Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s Read Free Page A

boom and dope’ lines?

2
    ‘ H ello. Cupcakes at Carrington’s
…
how may I direct your
caaall
?’ This throws me for a second. It’s definitely Sam’s bubbly ‘everything is lovely in the world’ voice, but there’s an East Coast American accent attached to it now.
    ‘Sam, is everything OK?’ I ask, tentatively, as I duck into the little recessed vestibule behind my counter. We’re not really supposed to make personal calls during opening hours, but everyone does, and as long as the shop floor is quiet and we’re discreet, it’s all right.
    ‘Oh, thank God it’s only you,’ Sam says, back in her normal voice.
    ‘What’s going on?’ I hesitate, and then brace myself for the answer. I’ve known Sam since school and, despite my abrupt exit halfway through, catapulting our lives in totally different directions, we managed to stay in touch and be best friends ever since. But she has dragged me through some real harebrained escapades over the years. Sam’s always been a real foodie, so when Miss Sims retired and some genius here decided the Carrington’s tearoom needed an overhaul, I rang her right away.
    At the time, Sam had just been sacked from her personal shopper job at Harvey Nichols because she’d spent more time concentrating on the ‘personal’ part of her job title than actually trying to sell things to the customers. But her ex-boss had been so impressed with her sterling spending efforts that she’d been given a platinum store card by way of a sweetener. So, after a cash injection from her mega-wealthy dad, Sam made the move down from Chelsea to Mulberry-On-Sea and now reigns supreme over her gorgeous café. It has a honey-hued interior and reclaimed train seats upholstered in crimson velvet, sectioned into booths, so you feel as though you’re actually in a real vintage steam train, complete with golden glow lighting from frilly-shaded table lamps. It’s very nostalgic in an
Orient Express
kind of
way. And the food is to die for – salted caramel cupcakes, rainbow salads, delicious artisan breads and the most fabulous afternoon cream teas you can possibly imagine. Homemade scones piled high with strawberry jam and gooey clotted cream, surrounded by delicate finger sandwiches crammed with every filling imaginable.
    ‘Oh nothing. It’s just some guy called Justin. He says we met a few months ago at a club. Well, anyway he keeps calling and texting.’
    ‘Hmm … why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested?’
    ‘Well I tried, but he’s being very persistent. Anyway, I’m hoping the other guy calls and I can pretend to be unavailable?’ she says, dramatically. ‘Hence the screening, this way I can take orders over the phone and still make myself appear elusive and mysteriously hard to get at the same time.’ She laughs, seemingly satisfied with her elaborate plan.
    ‘So who’s the other guy then?’ I ask, feeling confused. The last time we spoke, just a couple of days ago, she was going on about some guy called Steve. Sam changes her men like the rest of us switch TV channels, making it near on impossible to keep up with her.
    ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe I haven’t told you about him yet. It
must
be love. I’m losing my mind already. He’s only “the one”. I met him when I was having my monthly dinner date with Dad on Friday, up in London at The Ivy. He was on the next table, and well he’s a lawyer, maritime or something, and he lives here but commutes to London. And he’s a gentleman, not full of himself like all those shouty Cityboy types, but anyway, Dad knew his boss, so we got chatting and he’s absolutely drop-dead, knicker-ripping gorgeous. Not that he’s done that yet, but I’m working on it.’ I try and push the image of Sam’s knickers being ripped from her body, from my mind.
    ‘Are you still there?’ I say, having heard about ‘the one’ a zillion times before.
    ‘Yes. Err sorry,’ she sighs, no doubt having lost herself in some