Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

Anyway, he had to concentrate. Work was still down, and he needed something juicy – a really big project – to impress the bosses back in the Netherlands. Something cool and cutting edge and funky, something that would attract high-net-worth buyers just like himself, something with all mod cons. He gazed at his map of London, bristling with pins to mark his current developments. His eye idly traced up from Farringdon to the Old Street roundabout, up through Islington and on to Albion Road, diverting into the tiny, barely legible Pear Tree Court. He could, he supposed, take a look at it.

Issy smoothed down her new dress, which had tiny sprigged flowers on it. What she’d started off feeling was terribly twee, like she was an extra from some American set show about housewives in the fifties, had suddenly come into vogue, and everyone was wearing floral prints with tight waists and little skirts sticking out. She felt slightly better knowing she was on trend, and after all, what was she doing but baking cupcakes? The florals felt right somehow, like their dainty little aprons and the faded Union Jack pillows, Scotchgarded to death of course, that she’d bought to go on the new grey sofa they’d put along the far end of the shop; the sofa was a lovely thing, as hardwearing as they came but as soft and old and homey-looking as a sofa could be.

It was a sofa for curling up on; for children to climb, or couples to perch on. You could watch the shop in motion, or the quiet courtyard outside. Issy was delighted with it.

So that was the back wall, with the sofa underneath a large station clock. On the right was the fireplace, with books above, and then several small tables for two, with mismatched pale grey chairs set at companionable angles. The tables themselves were square; Issy had a hatred of wobbly round tables that hardly held anything. The room opened up as you got closer to the counter – obviously once it had been two rooms, and the outline of the dividing wall remained. Closer to the counter the tables weren’t so close together, so you could get a buggy in and people could (hopefully) queue, although it was still quite cramped. Cosy, that’s what she meant, cosy. There was one long table near that room’s fireplace, for larger groups, with a large, faded pink armchair at its head. At a push you could have a board meeting there.

The counter was lovely, curved, shining and spotless, with a polished marble top and cake trays stacked high, ready to be filled the following morning. The small-paned windows on this side of the shop were balanced out by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the sofa section, which meant that when it got sunny, they’d be flooded with light. The coffee machine behind the counter, next to the door to the cellar, bubbled and hissed rather erratically, and the smell of fresh cakes filled the air.

Issy moved through the shop, saying hello to Mr Hibbs, the crusty fire officer, who was eyeing the doorway just in case he’d forgotten where it was, and to the salesman from the kitchen shop, whose name was Norrie, who had been delighted when his young client who’d bought the pink kitchen had returned to buy an industrial oven, although she’d driven just as tough a bargain as before. (Issy couldn’t believe how much she loved that oven. She’d taken a picture of it and sent it to her grandfather.) Norrie had brought his plump wife and they were absolutely adoring the little cakes and pies piled around the room for them to sample. Austin’s secretary Janet was there too, pink and pleased. ‘I never get to really see what the bank is doing,’ she confided to Issy. ‘It feels like just pushing paper around sometimes. It’s so lovely to see something real happening.’ She squeezed Issy’s arm and Issy made a mental note not to give her any more of the cheap but tasty sparkling wine Pearl had sourced. ‘Not just real. Good. Something good.’

‘Thank you,’ said Issy, genuinely gratified, and went on filling people’s glasses, keeping her eye on the door. And sure enough, at six o’clock, close to his bedtime, as he’d pointed out several times, when the last rays of sun were hitting the close, a car backed up, completely illegally, into the close and a large wheelchair-friendly door pinged open at the back. Keavie jumped down from the front seat to attend to it and out came Grampa Joe.

Issy and Helena rushed to open the door, but Gramps indicated that he didn’t want to come in just yet. Instead, he halted the chair in front of the shop. Issy worried about the cold getting to his chest, then watched Keavie tuck him in with a warm tartan blanket that had obviously been ready in the car. He stared at the shop frontage for a long time, his blue eyes turning a little watery in the cold. Well, Issy thought it was the cold.

‘What do you think, Gramps?’ she said, going out and kneeling down to take his hand. He stared at the delicately painted frontage; in at the softly lit, cosy-looking interior, where you could see the counter with beautiful, ornate cake stands loaded with delicacies and the coffee machine steaming happily; up at the old-fashioned script above the door. He turned his face to his granddaughter.

‘It’s … it’s … I wish your grandmother were here to see it.’

Issy grabbed his hand tight. ‘Come in and have a cake.’

‘I would love to,’ he said. ‘And send some nice ladies to talk to me. Keavie’s all right, but she’s a bit plump.’

‘Oi!’ shouted Keavie, not in the least bit insulted, and already with a cupcake in her hand and a steaming latte.

‘Of course, I’m waiting for you, my dear,’ he said to Helena, who had bestowed a kiss on his cheek as he was wheeled inside. Issy put his chair next to the gas fire that looked real and danced merrily in the original tiled fireplace.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Gramps, gazing around him. ‘Well, well, well. Issy, this French cake needs a pinch of salt.’

Issy stared at him in affectionate irritation.

‘I know! We forgot to get salt in this morning. Why are you even in this place? There’s nothing wrong with you.’

Austin glanced around for Darny to make sure he wasn’t creating mischief somewhere. Seeing other people’s happy families – he knew nothing of Issy’s, of course – always made him a little forlorn. To his surprise, he found Darny sitting with a fat little two-year-old, teaching him how to toss stones. The two-year-old, unsurprisingly, was terrible at it, but seemed to be having a great time.

‘No gambling!’ warned Austin.

There was just one important last piece of the puzzle, hot off the press, that they were still waiting for. Work had picked up, so he was running a little late with it, but any moment now he would—