As for Dad himself—I really don’t think about him that much. He worked, he went to the gym, he came home, and he put on my video. Sometimes he’d watch the video with me, but mostly he’d disappear into his study and do his work or surf the internet on his phone. He spent most weekends with his friends, and otherwise, it was always just really Mom who was around all the time—yelling at me to do my homework and to put my dirty clothes in the wash. Taking me to the doctor to get cream for my eczema, pushing a screaming Kelsie in the shopping cart at the supermarket to stock up on fish sticks, ketchup, and frozen pizzas. Crying late at night because her marriage was falling apart and all her daughters could do was complain that the chocolate had all been eaten and Mom wouldn’t let them play on her phone and all she did was yell and cry…
Spaghetti Bolognese. A sudden taste comes into my mouth. Tomato, oregano, and garlic. A long-forgotten memory. Sitting around a table—me, Kelsie, Mom, and Dad. It must have been a weekend. And something else. Dad—he was the one who cooked it. In fact, he even made the pasta fresh from scratch. It wasn’t fancy or complicated, but it tasted good. And he was proud of it. Because he liked to cook but didn’t usually have time…
The stars blur before my eyes. A tear has appeared from nowhere. Was that even a real memory? It must have been because I couldn’t have just made up something like that about Dad. What else might I have forgotten?
Not that it matters. Instead of thinking about Dad, I think about Em-K—the best thing that’s happened to our family for a long time. Sometimes it annoys me when he and Mom act all goofy and lovey together, but it’s better than having them shouting at each other and someone leaving. The thing about Em-K is that he’s like a rock—we can all lean on him and feel safe. And he and Mom love each other, that’s the main thing. I picture the light blue box and his earnest face. Down on one knee at Bernini’s, gazing up into Mom’s gold-flecked green eyes; one by one, conversations stop and heads begin to turn. Mom’s wearing a black jumpsuit that she bought on sale. She looks slim and elegant. Her unruly brown hair is held back from her face in a tortoiseshell clip I lent her.
And Mom—what is she thinking as the waiter brings over a chilled bottle of champagne? She’ll say yes, of course, and everyone will clap. I hope she can appreciate the moment and how Em-K makes her happy. Happy in a way that her Mindfulness for Moms blog doesn’t make her, her kids don’t make her, her independence doesn’t make her. Happy that for this moment, she’s got the white horse (or at least a big, black Mercedes) and that she can finally call the builder in to start knocking out the wall between our house and the one next door, like they’ve joked about for ages.
Happy that for her, it’s a new start—maybe for real this time. She can have the white dress, the bridesmaids, the wedding banquet, the honeymoon in the Canaries, and the new husband who was listed in The Tribune as number three of “Ten Politicians to Watch.”
I close my eyes and turn over, blocking out the neon green of the stars by burying my face in my pillow. Because despite the list of “conditions” I gave Em-K, and the fact that I really am happy for both of them…
I’m kind of wondering where it all leaves me.
Chapter 5
Sushi and Canapés
I’m sitting at the big table in Rosemary’s kitchen. The room is warm and smells of freshly baked bread and slow-cooked roast. I pass a dish of herb-roasted potatoes down the table, feeling happier than I have for a long time. My whole family is here—chatting, bickering, laughing—just enjoying being together. Treacle is asleep in his basket. At the head of the table, Em-K carves the juicy roast, and at the other end, uncorking a bottle of wine is… My eyes widen. It can’t be—
“Scarlett! Wake up!” Mom’s voice jars me out of my dream. For a second, everything seems fuzzy, then my eyes adjust to rainbow sparkle.
“Look!” Mom says. She’s flashing her hand in front of my eyes. “Isn’t it beautiful? And from Tiffany’s! I feel like Audrey Hepburn.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” Mom doesn’t miss a beat. “And it was the most romantic thing ever—a little Italian restaurant—amazing desserts!—and he even got down on one knee! Everyone was watching.” She lowers her voice. “I didn’t think Emory had it in him to plan something like that.” She beams, fiddling with the ring. “But he did!”
“That’s great, Mom,” I croak sleepily, still clinging to the last threads of my dream. “I take it you said yes?”
“Of course! I mean, people were snapping us with their cell phones right and left. We’ll probably be in the papers this morning.” She smiles again. “In fact—I should go out now to the newsstand and have a look. Would you mind making breakfast?”
“No, that’s fine.” I rise on to my elbows.
She leans over and gives me a kiss. “Oh, Scarlett, I’m so happy. I love him so much! It’s going to be such fun to be a real family, and I just feel that this time, it’s right.”
“That’s great, Mom.” I smile.
“But I was just wondering…” She lowers her voice. “I mean, do you feel okay about it?”
It strikes me how Em-K must be good for Mom if she too is asking my opinion. “You have my blessing, Mom. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?” I grin. “And I’m really happy for you.” I hold open my arms to hug her.
“Thank you, darling.” We embrace each other tightly. She’s still Mom, and she still gets on my nerves a lot—I mean, she’s always giving me “tips” on my blog and telling me that I can’t cook with my friends until after I’ve done my homework. But I know that’s just what moms do. And it’s so much better than the days when she used to write stuff about me on her blog: how my room stank like a toxic waste dump, how she thought my best friend was dense, or how much being a mom made her wish she’d never had kids. Compared to those days, the little annoyances now seem like nothing.
She squeezes me so tightly that I can barely breathe, but this time, it’s okay. I’m so glad to see her this happy and excited, and so glad that things between us are, for the most part, really good. Finally, we let go of each other.
“All right,” she says with a hint of a frown. “But what about Kelsie? I mean—do you think she’ll be okay too?”
“She’ll get used to it.” I shrug. Kelsie was very young when Dad left, so she has even fewer memories of him than I do. To her, he’s like some kind of exciting character from one of her fairy tales, who is slaying dragons and rescuing princesses in a far-off land. I tried to set her straight once, but she looked at me with her big blue eyes, and it seemed like she was going to cry, so I decided she’d just have to figure things out for herself when she was older.
“I thought so too, but then…” Mom trails off, still not taking her eyes off her ring finger. “Never mind. She’ll come around when we go shopping for my wedding dress.”
She stares dreamily out of the window. “Part of me thinks we should just run away together—you know—elope. Me, Em-K, you and your sister, a few friends. Have a simple, romantic wedding on a sunny beach somewhere, with me wearing a summer dress and flip-flops.” She smiles. “No blogging, no Twitter, and no stress.”
“That sounds great, Mom.” I smile with surprise and relief.
“But no!” She jumps up. “That wouldn’t do at all. I’m marrying a congressman, after all. It will need to be the biggest, best wedding ever. I’ll have an amazing dress, and you and Kelsie can be bridesmaids. Maybe I’ll put you in pink…no…” she tuts, “…lavender.”
So much for running away together—I knew that was too good to be true. I picture myself, itchy and hot in a puffy, lavender dress and dyed-to-match satin shoes that pinch. All those people, and photographers… My stomach lurches like I’ve gone over the top of a roller coaster. I want Mom to be happy, but it all just seems so unnecessary.
There is one thing, though, that might be good about Mom’s wedding. The food.
I’ve never been to a wedding before, but I’ve seen pictures of lovely tables laid out with all sorts of delicious, beautiful-looking food. Of course, it would be a huge job, but fun too. And I’m sure that with the Secret Cooking Club on board, we’d be up to it.
“Um, I was thinking maybe I could be in charge of the food instead of being a bridesmaid,” I say. “Fancy dresses aren’t really my thing.”
I give a little laugh, expecting her to join in. But her lips are tightly pursed together, and she says nothing.
Propping up on my elbow, I turn toward her, alarmed by the sudden change. She’s breathing in heavily, her shoulders rising like a piecrust ready to split in the oven. At first, I think she’s doing some kind of meditation, but her face has that stressed-out look she gets when she has a deadline, or a meeting with a store chain, or someone leaves a bad comment on the blog, or some celebrity doesn’t retweet her.
“You don’t want to be a bridesmaid at my wedding?” Her voice has a sharp edge.
“It’s not that,” I say quickly. “And I really want to be involved.” I smile reassuringly. “I’d love to make the wedding cake.”
“The cake…” She ruffles the edge of the blanket absently. “I haven’t even thought about that yet. There’s so much to do.” She sighs. “I’ll need to get whole team of caterers, of course. We’ll do sushi and vol-au-vents for canapés, and then maybe a four-course dinner. It will all have to be ordered special…” She stands up.
“You…you don’t want us to help?” I say.
She walks to the door as if she hasn’t heard me. “Everything needs to be perfect…” she muses. “I’m going to be the wife of a congressman…”
* * *
It’s all happening, I think the next day, as I get out of bed and get ready for school. I’m happy for Mom, and more importantly, glad that she’s happy—for now at least. Because she’s already got a lot on her plate, and planning a wedding is bound to cause more stress. And to be honest, I feel a little hurt that she didn’t take me up on my offer to do the food for the wedding. I plan to look up exactly what vol-au-vents are, because I don’t have a clue. As I go downstairs to make sure that Kelsie’s ready for school, I think about the wedding cake. Something tells me that Violet is absolutely right—if Mom lets me try making it, it’s going to need at least six tiers.
The Secret Cooking Club
April 18
OMG I have some mega-news. Mom is getting married! She’s going to be Mrs. Kruffs. And guess what? I’m going to be making the wedding cake. It will be so amazing, but a bit nerve-racking too. Let’s just say, I don’t want to be the one who spoils her perfect day. So, I was thinking, six tiers, all different flavors—like chocolate and salted caramel, raspberry ripple, vanilla and lavender, red velvet—my mouth is watering just thinking about it, and I can’t wait to start experimenting. And it will be covered with white glitter icing and a cascade of edible flowers. I’m not really the best at decorating, so I may need some help. If anyone has been to a wedding recently and has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them!
The Little Cook xx
Chapter 6
The “Momster”
“I can’t believe she even hesitated!” Violet sets down her fork, her mouth gaping in outrage. “I mean, anyone can have regular caterers, but not everyone can get a cake baked by the Secret Cooking Club.”
It’s our first day back at school, and we’re sitting with Gretchen and Alison in the cafeteria. Today’s lunch is baked potatoes with beans and cheese. Ever since we did the charity bake-off last year, the cafeteria ladies have been trying extra hard to improve the food. Baked potato day is one of the best of the month. The skin of the potato is crispy but not burnt, and the beans—well, no one gets everything right.
“It does sound totally bogus.” Gretchen shakes her head. “But I saw your blog post—so she must have agreed in the end?”
I lean forward on my elbows. “She went downstairs this morning and checked Twitter and Facebook. A few people tagged her and Em-K in some photos from the restaurant. She was all smiley and apologetic after that. She said that of course I should make the wedding cake. So, I decided to write her a nice blog post in return.”
“Well, that’s okay, then, I guess.” Violet chews thoughtfully. “And what the heck are vol-au-vents?”
“I looked it up. It’s finger food. Like a fancy name for sausage rolls.”
Violet shovels in a mouthful of potato. “Can’t see the point.”
Alison laughs. Throughout my story, she’s been strangely quiet.
“Is it really that funny?” I say indignantly.
“No,” she says. “The whole thing is ridiculous. But completely normal, I think.”
“That’s normal? OMG—if that’s true, I wouldn’t want to be there if she started acting not normal!”
Alison takes a bite of broccoli sprinkled with cheese. “My sister got married a couple of years ago,” she says. “I was a bridesmaid, and she used to bring over her wedding magazines so we could look at them together. It was fun…at first.”
“At first?” Gretchen says.
She nods. “We were both like: ‘that dress is so hideous’ or ‘that cake is so OTT.’ But then, I noticed she wasn’t laughing anymore. Turns out she wanted those things after all. She accused me of spoiling her ‘special day’ and saying I was jealous. It was so bizarre. I was like, ‘sorry—if you want all that stuff, then great, have it.’ It was as if one moment she was my sister, and the next minute she was Bridezilla.”
“Bridezilla!” Violet and I say at the same time.
“That’s exactly what Mom was like,” I say. “One second she was normal—she had this lovely idea of eloping to a sunny beach somewhere and getting married in a summer dress and flip-flops. The next second, it was sushi this and caterers that. And she wants to put me in lavender!” I wrinkle my nose.
“Yeah,” Alison says. “That sounds about right. She’ll want everything her way. And if it isn’t perfect, then watch out.”
“So when’s this wedding anyway?” Gretchen asks.
“No idea. But as soon as possible, I hope. I’m not sure how long I can cope with a ‘Momster’ in the house.”
We all laugh, and at the moment it is funny. We make plans to meet up after school and do some baking to bring to the old people’s home like we do at least once a month. I use the last ten minutes of lunchtime to write a post on what we’re planning to make—I’ll post it later when I get home.
But as I’m walking home after school, my stomach begins to knot. What will I find when I open the front door? Will it be Mom, or will it be the green-eyed, white-veiled monster?
* * *
I let myself in to the house. Kelsie is watching TV in the front room, so Mom must be home too. I put my bag down and go into the kitchen to make myself a snack. Mom’s there talking to a big man in a checked shirt and jeans. He’s got a measuring tape out and a clipboard.
“Oh, Scarlett, there you are,” Mom says. “This is the builder. He’s going to be knocking the two houses into one.”
“Really?”
Mom looks at the builder and blushes. “I just got engaged,” she tells him. “My fiancé owns the house next door. His aunt left it to him.”
“Okay. So, do you want a doorway, or the whole wall coming down?”
“A doorway,” I say at the same time Mom says: “The whole wall.”
She looks at me, and for a second, I fear that she’s about to morph into the “Momster.”
“I just thought we could keep this room as a dining room,” I say. “And leave Rosemary’s kitchen as it is.”
Mom’s brow creases. Her eyes flick to our small kitchen table, which I notice is strewn with magazines. Modern Bride, Country Bride, Vogue Brides, In-Style Bride, Perfect Wedding, Fantasy Honeymoons… If this were happening to someone else, I’d laugh
out loud.
Good thing I don’t.
Mom sees me looking at her magazines and takes a protective step closer to them.
“Fine.” She waves her hand like she’s practiced making her ring catch the light. “Knock a hole through for now, and we’ll go from there.”
“Sure thing,” the builder says. He checks his phone. “I can fit you in tomorrow morning.”
Mom picks up her phone from the table and taps the screen. “Wednesday…hmm…I’m not sure…” She scrolls down. “Can you do it Thursday instead? I’m meeting a TV producer tomorrow.”
They agree on a time and Mom walks the builder to the door. I open a tin on the counter and take out a caramel granola-and-seed bar that Alison made. She’s really into trying to make healthy food that tastes good. This one’s an experiment (because the first batch she made with just the seeds and granola was so bland). I put it on a plate and pour myself a glass of milk to go with it. I don’t dare sit at the table because I might upset some kind of intricate filing system of bride magazines—with Mom, you never know. Instead, I stand at the counter and take a bite. This one is much better—the caramel adds just enough sweetness to make the bar taste good and healthy at the same time. I’m still chewing when Mom comes blustering back into the kitchen.
“Scarlett!” She enfolds me into a hug. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I so need your help. Sit down, will you?”
I plaster a smile on my face and reluctantly obey.
“I’ve been busy, as you can see.” She flashes her ring hand again, indicating the magazines, and giggles. “It’s going to be such fun, isn’t it?” She moves Modern Bride to the side, and I see that underneath she’s got half a dozen packs of different color Post-its. Her eyes are shiny as she hands me a single sheet of paper with a typed-on code:
blue = cake
pink = dress
yellow = decorations
orange = honeymoon
Cake and Confessions Page 3
