by Laura Briggs
"H'lo." He sounded grumpy, as you would expect at one in the morning. I'd rung him twice before he even bothered to answer. I pictured him sacked out on the sofa, probably under a pile of old clothes and empty takeaway wrappers.
"It's me — Kitty," I said.
"The waitress at Tilly's A-Go-Go Club, what asked for me number last Saturday?"
"Hilarious." I rolled my eyes. "I need a favor. I need a ride home from Porthcurno."
"Porthcurno? At this time o' night? Are you mental?"
"It's important," I said. "Look, I'll give you twenty quid if you'll just come and fetch me." It was all I had in my handbag when I looked.
"Thirty quid," he grunted. "That's what I owe Louie." Louie was probably a bookie — Saul was always losing his wages over a bet or two gone squiffy with some local shark, especially now that the racetrack at St Austell was open again. "I'll come for thirty and not a pound less."
"Fine," I sighed. I told him where to find me, and then waited. The bench I was sitting on was hard, not more so than the theatre's seat, but it felt like it. I think my brain wasn't doing a decent job of escaping what happened tonight. Trying to transport me back, maybe, as I sat alone. But what good was that, since I obviously wanted to get away from there in the first place?
I put my head in my hands. It throbbed a bit — the funny feeling from kissing him hadn't gone away completely. It made me a bit dizzy; I was shaking a bit, even though I wasn't cold. But something inside me felt frigid and sick ... that was a new feeling, one that had come over me after I made my escape.
You can't regret it, I told myself. What was going to come of it, in the end? When he went back to America, and you drifted to another village? Nothing, that's what. It always comes to nothing.
I spent the night curled up in an out of the way alcove, wrapped up in my dress scarf. Not the roughest night's sleep I've had, but close to it. Two hours after I had called, Saul still hadn't arrived. I rang his mobile again, and it went to his voicemail. Blasted lazybones — he'd probably fallen asleep again after we spoke.
At five in the morning, I heard the sound of a familiar motor in the distance. There was my motorbike speeding towards the village crossing — Saul was riding it, the spare helmet clipped to the back of the bike. He screeched to a stop, then lifted my helmet from his head.
"You look like something the cat dragged to the kitchen door," he said.
"Where's your car?" I said, with dismay. "What's Mum about, letting you take my bike?"
"Dad's borrowed mine. Gone up to Newquay for a bit of business," he said. "Think you can ride in those togs?" Another smirk for my dress. I felt stupid once again for choosing to wear it last night.
"Don't be daft," I answered. I put on the spare helmet, then climbed on the back of the bike. "Just take me to Cliffs House."
"Cliffs House?" he echoed.
"I'll be late for my job if you don't," I said. "It's the final day of the contest. Now let's be going, if you don't mind." I clung on tight as he revved my little engine unnecessarily to take off again, my scarf trailing behind in the breeze as we turned towards the village's road. I buried my face against the back of Saul's jacket, smelling the odor of smoke and stale beer, and tried not to think about Nathan's last words before I left him.
***
Julianne:
The tables were in place, the appliances arranged. From the pavilion's open sides, you could see the restless surface of the sea, the summer fields of Cliffs House, and the back gardens and stately manor itself. All that was missing were the twelve contestants for the final baking challenge.
"I'm nervous," I said to Gemma, as we watched from the windows as the crew set up. 'They'll start arriving any minute now."
"There's two hours until it begins," said Gemma. "Think she's still practicing?"
"By now she must know what she's doing by heart. They all will." I thought of Leeman's carousel gingerbread construct, which had been practiced dozens upon dozens of times even before the contest began — he would have thought of something fantastic after years of decorative baking.
"Jenny Bryce's bloke's been bragging that hers is spectacular," said Gemma. "Says no one who eats it is satisfied with one piece. Been dropping hints about it all over social media."
"We'll see," I said. Personally, I was more worried about Emily's cake, whatever it might be. And what about that serious boy, who had managed to redeem himself after the burned pastry frogs? A come-from-behind move was distinctly possible — and it was distinctly possible that it wouldn't be Dinah's.
I bit my thumbnail distractedly as I watched the two judges stroll towards the pavilion from the garden. I turned and retreated to my office, to avoid any more suspense. Dinah probably wouldn't be arriving for at least another half hour.
Kitty at her desk — dressed in her old clothes, I noticed, a worn pair of denims, and sneakers that had seen better days. This was an unusual rebellion against Cliffs House's posh status. "How was the theatre?" I asked.
"Okay." She was deeply absorbed in double-checking an event's attendance list. I smelled an evasion.
"Just okay?" I said. "That surprises me. The theatre's so beautiful. And I know how you love plays. Was it a poor production?" It was basically Cornwall's version of Shakespeare in the Park, so I couldn't imagine that was true.
Kitty sighed. "I don't know. It just ... was okay. All right?" Her tone was snappish. She stapled together an event scheduled with more force than was necessary.
I saw a spare garment bag crumpled out of sight behind the office's big antique floor globe. A bit of bright pink fabric stuck out at the bottom, where it was partly unzipped. Underneath it, by Kitty's old knapsack she kept lying around here, a pair of sleek little high-heeled shoes.
I sat down at my desk. "Did Nathan like the play?" I asked, quietly.
A few seconds ticked by. Kitty knew that I knew something was wrong, and was evidently trying to figure out how to get off this train of conversation. "I've been thinking about taking up a language," she said, finally. "You know, learn something useful for the job. What do you think about French?"
"Kitty," I began.
"There are loads of books on it. After the baking contest, we'll probably have guests from restaurants in Paris and Marseilles. I thought it might be a proper way to welcome them ..."
"Katherine Alderson." My tone had become very firm. Just then, there was a knock on the frame of my open office door.
"Julianne, the event promoter's here, if you want a word with him," said Gemma. "I think the spectators are starting to arrive, too." Crowds always gathered for the final event of The Grand Baking Extravaganza, local fans and curious visitors alike.
"I'll be right there," I said, gathering up my digital planner. I noticed Kitty's face had washed itself a whiter shade of pale, exposing all her freckles. She rose from her desk and escaped the room as if it were on fire.
I followed. Halfway down the path to the cliffs, I caught up with her. "Tell me the truth, Kitty," I said. "What happened last night?"
"Nothing." She crossed her arms and stared out to sea. A very bad feint of indifference, in my opinion. "We saw a play, that was it. Maybe things got a bit stupid for a moment, but it'll sort itself out. Always does."
"So that's why you're wearing a hoodie to work that looks ready for the dustbin?"
Kitty's expression was blank. "Go on," she said. "I'm fine. You have stuff to do."
"He likes you, doesn't he?" I said.
She didn't answer.
I sighed. "Kitty, if you want to shut people out of your life forever, then fine. Do it. It's your life, and no one can live it for you. But I thought after all that happened, you believed in second chances. And I think — maybe — underneath that prickly surface is someone who desperately doesn't want to be alone."
Kitty's crossed arms seemed less like defiance than protection at this angle; I knew she was listening to me, even if she didn't answer. And I knew that whatever happened last night, she wa
s afraid of it the same way she had been afraid deep down to take a chance on Cliffs House's job at first.
"Shutting people out has a price," I said, softly. "Being complicated and contrary just for habit's sake will only get you hurt. Don't do this to yourself, Kitty. Give yourself a second chance with Nathan."
"What makes you think I want one?" she asked. Her voice stumbled a little bit, even though she tried to sound defiant. She blinked hard, even though the sun wasn't all that bright in the garden.
"Because even though you're wearing those clothes, you are wearing lipstick," I said, close to Kitty's ear. "And I really don't think that's for The Grand Baking Extravaganza's benefit."
I turned and went back up the pathway without Kitty. She needed time to think, I suspected, and I had several things to do, as she pointed out. Especially if I wanted to catch Dinah before her big moment in the baking pavilion.
***
Dear Diary,
Darn — I did it again, didn't I? Anyway, my premonition came true. Last night, Dinah's cake collapsed into a big, oozy mess, right in front of the two judges. To begin with, it looked like a tower of underdone puddings, which was probably the reason why ... and then I stepped up to the table and poured Matt's toffee and brown sugar syrup all over it, like that would help. Not really sure what that part was about, but there you have it. Now, let's hope it's not a cosmic warning about the future.
— Julianne
***
Kitty:
It wasn't long after Julianne left me, that I heard footsteps on the pathway. A man's — I can tell by the shoes. I don't turn around, because I know it's going to be him.
He hesitates behind me on the pathway, so he's not coming closer. I tuck my hands deeper in my hoodie's pockets. "It's sort of ... awkward ... for me to talk to you," I said.
"I could say the same," he said. A sound that might be a laugh, only bitter. "Call me crazy for trying it again, I guess."
"It's not the same." I turned to look at him, my tone becoming a bit fiercer than I wanted. "You don't understand how hard it is for me. And it's not about what happened last night —"
"What, then?" he asked. He sounded frustrated. "Is it just me? If it's something about me, just say it — get it over with." He braced himself, trying to be brave enough not to duck this blow, or fall back when it came. "We're both grownups. I can take it."
"It's not you," I said. A band tightens in my stomach, and I know it's fear. "I'm that way with everyone. It's not just my past that makes me do it. But I have one that I don't like ... and you've come someplace where no one knows yours."
It was quiet.
"I'm not close to anybody. No one since my gran, anyway. But I told you things I never tell anyone, and I don't know why." Right now, I can't believe I'm saying this to anybody, much less him. "I was never any good at connections with people. No ties, no nothing, not in a long time. There was never anybody who had a hold over me. So ... I'm not sure there can be."
"I don't have to be a stranger, if you don't want me to be," said Nathan. "Unless the other night was just a mistake for you. Unless the looks between us, this ... thing that was happening ... it's just my imagination. To you, anyway." He stressed that last point.
"Don't be daft." I blinked to erase the burning tears under my eyes before I looked at him. I didn't mean to look as long as I did. His expression made me feel funny enough that I was glad I was sitting down on one of the pathway's big cliff boulders. My hands felt weak, even.
He wasn't leaving. "So what does that mean for us?" he said.
***
Julianne:
The theme of the final challenge was 'passion.' The bake had to be a cake or a series of mini cakes, either one — but it had to express the concept of romantic desire in some way, shape, or form.
Dinah arrived next to last to the pavilion with her box of supplies, and a single page design sketch rolled up tightly. She greeted us with a smile, which, while tired, was more relaxed than the last one she offered us at Harriet Hardy's dinner.
"I'm proud of myself for making it this far," she said, "and I know I've done my best with what I'm doing today, even if it doesn't come out quite right. I'm only glad I've stayed the course. And the best part's been all of you supporting me — I couldn't have done it without all of you, and I'm ever so grateful."
"Oh, Dinah," said Gemma, giving her a hug. "You'll do wonderful today."
"Chin up," said Geoff. "The day's not over. You've as good a chance of winning as anybody, and better than several of them. Look how close you've come to winning first place in all the previous bakes."
"I know," said Dinah. "But it's best to be prepared, either way it goes. Now, wish me luck, because I'm off for one last time." She gave us all a final glance before she entered the pavilion.
"Fingers crossed," I said, and hoped that the fallen pudding cake was truly a fiction of my imagination last night.
Jenny Bryce was unpacking her mixing bowls, while Leeman was studying a very complicated-looking diagram with patterns attached to it. I saw Emily dusting off a set of deep, nested metal pans that promised to yield a towering cake in the near future. I sucked in my breath, and retreated to the garden momentarily, pretending to be busy inspecting the roses in bloom to hide a little flutter of doubt for Dinah's chances.
At noon, the cameras were ready, and Harriet and Pierre addressed the contestants one last time.
"Today, you will present your final bake — one worth fifty percent of your total points in this contest," said Harriet. "The theme is passion, and the dessert you present to us must reflect that theme in an unmistakable manner."
"We wish to see it — to taste it," said Pierre. "It must convince us that your passion for food, for life, for love, can be expressed physically by your skill. You will have four hours when the bell rings."
"We wish you all the best," said Harriet. And with that, the bell rang for the final challenge.
"I can't watch," said Gemma, from outside the pavilion. "I think I'm going a bit dizzy." Inside, mixers whirred to life as small clouds of flour rose from sacks poured into sifters, and pots clattered into place on the heated eyes of stoves.
"Four hours isn't long," I said, even though right now it felt like it would last forever. In the distance, I could see fans of the program watching hopefully, trying to glimpse the ongoing action. "Let's go have a cup of tea."
We had one in Lady Amanda's office, three of us sitting anxiously and watching the clock. Little Violet — or Harold — was lively today, so Lady Amanda couldn't bring herself to touch the last of Dinah's biscuits, the only thing left in the kitchen that wasn't from a shop tin.
"I should have had William make some shortbread," she said. "He's quite good at that sort of thing. I'm a bundle of nerves these days, between the baby and all this excitement." She pressed a hand to her stomach, where a moment before a tiny foot had made a decided movement beneath her blouse.
"Do you think it's in the oven now, at least?" Gemma propped her chin on her hands and gazed mournfully at a sculpture on Lady Amanda's desk, one that sort of resembled a cupcake at the right angle.
"They'll be halfway through with making decorations by now," I said. The clock's hands were both on the two. "The real test will be assembly, if Dinah's making a layer cake."
In the pavilion, cakes were cooling, while contestants were now whipping up icing and putting the finishing touches on cake toppers and other embellishments. Emily was making bowlfuls of white icing and had already filled two piping bags, Lord William reported to us, while Leeman had cakes of three different colors cooling on his racks.
"And Dinah?" asked Lady Amanda, eagerly.
"She was painting some sort of flower," said Lord William. "That's really all I could see of it, I'm afraid. She's quite near the back."
"And her cakes?" I said.
"Round, I think. I think there was a bit of chocolate involved, but I couldn't be certain. A biscuit, too, if you please, my love." He accepted a
cup of tea from Lady Amanda. "I will say that I glimpsed a bit of Jenny Bryce's work ... and it appears to be quite flat."
"Flat?" we echoed. An exchange of glances proved we were all equally puzzled, both by his description and the possibilities it presented.
"On purpose, I presume. Rather unusual choice for a show-stopping presentation."
Jenny's was indeed flat — that is to say, more like loaves than Victoria sponges, although she was deftly cutting them on the diagonal using a large bread knife. I circled as far to Dinah's side as I could without being in danger of the camera's lens, but all I could see was a glimpse of Leeman swirling white frosting streaked with pink over three unusually-shaped sponges layered together. Dinah stepped to one side, holding a tray of something — but my view was blocked by another contestant hastening from the freezer to their work station, carrying some sort of meringue creation made to look like a giant rose.
At four o' clock, the event was over. Each presentation was concealed by a folding white screen made to look like a big present with a bow on top, ready to be pulled away as the contestant revealed his or her creation to the judges. Harriet and Pierre entered the pavilion, each armed with the program's trademark 'tasting fork' to sample the goods.
First up, the meringue rose — pretty impressive at first glance, except for the fact that the meringue's piping didn't look very petal-like up close, and wasn't quite swirly enough to be a flowered hat, either. Next, a 'volcano of love' made from chocolate that pumped a strawberry lava glaze down its sides and into a little chocolate-made paradise — that was the effort of the boy who made the frog pastries and the pirate ship of gingerbread. Pierre and Harriet had a heated debate over whether a volcano merely represented destructive powers or 'flowing passion,' as its creator claimed — Harriet, the detractor, won. Still, it was the more impressive of the two, I felt.
