‘Well, that would be insulting too, wouldn’t it? If you thought I had to say you were twenty-eight just to flatter you.’
‘So I can’t pass for twenty-eight?’ said Issy sadly. Pearl threw up her hands.
‘What do I need to do to get out of this conversation?’
Issy sighed. Pearl glanced at her. Wasn’t like Issy to be down.
‘What?’
Issy shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just … Well, you know. It’s my birthday. On Thursday in fact. It’s just … it must have crept up on me. Normally I never forget my birthday.’
Issy called Helena.
‘Uh, Lena. You know Thursday is my birthday?’
There was a pause.
‘Oh Issy, that’s three days away!’
‘Yes, I know. I, er, forgot.’
‘You’re in denial, more like.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Shut up.’
‘OK, well, will we do something on the weekend? I’m on night shift Thursday and I’ve already swapped once, I can’t do it again. I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Issy, feeling dejected.
‘Want to do something on Sunday? Ashok’s off too.’
‘The weather might be gone by Sunday,’ said Issy, conscious she sounded like she was moaning. Plus, what was she expecting? She’d been ignoring her friends pretty much solidly for months while she got the shop up and running; she could hardly complain now that they wouldn’t drop everything at a second’s notice to celebrate her special day when she couldn’t even remember to send cards for their first babies or house moves.
She was a little sharper than usual in saying no to Felipe when he came in politely, as he did once a week, to ask her if he could serenade her customers on the violin. She knew Stoke Newington was bohemian and a bit exotic, but she still wasn’t entirely convinced as to the wisdom of having a wandering troubadour getting into people’s faces when they were trying to enjoy a quiet cake and the paper. Felipe never seemed remotely insulted or perturbed, merely spinning a few notes and moving on, tipping his black hat as he went.
‘Sometimes,’ said Pearl, watching him depart, his cheery dog at his heels, ‘I think this is a very peculiar neighbourhood. And you should see where I come from.’
The sun was still shining on Thursday morning, that was one good thing. Issy swallowed: she couldn’t help thinking back to a year ago. They’d all gone out to the pub after work to cele brate her birthday and it had been a total laugh: she and Graeme had kept pretending to sneak out for a cigarette, though neither of them smoked, then snogging up the alleyway like teenagers. It wasn’t like Graeme to be so romantic and demonstrative, not like him at all. It had been an amazing evening. She’d been so happy with the idea of being swept off her feet by the boss, full of plans, she remembered. She’d thought … she’d thought there might even be a ring by this year. That seemed absolutely ridiculous now. Stupid. He certainly wouldn’t be thinking about it now, that was for sure.
She knew when Graeme’s birthday was: 17 September. She’d signed his office card like everyone else but liked to think she’d put special meaning into the line of kisses she’d written underneath his name; or at least that he would understand what they meant. He was a Virgo, with finicky habits and a perfectionist streak; all of that made perfect sense to Issy too. She liked to check his horoscope; it made her feel protective, like it gave her ownership. But of course he’d never have remembered hers. Anyway, he’d even told her once that he thought girls were idiots when it came to presents and stuff like that. He wouldn’t have cared even if they had still been together. She sighed.
In fact she was suddenly wishing she’d never mentioned the birthday thing to anyone, just completely ignored it. It was embarrassing in front of Helena and Ashok, like they were her only friends; and a horrid reminder that, however hard she worked, and whatever new face creams she bought, and the fact that she still shopped in Topshop, nonetheless, time was ticking away. She bit her lip. No. She wouldn’t think like that. Thirty-two was nothing. Nothing at all. Helena wasn’t the least bit worried about her age, and she’d been thirty-three for ages. Just because some of her friends were insisting on flaunting big bumps all over the place, just because all those yummy Stoke Newington mummies didn’t seem any older than her when they hung out with their precious little Olivias and Finns. So what? She was definitely getting her life sorted; she was definitely in a better place than she’d been a year ago; she had a proper job. At least the Cupcake Café made her happy. The phone rang. For a tiny, fluttery second, she found herself wondering if it was Graeme.
‘Hello?’ said an old voice, a little crackly down the line. ‘Hello?’
Issy smiled to herself. ‘Gramps!’
‘Are you going to have a lovely day, darling?’ came her grandfather’s voice. It sounded weaker than of late; breathier, as if he was getting lighter and lighter; untethering himself.
Issy remembered birthdays above the bakery. Grampa would make her a special, huge cake, far too big for herself and the handful of friends who would visit her house and ask where her mother was, or, if her mother was there, ask why her mother was wearing twigs in her hair, and sitting very quietly with her legs crossed, one mortifying year when Issy turned nine and her mother was deep into transcendental meditation and had told Issy if she practised hard enough, she could learn how to fly.
But mostly they were good memories: the pink icing, the candles, the lights dimmed, Gramps’s full table of goodies – no wonder she had been such a plump child – and everyone in the bakery popping their heads round the door to say happy birthday, warned as they had been in advance by her proud grandfather. There had been plenty of gifts – not big gifts, just felt-tip pens and notebooks and bits and pieces, but she had felt like a princess and rich with it all. If someone had told her then it was entirely possible to feel lonely on your birthday, she wouldn’t have believed them. But she did.
Issy took a deep breath.
‘Yes,’ she lied, stoutly. ‘I’m having a big party with all my friends in a lovely restaurant; we’re going out for a meal and they’ve all clubbed together to buy me a fantastic present.’ She tried not to let a wobble escape into her voice. That she would go to work, open up, bake, serve customers, cash up, lock up, come home, eat carrot soup, watch TV and go to bed. Oh no … She heard a knock at the door and knew instantly that it was the Parcelforce man, delivering her annual box of Californian wine from her mother. Well, that was even worse. She would drink some wine then go to bed, thus ensuring herself a hangover as well as everything else.