‘Try Kimmy’s cupcakes,’ said Luke, as he strode past, heading towards his van. ‘They’re up there with Mr Kipling’s; exceedingly good.’
Huh? So now he was being nice?
‘I don’t think so.’ She pressed dial on her phone. ‘Hi Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Did I ever phone to say those canapés we had at your Wimbledon party were out of this world? Hmm. Yes, really super. In fact, I was wondering, what’s the name of your caterer? Really?’ Melissa pulled a face. ‘Gosh, clever old you! Oh, my taxi’s arrived, must dash. Let’s lunch some time. Byeee!’ She ended the call. ‘Ghastly woman,’ she muttered. ‘Teeth as yellow as custard. I can’t believe she does her own baking.’ She fanned her face as Luke started the van’s engine and drove off.
‘Why don’t you come inside?’ I said. ‘I’ve just made a fresh batch of cakes. I cater for parties and can do any flavour you like.’
‘You run your own cupcake company?’
‘Yes,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. Well I did. I’d been paid for my work and I was the boss. ‘I’ve catered widely for children’s parties, weddings…’ Okay, only one, but still. Adam would be proud – here I was, pushing my business forward. Except Melissa was looking at her phone again… I took a deep breath.
‘Our current, um, specials are all to do with Christmas. Like Cranberry and Orange, Merry Berry and Mouthwatering Mincemeat,’ I gushed. ‘There’s also a, um, skinny range for the health-conscious.’ Did I sound entrepreneurial? I hoped so – this was the chance of a lifetime. Imagine me, catering for the Winsfords? Perhaps OK Magazine would do a photo shoot. I’d have to get some business cards done. If Jess was off work, she could waitress and… Another deep breath. ‘Then there’s our regular alcoholic range,’ I continued, ‘including Pina Colada surprises topped with Malibu flavoured buttercream icing and popping candy, and coffee cakes decorated with, um, Baileys whipped cream, plus festive Port and Orange. Then there are the fun ones,’ I said, thinking back to the kids’ parties I’d catered for, ‘decorated with green and red sprinkles, marzipan Santas and snowmen…’
‘I suppose a look wouldn’t hurt.’ The phone went back into her handbag. ‘After all. I am desperate.
My knees shook. I’d invited the star of all my magazines in for a coffee and cake and she’d said yes!
‘I wish now I’d put a dress code on the invitation: no sleeveless blouses.’ Melissa shuddered. ‘A couple of the golfers’ wives don’t even shave under their arms.’
I waved at Terry as I turned to close the front door. He was driving past in his cream Beetle.
Melissa craned her neck to look into Walter’s lounge. ‘Cute. Very homely.’ Her tone shouted “boring and bland”.
I pointed past the staircase. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’ As she led the way, I ogled her thin thighs. ‘Do you do your DVD every day?’
‘Mine? You’ve got to be jok… Ahem. Yes, of course I do.’ She turned around and beamed. ‘If I’m not too busy. What with my massage appointments, nails and hair, then there’s the sessions with my personal trainer, three times a week – and that’s only if I’m not speeding up to London to have lunch with Lucy Locklove.’
Lucy Locklove! She was only my all-time fave TV presenter!
‘It’s hard work being a national sportsman’s wife. Even on holidays I have to be well turned out, because of the paparazzi. For our last spring break in Barbados I bought ten bikinis.’
I pointed to the breakfast table and scraped my hair back into a scrunchie that was in my jeans’ pocket. Melissa brushed some crumbs off a stool and sat down. Didn’t she have just the perfect life? The golfer’s wife had matched all my expectations about celebritydom. I couldn’t wait to see inside her home.
‘Do you see much of the national birdies?’ I said as she rested her bag on her lap. I put one of the mincemeat brandy butter cakes on a plate and passed it over.
‘Only when the tournaments are on. I’m still a bit new to the group. Luke Donald doesn’t live far away, though. His wife’s really into art…’
‘Diana Donald’s gorgeous-looking,’ I muttered. During the Open, Starchat had done a page on the best-dressed golfers’ wives.
‘It’s her Greek roots,’ said Melissa and shrugged. ‘Ian Poulter’s wife, Katie, is okay too; used to be a nurse.’
‘They sound… normal,’ I said. ‘Not like footballers’ wives.’
‘I suppose most are – although Sam Torrance’s wife used to be a film star. Another is a show jumper.’
I wondered what Melissa used to do. The magazines never spoke about that.
‘Napkin?’ she said.
‘Of course.’ Oh dear. Kitchen roll would have to do.
She picked up the cake and smelt the buttercream icing before prodding the marzipan holly leaf with a long nail. Then she took the biggest bite ever and, in slow motion, chewed. I took this opportunity to scrutinise, up close, the first celebrity I’d seen for real. She had a smooth forehead, no crow’s feet, manicured nails, non-existent roots, tattooed eyebrows in an immaculate arc and spotless skin, as well as full lips, perfectly outlined and glossed. What a goddess. The camera didn’t lie, not if you had access to all the top cosmetic procedures and products.
‘Try this,’ I said and passed her one of the Cranberry and Orange ones I’d made at Adam’s. But I almost dropped it upside down when she put the kitchen roll to her lips and… Did she spit out my cake?
‘Is there a bin in here?’ she asked and I pointed to one of the cupboards. Had I been fooling myself? Were my non-celebrity friends and family too kind to tell me that actually, my cooking was pants?
She helped herself to another piece of kitchen roll and took a big mouthful of the Cranberry and Orange one, then did exactly the same again – chewed slowly, before spitting it out.
‘They are fabulous – with the light texture, irresistible flavours and so pretty.’
‘But you… I mean I thought…You spat them out!’
‘Spat?’ she looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no! That’s a trick I learnt from the American wives. It’s just a different way of eating – none of the calories but all the taste.’ She sighed. ‘I love those girls, over the ocean. What amazing lifestyles… They’ve all got indoor cinemas and outdoor barbeques the size of your average council flat. The captain’s wife, Tulisa, has just got planning permission for an underground nightclub at their ranch. And talk about great hair, sensational nails… Rumour has it, they all even co-ordinate their underwear. Whereas the English birdies…’ She grimaced. ‘Once we were trying on some free jogging outfits, a sponsor handed out – a couple of them don’t even match their own bras and knickers.’
‘Really?’ I gasped. Surely everyone followed that rule? They needed to buy my bible, Cut-Above-Couture. God forbid they wore tights with open-toed sandals or black with navy or brown.
‘They haven’t even all had Brazilian waxes,’ she continued. ‘How unhygienic is that? But then I suppose they’ve had an uphill struggle, this side of the Atlantic. I try to tell myself it isn’t their fault, if they think we should look inconspicuous. It’s all that British tradition, all that Old Boys stuff.’
‘Huh?’
‘Women are to be seen but not heard at the golf club. It’s a haven for the men. Some still won’t serve anything in a skirt at the bar, unless it’s tartan and hiding more than a frilly