The crockery they had bought in a huge job lot in the IKEA sale, a collection of duck egg, teal and eau de Nil bowls, espresso cups and plates that were so cheap they could afford to lose a few here and there to small hands or sticky fingers; and downstairs in the storeroom were industrial bags of flour, and huge catering tubs of butter, all ready for the mixer.
But most of all, for Issy, it was the feel of the place: the aroma of cinnamon being liberally sprinkled on delectable, melting soft and yielding brownies that demanded to be scoffed within seconds of coming out of the oven (and Louis often obliged); the heavenly violet scent of the sauce for the blueberry cheesecake. The day they tasted jams for the Victoria sponge, Issy invited all of her friends. Toby and Trinida had come up from Brighton, and Paul and John who’d just got married, and even though a few had had to decline, being busy with new babies or house moves or in-laws or any of the million and one crazy things that being in your thirties seemed to entail, lots of people had turned up anyway, and they had all ended up sticky and giggling and slightly sick, and decided Bonne Maman raspberry was simply the only way forward, until they could afford to make their own. It had taken a while to get all the stickiness off the wall tiles, but it was so much fun they’d decided to have a proper opening party, to test everything out and say thank you to everyone who’d helped so much so far.
Everywhere was spotless, breathlessly spick and span; inspected, ticked off, registered and ready for action. They were set to open at 7.30 the following morning; Issy hadn’t scheduled any marketing or promotion just yet. This was to be a ‘soft’ launch, a quiet week or so for them to find their feet and get into the rhythm of how the café would work. Issy kept repeating this to herself so she wouldn’t panic too much if nobody turned up at all.
They would need another member of staff, a part-timer to cover coffee breaks and holidays. Issy was hoping they’d get someone nice and local – a young girl perhaps, or a student needing a few extra quid here and there, who didn’t mind working for the minimum wage and (she told herself off severely for even thinking this) was hopefully a bit more flexible and didn’t have to look after anyone else.
The local state nursery, Little Teds, had found a place for Louis, which was amazing (Issy had perhaps told a very small lie on the form viz-à-viz Louis’s home address – c/o the Cupcake Café, but needs must). But the nursery didn’t open till 8.30, so he would have to come and have his breakfast in the café. Issy hoped he’d be happy with a few wooden toys she’d stashed behind the counter to distract customers’ children from eating all the sugar sachets, but they’d have to wait and see.
And tonight, she was having a proper little party, a celebration to say thank you to everyone: to Pearl, for teaching her how to make coffee (she was still slightly afraid of the hissing steam pipe, but was learning); to Phil and Andreas, who’d done such a sterling job in the end; Des the estate agent and Mr Barstow the landlord; Helena, who’d chivvied delivery men and helped her with national insurance forms that had her climbing the wall in frustration; Austin, who’d patiently explained profit margins, portion control, tax accounts and depreciation to her, then explained them again when her eyes had glazed over, then explained them one more time just to check; Mrs Prescott, a slightly scary-looking local woman who did accounts for small businesses in her spare time and was clearly not someone to be trifled with. She and Austin had looked each other up and down with some understanding.
‘What do you think?’ Issy had asked Austin nervously afterwards.
‘Terrified the life out of me,’ said Austin. ‘I think she’s absolutely perfect. She makes me want to go and file paperwork.’
‘Good,’ said Issy. ‘What about Helena?’ She indicated the rather magnificent redhead who was laying into the builders one last time.
‘Very … stately,’ said Austin politely, thinking to himself that actually, with her cheeks all red from the ovens, and her soft black hair dishevelled and loosening itself from where it had been hastily tied back, and her black-fringed eyes, and her apron tied round her shapely form, the one he liked looking at in here was Issy herself. His professional client, he reminded himself sharply.
Issy glanced around nervously. Spring had been such a long time in coming this year, till the point where she’d thought it might simply never happen. Then one day it had arrived, like an unexpected gift turning up in the post; suddenly, out of nowhere, and the sun looked down as if surprised to still see people there, and people looked up as if surprised to be looking beyond the ends of their noses for the first time in months. Colour was gradually seeping back into the world, and on this late March evening soft light filtered through the plate-glass window, illuminating in shafts the gentle colours and restful tones of the Pear Tree Court café. Zac, her old friend, an out-of-work graphic designer, had painstakingly picked out ‘The Cupcake Café’ in white swirly lower-case letters on the grey-brown frontage and it looked beautiful; pretty, but still understated. Sometimes, when she woke too early in the morning, Issy wondered if they weren’t being a bit too understated. Then she remembered the look on people’s faces when they ate the Bakewell tart her grandfather had taught her to make and bit her lip. Would good ingredients and free-range eggs and good coffee be enough? (She and Pearl and Austin, who had happened to pop by that afternoon, had had a coffee-tasting session with all the wholesaler’s samples. After four espressos they’d got all wide-eyed and bouncy and a touch hysterical but in the end had settled on two blends, a mellow Kailua Kona, an all-rounder coffee, and a stronger Selva Negra, for those who needed a bit of a pick-me-up in the morning, plus a sweet decaf for pregnant mothers and people who didn’t really like coffee, just the smell.) Would they cover their rent and the power bills? Would she ever make a living wage? Could she ever stop worrying?
She phoned the home again. Were they ready?
At his desk at Kalinga Deniki, over in EC2, Graeme was puzzled. This wasn’t really what he’d expected at all, but he hadn’t heard once from Issy. Presumably her business hadn’t failed yet. Or maybe it had, and she couldn’t bear to break it to him. Well, she would, she would. He idly remembered last Saturday night, when he’d picked up a really fit blonde in a nightclub. She had spent the whole night explaining to him the concept of body brushing and why Christina Aguilera was, like, a totally incredible role model. By the morning, when she’d asked him for a carrot smoothie, babe, he was desperate to get her out of the apartment. This wasn’t like him at all.