Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

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.