ she added quickly for the patient’s benefit.

  ‘You can only be better off out of it,’ said Issy, ‘if you have somewhere to be better off in. Whereas I’m looking at the most depressed job market for twenty years, no jobs in my sector even if the rest of the market was fine and …’ she dissolved into tears again, ‘I’m single again, Len! At thirty-one!’

  ‘Thirty-one is not old,’ asserted Helena firmly.

  ‘Come on. If you were eighteen you’d think it was old.’

  ‘It’s really old,’ said the young man. ‘And I’m twenty.’

  ‘And you won’t live to see thirty-one if you don’t stop your ridiculous habits,’ said Helena firmly. ‘So you keep out of it.’

  ‘I’d do you both though,’ he said. ‘So you don’t look that over the hill yet.’

  Helena and Issy looked at each other.

  ‘See?’ said Helena. ‘Things could be worse.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to know I’ve still got something to fall back on.’

  ‘And as for you,’ said Helena, finishing up his wound with an expertly applied pad and bandage, ‘if you don’t give up that stuff, you won’t be able to get it up for anyone. Not me, not her, not Megan Fox, do you understand?’

  For the first time, the young man looked frightened.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You might as well lop your bollocks off for all the good they’ll do you.’

  The young man swallowed. ‘It’s time for me to get off the stuff anyway.’

  ‘I’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Helena handed him the card of the local cessation project. ‘On your way. Next!’

  A worried young woman ushered in a toddler with his head crammed in a saucepan.

  ‘That really happens?’ said Issy.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Helena. ‘Now, Mrs Chakrabati, this is Issy. She’s a medical student, do you mind her sitting in?’

  Mrs Chakrabati shook her head. Helena leaned down.

  ‘Ravi, I cannot believe you are in here again. You are not a pirate, understand?’

  ‘I-is-pirate!’

  ‘Still, this is better than the cheesegrater, remember?’

  Mrs Chakrabati nodded fervently as Helena went searching for the castor oil.

  ‘Len, I’d better go.’

  Helena looked up sympathetically. ‘You sure?’

  Issy nodded. ‘I know I stormed out, but I need to go and … well, at least find out about my redundancy payment and stuff.’

  Helena gave her a hug.

  ‘It’s going to be fine, you know. Fine.’

  ‘People say that,’ said Issy. ‘What if, sometimes, it doesn’t turn out fine?’

  ‘I will fight them with my pirate things!’ shouted Ravi.

  Issy crouched down and spoke to the saucepan.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘It might come to that.’

  Walking back into the office again was nearly unbearable. Issy felt so nervous and ashamed.

  ‘Hey,’ she said sadly to Jim on reception.

  ‘I heard,’ said Jim. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Issy. ‘Oh well.’

  ‘Come on, love,’ he said. ‘You’ll find something. Better than this place, I’m sure.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I’ll miss your cakes.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  Issy bypassed the second floor and went on up to the top, straight to Human Resources. She didn’t think she could face talking to Graeme again. She checked her phone for the ninth time. No texts. No messages, nothing. How could this be happening to her? She felt like she was walking in a dream.

  ‘Hello, Issy,’ said Callie Mehta softly, looking immaculate as ever in a soft fawn suit. ‘I’m sorry. This is the worst part of my job.’

  ‘Yeah, and mine,’ said Issy stiffly.

  Callie lifted out a file. ‘We’ve worked out a package that’s as generous as we can be … Also, as it’s the beginning of the year, we thought rather than working out y
our notice, if you like you can take your full holiday entitlement and we’ll continue paying for that.’

  Issy had to admit that seemed quite generous. Then she cursed herself for falling for it. Callie probably trained for this kind of thing all the time.

  ‘And here … if you like, and it’s completely up to you, we’re funding resettlement courses.’

  ‘Resettlement courses? That sounds a bit sinister.’

  ‘It’s like a training and guidance course, to help you figure out … where next.’

  ‘To the dole queue in this climate,’ said Issy tightly.

  ‘Issy,’ said Callie, kindly but quite firmly. ‘Can I just tell you … in my career I’ve been made redundant three times. It is upsetting but, I promise, it’s not the end of the world. Something always comes up for the good people. And you’re one of the good people.’

  ‘That’s why I’m out of a job,’ said Issy.

  Callie frowned slightly and put her finger on her forehead.

  ‘Issy, I’m going to tell you this, from what I’ve observed … it may not be welcome, but I hope you don’t mind, just in case it helps.’

  Issy sat back. This was like being told off by the headmistress. While simultaneously losing the ability to buy food.

  ‘I’ve noticed you around. You’re obviously bright, you’ve got a degree, you’re pleasant to the people you work with …’

  Issy wondered where this was going.

  ‘Why are you just an office administrator? I mean, look at the salesmen, they’re younger than you but they’re driven, and committed … You have talents and skills but I just don’t see where they’ve been used with you running around chasing up expenses and timesheets. It’s like you just wanted to hide away doing something safe and a little dull, hoping nobody would notice you.’

  Issy shrugged uncomfortably. She bet Callie Mehta didn’t have a mother who rushed about and wanted people to notice her all the time.

  ‘It’s not too late in life to change direction, you know. I’m sure you think it is but,’ Callie checked the paper in front of her, ‘thirty-one is nothing. Nothing at all. And I will say that if you end up doing the same job for someone else … I think you’ll probably be as dissatisfied there as you have been here. And don’t tell me that’s not true, please. I’ve worked in HR a long time and I’m telling you. Redundancy is the right choice for you now. Because you’re still young enough to do what you want. But it may be your last chance. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Issy felt her face burn up. All she could do was nod, at the risk of breaking down completely. Callie twisted her wedding ring.

  ‘And … and Issy, I’m so, so sorry if you feel I’m speaking out of turn here, I know it’s very unprofessional of me and I shouldn’t lay myself open to accusations of listening to office gossip … but I really, really want to say something and I’m sorry if it’s hard to hear. But I would say it’s also high risk to think some man is going to come along and look after you and take care of everything for you. It may well happen, and if it’s what you want then I hope it does. But if you can find something you love to do, that you really enjoy on your own terms … well, that’s a nice thing to have in your life.’

  Issy swallowed hard. Even her ears felt hot.

  ‘Do you love what you do?’ she found herself asking.

  ‘Sometimes it’s difficult,’ said Callie. ‘But it’s always challenging. And it’s never, ever boring. Could you say the same?’

  Callie pushed the piece of paper across the desk. Issy picked it up and looked at it. Nearly twenty thousand pounds. A lot. That was a lot of money. That was life-changing money. Surely.

  ‘Please don’t spend it all on lipstick and shoes,’ said Callie, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Can I spend a little bit?’ said Issy, appreciating the gesture, and Callie’s frankness. Well, actually at the moment it burned in the pit of her stomach. But she felt there was kindness in it.

  ‘A little bit,’ said Callie. ‘Yes.’

  And they shook hands.

  It was less of a leaving do down the Coins, more of a wake. The other eight in total who were scheduled to leave had also been offered their holidays, so there was no point in anyone hanging around beyond the end of the week. It shortened the torture considerably, which was a small mercy, thought Issy. The pub had always been warm and cosy, a nice haven away from shards-of-glass office blocks and cutting-edge rental space. With its yellowed walls from the days before the smoking ban, its unpretentious draught beer and crisp packets, its patterned carpet and the landlord’s fat dog always on the lookout for treats, it looked like a thousand other pubs in London, although it was, reflected Issy, one of a dying breed – a bit like her. Then she tried to shake herself out of her melancholy mood – so many people from the office had turned up, it was rather touching. No Graeme of course. In a way she was pleased about that. She didn’t know how she’d react if she ever had to make polite conversation with him again. Which was just as well, seeing as he hadn’t even bothered to ring her to see how she was doing.

  Bob from Marketing was roaring drunk by 7pm, so she propped him up on the corner of the banquette and let him go to sleep.

  ‘To Issy,’ said François when toasts were being raised. ‘And now that she is leaving us, let the only plus side be that we will all finally stop putting weight on.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ shouted the others. Issy looked at them in consternation.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If your cakes weren’t so bloody delicious,’ said Karen, a heavy-set bookings clerk who rarely chatted to her, ‘I wouldn’t be so bloody fat. Oh, OK, I would, but I wouldn’t enjoy getting fat quite so much.’

  ‘Do you mean my silly cakes?’ said Issy. She’d had about four glasses of rosé and things were getting blurry round the edges.

  ‘They are not silly cakes,’ said François. ‘Never say that. They are as good as Hortense Beusy, the best patissière in Toulon. C’est la vérité,’ he said seriously. He’d had a lot of rosé too.

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Issy, colouring. ‘You’re all just saying that because I bring in free cakes. They could taste like monkey poo and everyone would still scoff them because it’s better than working. At that … hellhole,’ she added daringly.

  Everyone shook their heads.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Bob, temporarily lifting his head from the bar. ‘You’re much better at baking than you are at admin.’

  There was some nodding round the bar.

  ‘You mean to say you were just tolerating me because of my delicious cakes?’ said Issy, stung.

  ‘No,’ said François. ‘Also because you were shagging the boss.’

  Issy had sobered up quite quickly after that. One last look round, one last kiss for everyone, even the people she hadn’t really liked – she felt herself getting melancholy suddenly, as if Kalinga Deniki had been a family rather than a cut-throat bunch of property specialists out to make a fast buck. And for the Coins; it would be far too tragic to ever stop by there again, as if she was deliberately trying to run into all her old workmates. So with a slight croak to her voice she petted the old dog and scratched behind his ears, which he liked almost as much as salt and vinegar crisps, and bade farewell to the company.

  ‘Pop in and see us,’ said Karen.

  ‘With cakes!’ added somebody.

  Issy promised faithfully that she would. She knew she wouldn’t; couldn’t. That chapter of her life was over. But what came next?

  Chapter Four

  Not Going to Work Nutella Cookies

  225g self-raising flour

  2 tsp baking powder

  100g soft butter 100g white caster sugar

  ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda dissolved in hot water

  2 tbsp warm golden syrup

  6 tsp Nutella

  1 gossip magazine

  1 pair pyjamas

  Preheat the oven to 200°C/gas mark 6.

  Sift flour and
baking powder in a bowl. Rub in butter, add sugar, bicarb, syrup and two tsp Nutella. Roll into walnut-sized balls and place on a greased baking tray, pressing down the centre of each ball with your thumb. Bake for about ten minutes.

  While baking, eat four remaining tsp Nutella. Eat entire tray of cookies while reading gossip magazine and wearing pyjamas.

  Optional garnish: tears.

  Thank goodness Helena worked shifts, which meant she was often at home in the mornings. Issy wasn’t sure afterwards how she’d have coped if she’d had to face those first couple of weeks alone. To begin with, there was some sort of novelty value in not having to set an alarm, but it soon wore off and she would lie awake, fretting, into the night. Of course she could pay off some of her mortgage with the redundancy money, that would keep the wolves at bay for a while, but it didn’t solve the fundamental problem of what the hell she was going to do with her life now. And the Situations Vacant looked absolutely hopeless: full of fields she knew nothing about, or entry-level jobs that she was too old for and frankly wouldn’t keep her in Starbucks. Nobody in property seemed to be hiring, and Issy knew that when they did, they would have a huge pool of redundant specialists to choose from. Good people too.

  Helena and Gramps were encouraging, telling her to keep her pecker up, that something would turn up, but it didn’t feel like that to Issy. She felt untethered, rootless; liable to spin off at any moment (not entirely helped by people saying things like ‘Why don’t you take a year off and travel the world?’ as if her presence was entirely unnecessary). It took her all day to get to the newsagent’s to buy a paper and some Smarties to make a Smartie cake. She found herself sculpting sad people out of icing; little sugar flowers with spots of rot appearing. It wasn’t good. She didn’t want to do anything: leave the house, play Scrabble with Gramps. And no Graeme of course. That stung too, horribly. Issy was realizing she had had more invested in this relationship than she’d ever let herself think.