I push my way off and change onto the Piccadilly Line. My B&B is in a part of London called Bloomsbury. I chose it on the internet because it looked close to the studio where the baking competition is going to be filmed. I reckoned that ‘Bloomsbury’ sounded cool – kind of pretty and old-fashioned with lots of cherry trees and cobbled squares.
Yeah, right.
There’s a horrid lift at Russell Square station and I have to cram into it with loads of other bleary-eyed people all trying not to look at one another. The lift judders, stops, starts and creaks to ground level, before we’re all spewed out into the station and then out into the humid, stale-smelling London air.
I slide my rucksack off my shoulders to give them a rest. Then I look left and right and consult the map I printed off the Net this morning. The roads are crammed with traffic and people and I can’t see the street names at first, so I set off in what I hope is the right direction and after about five minutes of struggle I end up at a small grey concrete building that sits at one end of a square with railings around it. There’s a flight of steps leading up to the front door and I just can’t face them at the moment so I cross the road and go to find a bench in the square.
There’s a statue of a woman’s head in one corner. She’s got a beaky nose and a thin, sad-looking face. The head is made of bronze and is covered in pigeon droppings. I look at the plaque underneath. It’s somebody called ‘Virginia Woolf’ and she used to live in a building on this square. She looks about as miserable as I feel. I wonder if she had CF?
I sit next to Virginia, lean back and drink loads of water from one of my bottles. I feel like I need a snack but I’m scared to eat too much without my Creon, so I nibble on the corner of a Mars Bar and then fold the wrapper back over the rest and put it away again.
I drag myself back over the road and up the stairs into the B&B reception.
The building is very modern. When I booked it I pictured an old-fashioned Victorian sort of building, with hanging baskets and a friendly woman on reception with maybe a hotel cat perched on the desk.
There’s nobody at the small reception desk inside the door, so I ping the bell and wait.
A dark-haired woman with olive skin and large gold earrings shuffles down the hallway in a pair of oversized fluffy slippers.
‘Yes, love?’ she says.
‘I’m booked in for three nights,’ I say, breathless. ‘I think.’
I don’t really know. It all depends whether I get past the quarter-finals tomorrow.
‘You look very young,’ says the woman.
‘I’m nearly sixteen,’ I say, drawing myself up as tall as my short body will allow me to. I put my purse on the desk and raise my eyebrows at her, tapping my fingertips on the polished wood in what I hope is a grown-up, impatient fashion.
‘I’m booked in,’ I say again. ‘Melanie Smith.’ It’s all part of my mega-plan of deception. I don’t want anybody ringing up this B&B and somehow finding out that I’m here. Or at least – I didn’t. None of this seems quite such a good idea now that I’ve lost all my medication.
My chest is making the noises that mean that any moment now I’m going to start to cough and not be able to stop.
The woman gives me a small smile. I reckon I look pretty pale and washed up.
‘You’re checked in,’ she says. ‘You pay when you check out. Breakfast is from eight until ten. Continental only, I’m afraid.’
The way my stomach’s feeling, that’s probably a good thing.
Then the woman hands me a key and tells me that my room is on the first floor.
There’s no lift so I drag myself up the stairs, my lungs tugging on every step. I open the door to Room Eight and shut it behind me.
I stand by the bed and look around.
The room is very small. The double bed with its dull brown bedspread pretty much fills most of it. There’s a tiny television on a table in one corner and a dressing table on the wall nearest the door. A white door leads into the smallest bathroom I’ve ever seen. There’s no room for a bath, just a shower which drips onto a mat in the corner. On the shelf over the toilet are three tiny plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner and a shower cap.
I stare around me at this dismal picture for a moment or two and try not to picture my pretty bedroom at home with its white soft duvet, oak desk and bedside lamp. Then I open the zip on my rucksack.
‘Might as well unpack,’ I say, although there’s nobody to say it to. I hang up my new dress in the cramped wardrobe and put my t-shirts and jeans on a shelf inside it. Then I arrange all my snacks and drinks on the little table by the bed.
‘Too bad I won’t be able to eat you,’ I say to them. My stomach is growling with hunger and anxiety all at once.
I get my recipe notebook out and perch cross-legged on the bed, with my hair half-falling over my face. I run through what I’ve got to do a couple of times until I feel more confident. I had to email the television studio about two weeks ago with a list of all the ingredients I’m going to use and I’ m hoping that they’ve got everything I need.
At ten o’clock I stop and lie down. My chest feels tight and clogged and I’m missing my inhaler already. I look at my mobile but can’t bring myself to switch it on. Round about now Mum will call Gemma to ask why I’m not back yet, because we’ve got hospital in the morning. And Gemma will have to confess her part in all this and tell Mum to go and read the note on her pillow.
I feel sick with a sense of my own daring when I think of Mum reading that note.
‘Breathing,’ I say to myself. ‘At least I can still do that.’
I lie on my back and do forty minutes of the autogenic drainage exercises like Tom showed me. The rattling in my chest is dreadful today. I don’t think that CF reacts very well to stress.
After I’ve finished my exercises I eat a couple of biscuits and eye up the treacle tarts that I made yesterday. They look good cold, but I know if I eat too much without Creon I’m going to be in agony in the middle of the night. I eat one bite from one of the tarts and then wrap it up again. I drink another high-calorie milk drink from one of my little bottles and then I get into my sleep t-shirt and huddle under the thin bedcovers, with the cheap curtains doing a bad job of blocking out any light.
Down below my room London continues to roar with life right into the next morning. The traffic in the square hoots and roars and brakes squeal. About a million fire engines blaze past with their sirens blaring every half an hour or so, right through the night.
At three in the morning I get up again and have another drink. My stomach feels tender when I press it and I’m struggling a bit for breath. I sit by the window and gaze down on the lights of London until I feel tired.
Then I hop back into bed and at last fall asleep just before it’s time to get up.
***
When I wake in the morning I do my breathing again and put on the small plastic kettle that I found inside my wardrobe. I make myself a cup of coffee with sugar in it to try and make up for the lack of sleep.
I get out my best red t-shirt and skinny jeans and lay them on the bed while I take a shower. The water only seems to come out lukewarm, but I haven’t really got any other option, so I wash as best as I can and use the free conditioner on my hair because I’ve left my own bottle at home.
All the time I’m getting ready I hum loudly. I’m trying to block out the thoughts of Mum that keep popping into my head. She’ll be furious. And worried out of her mind, and embarrassed because she’ll have to call the hospital and tell them that I won’t be coming in for my operation after all.
At least she won’t be able to find my B&B. I didn’t even tell Gemma where I was staying. And I hid the letter with the details of the competition on them in a hope that Mum won’t have remembered where it was taking place.
I make a face at myself in the mirror. I look dreadful. My skin is white and dry and there are dark furrows under each eye. My hair has gone lank from the cheap conditioner and I swea
r my face looks thinner than it did yesterday. I wish I could eat.
I wish I hadn’t lost my black leather bag on the train.
I manage a few squares of dark chocolate with my coffee. That will have to do for breakfast. I’ve got to get to the studios by half-past nine and it’s already nearly nine.
I stuff my purse, phone and recipe lists into one of my pockets and two bottles of milk drink into the other. I haven’t got a small bag to carry my stuff in and I don’t really want to turn up to the competition with that enormous rucksack on my back so it will have to do.
I take a last look round the poky room and leave it with relief. I get the lift downstairs, go past reception and out into the bewildering mess and noise of Bloomsbury. I search about a bit and find a line of black taxis so I get into one trying to look as if I know what I’m doing and I give the driver the address of the studios. Then I sit back and attempt to look like a healthy, confident and streetwise London girl who hops into black cabs every single day. I see the driver look at me once or twice in the mirror and I know that this is not what he’s seeing, but I keep a silly fixed smile on my face and look about the streets with what I hope is a knowing sort of look on my face.
The cab ride costs over twenty quid which seems a lot for such a short ride, but I pay it with the same smile on my face and then turn round and prance into the building in front of me as if I’ve known it all my life.
I find myself standing in a vast glass entrance hall with a shiny black desk right at the very end of it. There’s a blonde woman sitting behind it so I go and give her my name and she writes me out a plastic badge and tells me to put it on and wait on the black sofas.
I sink into the soft black leather and gaze up at the giant TV screens in front of me. Loads of trendy looking people rush into the reception area and flash their security passes at a machine to get into the main building behind it.
I sit with my legs clenched together, chewing my lip and looking around. Hope they haven’t forgotten about me. I’m finding it hard to believe I actually made it to London all on my own, spent a night in a rubbish hotel and then found my way here.
‘This is it,’ I whisper to myself for confidence. ‘Flour Power!’
I feel a bit better when I think of my favourite catchphrase, but not for long. There’s the familiar, dreaded shifting in the centre of my chest and the feeling of something catching.
‘Oh no,’ I mutter. Then I double up with my head towards my knees and cough for England. The noise echoes around the vast polished entrance hall and seems to bounce off the white walls and come back to me, like a cough boomerang. People stare at me as they walk past but nobody stops.
I cough on and on. Can’t seem to stop. I could do with my inhaler right now and a nice steadying breath of oxygen.
When I come up for air there’s a woman standing over me with a look of concern on her face.
‘Are you alright?’ she says. ‘You don’t look terribly well.’
She’s tall with blonde hair and has a name badge on which says ‘Elaine McDonald, Floor Manager.’ I glance at the shiny floors around us.
‘Your floors look very well managed,’ I say, trying to be polite, even though I’m finding it hard to catch my breath.
The woman stares at me for at a moment. Then she sees me looking at her name badge and bursts out laughing.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I see. Well – actually I’m the floor manager in the studio. It means that I direct everybody as to what to do when the cameras are rolling. Make sure everyone is in the right place. Anyway, I take it you’re here for Best Teen Baker? Don’t you have a parent with you?’
I nod. My eyes are watering from the last bout of coughing but I stand up and shake the woman’s hand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’ve just got over the flu. And my mum is coming along later.’
Wow. I could lie for the Olympic Games, I’m getting so good at it.
I follow Elaine into the black lifts at the back of the building and she takes me down endless long corridors and up more flights of stairs until I’m gasping for breath again but I do my best to hide it. We end up in a big space full of cooking stations and people setting up cameras and microphones.
‘Here we are,’ says Elaine. ‘We’ll be having a rehearsal when everybody’s here. That means you’ll get to run through your recipes before we start the cameras rolling. OK?’
I nod. That sounds like a good idea. I’m so tired and nervous that my brain has gone blank. I finger the recipe book in my pocket for comfort.
‘The main competition will be filmed at four,’ says Elaine. ‘It won’t go out on TV for a good few months yet. We get you to sign an agreement not to tell anybody about who gets through and who doesn’t. That way the viewers keep watching TV to find out.’
I nod again. I like Elaine. She seems friendly and capable. If only she also doubled up as a CF nurse and I could tell her I desperately need some oxygen. I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the shiny door of the giant fridge on set and I swear that my lips are actually turning a bit blue round the edges.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Elaine is saying. ‘It’s very hot outside. Great air con in here, though.’
In fact I feel frozen. Because I’m thinner than a girl my age should be, I feel cold even in the middle of summer. The air conditioning in here is sharp and vicious, blowing great gusty drafts of ice-cold air around my aching bones.
‘Something warm would be good,’ I say. Elaine sends another girl off with orders for a couple of coffees and then her attention is distracted by the arrival of another group of competitors, so I take the chance to sit on a stool and steady myself.
I take a look at the cooking stations. They’re really cool. There are twelve of them dotted about the large studio, each with a built-in cooker and plenty of granite work surface for chopping and food preparation. Shiny steel spotlights are angled over each station and as I look around, a man comes in with a huge trolley and starts unloading ingredients. I recognise mine when he starts putting out a load of dark chocolate bars and sugar for my mini-chocolate fondant puddings, golden syrup and treacle for my sticky gingerbread and boxes of eggs and tubs of cream for my Chantilly crème and vanilla custard. Then he puts out flour, cocoa powder, chopped nuts, eggs and butter for my macaroons.
My heart gives a little thrill of excitement and nerves. I made it. I’m here. I’m actually going to take part in the competition!
That’s if my chest doesn’t seize up first.
It really hurts.
I’m trying to ignore the pain but I’m wondering if I’ve started another chest infection because my head feels a bit giddy and, although I’m shivering, my head is burning hot. I’ve lost my appetite, too. Even the thought of a biscuit makes me feel sick.
I gulp on the hot sugary cappuccino that Elaine’s PA brings me and lick the froth off my lips. It’s not as good as the ones I make at home but I feel a bit better, even though my stomach feels twisted and tender.
I wonder who it was who stole my leather bag?
I reckon they got one heck of a disappointment when they opened it and found a load of useless tablets and medical gadgets, rather than a big purse full of money or an expensive iPhone.
‘Serves them right,’ I mutter.
Then we’re all beckoned over to the cooking stations with our ingredients on them.
I take a look at the other contestants.
There are five other girls and six boys, most of them about the same age as me although one or two look older. The girls look very assured and confident. They’re all in jeans and pretty tops with shiny hair tied back into fluffy ponytails and loads of lipgloss.
I hadn’t thought to put any make-up on for today.
My t-shirt is plain and red and boring. I was saving the best outfit for if I got through to the final. I tug at my hair and try to let it fall over my face in what I hope passes for a sophisticated and confident manner, but it just lies in lank strands
over my shoulders.
I’m just wondering whether I should make the effort to go and talk to the other contestants, when Elaine bears down on me in a cloud of sickly perfume. Great. Another cough trigger.
‘You’ll have to tie that up,’ she whispers, pointing at my hair and passing me an elastic band. ‘Food hygiene, I’m afraid.’
I gather up my hair and shove it back into a thin pony-tail. I hate having my hair tied back so now I feel as if my pale, ill face is even more on show than it was before.
A whole load of new lights are flicked on. They’re so bright that I almost can’t see for a moment.
‘OK, folks,’ shouts a man behind a camera with a black and white board in his hand. ‘We’re doing a dummy run just to see how you all look on camera and to get you used to cooking on this equipment. Just relax and cook your best recipes. You’ve got two hours.’
Elaine is standing next to him with a clipboard in her hand. She gives us all the thumbs-up and the man shouts, ‘AND… ACTION!’ Before I know it I’m deep into measuring out flour and melting butter and treacle for my sticky German gingerbread.
I lose myself in what I’m doing. It’s amazing, cooking in the TV studio with all the beautiful pots and shiny gadgets. I’m so immersed in the joy of it that I jump out of my skin when a buzzer sounds and the man behind the camera shouts, ‘AND… CUT! Well done, everybody.’
Elaine comes over and has a word with each of us in turn.
When she reaches my station she smiles.
‘You did very well, particularly if you’ve still got the flu,’ she says. I know I’m looking pretty rough because I feel dreadful. ‘So what will happen later at this stage is that the judges will call you forwards with your three dishes and they’ll try a mouthful of each and tell you what they think. Then they’ll decide who’s going through to the semi. OK?’
She’s about to pass onto the next contestant and say the same thing again but I stop her.
‘Elaine,’ I say, ‘what happens now? It’s ages until four o’clock.’
‘You’re free,’ says Elaine. ‘You need to be back here at half-two for hair and make-up. Other than that, the afternoon is yours! Go and enjoy London!’
The Baking Life of Amelie Day Page 9
