‘Whoa,’ I say. ‘That’s not what I meant. I don’t think those things are silly at all. I think you can make it happen . . . we can make it happen.’
‘You mentioned that in your text,’ Em-K says, frowning. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
And I tell him my plan.
So much fun
I’ve done what I can, and in the end, I have to leave Mum and Em-K to mend their own differences – or not. Whatever happens, I’ve made a commitment – to my friends, to Mum, to Producer Polly, and to The Secret Cooking Club. It’s one I intend to keep.
As Em-K leaves the kitchen – he’s agreed, at least, to think about what I’ve said – he turns back to me. ‘You’re only thirteen,’ he muses. ‘But you’re so wise. Why is that, Scarlett?’
‘I guess I’m just used to dealing with Mum and her dramas,’ I say. I just hope that this time, I’ve done enough.
When he’s gone, I put extra food in Treacle’s dish and put the special recipe book in my bag. I also gather a few tins and some of the key ingredients together. Even though Assistant Annie promised me that everything we need to make the wedding feast will be there for us when we arrive, I don’t want to leave anything to chance. A car pulls up outside just as Violet arrives at the door. Assistant Annie gets out and greets me cheerfully. If she’s nervous about our little ‘plan’, she isn’t letting on. She and Violet help me load the car and just like that we’re good to go. Violet and I get in and she drives away. On the way to the TV station, we stop by to pick up Fraser and Alison. The others are going to meet us there.
‘I’m so excited,’ Alison says getting into the car. ‘I’ve never been on TV before.’
My stomach churns with nerves, but I manage to keep smiling. ‘I’m sure you’ll be a natural,’ I say. ‘Unlike some of us.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ says Assistant Annie. ‘Just get on as you would normally. I’ve ordered in all the ingredients you asked for – they’re already at the studio. It will all be so much fun.’
I think of all the dishes we’re planning to cook – starters, mains, desserts – the entire menu we came up with. I think of the collapsed cake. I think of Mum and Em-K – will they be making up or breaking up? I think of the tension that’s still there sometimes between Gretchen and me, and I think of the TV cameras recording every moment of the day that’s to come. I think of the big, crazy finale I’m planning – and how a lot of it depends on a man that just a few days ago, I wanted out of my life for good. Dad.
‘Sure,’ I say, biting my lip. ‘So much fun.’
Ready, steady . . .
It doesn’t take long to reach the studio. When we arrive and I get out of the car, I feel like I’m sinking in quicksand. I remember how nervous I felt at The Bridal Centre with all the cameras and lights swarming around me. But this is too important – I can’t back out now. I clutch the bag with The Little Cook to my chest, hoping that just for today, our special book will continue to work is magic.
Gretchen, Nick, Naya and Annabel Greene are waiting in the lobby of the studios when we arrive.
‘Hello!’ I say to Annabel, giving her a quick hug. Her face is very pale, and I can tell that she’s just as nervous as I am – and probably a lot more so. ‘I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve told everyone about your fantastic cupcakes.’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I was kind of scared to come, to be honest. I mean, you guys are such great cooks, and great friends, and . . .’
‘And we’re delighted to have you,’ Violet chips in.
I introduce the others. ‘But don’t worry if you can’t remember everyone’s name,’ I reassure her.
‘Yeah,’ Gretchen says. ‘This is a new thing for all of us.’
‘Thanks,’ Annabel says, a little colour returning to her cheeks.
‘No worries,’ I say. ‘Today of all days, we need all the help we can get.’
The eight of us gather the things from the car to carry inside. Just as Assistant Annie is about to direct us to the studio, a woman in a red dress and high heels swoops down on us. It’s Producer Poppy.
‘Scarlett!’ She presses my cheeks together and gives me an air kiss. How delightful to see you and . . .’ she looks around me and frowns. ‘Your friends.’
I take a breath through my teeth. ‘I know we didn’t discuss it, but I can’t appear on your show by myself to do the wedding cake.’ My knees feel like jelly as I speak but I force myself to keep my chin up and my voice strong. ‘I’m the founder of The Secret Cooking Club. And that means, if I’m going to cook on your show, then so are they. We’re here to do a whole wedding feast.’
‘Right.’ Producer Poppy puts her hands on her hips and stares at me. I stare back, gaining strength from my having my friends around me. ‘I need a word with my assistant.’ They move just out of earshot and seem to be having a heated discussion.
‘What’s happening?’ Annabel asks.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Gretchen whispers to me.
I smile at both of them, hoping I look more confident than I feel. ‘Yes, I did,’ I say. ‘Because it’s absolutely true.’
‘And you think they’ll go for it?’ Gretchen raises an eyebrow.
‘I don’t—’
At that moment, the lobby door opens again and a man enters. Tall, broad-shouldered, darkish blonde hair. Dad.
‘Poppy!’ He shows his pass to the guard and swoops up, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I see they’re all here, just like I said they would be! This is going to be fabulous for your show and the ratings.’
Immediately, Producer Poppy seems to melt. And at that moment, I know for absolutely certain. Dad isn’t a risk to our future happiness – not where Mum’s concerned, anyhow. He’s already seeing someone else.
‘Well, yes,’ she stammers, ‘I hope so.’
He takes Poppy to the side and speaks to her in a low voice. I know he’s telling her about the rest of my ‘plan’. Her eyebrows rise and fall, and she glances over at me a few times, looking worried. She shakes her head, and for a second, I worry that it’s all gone wrong. Then, she smiles.
‘OK,’ she says, loud enough for us all to hear it. ‘I’ll let the crew know about the . . . um . . .’ she clears her throat, ‘. . . slight change in plan.’
Dad gives me a thumbs up and presses the button for the lift. ‘Hope you kids have a great time,’ he says. ‘I’m off to take Kelsie to get a new scooter, but I’ll be on the mobile if you need me.’
‘Brilliant.’ I grin. ‘Thanks.’
‘Who’s that?’ Annabel asks as soon as he’s gone.
‘My dad.’ I smile proudly.
My friends and I follow Assistant Annie out of the lobby and down a corridor that ends in a large door. The door leads to another corridor, and eventually she stops in front of a door marked: Studio 5. ‘This is it,’ Annie says.
Halfway inside, I stop so suddenly that Violet pushes into my back. ‘OMG!’ I say, amazed at what’s before me.
There are more gasps, oohs and aahs from behind me as The Secret Cooking Club members file in to our kitchen-for-the-day. It’s a huge space – almost twice the size of Rosemary’s Kitchen – and even bigger than our school canteen kitchen! Every surface is white and shiny, sparkling and spotless. Even the floor is white, polished like an ice rink. The floor is raised up a little, almost like a stage. In front of the raised part, and immediately around where we’re standing, is a forest of cameras, microphones, lights and wires.
‘Um, where should we put this stuff?’ Nick says. He and Fraser have come in behind the rest of us, their arms full of the tins and books I’ve brought.
‘Put it on the far worktop.’ Assistant Annie points to the edge of the kitchen where there are almost a dozen giant carrier bags full of the ingredients we asked for. ‘That will be out of shot.’
Violet and I look at each other as we walk towards the raised floor. My legs are wobbly, but I make myself keep going. I step up on to the gleaming
white floor. Violet comes up too, and the others follow.
‘OK,’ I say, ‘this is where we’ll be cooking today. Obviously.’ My voice sounds small in the large space. I gesture to Gretchen, who nods. She takes out the menus and the photocopied recipes. Opening my rucksack, I take out The Little Cook. I’m glad to see there’s a bookstand in the kitchen, and I prop it open. Seeing it there, I feel a little less on edge.
Producer Poppy comes back into the room, looking harried. A man is following behind her – they look like they’ve been arguing.
She claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. ‘Well,’ she says, smoothing her skirt, ‘we weren’t really expecting a . . . club. But we’re going to go with it.’ Her smile has that stressed look I’m used to seeing from Mum, only with lipstick.
‘I’ll need the phone numbers of all your parents,’ the man says. ‘I’ll need to get some waivers and permissions signed. But no reason to hold up the show.’ His smile seems genuine.
‘Great,’ I say. My heart feels like it’s just run a fifty-metre dash. ‘We’ll get set up.’
It doesn’t take me long to figure out that my friends are all as nervous as I am, even Gretchen – and as the PTA rep for our year, she’s used to speaking with grown-ups. Everyone talks in whispers. The cameramen come in, and the producer talks to them individually and introduces us to a short balding man who’s the director. Then a woman comes round to me with a little box that clips on to the waistband of my jeans, and a cord that comes around and clips on to the front of my apron – a microphone, she says. Even though I’ve spoken into microphones before when doing charity bake-offs, having one clipped on to me makes my heart gallop. What if I breathe too loudly or, without thinking, accidently mutter a rude word? The woman has three more microphones. I direct her to clip them on Nick, Alison and Gretchen. The others: Fraser, Violet, Annabel and Naya all look relieved not to have a mic. Another woman hovers around with a palette of make-up and a hair brush. Alison goes over to have a chat and ends up taking a brush herself to help apply powder to each of our faces.
Finally, Producer Poppy comes back over. ‘OK, here’s how this is going to work.’ She goes on to explain the cameras, and the microphones, and how the cameras are going to move around to get different angles. Then she tells us to ‘just look natural’.
As if!
She rushes off to speak to the cameramen, and I hold up my hand to gather all my friends together.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say. The microphone amplifies my voice but I ignore it. ‘We’ve been through the plan and everybody knows what they’re supposed to be doing, right?’
Heads nod, still nervous.
‘It’s all there on the sheet I did,’ Gretchen says. She and Naya have already handed around a schedule of who’s doing what. ‘Now, if you have any questions, come and see me or Scarlett, OK?’
‘Yeah.’ I smile. Now that Gretchen’s in charge, she seems much more at ease. ‘And the most important thing – the reason we’re all here – is because this is what we love. So let’s get started, and have some fun.’
It may sound a little lame, but I raise my hand in a high-five. Everyone else puts their hands in the middle too, just like we might have done when we were little kids. The energy begins to flow between us, and all of a sudden, worried faces turn to smiles.
‘Ready . . .’ I say.
‘Steady . . .’ everyone joins in.
‘Bake!’
Confetti and cakes
Ilose myself . . .
In the feel of the flour as it thickens when I stir it in the bowl; the butter and sugar mixing together. In the smell of the lemon peel, the fresh fruit, the caramel. In the laughter, the occasional floury hand on my shoulder, in the bright lights and the white surface that is no longer shiny, but covered with sugar and pastry ends, gravy, doughy spoons, vegetable peelings and eggshells. In the moment when I put each cake tier, one by one, into the shiny steel oven to bake, and the moment when I open the door and the sweet-smelling steam rushes up to warm my face. And the cameras don’t matter, or the microphones, or the directions spoken by the producer.
One by one, canapé by canapé, dish by dish, layer by layer, the wedding feast gets made. Violet and Annabel oversee the puddings and help me decorate the cake, Gretchen and Nick focus on the mains, Fraser and Naya on the starters. Alison pitches in where necessary, peeling the fruit, and making the sparkling lemonade and miniature milkshakes. She ends up doing quite a bit of speaking in front of the camera, explaining what we’re all doing. Maybe because it’s because she’s so pretty, but she’s a natural on the screen.
As I make each tier of the cake, I tick off the ingredients as I put them in to avoid another baking powder disaster. Violet makes new ‘bride and groom’ figures for the top of the cake out of sugar paste. Hers don’t look a lot more like Mum and Em-K than mine did, if I’m honest, but they are more artistic, and the silver and white edible glitter on the dress does look lovely. But as the cake nears completion, my nerves rise to the surface. Because as much as the wedding feast prepared by The Secret Cooking Club seems to be a success, on camera at least, I need the other part – the most important part – of my plan to come together too. I wipe a layer of flour off my watch and check the time. It’s almost three o’clock. If something’s going to happen it will have to be soon.
Just then, I hear a high-pitched voice as a small figure dashes into the studio. Producer Poppy looks alarmed. ‘Who’s that child?’ she says.
Kelsie runs up on to the stage. ‘Oooh, look at that cake,’ she says. ‘It looks so fab-U-licious!’
I take a step back and look at what Violet and Annabel have done. The six tiers of the cake are covered with smooth white icing. Violet has piped on an intricate white border of buttercream around each tier, and she and Annabel have used royal icing and edible glue to paste real flowers covered in glitter – rose petals, crystallized violets, pansies and lavender florets – all down the side of the cake like a magic swirl.
Kelsie squeezes my hand. ‘Dad and I did what you said, Scarlett,’ she says. ‘He talked to her in the kitchen, and I went upstairs to her room and got the dress and flip-flops. And your purple T-shirt.’
‘Great job,’ I say. She hands it to me and I slip it over the white one I’m wearing. ‘But just for today, the T-shirt’s lavender, OK?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Kelsie!’ My sister and I both turn. It’s Mum.
She looks beyond stressed, but at least her hair is wet, which means she’s showered. Producer Poppy immediately waylays her. Naya puts Kelsie to work helping to finish the canapés, and I strain to hear what Poppy and Mum are talking about.
‘Make-up? Why do you want me in make-up?’ Mum is saying.
‘We thought it might be good to get some footage of you with your daughters while they’re baking,’ Poppy says. ‘We’ll put you in a nice dress, and it will be brilliant. So good for the show.’
‘Well, if you think it will be good for the show . . .’ Mum brightens.
‘Yes. So if you’ll just go with my assistant, she’ll take you down to your own dressing room . . .’
‘Did Mum talk to Em-K?’ I whisper to my sister.
‘I . . .’ her blue eyes widen. ‘I . . . don’t know. They are going to get married, right?’ There’s a hesitation in her voice. ‘That’s what Dad says.’
‘Did he? Did you get your scooter?’
‘Yes!’ She grins. ‘It’s totally awesome. It’s pink.’
‘Good.’
Her smile fades. ‘Dad says that Em-K can help me ride it. That he’s going to be our new stepdad.’
‘And are you OK with that?’ My jaw tenses as I wait for her answer.
‘I guess so. Dad says that we’re lucky because we’ll have two dads. We’ll get twice as many presents.’
I laugh, ruffling her blonde hair. ‘With two dads, I guess we will.’
All the ingredients are in place, separate things ready to be mixed together int
o something new – like they belonged that way all along. The wedding feast, The Secret Cooking Club, even the TV cameras. Violet’s hand is perfectly steady as she positions the little sugar-paste bride figure on top of the cake. But there’s one piece of the puzzle that’s still missing.
I go to the side of the stage where the cameras can’t see me, and check my phone to see if there’s been any response to the texts I’ve sent. Texts to the one person who can make or break this now. There’s no response. I feel a chilling sensation running down my spine. In front of three cameras, Violet sets the figure of the groom on top of the cake next to the bride. Will all this be for nothing?
The studio door opens. A few women come in whom I recognize as friends of Mum. There are only four of them, but I figure it’s not bad for only a few hours’ notice. Behind them, an elderly man in a dark suit and white collar enters.
Producer Poppy rushes up to the newcomers. ‘How fantastic you could all make it at such short notice!’ Even though she’s been on her feet in those high heels for eight hours, there’s no sign of her flagging. She looks around and frowns. ‘Let me take you to the studio next door. That’s where we’re hoping to start filming in . . .’ she checks her watch, ‘ten minutes. All being well.’
But all is not well. Mum comes into the studio, followed by a breathless Assistant Annie who has obviously been told to keep her as far away from the cameras as possible. Mum’s wearing her flowered dress, but not her flip-flops. Those are in Annie’s hand.
‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’ Mum says. ‘Why I’m— oh!’
She spies the cake and her mouth drops open. Then, she looks around at the feast we’ve laid out on a table at the edge of the white kitchen worktops. A feast we made in part for the benefit of the cameras, but in the end, I swear – that each dish, every canapé, each dollop of icing and sparkly edible flower was made with love. It’s a feast fit for a bride and groom; a feast fit for a new family. If only—
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