Confetti & Cake

by Laurel Remington

  ‘Uh oh,’ Violet says, checking the screen of her phone. ‘I have to get home. Aunt Hilda’s sent me three texts asking where I am.’ She quickly types a reply that she’s on her way.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Do you want to take the biscuits with you, or do you want me to bring them to school tomorrow?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’ Violet blinks, looking flustered.

  ‘How about we invite him over tomorrow after school? You can surprise him.’

  ‘OK, maybe.’ She gets her school bag and puts on her cardigan.

  ‘You OK getting home?’

  ‘Yeah. And Scarlett . . .’ Her eyes are once again glassy with tears. ‘Thanks for everything. You know, especially for listening. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I feel a little better.’

  ‘Good. I’m here if you need me.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’ Outside the warm glow of Rosemary’s Kitchen, the words sound less certain than I’d like.

  When Violet is gone, I take out my phone. In helping Violet with her crisis, I’d forgotten about my own problems – and forgotten to call Producer Poppy.

  My sister is in the front room watching TV with Mum – some show about saving a vintage clothing shop on a high street somewhere. I pop in and bring them a plate of millionaire’s shortbread, leaving them in chocolate heaven while I go up to my room.

  When my door is shut, I go to my desk and turn on my new computer. I deliberately avoid checking my emails – I’d been planning on writing a blog post on ‘biscuit flavours for spring’ and posting the photos of our scrummy shortbread. But the words won’t come. Not until I know for sure what’s lurking in my inbox.

  I click on the mail icon. Although I was expecting it, my throat constricts, making it hard to breathe. I open the new message from Dad:

  Hi Scarlett,

  I hope you’re well. From the sound of things on your blog, you seem very excited about your Mum’s wedding. I’m so pleased that everything has worked out for you all, and that all of you will be very happy. Maybe you think I’m just saying it because I should. But the truth is, I do wish you every happiness now and in the future.

  Now I’m starting to sound like a greeting card, so I’ll stop. But speaking about your future, I want to set the record straight on something else. I know you saw the video your mum posted on her blog at the beginning, saying that I asked her for money. The way she said it – well – I know she was angry, and out to gain a following, so maybe things were made to sound a little bit different than they really were. We’ve discussed it now – ask her if you don’t believe me.

  Anger bubbles in my veins and I want to slam down the lid of the laptop. How dare he slag off Mum, then try to make excuses for her so that he sounds like the person who was hurt by what happened! I want to write back – tell him to stop bugging me – to get out of my life. But instead, I keep reading:

  Before you slam down the lid of the laptop, let me get to the point. I did ask her for money – I wanted to make sure we both put some money away for you and your sister. When her blog got going, I suggested that we each put money into an account. I told her to send me a cheque, and I’d take care of it. She decided to do the vlog – telling her followers that now that her blog was successful I wanted a share of the money.

  I don’t blame her. She was angry, I’d hurt everyone. She found a good way to get back at me. In the end, I opened savings accounts for you and your sister, and I put a little in each month. If you ever want or need money for anything, just ask and we’ll talk about it.

  Dad x

  The message ends and I do slam down the laptop lid. I’m crying and fuming, and I’m not really sure why. I don’t need to know the details of the money stuff – I get the idea. Dad wants me to think that he’s in the right, and Mum did something bad to him on her blog.

  As if!

  I put my head in my hands and instead of sobbing, I start to laugh. Because the sad truth of it is, I can well imagine that every word Dad wrote is absolutely true.

  Twisted truths

  Ilie in my bed staring at the ceiling. I think about Violet, and her nightmares. How brave she is to want to confront the bad things head on. I think about ‘closure’, and the ‘worry monsters’ and wonder if this whole thing with Dad is something that I – and maybe Mum too – need to confront before we can move on. But try as I might, the fear won’t go away. Fear of all the changes and the stuff I can’t control.

  At some point, Kelsie comes upstairs for bed. She sticks her head into my room and asks if she can have another piece of shortbread tomorrow for her tea. Her chin has a little smear of chocolate on it.

  ‘Sure,’ I mutter, wishing I was as clueless as my sister, who just seems to bump along with everything that happens, enjoying the presents and the attention from our long-lost dad.

  When Kelsie’s in her room, I swing out of bed. There’s nothing for it – I have to talk to Mum. I pace my room, trying to gather my courage and think about what I’m going to say. That for all these years I’ve been hating Dad in part based on the lies Mum’s told me. How many more truths did she twist for the purposes of her blog and her followers? I thought that was all behind us now, that we’d worked through how we both felt about what she did – my feeling that she was wrong to write about me in a way that embarrassed me and made me lose confidence; her view was that she did it to earn money for the family – but I see now that I wasn’t the only person who was hurt by what she did. Is this new-found ‘friendship’ with Dad her way of apologizing for the lies she told? Or is she trying to turn back the clock and get back with him? How many more people will she end up hurting in the process?

  I slip out of my room and start going down the stairs. But halfway down I hear voices coming from the kitchen. Mum – and Em-K. I hesitate, not wanting to get in the middle of a lovers’ tiff – or reunion.

  ‘And you’ve seen him since he’s been back?’ Em-K’s voice sounds unusually high-pitched.

  ‘Oh, once,’ Mum breezes. ‘Maybe twice.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘What’s the matter, are you jealous?’ Mum voice is low, almost like she’s purring.

  ‘Should I be?’

  Mum laughs. ‘A little competition is healthy, don’t you think?’

  ‘With the wedding coming up so soon, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Hey . . .’ Mum stops laughing. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  I creep down another step.

  ‘He hurt you, remember?’ Em-K says. ‘You told me you were glad he was gone – that you never wanted to see him again.’

  There’s the sound of a cork popping out of a wine bottle, and the glug of liquid pouring into two glasses.

  ‘He’s back in town. Living here,’ Mum says. ‘I can’t just pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s their father.’

  ‘He wasn’t too interested in all that when he left, was he? Or in the years afterwards. So why now?’

  ‘He’s from here – knows people. Besides, he’s a grown man. He’s got the right to live where he wants.’

  ‘I just don’t want him spoiling things, that’s all.’

  ‘He just wants to see the kids – that’s it.’ Mum sounds desperate to convince him. ‘And I owe him that, surely.’

  ‘Do you? Why?’

  The breath freezes in my chest.

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly paint him in the best light on the blog, did I? You know, I sort of embellished the bad stuff.’ A glass clunks down on the table. ‘I told him that if he wants, he can set the record straight with Scarlett. Let her know the truth.’

  There’s a silence for a few seconds. Then Em-K speaks again, his tone lighter, almost playful. ‘Remind me never to cross you. I wouldn’t want your followers sending my career down in flames.’

  Mum laughs. ‘Don’t worry. I plan on reminding you . . . as often as I need to.’

  The conversation stops as the glasses clink together. I’ve heard more than enough. Way
more. I creep back up the stairs to my room and bury my head underneath the pillow.

  Facing up

  When I wake up the next morning, my head hurts. Mum feeling guilty for what she did to Dad. Dad wanting to ‘set the record straight’ and come back into our lives – just before Mum’s wedding to Em-K. And Mum twisting the truth to Em-K about how often she’s been in touch with Dad.

  Then, as I’m walking to school, Producer Poppy phones again. I stop and look down at the lit-up screen, listening to it ring and ring, until finally it stops. I know I need to speak to her, but I just can’t face it right now. And then there’s Violet . . . she’s left me a message too.

  Not feeling so good. Can u ring me?

  I scroll through my contacts past the numbers for Alison, Gretchen, Nick . . . and Violet. The cursor hovers over ‘Fraser S’. I hit the call button.

  ‘Hello,’ he answers on the fifth ring. There’s the sound of traffic in the background. ‘Scarlett, is that you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I wanted to catch you before school. Can you come over after school, around half four? It’s . . . kind of a special thing.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, OK? It will be our secret.’

  ‘Sure, but . . .’

  I end the call. Let him think what he likes. The only thing I really need is for him to turn up.

  But when I get to school, I worry that I’ve made a mistake. Violet looks a mess. ‘I didn’t sleep,’ she admits. ‘I woke up again with nightmares. Mum was in the house, opening all the cupboards, looking for me. I tried to call out, but she couldn’t hear me. And then when she turned around, her face . . . it was . . .’ She shudders. ‘It was so awful. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even feel like drawing. I just lay there, staring at nothing. I know it’s lame, but I kept thinking about Fraser – how he probably doesn’t even know what happened to my parents. When he finds out, he’ll think I’m some kind of nutcase or something.’

  She breaks off, her eyes clouded with tears.

  ‘Hey, look,’ I say, ‘you don’t have to tell him anything if you don’t want to. And we’re going to sort it. I promise.’

  ‘I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t see how . . .’

  ‘Go home first. I’ll see you about five.’

  Just as well I told Fraser to turn up at half four.

  In the end, Fraser is late and Violet is early, so they both arrive at the same time. Violet looks a little better – there’s a surprised glow about her as she stands next to Fraser on the doorstep and I let them both in. We go through to Rosemary’s Kitchen, where I’ve laid out both types of shortbread biscuits we made for Fraser on a plate, and have poured milk into three tumblers.

  ‘Cool,’ Fraser says. ‘When did you make these?’

  ‘Yesterday. We thought we’d try a Scottish recipe,’ Violet says. I’m relieved to see that she’s not tongue-tied with nerves. In fact, she seems calm and in control – much more than usual.

  ‘It was practice for the wedding menu,’ I add quickly. ‘Mum likes shortbread, so I thought we could make them for the tea biscuits.’

  Fraser looks at Violet and takes one of the orange and cranberry biscuits with a chocolate smiley face. ‘Delicious.’ He smiles. Her pale face flushes as she quickly hands him another one.

  ‘We thought you’d be the best person to judge them,’ she says. ‘Because you’re Scottish and all.’

  The conversation isn’t exactly flowing, but the fact that Alison isn’t there means that at least Fraser is focusing on Violet.

  ‘Are you up for trying to make macarons today?’ I say to Violet. ‘I found a recipe.’

  She gives me a long look. ‘Yeah, I think that would be . . . good.’

  ‘Those are biscuits, right?’ Fraser says. ‘I’ve never had them before.’ He reaches for another shortbread.

  Violet takes her sketchbook out of her bag and opens it. The page is covered in little round biscuits in all different flavours and colours. ‘They were my mum’s favourite,’ she says softly. ‘Maybe we can make them for the school canteen. In memory of her.’

  ‘In memory?’ Though he’s about to bite into the biscuit, he lowers his hand. I look at her in surprise.

  Violet inhales deeply. ‘Two years ago, something really bad happened . . .’

  Fraser stops eating and listens as she tells him a short version of what happened. I watch his face – and I know that she was right to tell him. It’s something that’s part of her, and will either scare him away, or prove that he’s more than just ‘nice’ on the outside. Still, I can’t believe she’s being so brave – I certainly wouldn’t be.

  She talks and they both eat more biscuits. I decide to leave them to it. Neither of them notices as I slip back through the hole in the wall, to write a post for the blog.

  4 May

  This week has been very sweet – literally! We’ve been making biscuits. I remember when I was little and I loved chocolate chip biscuits with gooey, moist centres – and even better was eating the dough raw! But nowadays, we’re trying to be a little more grown-up. Yesterday, my friend and I made orange and cranberry shortbread, with lots of butter, and chocolate piping on top (yeah – heart-shaped!). We also made batch of scrummy millionaire’s shortbread – with oozy caramel and chocolate on top. Today, we’re going to try making rainbow-coloured macarons. In case you aren’t sure what those are (I wasn’t until yesterday), they’re French, and made with ground almonds and egg whites with cream filling in the middle. Or, if you can’t eat nuts, some people make them with pumpkin flour! In the end – the outside should be crispy like meringue, and the inside is – whatever flavour you can dream up! Keep an eye out for the photos!

  The Little Cook xx

  In a way, it couldn’t have gone better. When I came back to check on them a while later, Violet was in tears, and Fraser had moved around to the other side of the table to sit next to her, and was holding her hand. Mission accomplished!

  Seeing me, though, they both looked awkward, and Violet moved her hand away.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t disturbed them. ‘I was just, um . . .’

  ‘Fraser said he’d go with us.’ Violet says. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and smiles at him.

  ‘Go with us? Where?’

  ‘To the house where I used to live.’ Violet says. ‘I’ve decided that’s what I need to do. So I can get . . . you know . . . closure.’

  ‘Really?’ I look at Fraser.

  ‘Um, you’re coming too, right?’ Violet suddenly looks nervous.

  ‘Well . . .’ If it was a ‘date’ I would definitely have said no. Some of the awkwardness between me and Nick comes from the fact that we’re almost always around other people, never alone just to talk. But this is a lot more than that. Violet needs me. I’m not really sure what visiting her old house is going to do, but I want to be there for her. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say. ‘Maybe I could see if Nick can come too.’

  Fraser looks instantly relieved. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘So when are we going?’

  ‘You two work it out,’ I say. I grab a piece of millionaire’s shortbread off the plate and pop it in my mouth, hoping it will give me courage. ‘I’ve got to go and make a phone call.’

  I go up to my room and stare at my phone. But each time I try to make myself dial Producer Poppy’s number, my fingers start to jitter, and I can’t bring myself to press the call button. Eventually, I get annoyed with myself and stab in the digits. Violet’s been facing up to her problems and taking action. I have to do the same.

  The phone rings and I start to feel queasy, then hopeful that it might go to voicemail. But after five rings, it’s answered by a breathless, loud female voice. ‘Hello. Poppy here.’

  ‘Um hi. This is Scarlett. Um . . . Claire’s daughter. You left me a message.’ My voice rises up like I’m asking a question.


  ‘Scarlett!’ she booms. ‘Great to hear from you. Just give me a sec.’ The background noise is muffled as she puts her hand over the phone and moves somewhere quieter. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘We’re in the middle of filming a new dating show for mature women.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But yes, the wedding show. It will be brilliant having you in to bake the cake. Can you come in to the studio for a chat and a look around? Meet the team? Now let’s see what I have in the diary.’ There’s the sound of flipping pages. ‘Here we go. Let’s see, I could do . . . tomorrow? You could come after school.’

  ‘Um . . . I . . .’ I need to stand up to her. Tell her that I’m not doing the show unless the whole Secret Cooking Club is on air too, making the wedding feast.

  ‘It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Producer Poppy says to someone in the background, clearly in a rush.

  ‘So, Scarlett, shall I put you down for say, four o’clock.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Great. This is going to be such fun!’

  I end the call, my hands shaking. Why couldn’t I stick to my guns; tell her that at the end of the day, it’s Mum’s wedding, and The Secret Cooking Club is going to be involved no matter what issues some TV station may have with that. Why didn’t I? Why?

  With a sigh, I throw the phone down on the bed. I suppose Violet’s right – I do have ‘stage fright’ when it comes to dealing with real people. I don’t want them to know the real me, or wonder about me – it’s fine doing the blog because that’s ‘The Little Cook’, not Scarlett. Maybe it sounds like I’m splitting hairs, but to me, it makes all the difference in the world. Not to mention the fact that I promised my friends I’d make it happen, and that it’s The Secret Cooking Club that deserves the credit for everything we do, not just one person.

  I feel like a storm cloud has gathered over my head as I go back downstairs and through the hole in the wall to rejoin Violet and Fraser. To my relief, they still seem to be hitting it off. Fraser is mixing up the fillings for the macarons – mint, strawberry, double chocolate, lavender – and Violet is adding rainbow gel food colouring to the little pots of almond and egg white mixture. It’s like a garden of spring flowers right in the kitchen.