Meet Me at the Cupcake Café by Jenny Colgan Page A

couldn’t imagine things were much different in baking). But before she could speak, Caroline opened up a tiny silver laptop she’d brought with her that Issy hadn’t even noticed.

    Before Caroline had got married – to that shit – she’d been a senior marketing executive at a market research firm. She’d been great at her job. Then when the children had come along, it made much more sense to be the perfect corporate wife. She’d poured her energies into her children’s extracurricular activities, volunteering for the school board and running the house like a military operation. Had it stopped him fannying about with that floozy in his press office? No, it bloody had not, she thought grimly, waiting for Powerpoint to load. She’d kept working out, eating healthily, rushed to get her figure back after Achilles and Hermia were born. Had he even noticed? He’d worked all hours, come home too exhausted to do much more than eat and fall asleep in front of Newsnight , and now appeared to be banging some twenty-five-year-old who didn’t have fifteen cat costumes to make for the school play. Not that bitterness was attractive. Caroline bit her lip. She was good at her job. And this was going to be her new job, to get her out of the house a bit.
    ‘I’ve prepared this presentation,’ she began. ‘Now. Extensive market research undertaken by me has shown that seventy-four per cent of people say they find it hard to get their five a day, with a further sixty per cent saying that if fresh fruit and vegetables were more readily and temptingly available, they’d be fifty-five per cent more likely to up their vegetable intake …’
    It was relentless. There were screeds of it. Caroline had gone in, out and round the houses. She had categorized the postcodes, designed the website and sourced organic carrots being grown on an allotment on Hackney Marshes. Nobody was going to beat her on this.
    ‘We’ll source locally as much as possible, of course,’ she simpered. Mr Barstow watched the entire presentation in silence.
    ‘Now, have you any questions?’ she said after twenty minutes, her look defiant. She knew she’d done well. She was going to show him. Start a hugely successful business and then he’d be sorry.

    Issy’s insides had begun to shrink. A few days’ Googling was definitely not up to scratch here. In fact, she couldn’t give a presentation after that one, so immaculately researched and explained. She would look like a total idiot. Mr Barstow looked Caroline up and down. She really was extremely impressive, thought Issy. She’d give it to her.
    ‘So what you’re saying …’ he began. He still hadn’t removed the sunglasses he’d been wearing when he came in, even though it was only February. ‘What you’re saying is, you’re going to stand there all day, in an alleyway off the Albion Road, three hundred metres from Stoke Newington High Street, and try and push beetroot juice.’
    Caroline was unperturbed.
    ‘I believe my extensive in-depth customer-based statistical analysis, commissioned from a leading marketing agency …’
    ‘What about you?’ said Mr Barstow, pointing at Issy.
    ‘Uh …’ Suddenly all Issy’s hastily gleaned knowledge seemed to fall straight out of her head. She knew nothing about retail, nothing about business, not really. This was sooo stupid. There was a long pause in the room as Issy searched her brain. Her mind had gone completely blank. This was a nightmare. Des raised his eyebrows. Caroline smirked nastily. She didn’t know, though, thought Issy suddenly. They didn’t know about her secret weapon.
    ‘Um,’ said Issy. ‘I make cakes.’
    Mr Barstow grunted.
    ‘Oh yeah? Got any?’
    Issy had been hoping for this. She opened the tin. As well as the lemon getting-what-you-want cake, which few could resist trying, she’d gone for a selection of cupcakes to show her range: white chocolate and fresh cloudberry (the acid of the cloudberry neutralized the