Love, Lies and Lemon Cake Page 8

  I walked down the high street back to work feeling ten years younger. He’d smiled at my clumsiness and laughed with me as I slid around in olive oil moving bread displays across the floor at high speed. Dan had a calming effect on me and, despite the embarrassment and untold damage I’d just caused in the deli, he didn’t make me feel foolish and hate myself.

  8

  PORN STAR MARTINIS AND BROKEN-HEARTED CAKE

  Emma would be coming home for Easter and, although it seemed an eternity away, I couldn’t wait to see her. I'd already planned her favourite dishes and bought her a number of little gifts: a beautiful scented candle that had cost almost a day’s pay; a lovely gold notebook; and, of course, several special Easter eggs. The problem with buying any chocolate so soon is that I always eat it, and I had already had to replace some of the Easter eggs. Craig always said I bought Emma too much but, in spite of her parents’ break-up, I wanted Emma to take pleasure in coming home for the holidays, not dread it.

  Work was much the same, with Mandy suffering from her usual hangovers and filling everyone in on her raucous nights out, and the day after the broken Florentines incident at the deli, she was helping me. I was doing Jan Weston’s new ‘Kelly Hoppen’ look (not an easy ask on someone with straight black hair) and Mandy was free so said she’d pass me the curlers. Jan’s husband had just left her and she was going for ‘sophisticated older woman, Dragon’s Den interior designer chic’, in a vain attempt to peel him off the twenty-something blonde he’d abandoned her for.

  ‘Okay, I may or may not have tried to fly-kick people in the street,’ was Mandy’s comment on her previous evening’s drinking session.

  ‘Fly-kicked?’ Jan looked horrified.

  ‘Oh, it’s a turn of phrase,’ I lied, hoping Mandy would get that it wasn’t appropriate to say this in front of clients. For God’s sake, this woman was in a fragile state and the last thing she needed was to be in fear of a sudden, involuntary fly kick to the head from the resident Beauty Therapist of The Heavenly Spa.

  ‘Dude, after twenty-four Jaeger bombs, even you’d start fly-kicking...’ she chuckled to herself as she handed me another roller.

  ‘I can assure you I wouldn’t,’ I smiled at Jan, willing Mandy to stop. I tried to give her a look, but she was back in last night. ‘So, we’re on the floor, Kat’s humpin this dude’s leg and Flick’s flashin her...’

  ‘Can we leave Jan’s hair and check it in ten minutes, please?’ I said, desperately trying to manoeuvre her away and lock her in the bloody ‘Heavenly Spa’ before we arrived at the inevitable.

  ‘Ten mins, yeah, yeah...’ But she didn’t budge and Jan was turning pale green. ‘So, there I am, lyin in the road, when this guy rolls up—and you’ll never guess what he says?’

  ‘We must stop meeting like this?’ I offered, trying to turn what I knew was going to be disgusting into a U-rated comment.

  ‘Nope. He says, ‘Can you catch? Cos you’ve got two balls comin your way...’

  At this, I wrapped a towel very quickly and tightly around Jan’s head, in the vain hope she wouldn’t hear the X-rated diatribe Mandy was about to issue. No one needed to hear any more. Hadn’t poor Jan suffered enough? All she wanted was a little Dragon’s Den glamour sprinkled into her dark existence of betrayal and abandon.

  I excused myself, leaving an alarmed Jan with her head wrapped tightly in a towel, and manoeuvred Mandy to the wash basins for a private chat, ‘Mandy, don’t talk in front of the clients about your... night life. But... do you know how dangerous it is to have sex with someone you picked up on the street?’

  ‘Yeah...’

  ‘You can’t just say yes to the first person you meet...’

  ‘Oh, we didn’t actually have sex on the street... well, not quite. We went back to his.’

  ‘No, Mandy, I don’t mean literally on the street. It’s all wrong on so many levels, love. You’re better than that—you’re a lovely, attractive girl and you need to believe in yourself,’ I sighed, patting her shoulder. I walked away, I always felt somehow responsible for Mandy.

  ‘Okay. I know I shouldn’t sleep with strangers,’ she called over from the washbasins. ‘But I’m not a slag, Faye... I made him buy me a kebab first.’

  ‘You and I will have a talk later,’ I smiled. She mistook this for approval and smiled back proudly.

  I was ‘in recovery’ when the shop door tinkled, so held my breath and asked Mandy to keep an eye on Jan while I dealt with the customer. I daren’t let her loose on reception—the uninitiated weren’t ready for Mandy’s weekend activities. Breathless, I landed at reception and looking up and was greeted with the loveliest smile. Dan was there and he was holding what looked like a cake box. It struck me with huge embarrassment that Dan may be under the impression my lunge across the salon had been my attempt to leap at him and it might have looked desperate. ‘I wasn’t running like that towards you because... I wanted to get at you. I don’t mean get at you... in a weird way, I wasn’t jumping on you, I mean. No. I had to get to you before Mandy arrived and talked about sex in the street!’ I said, like this made everything clear.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he looked a little crestfallen. Oh, God, I’d done it again. Here he was standing there with what looked like a cake and I have to ruin a beautiful moment.

  ‘Oh... sorry. I don’t know what made me say that. You didn’t need to hear that. God, I mean, it’s just... just Mandy—she talks about sex all the time and... I’m going to stop talking now.’

  ‘I think that might be a good idea,’ he smiled down at me like a kind teacher. ‘I thought I’d bring you the results of the carnage you caused the other day.’ He was holding up the box.

  ‘Oh... I was going to call in but I’ve been really busy,’ I lied, reddening at the memory of scattered olives and smashed Florentines.

  ‘As you were the cause of it, you and your friends should get to taste it,’ he smiled, putting the box on the counter top.

  ‘Oh... that’s a shame... sharing? Sorry, I don’t share cake. As I was the one who broke the Florentines, I assumed the cake would be all mine?’ I said, in mock disappointment.

  ‘No, I’m afraid that’s your punishment: you have to share this cake with your friends,’ he teased, leaning in to whisper to me, ‘So where’s the one whose husband left... the online dating queen with the Darth Vader lover?’

  I giggled, overwhelmed by how good he smelt close up, like sunshine and beaches. ‘Sue's in later today—had a bit of a night with a new man... no light sabre but I think he stayed over... that could mean anything.’

  ‘Sounds like she may be in need of some of this broken-hearted Florentine cake.’

  I nodded and peered into the box for a more intimate look at the thick, fudgy topping with shards of broken Florentine poking out (artistically) and chunks of glace cherry studded in the icing like little rubies on brown velvet.

  I smiled, licking my lips and imagining the crunch of Florentine against the squidgy denseness of chocolate fudge. Dan seemed so keen for me to sample the cake, I ran into the back for a knife and emerged within seconds to cut it.

  As I cut into the gooey topping, I wondered briefly if the chocolate icing would work as well as chocolate body paint on the Adonis standing before me.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you two up to?’ Dan and I jumped apart as Mandy’s dulcet tones pierced the air. ‘Hey, you’re the guy from the deli... G’day cobber,’ she said, nudging his arm like they were old friends. He smiled at her, taking in her long, slim legs, tiny waist and big blue eyes. Her hair was long and shiny black and she tied it loosely, her youth and beauty not reliant on a mane of black hair, merely accentuated by it. He was looking at her quite intently, and I was surprised at the sudden sting in my chest.

  ‘Hey, was it you on that podium at “Hot Latin Nights” last Wednesday... you know, with all that water spray?’

  He was amused and caught my eye. ‘No... I definitely wasn’t on a podium last Wednesday—Thursday perhaps?’
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br />   His eyes twinkled, but Mandy was in Mandy-land. ‘Ha! Well, I was on the Porn Star Martinis so I don’t know what I did or who with... well, you don’t know what happens until it happens, do you?’ She paused for breath and I saw the surprise on his face. He was assimilating this beautiful young woman who looked like European Royalty with her apparently colourful social life—on the surface the two just didn’t compute.

  ‘It was a good night, Bruce... you’d love the Porn Star Martinis—they make you do crazy shit. Hell, you’re only young once so go for it, I say.’

  ‘That sounds like a good philosophy for life,’ he offered, but her attention was now distracted by the fabulous confection in front of her. Like a little girl, she forgot everything to stand on tippy toes and peer into the opened box, then look to me for an answer.

  ‘Dan brought homemade cake,’ I said in my mother voice, cutting into the fudgy icing, cracking the Florentines and wanting to push it all in my mouth with my hands. I handed Mandy several pieces on napkins and she passed it around the salon while I cut myself a small slice (I wanted a huge great wedge of it and hoped he was leaving it with us so I could commune with it in private later). I bit into it and the combination of brittle, sweet nutty Florentine with deep, soft melting icing was truly orgasmic. I tried not to groan with pleasure.

  ‘Did you really make this?’ I asked him, seduced by the light sponge, sweet, crunchy nuts and those firm brown arms sprinkled with blond hairs.

  ‘Yes... I did. You were my inspiration.’ I looked up and I swore he was looking into my eyes longer than he should.

  ‘So I’m a cake muse...’ I said randomly, finding it hard to take my eyes away from his.

  ‘This is sick,’ Mandy hissed through crumbs and chocolate.

  ‘What’s sick? I’m only forty-two—I can talk to a guy, can’t I? For God’s sake, Mandy—you and Emma seem to think anyone over forty doesn’t have sex,’ I huffed. ‘I don’t mean you, Dan, don’t think that... Well, I don’t know what you think about me having sex; it's... not something that... I’ll stop now.’

  He nodded, with a wink and a smile.

  ‘I meant the cake... sick means good, Faye. I never said anything about you having sex...’

  ‘God, Mandy, you can’t go five minutes without talking about sex... If it’s not sex, it’s body paint, people putting chocolate over each other and licking it off, and...’ I turned slightly pink. My Tourette’s had officially taken over. ‘Chocolate body fudge icing and...’ the joint stimulation of a handsome man and chocolate cake had been too much.

  Dan just stood there, taking it all in, no doubt horrified and wondering if he’d walked into a hairdresser’s or a lap-dancing bar. Since his arrival I had completely filled the air with sexual references while pushing chocolate cake into my mouth. Forget a lunch date in Pizza Express—this is the last I’ll see of him, I thought.

  At this point, Sue appeared in the doorway, like an angel. She introduced herself to Dan, eyed up the cake and looked from me to him in that way that implied she knew exactly what was going on between us.

  ‘I’ll get off then,’ Dan said hesitantly.

  ‘Okay... Thanks for the cake.’

  ‘Hey, you should try my lemon cakes... I use an old recipe of my mum’s... I’ll make some for you.’ He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, ‘I don’t make lemon cakes for anyone, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ I smiled my most sensual smile, while trying to hold my stomach in—multitasking at its finest—he really did smell incredibly good and I just wanted to breathe him in. ‘I bet you say that to everyone.’

  ‘No,’ he looked genuinely affronted, so I dropped the sensual and went for something a little more ‘teasing’.

  ‘Oh, I bet there are lots of pretty young girls just dying to try your lemon cake,’ I batted my eyelashes but was aware Sue was watching me and felt very self-conscious.

  He leaned towards me and said in a low voice, ‘Yeah, but I don’t like girls... I like women.’ This took my breath away. He was really close, his warm breath in my neck, his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Is that yours?’ he suddenly said, nodding his head towards my copy of Jane Eyre on the reception desk.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just started it.’

  ‘Yeah? I’m reading it too. I thought I should read some decent literature for a change so I made a list of all the books I wanted to read while I was away. I have a couple of Aussie ones on there too... and American. I have spent my life reading crap and I’m finally going to educate myself.’

  ‘Me too. I had to drop out of an English Lit degree and I’ve always regretted not finishing it,’ I explained. ‘Anyway, I grabbed a copy of my daughter’s book list—she’s doing English at Manchester. I thought it would give us something to share and she can help me to understand it... if she gets time.’

  ‘We should swap notes,’ he said, picking up the book and reading the blurb on the back.

  ‘Yes, we should.’

  ‘Okay... what about next week? Let’s meet up for a beer and discuss Jane Eyre.’

  I was now aware the salon was quiet and everyone was probably listening, but heard myself say, ‘Yeah, that would be great.’

  He waved goodbye and smiled, like I was a mate. Perhaps that’s what he meant—a beer with a mate? As the door closed behind him, the chatter and dryers started up again behind me. I daren’t look round because my face must have been very red, and I was so elated, I had this overwhelming compulsion deep within me to suddenly sing Rihanna’s You Da One at the top of my voice, which thankfully I resisted. It may have caused concern to the clients and even got me sacked.

  I smiled, pretending to be engrossed in the appointment book. I couldn’t believe he’d asked me to go for a beer with him. It was one up from lunchtime in Pizza Express... A beer was night-time for a start—but I was new to this and still not too sure in what capacity he’d asked. Was it a date? Was it a beer? He’d said we could swap notes on Jane Eyre—oh, God was it a bloody book club? Going out with someone of the opposite sex was different these days, so I told myself not to get too excited. This could just be a beer and friendship based on a mutual love of Charlotte Bronte.

  ‘What was that you were saying before about not saying yes to the first guy who asks you, Faye?’ Mandy shouted across the salon with a giggle.

  I laughed and pulled out my tongue... just as he walked back in.

  ‘Oh... hi, again,’ I tried, pretending I was doing something very important on reception.

  ‘I was just thinking...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If we’re going for a beer, we should... swap numbers?’

  It was such a long time since anyone had asked for my phone number, I wanted to leap up and kiss him, but had to keep a lid on it or my inner Rihanna might beat me to it and start singing to him.

  I gave him my number and he texted me his, then moved back, without a smile, looking directly into my eyes and walking slowly out of the salon. I watched him go and a feeling emerged from the pit of my stomach, flooding my veins like warm, sweet icing. I was addicted to sugar and I’d eaten broken-hearted Florentine cake while on a diet—but that’s where it had to stop. I mustn’t lose perspective; I was freshly single, very vulnerable and completely unworldly—while he was a major flirt and no doubt knew the effect he had on women like me.

  He probably had a million young lovelies throwing themselves in his wake and he was just being nice to me because I appreciated cake in a shameless way no skinny young girl could. I wasn’t stupid—Dan was not remotely interested in a hairdresser with ageing knees almost ten years his senior; he just wanted beer and book talk. Didn’t he?

  ‘My hormones must be playing up again,’ I said to Sue at the end of the day as I swept the salon. ‘I’m like a bloody teenager lusting after every man I see.’

  ‘Hmm... I saw the way you were looking at that deli guy this afternoon.’ She pursed her lips then smiled.

  ‘Oh, it didn’t look like that did it?
I wasn’t lusting after him... just his cake,’ I sighed. ‘And what’s the harm in going for a beer?’

  ‘None, love. I think he likes you,’ she said this slowly, pretending to be scrubbing at a spot of dye on the chair, but waiting for my reaction.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a beer...I’m too old for him.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘But he’s definitely got a soft spot for you.’

  ‘Do you think him asking me for a beer is a date?’

  She stood back, looking at me. ‘Yes, of course it is. You should make the most of it—a real date... it’s better than bloody speed dating.’

  ‘Christ, I couldn’t go through that. My already crushed ego doesn’t need to be rejected by multiple men on the same night,’ I sighed.

  ‘Same night? Same hour? Last Wednesday they were in and out of there like a rat up a drain; all the skinny young girls got picked and I was left sitting on the gym vault with the losers, metaphysically speaking. Anyway, you did the right thing saying yes to Dan—he’s very attractive...’

  ‘Do you think he’s too young for me, Sue?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.

  ‘Then stop worrying about what everyone else thinks and just go for it.’

  She was right. I carried on cleaning, thinking about what I’d wear if we did meet for a beer. What did people wear these days for a beer anyway? I didn’t have anything suitable and would have to wear lots of make-up to cover the wrinkles.

  ‘You’ll need a push-up bra if you’re going on a date,’ she said. ‘I bet girls he goes out with are pert and... you’re quite well endowed but, let’s face it, over thirty-five it all goes south, so if nothing else you’ll need to lift them.’

  I winced. I was only going for a beer; did my gravity-defying breasts really have to be hoisted up for a night in the pub?