‘Yeah,’ Violet grins. ‘It’s not so easy, is it?’
She walks off to the shop to buy the edible glitter. The wind blows more apple blossoms down on my head, like a showering of confetti. But right now, unfortunately, there’s not much to celebrate.
An unknown sender
I feel better after talking with Violet, and finding out what’s bothering her. But the next day at school, I’m still upset about what happened with Gretchen and the others. Instead of focusing on the discussion of Shakespeare’s sonnets and the death of William the Conqueror, I replay the last few months in my head. Between the blog, the cooking videos we’ve made for the site, and helping tweet and publicize other charity bake-offs, The Secret Cooking Club hasn’t had a lot of time to do the thing we do best. But is that really my fault?
After school, both Violet and Naya try to convince me to go to the care home with the others to drop off the treats we’ve made. I tell them that I’m not feeling very well – not far from the truth – and go home. With each step I take, I feel more and more guilty. I’ve made friends with a few of the elderly residents at the home – we all have. I should have swallowed my pride and gone with the others for their sake, if nothing else. And also, I posted the blog post about baking for the care home – which made it sound like everything’s wonderful. By staying away, I’m only proving Gretchen right.
And then another thought pops into my head. I wonder if Mum started out her original blog with good intentions, only to have it morph into something unrecognizable? I know she was trying to be a good mum – reaching out to other parents – and also earn a living to support her family. She went wrong along the way by writing ‘funny/embarrassing’ things about me, and refusing to see how much I hated it. It was awful – and hurtful. But now that I’m on the other side, I’m starting to think that maybe I’ve made the opposite mistake. Instead of being too truthful, I’m trying too hard to make things sound better than they are. I’ve set myself apart, and made my friends think that it’s all about me.
I stop walking and take out my phone. I’ll text Violet – and Gretchen – and all the other members. Say sorry. Ask for another chance. We can meet up and talk things through. Surely Gretchen would go along with something so grown-up sounding.
As I’m about to type the message, I notice a little envelope on the screen – a new message from an unknown sender. I open it and read:
Hi honey, how are things? I ran into your mum today and she gave me your number. I’m back living in town, and thought maybe I could take you and your sister out for a pizza. There’s a great little place just around the corner from me. Maybe we can go on Saturday? Can’t wait to see you soon. Love, Dad x
Dad.
I stare down at the signature. If I hadn’t fallen out with my friends, I might have thought that one of them was playing a joke on me. For the last several years, Dad has been living in London with his girlfriend. I had no idea that he was back here. Or that Mum ‘ran into’ him and gave him my number.
I go inside the house and thunk down my bag in the hall. ‘Scarlett?’ Mum calls out. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. In the kitchen, Mum is unloading a couple of plastic supermarket bags (she never remembers to bring bags with her, and always grumbles about having to pay the 5p). ‘You OK?’ I help unload the bags. There are a few frozen pizzas, some yogurts, a bunch of bananas, cat food for Treacle, and – unbelievably – three more bride magazines.
‘I’m great,’ Mum says. ‘You want pizza tonight?’
‘Um . . .’ When she first found out about The Secret Cooking Club, Mum turned over a new leaf, cooking at least a few meals a week that didn’t involve frozen or microwave food. I helped, of course, and Mum wrote a few ‘inspirational’ blog posts about the value of cooking together. We even made a vlog of her and me cooking a chicken curry and we each posted it on our website. That was what . . . January, maybe? February?
When did we stop?
‘I was thinking of making a curry,’ I say. ‘We’ve got a new member of the club at school – Naya. She gave me a great recipe that I’d like to try.’
‘A curry?’ Mum puts the frozen food in the already overflowing freezer and switches the kettle on. ‘Is curry healthy? Because I really need to drop a dress size or two before the wedding.’
I don’t bother to point out that curry is probably healthier than frozen pizza – most things are. Instead, I smile reassuringly. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Mum. I think you look fine.’
She shakes her head and tsks. For a moment, I imagine that I can see the green scales of the ‘Momster’ coming to the surface underneath the skin of her face. ‘I may look fine to you, Scarlett,’ she says, ‘but I’m going to be on TV. The camera adds a stone.’
‘Does it?’ I puzzle over this.
‘Yes. And since you haven’t asked, I’ll tell you about my meeting with the producer – unless you’re running off next door or something.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Unfortunately.
‘It’s all going ahead – it’s going to be fantastic.
I’ll be featured on Wedding Belles – I’ll have a camera following me around while I’m getting ready for the wedding. They’ll also do a feature on my blog. And they definitely want you too.’
‘Oh.’
‘So I’ve made an appointment at my salon. We’ll get you a haircut and a manicure.’ She peers at my face. ‘And maybe have your eyebrows plucked. Then, we’ll go for our first fitting.’
‘Fitting?’
‘For my wedding dress and your bridesmaid’s dress.’ She makes it sound like I’m completely thick. ‘I’ve made five appointments for Saturday. It will be such fun.’
Such fun.
‘Yeah, sounds great,’ I lie. ‘There is one thing, though.’
Mum’s eyes look reptilian as she gives me ‘the stare’. I guess she’s worried that I might upset her carefully made plans. ‘What?’
‘It’s just – well . . . that Dad texted me,’ I say. ‘He said he ran into you. He wants to take Kelsie and me for pizza on Saturday.’
‘Yes – that’s fine.’ Mum waves her bejewelled hand. ‘We’ll all meet up after the fittings – that’s what I told him.’
‘You did?’ I lean back in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because he’s your dad, of course. I ran into him at the TV station. He’s heading up some new IT upgrade there. It was a surprise, but I knew he was back in town.’
‘Oh. Um, do I have to see him?’
She slams a coffee cup down on the worktop. ‘Yes, Scarlett. Haven’t I told you that we can’t just run away from our problems? Dad’s affected by this too. He’s split up with his . . .’ She pauses, like she’s going to say something rude, finally settling on ‘girlfriend’. ‘And naturally, since he’s back, in town,’ she adds, ‘he wants to see more of you and Kelsie.’
‘Naturally,’ I grumble.
‘Anyway, I thought it would be fun to get together.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘Old times’ sake and all that. Besides, it’s his birthday on Saturday. I thought maybe you and your cooking club could make him a cake.’
‘You want me to make him a cake?’ This is just wrong on so many levels.
‘Yes, why not?’ She looks genuinely surprised at my reaction. ‘It will be really nice. He’s your dad.’
Shaking my head, I decide it’s best just to give in. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Whatever.’
The. Cake.
Everything was going so well – just days ago, it seems. But now, things have turned on their head. How did that happen, and why?
Violet and Alison post photos of the visit to the old people’s home to our Instagram page. It’s lovely to see so many happy, smiling faces amongst the elderly residents. But there’s a sadness tugging inside of me that refuses to go away. I should have been there with them. And maybe I would have been, if Dad’s message hadn’t come from out of the blue and thrown me totally off balance.
He’s your dad . . .
I mean, obviously, I know that. But just because he’s back in town and wants to ‘see more’ of me and my sister, doesn’t mean that that’s what I want. Mum’s about to marry Em-K and that’s a big thing. Then there’s the wedding and the TV show – Dad’s ‘return’ couldn’t have come at a worse time.
After school, I walk home by myself via the corner shop. I need to get some flour and icing sugar for The Cake – which right now seems like the focus of all my problems. The bell tinkles as I enter and make my way to the tiny baking aisle. I find the flour and the icing sugar, but instead of grabbing them and going to the till, I hesitate. On the shelf next to the dry ingredients is a row of cake mixes in boxes, and next to those, packets of icing.
I pick up one of the boxes: ‘Devil’s food’ chocolate cake. It looks OK – there’s a picture of a smiling woman on the box and a creamy-looking cake with squiggles of steam coming off it. I check the instructions. All that’s required is to stir the mix in with a couple of eggs, some water and some oil. Easy peasy—
‘Scarlett?’
I freeze for a nanosecond, then spring into action – shoving the box of cake mix back on the shelf. It knocks into the one behind, and the boxes collapse like dominoes, several falling on to the floor. I grab the icing sugar and the flour.
‘Hi Nick,’ I say, my face on fire. ‘Just had to pick up a few things for a cake I’m making.’
‘Sorry – didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Oh, um, you didn’t.’ I bend down and pick up the boxes of cake mix – the smiling woman’s face now seems like she’s accusing me of something. I put them back on the nearest shelf and, forcing a smile, make my way up to the till.
The icing sugar and flour won’t fit in my bag – I practically break the zip trying to get it closed. Nick wanders out of the shop, pretending not to notice how flustered I am. I pay at the till and go outside.
He’s waiting for me there on the pavement, reading something on his phone. A strand of dark hair has fallen over his eyes. He pushes it back and looks at me with concern.
‘You know – it would have been fine if you’d bought the cake mix.’
‘I know.’ I hang my head, feeling foolish. The conversation I had with Violet looms in my mind. I should talk to Nick about – us – but right now, I feel too caught out. ‘It’s just . . .’ I stammer, ‘I’ve lost all my friends – other than Violet – and I don’t want to mess up the blog too. I don’t think using a cake mix would quite fit with it.’
‘Hey, come on.’ He reaches out, taking my hand. ‘You haven’t lost all your friends.’
‘Oh really?’ I snatch my hand away. ‘Gretchen might disagree.’
‘Come on Scarlett, you know how she is,’ he challenges. ‘The second she’s not the centre of attention, it’s like the world is out to get her.’
I stare at him – I’ve never heard him say a mean word against anyone – and few people would dare to say a bad thing about Gretchen. ‘You really think that?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugs. ‘Who’s the cake for?’
I sense he’s trying to change the subject, and decide to let him. Right now, I need someone to talk to. ‘It’s for my dad,’ I say. ‘It’s his birthday on Saturday.’
Nick’s brows narrow. ‘You mean Em-K? I thought we made him a cake a month or so back.’
The memory makes me smile. We made Em-K a deliciously moist carrot cake (with no nuts or raisins) and Violet and Alison made a little vegetable garden out of fondant with carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, and a hose and wheelbarrow. It was really cool – and it got loads of retweets – even by a few celeb chefs. But that was then. This is now . . .
‘Not Em-K.’ I sigh. ‘My dad.’
I tell him the whole story – what I know of it, at least. About how he and Mum used to fight a lot, but then he left us, and moved to London. About how Mum was really hurt by him going, and I guess I was too. And I tried really hard to just kind of put him out of my mind. About how he’s now back in town and ‘ran into Mum’ at the TV station. And now we’re supposed to go with him for pizza after a day of wedding dress fittings – and, like, how weird is that?
Nick’s frown deepens. ‘Maybe she wants to smooth things over with him,’ he says. ‘Make sure he’s fine with the idea of her marrying someone else.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But would it matter if he wasn’t fine with it? I mean, it shouldn’t. As far as I’m concerned, Dad’s out of our lives – and good riddance.’
‘Is that really what you think?’
‘Yeah,’ I answer without any hesitation.
We walk along in silence. I know that Nick is only trying to make things better. I appreciate that about him. That . . . and a lot of other things. Though I wish that he’d be a little bit less worried about my feelings, and more worried about me being his girlfriend. But for now, I’m just really glad that he’s here.
‘Do you want me to help you make the cake?’ he says.
‘Yeah!’ I brighten instantly. ‘If you’ve got time.’
‘Sure. It will be fun.’
We walk to my house, chatting about school, and about what kind of decorations to put on the cake. Kelsie once said that she thought it was weird that a boy wanted to join a cooking club. But when I pointed out how some of the best bakers on Bake Off are men, she seemed to get it. For Kelsie, Bake Off is like heaven – I mean, it’s TV and cake – two of her three favourite things. The other being ketchup, which she eats on practically everything.
‘What’s your dad into?’ Nick asks as I open the door.
‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully. ‘Before the stuff happened, he worked, and went to the gym a lot. Though, I did have a kind of weird memory,’ I say. ‘Like, once he made us a big dinner of spaghetti bolognese. It was really good.’
I’m expecting him to laugh – after all, it’s not hard to make good spaghetti bolognese. But he looks thoughtful.
‘So you think he might be interested in cooking?’
‘I don’t have a clue!’
‘Hey . . . no worries.’ This time Nick does laugh. ‘I’m not saying you guys might have something in common.’
‘Ha ha.’ I punch him lightly in the arm. ‘Very funny.’
He turns to look at me, and once again I feel that electric something between us. I look away so that he can’t see me blushing.
When we come into the house, my sister is in the front room watching TV, with Treacle purring on her lap. ‘Hey Kels,’ I stick my head in the room, straining to make myself heard over the sound of Scooby Doo. ‘Do you want to help bake a cake?’
‘A cake?’ She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen. ‘Um . . .’
‘Come on Kelsie,’ Nick says.
‘Nick!’ My sister squeals. She jumps up and rushes over to give him a hug. He picks her up and gives her a whirl-around.
‘Let’s go,’ Nick says, setting her down. ‘Turn that off, OK?’
‘’Course!’ Kelsie immediately switches the TV off. I give a little smirk. Whatever my relationship with Nick is or isn’t, no one has a bigger crush on him than my little sister.
‘Is Mum home?’ I ask her as we’re walking to the kitchen.
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘But look what they did.’ She points, but it’s not really necessary. Just inside the door to the kitchen, there’s a gaping hole in the wall. The plaster is jagged and rough, the bricks at the edge smashed through. There’s a trail of dust and a dirty wheelbarrow track leading across our kitchen floor and out of the back door.
‘Oh right.’ I look at Nick. There’s dust all over the kitchen – it doesn’t look like it’s really fit for baking anything. And on the other side of the opening, Rosemary’s Kitchen beckons like a magical world through the mist.
‘Well, that makes things easier,’ Nick says. ‘Shall we clean up here, or go to the Super Kitchen?’
I smile. ‘Let’s go through the wall.’
I feel like I’m climbing through the wardrobe to Narnia or someth
ing as I follow Kelsie and Nick through the jagged opening.
‘Are we going to have two kitchens?’ Kelsie asks. I take the icing sugar and flour out of my bag.
‘No, I think they’ll make our old kitchen into a dining room or something,’ I say.
‘So this will be our kitchen.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fab,’ my sister says.
Nick and I get the ingredients out and he helps my sister do the measuring. He naturally assumes that we’re using the cake recipe from our special recipe book. It isn’t very complex or different from other cake recipes – it has the same flour, butter, eggs and sugar as in any other cookbook. But there’s something about the handwritten recipes in the little red and green marbled notebook that seem to make everything taste better.
I know that the cake will taste amazing – moist, fluffy, never dry or soggy. But right now, in a way, I wish we weren’t using our special recipe. I don’t want Dad to get any funny ideas. I start getting things ready to make the icing and the decorations – we’ll stick to buttercream icing and sprinkles, nothing too fancy.
Kelsie pours the ingredients into the bowl and mixes them with her skinny arm. Nick even lets her break the eggs, which is something I never do. She quickly gets tired of stirring, and asks Nick with her big, blue, puppy-dog eyes if he’ll take over.
‘Sure.’ He flexes his arm muscles and gives her a wink.
Kelsie sits down and watches him. ‘Is Scarlett your girlfriend?’ she asks out of the blue.
‘Kelsie!’ I blurt out. My skin crawls with mortification. ‘You don’t ask people things like that.’
She turns to look at me. ‘Why not? I mean, he’s your boyfriend, right?’
Nick laughs awkwardly. I can feel the flush creeping down my neck.
‘Yeah,’ he says, eyes fixed on the spoon swirling in the bowl. ‘She is.’
‘Oh, I thought so,’ Kelsie says. I feel a tremor flowing through my body. Does he mean it, or is he just fobbing my sister off? I wish she’d go back and watch TV. On second thoughts . . . she’d better not leave. ‘Scarlett’s always talking about you. She goes this funny red colour.’
Confetti & Cake Page 5
