‘His ex-wife lives near, doesn’t she?’ I said, hoping my knowledge would prove myself a real fan.’
‘Jeanie?’ Melissa’s voice went funny. ‘Yes. Lovely lady. Done, um, a great job of bringing up Eddie. He’s very polite for a teenager.’
All the magazines said how well Melissa got on with the first Mrs Winsford. Amazing, really, since Jonny left Jeanie for her.
‘Anyway, must go, darling. They’ll be home toot sweet.’
Ooh, I wished I could speak French like that.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow? Are you free?’
Oh my God. She was going to invite me round for lunch!
‘Um…’
‘Get your people to speak with my people,’ she said.
‘That would be great!’ I said and beamed. Oops. Reality check. ‘Um, except that I don’t have “people” – I… I prefer to sort stuff out myself.’
‘Really?’ She pulled a face. ‘Okay. Let’s say half past nine sharp. My guests will be here at ten.’
How exciting! What would I wear? And… Huh? Guests? Ah. I got the impression that didn’t include me. But yay! Cue a mental image of me jumping up and down! That meant I’d got a catering contract, for a bunch of ladies being treated to Botox. But boo! It didn’t give me long to prepare.
‘How many are going?’ I asked, forcing my voice to steady.
‘Six wives.’ She yawned. ‘Let’s see if I can remember all the details: the captain’s wife, Vivian, sixty-ish… one of the few wives who plays golf. Her best friend Pamela, who’s also heading for retirement…’ I listened as Melissa gave descriptions of all the guests. ‘And finally Saffron…’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Saffron?’ I grinned. ‘Haven’t cooked with that for a while. You don’t like her?’
‘Bit of a bitch. In my position, three types of ordinary people step into my world: those in awe, those indifferent and those insanely jealous, like Saffron. Her boyfriend, Steve, is a new member. They recently got engaged. He gets on well with Jonny. She’s a receptionist, in a car sales room, I think, and always loaded with some snide-y comment. At the Centenary Ball last month she praised me loudly for wearing last season’s shoes, what with the recession. Then she questioned what I did all day, whilst most of the other wives work. I only invited her tomorrow because the others seem to like her. She’s very young; brings out the older women’s maternal instincts. Jonny thinks I mad for asking her.’
‘Why?’
‘He must have heard her digs about me not having a proper career. He knows how much time it takes networking and supporting everything he does.’ She beamed. ‘So, enough about her. I’m looking forward to a good selection of cupcakes – and yes, a Christmas theme would be fab. Maybe a few skinnies. Everyone’s driving so cut the alcohol.’ She put on her shades. ‘Although, no – why should I miss out? Those Pina Colada ones sounded good. Nothing beats the flavour of a cocktail. Maybe call them Santa Coladas…’
‘But I haven’t told you how much they cost…’ I said, practically clapping my hands.
She peered over the top of her glasses. ‘Money is no object. By the way, what’s your baking company called?’
‘KimCakes Ltd.’ I’d seen this name a million times, on the side of my imaginary delivery van.
‘Let me write down my landline and mobile numbers for you – I’d rather you ring than call at the house, if you’ve any questions.’
I grabbed a notepad and biro Jess had left on the kitchen unit and gave them to her.
‘That’s awesome writing,’ I said, as her delicate hand expertly guided the pen.
‘Thanks,’ she said and stood up. ‘I once did a course in calligraphy. It always impresses when writing out party invitations.’
We went into the hallway and I opened the front door.
‘I don’t need to say to look smart… Ciao.’ Catwalk-style, she and her size six legs sauntered off, down the drive, crocodile handbag swinging from side to side.
I closed the door and did a little jig around the hallway. Tonight I’d Google cupcakes and find out the going price. I glanced at my watch: one o’clock – I had to get back to the supermarket, there was no time for lunch. I hurtled into the kitchen, grabbed the last Cranberry and Orange cupcake and scrabbled around for my car keys, accidentally knocking Jess’s list of jobs onto the floor. I’d tidy up later. Taking a large bite of sweet yumminess, I headed outdoors.
By three o’clock I’d returned and after letting Groucho out to kid himself he could catch a pigeon, I set out my extra ingredients: flour (wholemeal and plain), sugar (icing and caster), butter (low-fat and normal) and eggs (large). Then there was a tub of glace cherries, chocolate bars, a bottle of Malibu, marzipan… a whole variety of toppings and flavours.
Phew! I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed the mixing bowl from earlier and studied the array of items for a while, before weighing out the ingredients for the first of five small batches. The completed menu would include:
Miniature dark chocolate logs cakes, filled with a rich chocolate cream and dusted with icing sugar.
Skinny Stollen slices, made from a light fruity dough and topped with low-fat almond buttercream icing.
The rich mincemeat cupcakes, topped with brandy buttercream icing and a green marzipan holly leaf with red berries.
Uncomplicated wholemeal cinnamon and spice muffins, for any guests who suffer from indigestion.
The Pina – I mean, Santa – Colada Surprises consisting of pineapple juice flavoured cake, filled with popping candy with Malibu buttercream icing and a sprinkling of “snow” (dessicated coconut).
Three hours later, I gazed around the kitchen, my work finished, face sweaty and arms tired. Flour had showered down my clothes and across the floor. I could feel butter around my ear and suspected my lips might have been stained with dark chocolate. But then, a good chef always tastes what they’re cooking. The breakfast island was cluttered with open jars and packets, plus a puddle of almond essence and red colouring. The sink was stacked high with dirty cutlery, pans stained with melted chocolate and measuring jugs smelling of Malibu. Before I could tackle any tidying up, I needed a strong coffee.
Ten minutes later, I sat down on one of the stools and gazed at my cakes with pride. A burst of music interrupted my self-congratulations and I walked into the hallway. The festive notes floated down from upstairs… Wait a minute. It was that classic song, White Christmas… It made me feel all dreamy myself, although it set Groucho off as he ran around the hallway, wagging his tail and yapping.
I crept upstairs. It was coming from the left hand front room. I tried the door handle which was well and truly locked. I shivered. The air had turned cold, as if the heating wasn’t really turned on. As the music faded, I returned to the kitchen. Whatever. I hadn’t got time to investigate Mistletoe Mansion’s strange happenings. The black clock ticked to six and the front door slammed. I went back into the hallway. Jess wouldn’t believe the day I’d had. And it hadn’t finished yet. I still had business cards to make. Tomorrow I had to network, network, network!
Except Jess didn’t look like she wanted to talk… And that wasn’t just because of her red swollen nose and streaming eyes, still suffering with a cold. Instead she threw down her hessian carrier bag, slipped out of her trainers and let her thick winter coat drop to the floor. She sank down onto the bottom of the stairs. Muddy stains streaked her jeans and dust covered her bottle green “Nuttall’s Garden Centre” shirt.
‘Drink?’ I asked.
She