‘Yeah.’ There seems no point in lying.
I turn on the hob ready to melt the butter. For some reason, I feel kind of nervous and on edge – it could be the hospital visit, or the intruder that was here. But if I’m honest, it’s probably Violet’s mention of Nick Farr.
Violet squishes the biscuits into crumbs and tips them into the pan. As I stir them into the butter, I begin to feel a little calmer.
‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ Violet says.
‘Who?’ I say, startled.
‘Mr Kruffs. It’s kind of creepy that he’s been here.’
I look around Rosemary’s Kitchen. It seems lonely without the cat. ‘Maybe Mr Kruffs has permission to be here, I don’t know . . .’ I trail off. ‘I wish there was something we could do to help Mrs Simpson.’
Violet brings over some tart tins from the cupboard. We press the crumbly mixture in the bottom, and then put the whole thing in the fridge to set. ‘Like what?’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘Right now, I don’t have a clue.’
SECRET SAMPLES
Ireally don’t know what to do about Mrs Simpson. But I do know that making the banoffee pie is a blast. Violet and I triple the recipe – so we have enough for us plus lots of ‘free samples’ for school. Luckily, Rosemary’s Kitchen has plenty of bowls and tart tins.
Making the filling is sweet and sticky and messy and fun. We gorge ourselves on bananas and licking out the bowls. Then we chat and laugh and look through the cupboards while the pies set in the fridge. I find several large chocolate bars and take them out.
‘The recipe says to decorate the pies with chocolate curls,’ I say, pointing to the book.
‘We can use these too,’ Violet takes out a tin of baking decorations – sprinkles of all sizes and colours, icing bags and colours, even gold leaf you can eat.
When the pies have chilled we take them out one by one – two round ones, and two that we made in tins shaped like a heart and a gingerbread man. ‘Look, it’s Georgie Porgie,’ I say when I take the swirly banana cream man out of the fridge. We both laugh.
I make the chocolate curls using a vegetable peeler like the recipe book says to do. Violet decorates Georgie Porgie with little icing stars, and a tie made of multicoloured sprinkles. She gives him eyes of chocolate buttons, and an icing nose and mouth. I can’t help laughing as I add his hair of chocolate curls – I’ve never seen such a fancy pie before, and Georgie Porgie looks nothing like Nick Farr. Violet laughs too, and gives him a collar and belt of crystallized violets. He ends up looking like a big, goopy snowman.
On the heart-shaped pudding, Violet writes ‘The Secret Cooking Club’ in big, loopy icing letters and I cover the rest in sprinkles and chocolate curls. Finally, we’re done.
‘They look fab,’ I say, beaming. We find some deep Tupperware cake containers to use to take the pies to school tomorrow. Then we tuck in and eat the little round one we’ve made for ourselves.
The pie is gooey and moist, and the taste of toffee and fresh banana seems like the most natural combination of flavours in the whole world.
‘Mm,’ Violet purrs, taking a bite. ‘This is the best.’
I let cool sweet cream settle on my tongue for a second before swallowing. It’s lovely and sweet, but not too sweet – like Goldilocks’s porridge, it’s just right. I still can’t believe we’ve made it ourselves. But we did!
‘We’ll need plastic bowls and spoons for school.’ I lick the cream off my upper lip. ‘It’s pretty gooey.’
‘Yeah,’ Violet says between bites. ‘We can get them at the newsagents on the way to school. Do you have any money?’
‘I’ve got a bit saved up from my pocket money. I could use that.’
We clean everything up and put the pies back in Mrs Simpson’s fridge to chill overnight. We agree that I’ll come and get them tomorrow before school.
It’s dark by the time we leave the house, and stepping outside is like plunging into a cold bath. Nothing seems real to me any more other than Rosemary’s Kitchen. Violet seems unusually quiet, like she feels the same as me.
‘You OK?’ I ask. We stand at the dim edge of a circle of street light.
‘Yeah.’ Violet nods. ‘See you tomorrow.’ She turns and starts walking. I stand there watching her go until she turns the corner and disappears.
This time when I get home, I’m not so lucky as before. Mum is in the kitchen, frantically ringing people on her mobile, looking for me.
‘Seriously, Scarlett,’ she says, ‘I was worried sick. Where have you been?’
I sit down at the table, feeling exhausted. I wish I could tell Mum everything – about the hospital, the cooking, Mrs Simpson and how we have to save her from Mr Kruffs. And about the scrummy banoffee pie we made. I open my mouth and close it again. I can’t tell Mum anything. If I do, I’ll only regret it.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ I say, half meaning it. ‘There’s a new girl at school – I went over to her house. We’re working on a project together for science.’
Mum doesn’t ask the girl’s name, and I don’t volunteer it. She shakes her head. ‘Honestly, Scarlett – I mean, I know you don’t want to talk to me any more, but you really can’t do that kind of thing.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just that . . .’ I take a breath. I’m going to tell her how I feel. I’m going to see if we can be friends again. I’m going to—
‘Don’t do it again.’ Her face is red as she checks her watch. ‘I’m so behind – my guest post for scarykids.com is due tomorrow. I just can’t believe how thoughtless you are sometimes.’
She turns and blusters off into the Mum Cave. The door slams behind her. With a big sigh, I go upstairs to my room and crawl into bed. I dream of a flock of girls chasing a cream-pie-shaped Nick Farr, whose eyes meet mine as he runs away.
The next morning I wake up with butterflies in my stomach. I find my pocket money tin in my sock drawer and open it up. There are a few loose coins in the bottom but the five-pound note I had inside is gone. I groan softly. Not only does Mum often forget to give me my pocket money, but she’s always ‘borrowing’ money from me when she forgets to go to the cashpoint.
Snores are coming from Mum’s room, and I don’t want to wake her. Instead, I head downstairs to the Mum Cave where Mum keeps her purse. As usual, her desk is a mess. There are papers everywhere – crumpled drafts of articles and blog posts, letters from Boots and glossy photos of the Survival Kit packaging. I’m struck by how hard Mum is working to keep her blog empire going.
I find Mum’s handbag and ‘re-borrow’ a five-pound note, scribbling on a yellow sticky to let her know. Underneath the bag there’s a piece of paper – a printout of something she’s writing, half of which is crossed out in red pen. My stomach knots as I skim over the uncrossed-out bit.
Me against her – why have we grown so apart?
It starts out in a joking tone – stuff like: ‘I never wanted to be one of those pushy parents. But now I see I messed up big time. I mean, if I’d known that my daughter was going to hate me by the time she was a teenager, I should have made sure that she was a concert pianist.’
I read on. Instead of going into the usual stuff, I’m surprised by what she’s written. ‘Lately, something weird has happened. I’ve started remembering what it was like to be her age. It started when, all of a sudden, I had a craving for macaroni cheese – the way my grandma used to make it. And I got to wondering: how does she feel, and have I really been paying attention . . . ?’
The paragraph is scribbled out in red pen. But the words are there in black and white.
IN THE HALL . . .
Violet is waiting for me in front of the newsagents. I’ve got the three Tupperware containers in a huge hessian bag I found in Rosemary’s Kitchen. We’ve got just enough money to buy a pack of plastic bowls and spoons, and some baking powder which we’re almost out of at Mrs Simpson’s.
‘It’s your turn today,’ she says as we’re on our way out.
; ‘My turn? For what?’
‘To set up the secret samples. You just have to make sure you get to the canteen before everyone else. And don’t forget to make a sign to put on the table.’
‘Me?’ My heart thuds in alarm. ‘I thought you were going to do it.’
‘I did it last time – I mean, I can’t go to the toilet every day at the same time, can I?’
‘I don’t know.’ We walk on in silence as worry fizzes in my veins. What if someone notices me sneaking three creamy mountains of banoffee pie into the canteen? Word travels fast around school. It isn’t just me that I’m worried about, but The Secret Cooking Club. It may just be Violet and me, but if I lose that, then what’s left?
The morning flies by. I try to focus on learning adverbs and then algebra, but I keep staring at the clock as it gets nearer and nearer to the time when I’m supposed to raise my hand and ask if I can go to the toilet. Twenty minutes to go, then ten, then five.
Just as I’m about to raise my hand, Nick Farr beats me to it.
‘Sorry, Mrs Fry, but I need the loo,’ he says.
The maths teacher gets a boys’ loo pass down from the wall and hands it to him.
‘Uh, me too,’ I say in a small voice. I can feel the redness creeping over my face as someone behind me sniggers.
The teacher puts her hands on her hips. ‘Lunch is in fifteen minutes – can’t you wait?’
‘No, Mrs Fry.’ My skin crawls with the eyes of everyone looking at me. When the banoffee pie turns up in the kitchen, surely everyone will know it’s me.
But what can I do? I look pleadingly in Violet’s direction, but she’s staring down at her notebook, her blue-black hair a curtain in front of her face. With an irritated sigh, the teacher gives me a girls’ loo pass. I hold my breath until I’m across the room and out the door.
The corridor is empty – no sign of Nick. I hurry down the hall to the empty classroom where I’ve stowed the hessian bag of banoffee pies in the coat cupboard. They’re right where I left them, along with the bag of plastic bowls and spoons. I scoop everything up and go back into the corridor. I rush past the loos towards the canteen. If anyone spots me now—
A door swooshes open just behind me.
— I’m sunk!
I can feel eyes on my back. His eyes. Nick Farr. Captain of the rugby team, star science student, good friend of Gretchen, Alison and all the popular girls. Fancied by the rest of us from afar – but in this case, not far enough.
‘Scarlett?’
His voice.
‘You OK?’
I turn round, my eyes wide like a deer in the headlamps.
‘Yeah, fine.’ I force a smile.
He stares at the big bag in my hand.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Um, nothing.’ Before he can say another word, I go into the girls’ loos. I stand there, panting, looking at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is looking as frazzled as I feel, and the skin of my neck is covered with guilty-looking red blotches. My mind is a whirlwind of indecision. Do I go back to the empty classroom and hide the goods? Do I continue with my mission like nothing’s happened? Do I tell Violet? Try to talk to Nick and see if he’ll keep the secret? Or maybe he won’t put two and two together. OK, that’s pretty unlikely.
I smooth my hair and scowl at my reflection. ‘Get a grip,’ I say to the girl staring back.
The hallway is empty when I leave the loos. I rush to the canteen; my hand is shaking as I take out the pies and set them out in a row on the table. The dinner ladies are talking loudly behind their little window as they do the final preparations for lunch, but they don’t notice me. I get the bowls and spoons out of the bag – why didn’t I take them out of the packaging before I got here? – and manage to wrestle them out of the plastic wrapping, ripping a fingernail in the process. Finally, I unfold my sign and tape it to the edge of the table: ‘Free samples – from The Secret Cooking Club.’
I turn and run out of the canteen and back down the corridor. I slip back into the classroom as everyone is putting away their notebooks before lunch. As I reach my seat, I can’t help looking to the front of the room – where Nick Farr sits. He turns round in his seat and his eyes meet mine, just like in my dream. My stomach turns over. He gives me a wide, melting grin . . . then puts a finger to his lips.
THE SECRET COOKING CLUB STRIKES AGAIN
There’s a rush of fluttering papers and scraping chairs as the class breaks for lunch. Violet gives me a knowing look from across the room, and then goes to join Gretchen and Alison. I feel a stab of jealousy, but part of our ‘cover’ is that Violet and I won’t hang out together at school. I follow the crowds of kids to the canteen.
I sit down at my usual table near the door. A number of people are already queuing at the centre table, waiting to take a bowl of banoffee pie. It’s the same as before – the goths, the sports crowd, the geeks. My heart lurches as Gretchen pushes her way to the front of the queue, flanked by Alison and Violet.
But if anyone was expecting another laugh-in, they’re in for a surprise. One of the goth girls – tall and skinny with dark black eyeliner – elbows Gretchen out of the way. ‘There’s a queue, you know,’ she says tersely.
I hold my breath as Gretchen turns to face the girl, craning her neck upwards. ‘What did you say?’ she challenges.
The tall girl snorts. Two of her pale-faced friends come up on either side of her like twin wraiths. ‘Wait your turn.’
‘Get over yourself,’ Gretchen says. Her face has a strange greyish tinge to it – is she sick?
The tall girl glances at her two friends, glares at Gretchen, and gives a little snort. ‘You know what?’ she says, flicking her hand. ‘You go ahead – be my guest.’
Gretchen gives her a fake little PTA princess smile. She takes a big goopy piece of pie. Everyone is watching as she holds the plastic spoon to her nose, sniffs it, then takes a bite.
‘Hah,’ the tall girl says. ‘You’re going to get so fat.’
The last word seems to echo around the room. For what seems like eternity, no one speaks, or even breathes.
If there’s a word in the English language for the colour of Gretchen’s face, then I’m sure I don’t know it. At first, it turns kind of pink and spotty like she’s been scratching a patch of eczema or something, but then it immediately turns a shade of greenish grey like pea soup left in the fridge too long. The spoon in her hand drops to the floor. Everybody turns to stare as her cheeks get all full and puffy and her eyes bulge out from her face. ‘Watch out,’ Violet cries. But before anyone can even react, Gretchen’s mouth opens and a volcano of vomit erupts, flying across the table and landing in a slick, brown mess all over the floor.
There’s a collective gasp of horror. And then the tall goth girl shrieks, ‘Oh, gross – it’s Retchin’ Gretchen!’
‘Retchin’ Gretchen.’ The words move through the canteen like a Chinese whisper. There’s the odd groan and trickles of laughter, and a growing sense of mayhem. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Violet sneak out of the room. I get up and run after her.
Outside the canteen, I slump against the wall. ‘What have we done?’ I hiss at the same time she blurts out, ‘Our lovely pie!’
‘That was so awful,’ I say, not sure whether I feel like laughing or crying. ‘We never should have given out free samples. I mean – do you think Gretchen’s OK?’
Violet shrugs. ‘I think so. And it wasn’t our pie that made her sick – she had a stomach ache earlier.’ Her eyes grow wide. ‘Retchin’ Gretchen.’ Laughter sputters from her mouth.
The canteen begins to empty in a mass exodus. I notice that, despite Gretchen’s retchin’, quite a few people are carrying bowls of banoffee pie.
‘I’ll see you after school, OK?’ Violet says.
‘I don’t know . . .’ I begin walking off down the corridor so that no one will see us talking. Now that our pie has humiliated Gretchen, she’ll want to know who’s involved. How could I ever have all
owed myself to get into this situation?
‘Come on, Scarlett!’ Violet says.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘I can’t do this any more. If my mum finds out—’
‘So that’s it then?’ Violet interrupts. ‘You’re just going to let her win? Like you’ve been doing all along?’
I whirl around to face her, my anger boiling. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? And luckily for you – you never will.’
THE BETRAYAL
The only thing worse than not having anything good in my life, is having something and then losing it. Thanks to Gretchen and my rift with Violet, The Secret Cooking Club dies a quick but painful death.
After school, instead of going to Mrs Simpson’s house, I go to the library. I’ve always been good at school stuff, so I’m able to finish my homework quickly. I read through a couple of science magazines, trying to get interested in something. But all I can think about is how much I miss Violet, and which recipes we might have tried had things been different. I even forget to worry too much about Mum’s upcoming blog post. Even if she’s somehow heard about Gretchen, there’s nothing to link what happened to me.
Gretchen isn’t at school the next day. Violet hangs out with Alison. The school is still buzzing about ‘the incident’, and phones get passed around with videos posted on YouTube. I even feel kind of sorry for Gretchen. Kind of.
On Friday morning, Mum’s weekly blog post goes live. The title this week is The Single Mum’s Guide to Dating. It’s horrific and cringeworthy, but at least it isn’t about me. Gretchen is back at school, her hair newly cut and her nails done in a perfect French manicure, acting for all the world like nothing happened.
At lunchtime, I watch from a distance as Violet talks and laughs with Gretchen, Alison and Nick like they’ve been friends for ever. Violet has chosen them. Now, the most I can hope for is that she forgets that I, and The Secret Cooking Club, ever existed.
After school I go to the library again – this time I’ve got an essay to write that I actually need to do some research for. I go there directly after school and stay until it closes. I wander home slowly, dreading the evening ahead, the weekend and, pretty much, the rest of my life.
The Secret Cooking Club Page 6
