The Art of Baking Blind

by Sarah Vaughan

  He is silent; reluctant to add to the brutal facts; aware he has already shocked a stranger. She too is silent, running possible responses through her head; dismissing each as trite. The silence stretches between them like a piece of elastic pulled to its most taut, waiting to ping.

  ‘The kids are fantastic, though.’ He provides happier, common ground, and she rushes to it with relief.

  ‘Eight and six now? I’ve a nine-year-old girl, Chloe. First time I’ve spent a night away from her, and I’m missing her like mad.’

  ‘Bet she’s having a whale of a time with her dad?’ It is his turn to probe.

  ‘I doubt it. We don’t bother with one of those.’ It is Claire’s turn to shock, and she laughs – feeling that his gaffe has somehow cancelled hers. ‘Well, I mean, I did bother once – didn’t use a sperm donor or anything. But not for a long time. Not since she was a baby. And we’re just fine.’

  He doesn’t pursue it. Already in the distance from the kitchen to the rear door of the hall they have covered more emotional ground than anyone else in the competition, exposed their souls, for a few fractured seconds, shared an intimacy lacking in their lives.

  Their smiles are fulsome, this time. He has lovely eyes, thinks Claire with a shock. Deep brown and frank. When you look at him closely he’s not that old, either. Wonder what he looks like when he laughs?

  She has a lovely smile, thinks Mike. And a real vibrancy. She doubts herself, but she shouldn’t. Bet he hurt her like hell. But she’s a survivor.

  12

  If baking with friends – for a W.I. show, perhaps, or a church fête – try not to become overly competitive. Baking can be the most inclusive of activities.

  Karen rests her head against the back of a Windsor chair in the bar of Bradley Hall, which has been opened for the contestants, and allows herself a gentle sigh.

  It is the end of a long day and the bakers have gathered here to ruminate on their baking; muse on the judges; assess their chances. The atmosphere has mellowed, for no one – not even Karen – can sustain high levels of competitive tension. We are beginning to know each other, she thinks; perhaps we will even like each other.

  Why else would we be here? she wonders, as she looks around the bar – yet another room ripe for refurbishment. Mike and Claire are perched on a burgundy leather banquette thrust against mahogany panelling; Jenny and Vicki on nineteenth-century rush-seated chairs. Beer mats are scattered over the heavily varnished wooden table which looks – no, is – distinctly sticky.

  She gets up.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She smiles at Jerry, the barman. ‘Could you wipe our table? It feels a bit dirty.’

  He looks at her sharply but if he imagines an innuendo, he seems to think better of it. She smiles sweetly. Her voice is honey; her eyes flint.

  The table wiped to her satisfaction – or not really her satisfaction for she is not convinced that the cloth is sufficiently clean – she tries to settle for a second time. Her cheeks glow with the warmth of the well-built fire, which spits and flares in the inglenook fireplace before Mike coaxes consistent flames. Karen takes a sip of her Diet Coke and notes what the others are drinking: Claire, a vodka and tonic; Mike, a bottle of Beck’s; Jenny and Vicki, a bottle of Eaden’s First Reserve Merlot though she doubts they will finish it. Despite the more mellow atmosphere, no one will risk a hangover.

  She has, she reminds herself for the third time today, come a long way from the spit and sawdust establishments she slunk into as a fifteen-year-old: or the end of the pier where she nursed a bottle of cider and traded kisses, and more, for single cigarettes. She shivers, as if remembering the chill wind whipping her thighs as it swept up the Thames, the smell of vinegar and chips and sulphuric mud flats, the taste of smoke and sour saliva. Her mother, Pamela, would be collapsed on the sofa in that mean, pebble-dashed house, scoffing Fry’s peppermint creams and Wagon Wheels in front of Blind Date. She never questioned what her fifteen-year-old daughter or seventeen-year-old son were up to; for her, ignorance was bliss.

  Karen shivers again. Well, she got the hell out of there and that’s all that matters. And now she needs to stop thinking about it. Perhaps it’s time to liven things up a bit? She is suddenly bored of her saccharine drink: her security blanket in the torturous world of food and alcohol. She pushes it aside and announces she is in search of some sparkling water.

  ‘Can I get anyone anything else?’ The invitation is directed to the group but her eyes linger on Mike, the sole male and so the obvious focus of her attention.

  He looks surprised at the intensity of her gaze.

  ‘Another Beck’s, was it? And Claire, another V&T?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks,’ the younger woman demurs.

  ‘Oh, come on. Live a little.’

  She sashays to the bar, ignoring Claire’s protests.

  ‘I might even join you,’ she says.

  ‘Two vodka tonics, a big bottle of sparkling water, and a bottle of Becks.’ She smiles at the barman as she takes a crisp £20 note from her oversized wallet, her nails clicking against its patent leather.

  ‘Here, I’ll help you.’ Mike’s natural chivalry emerges and he joins her. She is surprised to note how much taller he is than her. There is suddenly something very male about him as he stands beside her. Not touching but indisputably with her.

  She wonders if she should risk a little flirtation. Well, where’s the harm in that? Mike is the sole man among four females and even though he’s not her ideal – too old; insufficiently muscular; insufficiently beautiful – determining that she would be his choice among them is instinctive. A reflex that comes as naturally as breathing. Besides, there is something alluring about those sad eyes; about his status as a widower, for Claire has relayed this gossip. She wonders if he’s had sex since his wife died. She glances sidelong, behind long lashes. He fails to notice. She doubts it very much.

  They make their way back to the table and Mike, his diffidence eroding with this second bottle of beer, asks each of them why they have entered the competition.

  ‘What about you, Jenny?’ His smile is encouraging.

  ‘Why did I want to become the New Mrs Eaden?’ She prevaricates as she tries to form some sort of honest answer.

  ‘Well, I’m fifty-two – so I grew up with my mother using Kathleen Eaden. I’ve been cooking since childhood and I thought I might as well show what I’ve learned over the years.

  ‘I’m a housewife – but now my girls have left home and my husband, well … he doesn’t need me to bake for him the whole time. He’s often busy doing marathons and things or he isn’t around; so, for the first time in a long while, no, for the first time ever, I’ve the time to do something for myself.’

  She smiles. ‘When I saw the competition advert I thought: I can do that. I’m not saying I’m wonderful, or anything, but I know all the basics. And this felt like a proper baking competition. I mean, I know there are those silly YouTube clips we have to do, and we’re on the Eaden’s website and we’ll have to be in Eaden’s Monthly, but I wouldn’t have to go on television. It didn’t feel exploitative.’

  She takes a sip of her wine.

  ‘I suppose, overall, I just felt that this would be something I would enjoy. A bit of a challenge. And I felt that I might – just might – do well at it.’

  ‘I feel a bit the same way.’ It is Vicki who is chipping in, offering Jenny a smile and a means of deflecting attention. ‘Not that I’ve got grown-up girls, or anything like your experience, but I do have a little boy, who’s just started at nursery, and I’m on a “career gap”. If I’m honest, I’m not quite sure what I want out of life.

  ‘I used to teach. Primary. Key stage one. And I loved it and was good at it, so I thought I’d love channelling all my energy into my little one. But it’s harder than I expected. I don’t seem to have such control over him, and I don’t have the same satisfaction: he’s too young to be interested in phonics or even mark making; and you can’t have the sort of convers
ation you can have even with a five- or six-year-old. I suppose this competition lets me be in control, then; lets me do my preparation and see the results – just as I did when teaching. And it lets me do something for me.’

  ‘What about you, Mike?’ Karen turns the question on to him. She leans forward so that the hint of a breast is exposed, and looks at him intently.

  ‘Oh, I expect it’s an early midlife crisis – I’m forty-two.’ His tone is light, as if he’s wary of revealing anything too intimate.

  ‘Like all of you, I love baking and, I suspect like all of you – you too, Jenny – I like the idea of competition. Survival of the fittest and all that.’

  He twists his wedding ring then continues, as if determined to be honest. ‘After Rachel became ill, I re-trained and became a teacher. And though that brings its own challenges’ – he smiles at Vicki – ‘I miss the adrenalin of my old job in the Treasury. I miss the edge. Yes, I know you need to be on top of your game all the time in teaching – aware of being caught out; anticipating each tricky question – but I’m dealing with secondary school kids not government ministers. I miss that need to perform at the highest level every minute of the day.’

  He laughs, as if in apology. ‘It sounds a bit pathetic, but this competition provides a bit of that. Plus – and this sounds even worse – it gives me some validation, doesn’t it? I think I’m doing an OK job as a dad but there’s no one to tell me that, to tell me I’m OK. At least this way, I’ve got some proof that I’m doing something right. That I’m feeding them well – or, at least, making them good cakes and bread.’

  There is a pause, each taking in his confession and with it his breaking down of barriers.

  ‘It’s not pathetic at all.’ Claire puts a hand on his forearm and gives it a quick squeeze.

  A bit tactile for this early in the evening? notes Karen, and shifts the attention to her pretty swiftly.

  ‘So, Claire. What’s your motive?’

  Claire withdraws her hand immediately.

  ‘Why did I do it?’ Claire looks uncomfortable, hunching her slight shoulders as she cradles a glass tumbler.

  ‘Um, well, I didn’t have much choice – my mum put me up for it and it wouldn’t do to disobey her.’ She laughs as if in recollection.

  ‘Seriously, it was a surprise: this isn’t the sort of thing I’d ever put myself up for. I’d never have applied on my own. I’ve my mum to thank – or to blame.’

  ‘So why go ahead with it?’ Karen persists. Her gaze is intense: not unfriendly but challenging.

  Claire meets it. ‘Well, apart from the fifty grand, I guess I’m doing it for my little girl, Chloe. She’s never known that her mum could do something as exciting as this; that she’s capable of achieving something. And, perhaps for the same reason, I’m now doing it for me.’

  A bubble of irritation wells up inside her as the vodka hits home. ‘I’m not like you, you see, or Vicki, or Jenny. This isn’t a game for me. It offers me the chance of a better future for my kid.

  ‘Working in Eaden’s, I watch women like you decide whether to pick sirloin or rump steak, double cream or mascarpone, while I sit and think about which variation on a pasta sauce I’m going to have to make. I didn’t apply. So what? That doesn’t mean I don’t want to do well at this. I’ve got to do my very best.’

  It is the longest speech she has ever given and it feels like an inappropriate, somewhat aggressive outburst. There is a pause as the contestants take it in, give it the emotional weight it needs. The silence draws on, becoming uncomfortable. Jenny racks her brain for a platitude that won’t cause offence; Vicki gives a smile of contrition. Tension wells, as taut as the surface of a pond before being cut by a skimming stone.

  ‘And what about you, Karen?’ Mike, having initiated this soul-searching, is keen that the person who provoked Claire’s outburst shouldn’t evade the question.

  ‘Oh, you know, bored middle-class housewife who makes a mean tarte seeks excitement with Dan Keller.’

  ‘Karen!’ Vicki is delighted. The self-parody, and pun, has had its desired effect.

  ‘Well, what other reason is there? I’m very interested in his strudel,’ she deadpans.

  Vicki, two glasses of wine into the bottle, gives a delighted snort.

  ‘His strudel … Whose strudel are you interested in, Claire?’

  ‘Oh, no one’s.’ She blushes, but is keen to lighten the atmosphere she has clouded. ‘Strudel – proper strudel – over sex for me, any time.’

  ‘What a waste,’ says Karen, and checks if Mike agrees.

  ‘Not really.’ Claire is defiant again, angered by Karen and her judgements. ‘It’s just easier that way, isn’t it? No one interfering, mucking me around, telling me what to do. Just me and Chloe.’

  ‘But don’t you miss it?’ The vodka, not something Karen would usually touch, burns her throat and makes her direct.

  ‘Wa-hay. I’ll need to drink a lot more before I start answering questions like that and I’m not drinking any more tonight. Talking of which, I’m going to head off now to try to call Chloe; nice to get to know you all a bit more.’

  She gathers her bag and cardigan together and makes a rapid exit, a slight figure flitting through the bar and out the other side before anyone can persuade her to stay.

  ‘Did I scare her off?’ Karen downs her vodka, as Mike watches Claire leave in dismay.

  ‘Well, probably.’ The Merlot is making Vicki more forthright than usual. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about it. I think she’s the dark horse; the one who’s more focused than you’d think in this competition. I think she’s going to slay us with her gingerbread house tomorrow, and she’s just off to check how to make the ultimate caramel.’

  ‘Talking of leaving, I’m going to make a move too.’

  It is Jenny, uncomfortable at the turn of conversation, and, suddenly, feeling old. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night – too apprehensive – and I’m not sure about my caramel recipe, either. Perhaps I need to check it too. Just talking about it is making me nervous,’ she burbles away.

  ‘Are we the more foolhardy ones?’ Karen wonders, raising her glass to the two remaining.

  ‘Actually, I should check on Alfie – or rather, Greg, make sure he’s done everything right.’ With a sigh, Vicki makes her excuses. She wends her way through the bar, banging her hip, squeezed into skinny jeans, against a bar stool in her hurry.

  Karen regards her with amusement as she pours a glass of sparkling water. One to watch, or just another insecure middle-class mummy who likes making cupcakes?

  She glances at Mike. ‘She can’t hold her drink, can she?’

  The bar falls rapidly quieter. There are only the two of them now, and a table of staff drinking quietly in the corner. The fire glows; white embers falling into ash. In other circumstances, the setting could be romantic. But she doesn’t need romance; she needs distraction. Anything to ward off the demons, unaccountably crowding in from the past.

  Mike rubs his eyes, as if bemused at finding himself alone with her. Karen softens her smile. He is very vulnerable, she reminds herself. She is going to have to take this gently.

  ‘So’ – she raises her glass to him – ‘then there were two.’

  He looks startled. Damn. Wrong tack. She tries again.

  ‘That was very moving. What you said about entering the competition to gain validation…’

  ‘Oh.’ He rubs his forehead as if exhausted with parenthood and his status as a widower.

  ‘I can’t believe I came out with all that. Utterly ludicrous, really, inasmuch as we’re all seeking it, aren’t we?’ He looks pensive. ‘Though perhaps not you.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.’ She laughs, and thinks, How little you know me. You’re fooling no one.

  ‘Well, you do a good impression of being less needy than many of us.’ He smiles. ‘Here I am desperate for a bit of praise for being a parent: someone to tell me I’m doing as good a job as any mother because I can make my kids
panettone. But you seem far more confident.’

  ‘Oh, I think we all need it, Mike,’ she demurs, keen to steer the conversation away from herself and his unwelcome foray into psychoanalysis. ‘But, understandably, you may need it more than most.’

  He is silent. Perhaps she has gone too far. She sips her vodka while contemplating her next move.

  Then: ‘Tell me, do you get much emotional support at home?’

  ‘Well, the kids are great – always telling me they love me.’ He smiles in recollection. He is being surprisingly obtuse.

  ‘But … no support from another adult? No partner?’ The intrusion feels crass, but there is no subtle way to ask.

  ‘Oh, no. No, not at all.’ He shakes his head as if to dislodge the very idea.

  There is a pause.

  ‘That must be very lonely?’ Her eyes are suffused with understanding – and the hint of invitation if only he would see it.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is. But you can be lonely in a relationship as well, can’t you?’ He takes a swig of Beck’s and looks preoccupied for a moment.

  ‘Anyway. Back to you. This is all getting a bit deep.’ He gives her a friendly smile, the smile he would give to the parent of a pupil.

  She is knocked sideways. She wasn’t anticipating this. Inasmuch as she had thought about it, she had envisaged a little gentle flirtation with the hint of a further something: something discreet, understated and understood between two consenting adults.

  She hadn’t realised she was dealing with someone so emotionally raw and so out of practice at reading sexual signals. She sips her vodka. Well, he would be a challenge but she is not sure she has the energy. She feels apathetic all of a sudden.

  ‘So … Dan Keller … He was a lure for you, was he?’ He is smiling as if straining for conversation.

  She sits back – and decides to give it one last try.

  ‘Well, he is rather lovely, though perhaps too narcissistic. He’s far too aware of his beauty – and that’s never attractive in a man.’

  She looks at him frankly, dark eyes assessing him, lips curling into a smile.