Sunshine & Secrets

by Sunshine

  The scent of warm buttery chocolate cake permeated the kitchen and she inhaled the wonderful aroma. She shoved the mixing bowl and cutlery into the sink and turned on the tap. Water spurted everywhere and her crimson vest top was splattered with a random pattern of droplets. She took a moment to survey the kitchen. Flour and cocoa powder scattered every available work surface, interspersed with splodges of butter, slivers of grated chocolate, and how had a smudge of orange marmalade appeared on the freezer door? Every available surface was strewn with implements and she knew she should tidy up as she went along, but that had always been her downfall. Unlike most professional chefs, she preferred to be surrounded by the paraphernalia of cooking, with not only the raw ingredients receiving her undivided attention but also her Kenwood mixer, her copper pans, her Jamie Oliver knives.

  Happiness rushing through her veins as she swept her hair away from her face, leaving a trail of flour along her cheek, she turned her attention to making the madeleines. The sweet smell of baking sent her memory scuttling back to her childhood when she and Jen began their mutual love affair with all things cake-related. They had stood on their tiptoes on a wooden stool next to their mother and whisked, beaten and licked to their hearts’ content. In her teens, she had been teased for frequently sporting a liberal dusting of flour or icing sugar, and, instead of the latest designer fragrance, a hint of caramelized apples.

  The sniggers of her peers had hurt but she had refused to allow it to define her. She was always going to be identified as different by her, albeit faint, French accent and therefore fodder for their adolescent jibes. She’d worked quickly on erasing it and now only a trace could be heard when she was tired, angry or under the influence of a few glasses of cognac when it would become as thick as royal icing on a wedding cake and no doubt impenetrable to the ears of the natives of rural Oxfordshire.

  She tested the final batch of cupcakes with a skewer and set them on wire racks to cool, then slid the trays of madeleines into the oven and started on the mini chocolate-truffle tortes. Baking had not only been her secret salvation in her teenage years, but had come to her rescue ever since in times of heartbreak and despair. Over the years at Le Cordon Bleu she grew accustomed to the compliments on her early forays into gastronomic alchemy. The obvious pleasure of hearing her tutors’ praise instilled a sweet taste of vanity in her heart and an addiction to its continuance.

  Each recipe she tried became more intricate. She would perform meticulous autopsies on pastries purchased from the bakeries dotted along the streets of Oxford, cataloguing each ingredient, recording its ability to interact with its companion, improving them until they became a serenade on the lips. She had even forced herself to memorize the science behind the art of baking in order to pass her exams; no mean feat for a girl who consistently spent her school days daydreaming about the recipes she’d work on once she got home.

  She ignored the detritus of culinary labour piling up in the sink and along the countertops and continued with the whirlwind of activity. As she decorated the cupcakes, she couldn’t prevent her thoughts flying back to Luke, his dark blue eyes staring into hers in the bedroom they shared above a flower shop, their bodies glistening with perspiration. She knew she should be grateful to him – early on in their relationship he had led her along such an idyllic path that she had truly believed she could come to terms with losing her beloved father. Their relationship had been tempestuous; the sex a revelation. But of course, like everything in her life, all good things must come to an end – and boy, did Luke do that in style.

  After removing the final tray of miniature chocolate-truffle tortes, she swept her eyes around the kitchen – a veritable cascade of chaos. It looked like a scene from The Caribbean Bake Off Massacre, but on the gastronomic battlefield there were bound to be casualties. She ran her eyes over the blobs of marmalade dripping down the front of the fridge, and the tea towels and dishcloths slumped amongst the washing-up. Realizing she was humming a Bob Marley tune, her lips curled into a smile. She stood back, hands on hips, to survey the fruits of her toil.

  With a jolt of surprise, she realized she had seriously over-baked. She had made over fifty madeleines, five dozen chocolate-and-orange-marmalade cupcakes and a tottering pyramid of chocolate tortes! Whilst she adored desserts of every variety, there was no way she was going to get through all that by herself.

  Noticing a long meandering snail’s trail of cocoa on the floor, she fished a cloth from the sink and knelt down to clean it up, her buttocks high in the air, wiggling from side to side as she got stuck into an off-key rendition of ‘No Woman, No Cry’. It was not her best angle to present to visitors.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home? Oh, my God, what’s happened here? Marmalade Armageddon?’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘A bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?’

  ‘I thought all professional chefs were possessed of Poirot-esque fastidiousness in their working environment? With expletives liberally dispensed to minions who step out of line with a whisk?’

  ‘I see you’ve fallen into the trap of viewing everyone as a Ramsayan cliché,’ she countered.

  ‘And do you usually model your culinary creations?’ Zach swept his eyes over her hair.

  Irritation rose in her chest at the continuation of their ridiculous verbal sparring but she was determined to remain calm and rise above it. She shot into the bathroom where the ornate, gilt-framed mirror confirmed his diagnosis. She was indeed wearing an assortment of the ingredients from her masterpieces. Her blonde hair resembled an ice-speckled pigeon’s nest, only it was flour not snow that had provided her with a generous dusting. More embarrassing, however, was the splodge of marmalade on her left cheek. She scrubbed it off with her cuff and smoothed down her fringe.

  ‘Hey, who said you could help yourself?’ smirked Millie, as she rejoined Zach who was busy munching his way through a still-warm cupcake, his palm positioned at his chin to catch any escaping morsel.

  ‘Well, you seem to have overestimated your pool of consumers. What do you plan on doing with five dozen cupcakes and a whole brigade of little shell-shaped cakes?’

  ‘They’re not “little shell-shaped cakes”, they’re madeleines.’

  Zach grinned mischievously as he helped himself to three.

  ‘Isn’t that a little greedy?’

  ‘They’re not for me.’

  Zach placed his fingers to his lips and gave a short whistle. A whirlwind of black-and-white fluff raced up the stairs and bowled straight across to greet Millie. Taken completely by surprise she stepped backwards, tripped over a bag of sugar she had left on the floor and tumbled onto her buttocks, knocking a glass measuring jug from its precarious position on the draining board onto the tiles. It shattered into four pieces.

  ‘Agh!’ She covered her face with her hands as the springer spaniel attempted to lick her cheek clean of its marmalade coating. ‘Get off me! Dogs are not allowed in the kitchen!’

  ‘Definitely not an animal lover, then? Is there anything you have an affinity with? If not humans or animals, perhaps plants? No, I’d hazard a guess you are as au fait with the natural environment as I am with whipping up a mango soufflé with raspberry-mint jus. Or are you just permanently grouchy? Come on, Binks, leave the lady alone.’

  The dog trotted obediently to Zach’s side and sat, his bead-like eyes trained longingly on the madeleines in his owner’s hands. Zach took pity on him and tossed one to his best friend before crouching down to offer Millie his palm to help her up.

  ‘For your information, I adore animals. Especially dogs!’

  Millie’s exasperation with Binks’s master gnawed at her chest. Once again she ignored his outstretched hand and pushed herself to standing, whilst Zach scooted round to collect the shards of glass, wrap them in a discarded flour bag and spray the floor with disinfectant. Finally, he tossed another of her madeleines to a grateful Binks.

  ‘They’re not dog biscuits, you know.’ Millie couldn’t understand why Za
ch’s presence made her so tetchy. Maybe it was because everything he said caused her to rise to the bait when he denigrated her character traits. So she couldn’t help herself saying, ‘And who calls their dog “Binks”? It’s a ludicrous name.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose you’d call him “Fluffy” or “Curly”, would you?’

  Millie had the grace to blush and decided to leave any further character assassination for a more auspicious occasion.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  She unearthed the kettle from beneath a pile of scrunched-up greaseproof paper and set it to boil.

  ‘So if you won’t share your bounty with Binks and me, what do you intend to do with it all? There’s enough to feed a ravenous regiment.’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.’

  She busied herself at the sink so as not to have to look at him. Now that Zach had mentioned it, her morning’s baking splurge did seem to be a waste of food. He was so infuriating – why did he have to be right as well?

  She slammed down a mug of coffee on the marble worktop in front of him, its contents sloshing onto the surface. Zach calmly tore off a piece of kitchen towel and wiped the spillage away before strolling outside to the balcony.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t intend to indulge in a secret cupcake-and-madeleine marathon, I might have an idea what you can do with the products of your impromptu bake off. And you can indulge in a little fun at the same time. You do know what fun is, don’t you? Do they have that in the cloudy skies and grim-streaked streets of London?’

  ‘Of course we do!’ Millie shot back before realizing that once again Zach had managed to hit the spot with his sarcasm. She most certainly had not had much fun in the capital’s hotspots over the last six months as she nursed her broken heart, despite Poppy’s constant encouragement. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Zach. ‘I can party with the best of them.’

  She saw Zach smirk as he realized his bullet had been well aimed and had found its mark. However, he was astute enough also to realize that the rising temperature in the room was radiating not from the oven but from the anger bubbling up inside Millie.

  ‘So, Little Miss Cupcake, I propose we take a trip down the hill to see a couple of friends of mine. You’ll like Dylan. He runs a diving school on the beach in Soufrière, mainly for a bunch of pale-skinned corporate guys anxious to experience a dose of excitement beneath the waves. It’s Sunday lunchtime so I think we can be sure to find him having a beer at the Purple Parrot next door.’

  ‘Great, I’m actually meeting a few friends there at three so that works perfectly.’

  Millie wasn’t ashamed to admit how much she enjoyed the expression of surprise zip across Zach’s handsome face, but he recovered well.

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you wrap everything up and slot those perfumed twinkly toes of yours in a pair of flip-flops? We’ll hop on my quad bike and deliver these mouth-watering examples of five-star baking to Andrew who owns the Purple Parrot. He can hand them out to his customers as a post-Sunday lunch treat. Every little helps to drum up business. It’s a win-win solution. I know Claudia would approve and nothing will be wasted. I’ll introduce you to Lottie who works behind the bar. I think you two will get on famously.’

  Millie’s simmering irritation with Zach was suddenly doused. Perhaps this grouchy guy did possess some redeeming features after all. It was a very generous-spirited answer to her dilemma. She had no problem with the donation of the products of her labour. What she did have an issue with was riding on the back of a quad bike with Zach at the wheel. Yet how could she refuse without looking uncharitable and confirming all his suspicions about her? Could she suggest they walked down to the town? Yet how would they carry everything? And where was her courage and her promise to herself to try new things? But, quad biking?

  ‘Fine. Just give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Great, see you in the courtyard. Come on, Binks. I’ll drop you off at the lodge.’

  Millie busied herself tearing off sheets of greaseproof paper. She wrapped up the chocolate tortes, most of the cupcakes – well, she had to eat something – and half of the madeleines, stashing them in a couple of plastic boxes which she then tied with string so she could hook them over her arm.

  Finally, she cast a glance around the kitchen. It was a complete mess. Oh, well, she would tidy up when she got back. She had nothing else to do before the hard work started on the villa’s kitchen the next day and she and Ella got stuck into the recipe testing.

  She stripped off her flour-covered T-shirt and replaced it with an embroidered kaftan her mother had bought her for her birthday, teaming it with her navy capri pants. She would have preferred to wear heeled sandals, but decided that in this instance practicality should reign over sartorial elegance. She wasn’t sure what the dress etiquette was for the back of a quad bike but she hazarded a guess it was not short skirts and stilettos. Finally, she ran a comb through her hair before reluctantly taking the route of least resistance and tying it back with Poppy’s hair tie.

  She grabbed her baked goodies and trotted down the stairs for her rendezvous with the dreaded mechanical bronco. Unsurprisingly, Zach was already waiting for her, revving the engine. He surveyed her change of clothes and her brightly coloured sequinned flip-flops.

  ‘Hurry up and hop on, Pastry Princess. Unless, of course, you want to get caught in the daily downpour?’

  Chapter Eight

  Millie had ridden a jet ski many times along the sparkling sea of the Côte d’Azur, but never a mud-splattered quad bike. The thought was just too incongruous. The vehicle looked like something a schoolboy had designed for a James Bondesque computer quest. She climbed onto the padded seat, her heart doing its best to escape from her ribcage, her stomach churning in trepidation when she remembered how steep the hill down to Soufrière was.

  ‘Hold on tight!’

  Zach pulled away much faster than Millie had expected, forcing her to grab on to his waist or risk somersaulting from the back. As she clung on for dear life, she could feel the tautness of his muscles through his flimsy cotton T-shirt and a ripple of something she hadn’t felt in months meandered through her lower abdomen and sent heat to her cheeks. She had never been so grateful to be occupying the rear seat.

  Telling herself she was assisting with the aerodynamics, she scooted closer to Zach, moulding her body to his. She was surprised at how perfect a fit they were as she relished the whiff of his citrussy cologne in the oncoming breeze that caused her senses to fizz.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Millie replied, a smile tugging her lips.

  ‘Do you think you could loosen your grip a little then? I’m not a fan of medieval torture and your fingernails are sharp enough to be pressed into service on a bed of nails!’

  ‘Oh, sorry!’

  Millie relaxed her grasp and instead of dwelling on the unfamiliar reaction she had just experienced to Zach’s proximity, she concentrated her attention on the way the afternoon sun washed the dark volcanic triangles of the Pitons in a golden hue, producing a frame of fire for their beauty.

  They arrived in Soufrière a few minutes later and she heaved a sigh of relief when she dismounted in the town’s main street, a corridor of vibrant Caribbean entertainment no matter what the browser’s preference. Restaurants and cafés fought for space with souvenir shops and excursion vendors; chapels of consumerism designed to tempt the unwary into parting with their holiday dollars. Tourists spilled out from the beachside bars, swaying their hips to the calypso and reggae rhythms, safe in the knowledge that the office would not beckon the next day.

  Nestled at the far end of the main street was the Purple Parrot. Its thatched roof and wide-open shutters were exactly as Millie had expected. The door was ajar, and, as she stepped inside, the scent of the sweet hibiscus that dangled like a lei garland around the eaves floated into her nostrils. At the rear, the bar’s wooden veranda led directly onto the beach and was
set with an eclectic collection of tables and chairs. Diners lingered over their freshly ground coffees and exotic cocktails whilst other patrons had removed their shoes and taken to the sand to dance to the muted virtuoso of sounds rippling from the speakers on the steps.

  A young couple had ventured as far as the waves, shoving each other closer and closer into the froth of the ebb and flow, alternately laughing and shrieking with objection as they dashed away from an inevitable soaking.

  ‘Come on. I’ll introduce you to Andrew.’

  Zach guided Millie to the bar where the proprietor of the Purple Parrot was shaking a cocktail as if auditioning for a starring role in a Tom Cruise movie. His eyes constantly flicked around the room; clearly a man with an ingrained habit of checking his diners’ needs. His lined face cracked into a smile when he spotted them approaching.

  ‘Hey, Zach! Great to see you, man… and your girlfriend.’ He wiped his palms on the front of his chef’s whites before grabbing Millie’s fingers and raising them to his lips. ‘Landed yourself a beauty this time.’

  Millie saw Zach roll his eyes. Clearly this was a well-worn routine between the friends. ‘Andrew, this is Amelia Harper. She’s here to help set up the Paradise Cookery School for Claudia. She’s brought you an abundance of delicious pastries to distribute to your lucky customers – free of charge. Oh, and be nice to her. No teasing – she’s French.’

  ‘Ignore him. I’m actually half French. What’s the problem with being French, anyway?’ She shot Zach a withering look but he was busy opening the boxes of cakes and missed it. ‘Please, call me Millie. It’s good to meet you, Andrew.’

  ‘Manic Millie here had a feverish frenzy in the kitchen this morning and seriously overestimated her appetite. Couldn’t let all these goodies go to waste. There’s probably over a hundred chocolate cupcakes in here.’