Also by Laurel Remington
Secrets and Scones
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Laurel Remington
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Belle & Bird Design
Cover images/illustrations © Ruth Black/Stocksy; Ellie Baygulov/Stocksy; alisafarov/Getty Images
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks
Internal images © Freepik
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Originally published as The Secret Cooking Club: Confetti & Cake in 2017 in the United Kingdom by Chicken House Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Remington, Laurel, author.
Title: Cake and confessions / Laurel Remington.
Other titles: Confetti & cake
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, [2019] | Originally published: United Kingdom : Chicken House Ltd., 2017 as volume two of The Secret Cooking Club under the title, Confetti & Cake. | Summary: Twelve-year-old Scarlett’s wildly successful blog may lead to a television show, the Secret Cooking Club has new members, and she is going to bake her mother’s wedding cake, but trouble is looming.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018046515 | (trade pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Clubs--Fiction. | Cooking--Fiction. | Baking--Fiction. | Weddings--Fiction. | Family life--Fiction. | Fame--Fiction. | Blogs--Fiction. | Middle schools--Fiction. | Schools--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R462 Cak 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018046515
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: The Bake-Off
Chapter 2: Hot Cross Buns
Chapter 3: The Candidate
Chapter 4: Spaghetti Bolognese
Chapter 5: Sushi and Canapés
Chapter 6: The “Momster”
Chapter 7: Sticky Toffee
Chapter 8: Under the Apple Tree
Chapter 9: An Unknown Sender
Chapter 10: The. Cake.
Chapter 11: Secrets and Lies
Chapter 12: Bonbons and Boutiques
Chapter 13: Lights, Camera, Action!
Chapter 14: Happy Families
Chapter 15: The Dark Side
Chapter 16: The Next Level
Chapter 17: A Summer Fête
Chapter 18: Our New Secret
Chapter 19: Another “Truth”
Chapter 20: A Drizzle of Suspicion
Chapter 21: The Worry Monsters
Chapter 22: Cake and “Closure”
Chapter 23: Icing Kisses and Chocolate Hearts
Chapter 24: Twisted Truths
Chapter 25: Facing Up
Chapter 26: Going Too Far
Chapter 27: Rainbow Macarons
Chapter 28: Turning a Corner
Chapter 29: Another Fight
Chapter 30: Wedding Tiers
Chapter 31: The Big Collapse
Chapter 32: Eton Mess
Chapter 33: A New Member
Chapter 34: A Monster Banished
Chapter 35: A New Plan
Chapter 36: Endings and Beginnings
Chapter 37: So Much Fun
Chapter 38: Ready, Steady...
Chapter 39: Confetti and Cakes
Chapter 40: Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
Chapter 1
The Bake-Off
If I weren’t already full, I’d say I was in pastry heaven. Spread in front of me is a huge table covered with cakes—cupcakes, cakes baked in ice-cream cones, layer cakes, fondant fancies—all decorated with pastel-colored icing, sprinkles, chocolate shavings, gummies, and candied eggs. They’re all so beautiful and different that it almost seems a shame to cut them to take a bite—just a tiny bite—of each one. But the principal is standing on the other side of the table with her camera, and she’s counting on me to do this.
It’s not easy, but I choose five batches to put on a “short list.” I leave aside the cakes that look just a little too good—they might be store-bought, or maybe someone’s mom helped them with the decorating. The ones I choose may not look the best, but they’re the most creative. One batch of cupcakes is decorated with little nests made of red licorice, and I don’t think it would be possible to fit another candied egg, marshmallow, sprinkle, or gummy on top. Brilliant! The next one is a chocolate cake with squiggly writing saying HAPPY EASTER, and a funny bunny made from goopy gel icing and decorated with Smarties and chocolate buttons. Then there are the ice-cream-cone cakes, a plate of cookies chock-full of glitter and decorations, a cake decorated like a spring garden—all different, and they all look amazing. Though I can barely eat another bite after sampling the cakes on the sixth-grade table, I can’t wait to try these lovely things baked by the fifth graders.
The principal takes my photo as I cut a piece from each of them. I feel like I’m a real judge on TV’s The Great British Bake Off as I take a bite of the chocolate cake. The sponge practically melts in my mouth. The icing is a little too sweet, maybe, but I don’t mind. It’s delicious.
In the end, I choose the cupcakes with the licorice nests. They’re made from carrot cake that’s soft and spicy, and the nests on top are too cute to resist. But everything about the cupcakes—from the time taken with the decoration to the taste—is special. These cakes were baked with love.
“I think these should win for the fifth graders,” I say, smiling. “Do you want to try them?”
“Oh yes!” The principal tastes the winners—and all the others too—and nods. “I agree completely,” she says. “Let’s see whose they are.”
She looks underneath the paper plate for the name. “Annabel Greene,” she says.
I don’t go to this school, so I don’t know Annabel Greene, but even so, I can almost imagine that I do.
“That’s perfect,” the principal says. “She’s new here and kind of quiet. This will really help bring her out o
f her shell.”
“Good,” I say. “She deserves this.”
We choose the runners-up, and she ushers me into the auditorium to the assembly that’s already begun. Another teacher is showing slides of a school in Malawi, which is the school’s mission project.
“And some of these children have to walk seven or eight miles to school every day,” the teacher is saying. “That is, when they’re able to go at all. And if they break a pencil or lose a pen, there may not be another one. That’s why every bit of money that we earn to help them buy stationery is so important. Your cakes are making a big difference.”
Hearing that, I feel proud. Thanks to the Secret Cooking Club, a blog I set up at the end of last year, five different schools nearby have done charity baking competitions. I’ve helped organize them—even though it’s such hard work being a judge!
The teacher hands the microphone to the principal, who takes over. She explains about the charity bake-off—selling cakes after school to help raise money for the school charity. “And we’re so fortunate to have a very special judge with us today,” she says. “I’m very proud to introduce a talented young baker and blogger, and founder of the Secret Cooking Club. Please give a big round of applause for…Scarlett Cooper.”
The second my name is called, my stomach churns with nerves. My knees feel weak as I walk to the front of the assembly. I love helping organize charity bake-offs, but I don’t like drawing attention to myself. For two years before I started the Secret Cooking Club, my mom wrote a tell-all mommy blog starring the embarrassing details of my life. I felt like the whole world knew the moment when I farted at Christmas dinner or the smell of my gym clothes on a scale of one to ten. I became a hermit—no friends, no clubs, no interests. Anything to stay out of the limelight. Then I met Violet, a new girl at school who became my best friend. She and I started the Secret Cooking Club. And life hasn’t been the same since.
My hand shakes a little as I take the microphone and breathe in. “Umm, thanks for having me here at your school.” My voice always sounds strange coming through a microphone. “I just want to say that the cakes you’ve made were absolutely amazing, and I know you’ll earn lots of money for the school in Malawi. I’m really lucky to have been a judge. So now, let me tell you who the winners are.” I uncrumple the paper in my hand and read off the names. “For the sixth graders, the runner-up is Patrick Morgan, and the winner is Ayesha Hassan.” I pause and wait as there’s talking and clapping.
“And for the fifth graders, the runner-up is Grace Halliday, and the winner—and the overall star baker—is…” I pause for effect. “Annabel Greene!”
There’s more clapping and a few whistles as the kids come up. I hand them each their prizes. A Secret Cooking Club badge and key chain for the winners, and for the star baker, a gift voucher donated by a local kitchen supply shop. Annabel Greene is a small girl with straight, black hair, who looks positively shell-shocked to be standing in front of everyone.
“Congratulations,” I say to her, leaving the microphone aside. “Your cupcakes must have taken you ages to make. They were so creative and beautiful.”
“Thank you so much.” Her whole face lights up as she smiles, and at that moment, my nerves are totally gone and I feel like I’m on top of the world. The Secret Cooking Club has transformed my life, and maybe it can transform the lives not only of children in Malawi, but kids right here at home.
“And now,” I say back into the microphone, “let the charity cake sale begin!”
The Secret Cooking Club
April 15: Happy Easter!
It’s been an amazing couple of weeks: a whole two weeks of no homework (and Mom not nagging me to do my homework), and lots of baking! Just a quick update on the Dubarry Hills School Bake-Off. It was fab-u-licious! The fifth and sixth graders raised more than $450 for a school in Malawi—how cool is that?! It was so fun being a judge and tasting all those delicious cakes.
Anyway, I’m off now—my best friend and I are going to make hot cross buns for Easter Sunday. It may sound old-fashioned, but we’ve got a fun new twist—instead of raisins, we’re using dark chocolate. I’ve posted the recipe below. If you give it a try, make sure you share your photos!
The Little Cook xx
Chapter 2
Hot Cross Buns
I reread what I’ve written, cross out “fab-u-licious” and type “great” instead. Then I delete that and put back “fab-u-licious.” I hit post. Sometimes it strikes me as odd how different “The Little Cook” and I actually are. She’s so confident and cool, and if I were reading the blog instead of writing it, I’d think she had the perfect life and want to be just like her. Which is great—don’t get me wrong. It’s just not really…me.
The doorbell rings downstairs. I put the computer to sleep and rush down to the door.
“Hi!” I say, flinging it open.
“Hey, stranger,” Violet says. She pushes her shiny, black hair back from her face, and we hug each other.
“Sorry it’s been a while,” I say, feeling a little stab of guilt. “I’ve just been so busy—with the charity bake-offs and the blog…” I stop. Of all the changes to my life that have come out of my starting the Secret Cooking Club—learning to cook (obviously!), fixing things with Mom (most of the time), and meeting loads of people in cyberspace through the blog and real people when we do events—by far the best thing is baking with my friends. And especially, having Violet as my best friend. I don’t want her to think I don’t have time for her.
“Never mind,” she says. “I’m looking forward to making those hot cross buns! Are we going next door?”
“Yeah, let’s.”
We both go down the steps and scurry around the little hedge that separates my house from the one next door. I take the key from under the mat and unlock the door. The house used to belong to Rosemary Simpson, an old lady who taught Violet, me, and the other “founding” members of the Secret Cooking Club—Gretchen, Alison, and Nick—to cook. We used a special, handwritten recipe book she made for her daughter—the original Little Cook. Sadly, Mrs. Simpson died six months ago, and now the house belongs to her nephew, Congressman Emory Kruffs (also known—by me, anyway—as Em-K). Em-K has been dating Mom for a while now, and usually manages to be on hand to taste the latest free samples made by the Secret Cooking Club.
“I was thinking we could use chocolate chips instead of raisins,” I say. “Em-K’s coming over later, and he hates raisins.”
“Okay, cool,” Violet says. Though she’s smiling, for some reason, she seems a little flat, as if something’s bothering her.
I lead the way to the kitchen. From the outside of the house, you’d never imagine it was here. The whole back of the house is a huge kitchen, perfect for a cook, with all the gadgets, appliances, and space you could imagine. The cupboards are made of polished wood, and the work surfaces are shiny black granite. There’s also a huge wall of cookbooks and a long table in the center that could seat a dozen people. On the fridge is a magnetic sign that we’ve left there out of respect—it says ROSEMARY’S KITCHEN. The kitchen is more than a great place to cook. There’s a feeling about the place—a warmth, maybe—and not just from the huge stove in the corner. Sometimes when I’m here, I close my eyes and imagine all the delicious smells and tastes that have been created within these walls, as if I were there each time. It may sound ridiculous, but Rosemary’s kitchen is the place where I feel happiest of all.
Treacle, Rosemary’s black cat, jumps out of his basket by the stove and begins to meow. He lives with us now, but he still likes to sleep here. I think our house is a bit too frantic for him most of the time, so he comes and goes as he likes through the cat flaps on the back doors of the two houses. I put down some food for him, and he swishes his tail and rubs against my leg.
Violet and I put on aprons—red with white polka dots—and wash our hands. She opens our special recipe b
ook and flips to the page I’ve marked. Violet points to the drawing in the book of the little buns nestled together in a basket. “They look so cute,” she says, “like little bunnies.” She sighs. “I love Easter. Or…at least, I did when I was little.”
I nod silently. Violet’s parents were killed in a car accident a few years back. Now, she’s living with her aunt Hilda. She doesn’t talk about it much, but sometimes I catch her staring at nothing. I know she misses them and her old life, and I don’t always know what to say to make things better.
“I used to like Easter too,” I say after a moment. “My dad used to leave a trail of chocolate eggs and jelly beans all through the house that I’d have to follow to find my Easter basket…” I break off. Dad. I never think about him, and certainly never talk about him. I definitely don’t want to start now.
Violet meets my eyes with a sideways glance. It’s like we’ve both given up a secret without meaning to.
“Sounds nice,” she says. “Now…how much chocolate do you think we should use?”
I think we’re both grateful for the change of subject. We talk through the recipe, and I get out the flour, yeast, sugar, egg, spices, and butter, while Violet prepares the bowls, spoons, and baking trays. We start measuring the ingredients and putting them into the big ceramic bowl, and I put the milk on the stove to warm up.
Just as I’m about to start mixing, my phone chirps. I go and check it.
“It’s Nick,” I say. My stomach does a little flip. Nick Farr was the first boy member of the Secret Cooking Club, and lots of people at school think I’m his girlfriend. We have been out together—seen a couple of movies and a concert with his older brother. I’ve been bowling with his family and over for dinner a few times. We’ve been for walks where we’ve held hands and talked about random stuff. He has given me a couple of good-night kisses on the cheek. My insides still feel like pudding whenever I see him or think about him. But I’ve never heard him call me the G word. Sometimes, late at night when I’m lying in bed and can’t sleep, I wonder if I’ve misinterpreted things between us. Or maybe I’m doing something wrong. I don’t want to ask Mom, and right now, I don’t want to ask Violet either.
Cake and Confessions Page 1
