Yet it’s hard to stay down in St Aidan. Especially when you wake up to the sun glinting off a pale turquoise sea, the seagulls wheeling against a sky filled with cotton-white clouds, and surf lines stretching right across the width of the bay. Sure, Ross may have hurt me because he didn’t turn out to be the guy I thought he was. And with me falling accidentally pregnant, and then getting over the loss of not being, the fallout was out of all proportion to our very short time together. But it was a long time ago.
All those times, over the years before, when Charlie brought Ross home, he’d never been anything less than his smiling, very clever, hugely fanciable and charming self. But that’s not to say he was perfect to the point of being boring. In fact he was pretty all-round flawless in the most interesting and off-beat quirky ways.
He teased us five sisters in exactly the right amounts to make us tease him back. He brought my mum her favourite dark blue anemones when the rest of us hadn’t even noticed she liked flowers. And not only did he know all the characters inThe Archers, he was up for discussing the plot twists with her too. He chatted to my dad about theTodayprogramme and Frank Zappa. I mean, who else did that without falling asleep?
Basically, as far as our entire family were concerned, the sun shone out through the strategically placed rips in his tight, Levi-clad tush. What’s more, it wasn’t just at home where he excelled. He was always telling us about the times at vet college when he’d taken on entire herds of cows and got the better of them. Once he’d even anaesthetised an elephant with a bloody tranquillising dart. This was the kind of superman we were dealing with.
Which was why it was such a shock when he and I got into metaphorical deep water and I discovered when it came to the big stuff, he couldn’t actually swim. There’s that Eleanor Roosevelt quote about women being like tea bags – you only know how strong they are when you get them into hot water. In Ross’s case the tea he made had no colour at all. You could say the whole damned bag pretty much collapsed. Which wasn’t what I was expecting, because it simply wasn’t what he’d led us to believe.
But, hey! That was then and this is now. I found out I could do it on my own anyway, which was the best lesson in empowerment I could have had. More importantly, I’m not the kind of woman to let a reappearing ex ruin my working holiday. Especially an ex as insignificant as Ross. So I’m determined to make things better in the best way I know – by baking. Which is why I’ll be throwing myself straight into my brownie trials.
‘I mustn’t overlook caramel and custard cream. But then I also love Nutella ones…’
I plug in my hair tongs, curl up on the deep-pink velvet sofa, and smooth down my favourite ditsy-print shift dress. Then Diesel flops down beside me, and as my phone pings I reach to check it.
I’d trust the meringue tips more if that cake hadn’t been #totallyraw
What a pretender! #CrappyCupcake
These are the comments I’ve been rising above ever since the baking show went on air, with two more wonderful new hashtags today. You have to hand it to the haters for their creativity; who’d have thought there’d be so many different ways to say ‘not quite cooked’.
It must be at least an hour since I checked my emails too, and as I flip through my inbox and see the name Martha Channing I almost choke. Isn’t it always the way? You refresh every two minutes for three months and the moment you turn your back, the mail you’ve been aching for drops into the inbox.
Martha is my agent, and this will be her letting me know the book contract has come through from the publisher, which also means the mahoosive advance will be dropping into my bank account as soon as I sort my digital signature.
I squint at the email.
Cressy, Are you around for a call later this morning? Martha x
Even in the media and magazine world, having an agent is the kind of big thing that only happens on the back of a TV show. And this is how lovely Martha is; she’s actually taking the time to tell me in person that the cash is on its way.
I writeHell, yes!Then delete that and try to sound more like the pro I’m going to be.
Martha, Lovely, eleven thirty would be fab. HUGE thanks, Cressy xxxxx
Then as I press send it hits me; she usually does a face-to-face call, so both sides of my hair have to be the sameandI need makeup. And Diesel needs a walk before then. And I can’t take a high-calibre call like this without some serious calories on board to get my sugar levels up. So that means pulling in a trip to the bakery too. Which luckily is just around the corner, because seeing it’s already ten, my feet aren’t going to touch the ground.
It’s that same sod’s law with my hair. When it doesn’t matter it’s a dream to do, but when I’m trying for perfect it’s a pig. The only way I can calm myself down enough to smooth anything out is by thinking of champagne. Not that I’m going to go crazy, but something this big is worth popping a cork over. And I’ll treat myself to fish and chips with all the trimmings to go with it. Then wave a finger at all the #soggybottom miseries as I enjoy it.
This is a whole new jumping-off point for Cressida Cupcake, and as we set off through the village it feels like Diesel’s upping his game too. By the time we’re tearing up the hill to Crusty Cobs he’s trotting beside me like an obedience champion. For me, splashing out on a box of four strawberry tarts is both a treatandan investment, and just to celebrate how much in the money I’m going to be, I buy a couple of almond croissants to eat on my way home too. All we’ve got to do now is make it up the stairs to the flat without expiring, and then I’ll take the call on the pink sofa where the signal’s strong. With a few well-placed patchwork cushions and the turquoise and green stripy wall behind me, it’ll be job done. No one could accuse me of not going the extra mile on my prep.
It’s all going so brilliantly as we cross the harbour on our way back to the flat, there’s even enough time to loop beyond the stacks of lobster pots and wind along the quay edge where the bright coloured fishing boats are bobbing beside the piles of nets, which Diesel likes to sniff. When I hear my ringtone, I stuff the last of the first croissant into my mouth and the second into my cardigan pocket. Then I fish the phone out of my bag, hang onto Diesel and answer automatically, thinking it’s probably Charlie or Clemmie. It’s only as my finger hits accept on the call that I clock that it’s Martha ten minutes before she’s due.
As I pull Diesel closer there’s a cascade of pastry flakes falling from my mouth as I try to speak. ‘Maaaarrrfff… How luffffly…’
‘Cressy, great to see you. I’m a little earlier than we said, but you’re obviously ready and looking fantastic.’
I was right about the face-to-face call, and she’s on speaker phone, but I’m not going to risk changing that now. ‘Mwaaaaaaaa…eeeee…’ This isn’t a reply, it’s my protest as Diesel’s nose homes in on the spare croissant and edges it out of my pocket. For once he doesn’t gulp it, but the way he holds it down on the cobbles with his paw and takes little tugs with his teeth, it’s as if he’s trying to torture me.
Martha’s screen is entirely filled with my exploding face but she’s pushing on. Her voice is booming around the harbour, which is fine because I feel like whooping too.
‘There’s been a tiny hitch, Cressy, but it’s not unexpected after all the hashtag-soggy-bottoms we’re contending with.’ The lovely thing about Martha is she’s so cheery and supportive, she always makes me feel like a winner. It’s too bad she’s telling the whole of St Aidan about the hashtag. Worse still that she’s seen them at all.
‘Mmmmhmmm…’ I’m letting out silent wails for my disappearing pastry but as the word ‘hitch’ sinks in, my attention snaps back to Martha. More fool me for seeing this as my ownprivatenightmare.
Martha carries on. ‘We can’t blame the marketing department for getting chilly feet!’
Damn, damn, damn. When the backlash is so public, of course the publishers will know about it too. But she sounds so bright it can’t be that bad.
