‘What would I do without you? That’s a fab idea!’ She linked her arm with Sandra’s. ‘Make yourself at home in the kitchen, Kimmy,’ she said, as they went into the lounge.
Minutes later, the phone rang and after a short conversation echoed into the hallway, Melissa’s face appeared around the kitchen door. ‘Pamela’s cried off now – something about a domestic emergency. So that’s four of them left. Although Sandra says not to worry, that’ll give her more time to do the manicures.’
What was wrong with those women? Weren’t they dying to see the house of someone famous?
Melissa looked at her watch. ‘Hadn’t you better switch the coffee machine on?’ She nodded towards a contraption on the unit, just along from the wine rack. Next to the compact black and silver machine were stacked china cups and saucers, white with black flowers.
Close up, it looked like something out of a spaceship’s control tower. Adam and I thought we were posh when we bought a percolator, but this… And just look at that stack of cute little sealed coffee punnets! I picked one up – oh, pardon moi, they were actually called “Disc Beverage Pods”. I’d be able to take individual orders, such as a Latte, Espresso, Medium Roast and Cappuccino, then Macchiato (huh?), Chocolate and – get this! – Tiramisu flavour!
Having whetted my own appetite, I switched on the machine and filled it right up to the two litres mark. I unpacked the cake stands and took the lids off the cake boxes. The rich mincemeat cupcakes and Santa Coladas looked awesome staggered up one silver tree, the Malibu buttercream icing easily overpowering the scent of those black roses. On the other stand, I carefully balanced the dark chocolate logs and skinny Stollens, then found a large serving plate to set out the cinnamon and spice muffins. I placed everything perfectly on the lace cloth in the lounge, having managed to find plates to match the cups and small silver forks. Melissa had left out some fancy holly and ivy paper cocktail napkins.
The doorbell rang and I stood to attention, feeling like the kitchen maid out of Downton Abbey.
‘Vivian!’ Melissa said. ‘So glad you could make it.’
I peered around the door and saw a busty women in her sixties barge in, black patent handbag (her court shoes matched) clasped to her chest, blue silk blouse bolstered tightly into a beige skirt. Her tanned, wrinkled face revealed a lifetime of golf and cigarettes – she was clearly the perfect candidate for Botox.
‘And Denise. Hello. How are you?’ asked Melissa.
She was the doctor’s receptionist, married to one of the pros, with two kids at secondary school. Middle-aged, with short mousy hair and no make-up, Denise wore a military design grey dress with buttons all the way up. Her slim legs cried out for stylish shoes but instead she’d chosen a flat trainer type. She wore what looked like one hundred denier flesh-coloured tights and on her back hung a mini rucksack.
‘Good morning, Melissa,’ said Denise stiffly, and looked around. ‘Rather isolated here, isn’t it? Give me the hustle and bustle of an estate, any day.’
Vivian was already over by the trophy cabinet. ‘You should see my Geoff’s collection of prizes; takes me a whole day to polish them. It’s just one of the responsibilities of being the captain’s wife.’
‘Ladies, what would you like to drink?’ Melissa said, her smile already looking a little fixed, like those actors at the Oscars who’ve just found out they haven’t won. ‘Cappuccino, Espresso…?’
‘Got anything straightforward,’ said Denise, ‘like black tea?’
‘Why don’t people sell coffee in English any more?’ said Vivian’s clipped tones. She turned to me. ‘White coffee, please dear.’
By the time I took their drinks into the lounge, the doorbell had rung again and two younger women were in there too, chatting. One had her hair tied back in a scrunchie and wore sporty culottes, a cute pink hooded cardigan and cute stud snowman earrings. She had to be Kate, who, Melissa said, had two toddlers and worked in a gym. Melissa liked her best. That meant the other was Saffron, with hair as yellow as her name and a tan which clearly didn’t come from one of those exotic holidays the Winsfords enjoyed. She’d given Kate a lift and had just slipped her keys into her Louis Vuitton handbag, which I subtly scanned. It was fake, just like the one I’d bought off St Albans’ market. You could tell because there was no monogrammed LV on the zipper pull. Saffron stared around the room, lip-lined mouth open, kohl-rimmed eyes like saucers. Her nails were turquoise with red jewels and her frilly dress was both higher at the bottom and lower at the front than any of mine. I could have sworn I’d seen that exact dress on sale last week in one of my favourite discount shops in Luton.
‘Thank you, dear.’ Vivian took her coffee from me.
‘I’ll have one of Melissa’s lovely Macchiatos please,’ said Kate.
‘Got any green tea?’ said Saffron. ‘If not, I’ll have a black coffee, ta. Got to watch my figure – otherwise the men won’t, know what I mean?’ She smiled smugly. ‘Although I couldn’t do nothing so energetic as Melissa. All that sweat. Don’t you get bored of your own exercise DVD, babes?’
‘I’m with Saffron,’ said Denise. ‘And I couldn’t sit through all those manicures and hair appointments, either.’
‘I see it as my duty, as one of the national birdies,’ said Melissa, in a tight voice. ‘People expect me to look my best at all times.’
Vivian was on her feet, studying a portrait of the golfing wife.
‘It’s very brave to hang that up,’ said Saffron, innocently. ‘Was it drawn before you went on a diet?’
‘Just look how the artist’s captured Melissa’s fine bone structure and glossy hair,’ said Sandra firmly, as she passed by and winked at Melissa. ‘No amount of weight loss could achieve those two things.’
Saffron wrinkled her nose.
‘Kimmy, isn’t it?’ said Kate to me, as I tried to make my escape. ‘The cakes look delicious.’
‘Yes, maybe you could hand them around, Kimmy,’ said Melissa, in a measured voice. ‘KimCake Ltd’s products are very exclusive.’
‘Never understood people paying for fairy cakes,’ said Vivian.
Denise nodded. ‘Especially us mums. Having kids makes you your own expert on icing and sprinkles. And just because they cost the earth doesn’t mean they’re the best quality. We had a patient in the other day who’d ordered some fancy ones online. They’d taken a big bite and almost choked on a plastic twist tie.’
‘These are rather special though, and Christmas-themed,’ said Melissa, through gritted teeth. She glared at me.
‘Um yes,’ I stuttered, and gave them a tour of the two pretty stands. Kate clapped her hands when I mentioned the mincemeat cupcakes’ brandy buttercream icing. Vivian sniffed and said she’d try the Santa Colada, only because Denise was driving. Saffron, in between gazing at Melissa’s lush furnishing, interrogated me as to the number of grams of fat in each skinny Stollen and said I should really offer gluten-free, as that was a very trendy diet. Modest Denise said she’d try a cinnamon and spice muffin, as that was the least fancy. So I served their requests onto the delicate china plates and left the room. At least whilst they ate, it went quiet.
I mean, jeez! Friendly Wysteria Lane of Desperate Housewives it wasn’t! I’d always thought that being a celebrity meant people would like you, or at least pretend. But Saffron was obviously jealous, Denise unimpressed, Vivian competitive… Thank God for Kate. If anything could bond this mismatched bunch together, it would be eating cakes with the melt-in-mouth buttercream icing and kick of sugary sponge.
When