She sits down, nibbles a doughnut behind her hand, takes a slug from her bucket sized cup, and turns to me with a grin. ‘So have you recovered from last night?’
I wince. ‘I shudder every time I think about it.’ I’m honestly feeling so humiliated, for most of the day I’d have been happy for the floor to open up and swallow me. There’s a twang of disappointment too, because before Diesel arrived it was so close to wonderful I was almost imagining we could have another event. ‘The first time I invite anyone round anywhere, and mostly they end up skittled.’ It’s one more reason for leaving town and never coming back. As if there weren’t enough already.
She sighs, takes a monster bite of muffin behind her serviette and pushes a cucumber stick towards Maisie. ‘It wasn’t your fault Diesel rushed in. Sure, they were sad about their lost sorbet balls, but people still had a great time.’
I wouldn’t go that far. ‘Even if he did save us with his freezer, I’m furious with Charlie. And Pancake’s still at mine too.’ When I went out to work I found her litter tray outside my door and two gourmet food pouches. Probably left as Charlie went to run Dakota to her pre-dawn session at the gym. Although there’s one piece of good news on the Dakota front. Charlie might hear Laura’s loo flush but mercifully there wasn’t a single groan through the wall from his flat last night. I’m thanking my fairy godmother that his master bedroom must be at the other end of the building. As for me waking up for the first time in my life with a fur ball snuggled in the crook of my knees – comfortable doesn’t start to cover it. Suddenly all the stories about crazy cat women make complete sense.
Sophie shakes her head. ‘It’s a good thing you don’t mind animals. What’s not so good is the news coming off the grapevine from my cleaning team.’ The way she pauses for effect it’s obvious there’s a biggie coming. ‘According to Denise from Dainty Dusters, Charlie’s the one who runs the Airbnb flats he was talking about last night. Apparently, they just started cleaning for him there.’
I put aside that Sophie lives in the kind of home where the cleaners arrive in a mini bus. ‘What theheckdoes that mean?’ I’m indignant and apoplectic all at the same time. ‘Trust Charlie Hobson to ruin my hot chocolate.’ Then I realise I’m shouting and giving our game away, and clamp my hand to my mouth.
Marco’s head jerks up. ‘Do we get chocolate too?’
Sophie pulls a face. ‘The cocoa’s very bitter, there’s organic apple juice here for you, that’s much sweeter.’ She pushes a carton towards him then turns back to me. ‘That’s not all. Denise’s cousin’s a cleaner down near St Austell. According to her, Charlie was all set to get married at a country house near Polperro back in 2009, but his fiancée called off the wedding. It was the same weekend her daughter got married there. That’s how she knows.’ That’s at least thirty miles across the county, so the cleaning world gossip-line must be well oiled.
I shrug. ‘Okay, so he’s got a sob story. But he trashed my evening and he wants my flat for a gaming room. I’m still livid.’
Sophie’s wearing her ‘super patient mother’ expression. ‘It’s not about sympathy, I’m looking at the wider picture. I’ll ask around to find out more about the Airbnb. If he’s making moves on your flat, we need to understand what makes him tick.’
We both look up to see Nell winding her way between the galvanised chairs. She throws down her mini backpack, slips off her padded waistcoat, and pulls up a seat.
‘So what am I missing?’
Sophie laughs at how eager she sounds. ‘We found out Charlie Hobson’s probably reluctant to join in with the singles because he was left standing at the altar.’
‘Wow, hunky, hotandbroken hearted.’ Nell blows out her cheeks. ‘Poor guy.’
I let out a long sigh because Nell arriving is making yesterday’s disaster spring to life again. ‘And I’m really sorry for disappointing all your friends last night. At least now we know the “pop up” venue idea is dead in the water.’ Drowned and sunk. End of story. ‘So I’m back to plan A – sell and disappear, before twenty angry party goers run me out of town.’ Ideally selling to anyone but Charlie. Although realistically a flat with a ten-grand bill coming up and the most intrusive neighbour in St Aidan isn’t going to have buyers stampeding.
Nell frowns. ‘What part of “successful evening” don’t you get? You’re two hundred pounds better off than you were this time yesterday.’ Bottom lines are the only measure she knows.
I’m gawping at the amount, but I don’t understand. ‘You did give everyone a refund?’
Her brows knot. ‘Why would I do that when they all loved it? Better still, you got three “Cupids”.’
I’m not sure why my heart sinks. ‘Dakota got laidthreetimes?’ It’s even worse than I imagined.
Nell shakes her head and winces. ‘No, not Dakota, she’s way too fussy to commit. But don’t knock her, she’s very helpful and a great asset to the club. And it’s not all about sex, either. Cupid awards are for follow-up dates not hook-ups. Three is the score so far, but it’s still only tea time. It could well be more.’ Her disgust has turned to a delighted beam.
Sophie’s clasping her hands together. ‘Isn’t that brilliant?’
‘Abso-bloody-lutely.’ Nell’s punching the air. ‘As a percentage guest-to-couple ratio the success is entirely unprecedented for any previous club event.’ Nell’s only ever two words away from drifting into analysis and becoming completely unintelligible, but even if I don’t completely get it, there’s still a shivery thrill zipping up and down my spine.
Sophie’s eyes are gleaming as she brings us back to reality. ‘Forty-nine more events like that, Clemmie, and you’ll have your ten grand. With three events a week, you’d reach your target in four months.’ You can almost hear the cash registers beeping in her business brain.
After years behind a bar I can do maths in my head too when it’s the right sort. ‘Forty-nine events with twenty guests? That means I’d need to find another nine hundred and eighty people who like sorbet.’ My heart’s sinking again, because put like that it’s completely unattainable. ‘Surely I’ve run out of gullible punters already?’
Nell’s smile has turned smug. ‘That’s the beauty of social media. I’ve already had feedback, and everyone from last night is up for another event at the flat.’
Sophie’s almost quivering with excitement. ‘We need to think what to do next.’
I have to make a confession. ‘Actually, despite last night’s disaster, I was looking through Laura’s recipe cards over lunch.’ Coffee and croissant, because I didn’t have time for breakfast. And I’m too much of a professional to drop pastry flakes on George’s reception desk. ‘I found out meringues only have two ingredients. Seeing the sorbet making went so well I was thinking I could try making those.’ Some people drool over savories but I’m not one of them. And I loved Laura’s meringues. She’d pipe them onto sugar paper and stick the halves together with buttercream. It all came rushing back to me when I saw the photos on her card. How I’d get meringue mixture right up my arms when I tried to lick out the piping bag. Putting out the pale blue bun cases while Laura made the buttercream. Me sticking the halves together, then arranging them on the three-tiered cake stand with flamingoes on that’s standing on the dresser now. How they were dusty and delicious and so light I could put them away faster than Sophie’s macaroons. I even managed to remember there was some special patriotic celebration where we made pink and blue ones too.
Sophie’s face lights up. ‘Yay! Pavlova, Eton mess, chocolate meringues. Prosecco would work well with those. Celiac-friendly, suitable for everyone except vegans and people with egg allergies. It’s great you’re so up for this, Clemmie.’
Laura’s Pavlova pictures were making my mouth water earlier. ‘Remind me what Eton mess is?’ I’m almost as excited as Sophie.
Sophie’s counting off her fingers. ‘Broken meringue, whipped cream, berries and bananas, works well served in a glass. You can add lemon and ginger too. Or mascarpone.’
