The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  Locryn picked up the piece of pork and considered it as he said, “I do. In fact, it’s the only savory I serve in my café. So I’m not sweet all the time, just most of it.” He looked to Jake. “Feel the meat, right?”

  When that blue gaze met his, Jake wanted to sneer, but couldn’t. Locryn, for all that he was so bloody nice and therefore so bloody annoying, was bloody good-looking.

  And Jake couldn’t afford to notice.

  “Yeah, feel it. Good, firm meat.”

  And before he went to work, Locryn quirked one mischievous eyebrow at Jake. And Jake felt a shiver run through him.

  Good, firm—what was in that bloody cologne?

  Jake couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Nice piece of pork there, Locryn!” Katya remarked. Then looking into the camera again she said, “And all our recipes are on our website! Send in your photos of your own pork goujons and tell us how good they taste.”

  “They won’t taste as good as mine!” Jake was under the impression that he’d only thought that, but when he saw several faces turn to him in consternation, he suddenly realized he’d said it aloud. But it wouldn’t matter, would it? It was what had become expected of him.

  “They’ll taste amazing!” Katya assured viewers after a horrified second of silence.

  And Locryn smiled that smile, his charm given full rein toward the camera.

  “Trying something new isn’t about outdoing a man with Michelin stars,” Locryn said smoothly. “It’s about the joy in cooking or baking or throwing a steak on a summer barbie. We all start somewhere and, Katya, you and I both know, we all have our culinary disasters. It’s part of the fun!”

  Fun? Cooking’s not fun, it’s business! It’s keeping a roof over my head and the heads of the staff in my restaurant. Fucking fun? No, it’s fucking not!

  Jake cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone and shouted across the studio, “Come on, Locryn! There’s hungry people over here! Don’t tickle it, cook it!”

  But Locryn continued in his usual serene manner, cutting up the pork and dipping it into the breadcrumbs with a nifty flick of his wrist. As Katya wandered across to speak to the hopeful couples, Jake watched Locryn work and heard that melodic hum that was so familiar from his baking shows.

  He washed his hands then pushed up the sleeves of his dark-blue shirt again, showing off the famed forearms that his fans went mad for. Arms. Who was getting into a tizz on social media about a baker’s arms, for God’s sake?

  They were toned, that was for sure. A manly patina of hair, too. But imagine being with the bloke. He probably had frills all over his house. You’d get into his bed and would have to fight through a mountain of scatter cushions to reach the mattress.

  Would it be worth it for those arms, though?

  Jake laughed to himself and shook his head. How could he even entertain the thought? They’d get on each other’s nerves in seconds, and what the hell did they even have in common?

  The poor sod and the grinning couple from Cornwall weren’t going to win anyway. Jake chanced a look at them, holding hands and smiling nervously. They were cute, but beside them Eugenia and Ptolemy reclined with perfect confidence and self-possession, angling themselves at the camera as if they’d been practicing. The unschooled charms of Locryn’s hopeful couple were refreshing compared to them, but Jake was resigned to Hamble.

  Locryn was at the stove now, frying onions and tomatoes for the sauce. The camera was on the two men and Locryn asked Jake, “By the way, Jake, jam or cream first for you?”

  “Jam, then cream. With butter underneath. Nice, simple, indulgent treat.” Jake said. “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”

  “Butter’s a bit controversial,” Locryn chuckled, tossing the contents of the pan with a flamboyant flip of his wrist, “but jam first is the only way to eat a scone for us Cornish. I know you’ll get letters, Katya, but in Cornwall that’s how we do it.”

  “So I’ve been eating scones like a Cornishman?”

  “You sound surprised, Jake!” Katya laughed. Then she was back staring into the camera again. “How do you like your scones? Get in touch and let us know!” She smiled at Locryn and said, “So how are you getting on with the goujons, Locryn?”

  “Making light work of the salsa and the coleslaw is in the fridge.” Ah, but is it any good? “In a couple of minutes I’ll be frying my goujons and it’ll be the moment of tasting truth!”

  And it’s not fucking salsa.

  “I like the sound of salsa!” Katya pretended to shake maracas and danced some sort of horrible, awkward jig around Locryn. That or she was having a fit, Jake wasn’t sure.

  “Get frying, Locryn! Come on!” Jake clicked his fingers. Could he flap the unflappable Locryn?

  The other guest chefs had given the producers and Jake exactly what grabbed the ratings. Despite their fame they’d let his barked critiques ruffle them, dropping eggs and burning dishes, one even managing to set the grill alight. Not so Locryn, it seemed. As he approached the fryer he joked, “Pray for my breadcrumbs. I need them to cling on!”

  “Don’t burn your fingers, Locryn!” Jake called. “That oil’s f—fearsomely hot!”

  “I have a seaside café specializing in decadence,” the Cornishman reminded him as he put the goujons into the oil. “I’m a dab hand with a doughnut fryer.”

  “I love a sugary doughnut by the sea!” Katya rubbed her stomach. “Ring doughnuts or jam?”

  “Or creamy custard?” Jake asked. He could just picture Locryn sniffing a bundle of vanilla before slipping it into a jug of cream.

  “Oh, all of the above and a dozen more.” He smiled, nostalgia lighting up his eyes. “I love sitting out in the garden with the animals, dreaming up tempting fillings.”

  Jake rolled his eyes.

  I don’t want to spend a miserable autumn in off-season Cornwall. But he can twinkle all he likes, he’s not going to win.

  Locryn moved quickly now, plating up the golden goujons and bright sauce, adding a small, brightly patterned dish of the coleslaw that he’d made. He stood back and announced to Katya and Jake, “Ta-daaa!”

  You bastard.

  “Doesn’t look as bad as I expected,” Jake said.

  Katya was far more effusive in her praise. “Looks great, Locryn!”

  “We’ll let Jake and our three happy couples be the judge.” Locryn beamed. “And I know that only one couple can win but I’m a bit of a romantic—I love a wedding—so I’m going to make sure that the couples that don’t get the big prize do get one of my wedding cupcake towers. Every bride needs a massive pile of cakes, don’t you think?”

  A cheer went up around the studio at this unexpected generosity.

  Katya clapped. “Oh, that’s so lovely of you! Isn’t it lovely of him, everyone?”

  As Jake took up his fork, he glanced sidelong at Locryn. Is it allowed? Did it count as bribery so that his couple would win?

  “I’ll send you all a card!” Jake laughed. “And luncheon vouchers!”

  Katya touched her finger to her earpiece then said, “And our producers have just confirmed that all our guest chefs will match Locryn’s prize and will provide a little something for each couple’s catering! You’ve started a trend!”

  Locryn smiled as he pushed his spectacles into his hair. The couples gathered round and, as one, the studio waited for Jake’s verdict.

  Jake dipped a goujon into the sauce and bit in.

  It was cooked to perfection. But even though Locryn had followed Jake’s recipe, Jake could taste a difference, that subtlety that only a truly gifted cook could provide.

  He patted Locryn’s shoulder. “Amazing goujons. Well done.” And Jake went for another, this time with a dollop of Locryn’s off-piste coleslaw. “That is really, really good. Really nice. I’d serve this in my restaurant.”

  “Gosh!” Locryn said. ‘Gosh.’ A grown man. “Will you sign something to that effect?”

  “A certificate?” Jake said. “
You’ll have to cook more than just goujons for that!”

  “And now our lovely couples can all try!” Katya handed out the forks. Eugenia and Ptolemy had ended up at the front, first in with their forks, while Locryn’s couple wavered at the back.

  Fuck’s sake.

  Jake speared some goujons and passed them to Zoe and David.

  “There you go!” Jake said. “Get your laughing tackle round those!”

  “And while we have a good old goujon and a chat to our lucky couples, keep voting,” Katya told the audience. “In a couple of minutes we’ll have the results, and I for one cannot wait to know whose wedding Jake’s going to be catering. Will it be Vihaan and Preya, Ptolemy and Eugenia or David and Zoe?”

  As she turned her attention to the couples and the floor manager signaled to Jake and Locryn that their microphones were off, Locryn asked in a whisper, “Surprised you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you fucking well did!” Jake replied. “By the way, sorry your couple won’t win. They seem all right.”

  And Jake had surprised himself. All right? What was wrong with him?

  “They deserve to win, they’ve been through a lot.” Locryn watched the young couple chat happily with Katya. The engagement ring on Zoe’s finger was the smallest of the three, but her smile was by far the widest. “But it’s not all about winning, is it? I mean, it is for you, but it isn’t for us.”

  “This is all just for fun?” Jake licked the cream from the coleslaw off his thumb. “Look, if I didn’t focus on winning, I’d still be washing pots in a burger van outside a bus depot. And that, mate, was shit.”

  “Daddy didn’t buy me a café to play in. It took a lot of hard work,” Locryn replied, his tone still pleasant despite his words. “But for me…it’s fun. No screaming and swearing in my kitchen, I leave all that to you. I don’t do terrifying half so well.”

  “It wouldn’t go with your brand, would it?” Jake affected a gentle tone like something from an advert for fabric softener. “Oh, fiddlesticks, you belty bathbun, this meringue is a load of sugar!”

  “Oh, I don’t have a brand.” And does nothing get you fucking riled up? “I’m just me!”

  “Come off it, is that cottage even real?” Jake shook his head. “No one lives like that! Not even you! You’ve probably got a sex dungeon and a house full of chrome and silver!”

  Locryn blinked, then tapped his glasses so they slid back onto his nose. “Is that what you get up to in London, is it? I’ve got a smugglers’ tunnel, if that counts.”

  Jake snorted with laughter and slapped the worktop. “Please tell me, is that an innuendo or what?”

  “I’ll let you decide.” Locryn winked. “But if you do end up in Cornwall, I’ll show it to you.”

  Jake’s mouth fell open. “You’ll show me your—?” No, he really means a tunnel. “Fuck, sorry, yes, we’ll see, eh? I mean, it won’t fucking happen, but still.”

  A gesture from the floor manager told them to rejoin the group and they gathered round in time for Katya to announce, “The results are in! The public have spoken and we’ve got a winner!”

  Jake patted Locryn’s shoulder, commiserating. “Come and say hello if you’re passing Hamble!” he whispered.

  “In From Wreck to Restaurant, Jake’s going to be helping one couple celebrate their wedding, and one community celebrate coming together to open a brand-new restaurant.” Katya took a deep breath. “Congratulations to our lucky couple who are…Zoe and David! Jake, you’re going to Porthavel, where the Cornish pasties live!”

  “Fuck me.”

  The words had escaped Jake before he could stop them.

  Katya looked horrified and all Jake could see was the cavernous O of her mouth. People were clapping, cheering, Ptolemy and Eugenia were in tears, but Jake heard everything from a remove as if he wasn’t really in the Saturday Breakfast kitchen at all and was watching it at home on television. Jake clutched the edge of the worktop, trying to stand now that his legs had turned to custard. There were voices but every word was indistinct, a muffled susurration that climbed and climbed in pitch. The polka dots on Zoe’s blouse wriggled and danced, swirling and swirling, faster and faster and faster until they swallowed one another up.

  This happened at the restaurant last week, Jake remembered, but before he could follow another thought in his head, all of the lights went out and every voice fell silent.

  Chapter Two

  Jake winced as the blood pressure cuff tightened on his upper arm. He looked away from the machine that was powering it, trying to ignore its almighty racket that sounded like a vacuum cleaner swallowing a paperclip.

  “I’m not stressed,” Jake said. “Everyone’s making a fuss about sod—nothing.”

  “This says otherwise.” Dr. Harris unfastened the cuff and sat back in her seat as she folded it in on itself. “One hundred and thirty-seven over eighty. That’s high, Jake. That tells me you are stressed.”

  “Stressed? Me?” Jake patted the machine. “Are you sure this is working okay? Is it meant to make that God-awful noise? It might be on the blink, Doctor, haven’t you thought of that?”

  She shook her head. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in your life just now? Planning a Christmas getaway?”

  “Sort of.” Jake scratched his hand back through his hair. “I’m spending the next few months in…in…” Jake struggled for air. Not again, no. Not now. “Cornwall,” he said huskily. “It’s relaxing there, right?”

  “That sounds fantastic. Just the thing to combat stress. Fresh, clean air, no career hassles. At the moment I’m keen to avoid medication if we can, but…have you considered talking therapies?”

  “Talking about what?” Jake rolled his eyes. “I’m a busy man, that’s all. And anyway, I’ve got to open a restaurant and cater a wedding while I’m in Cornwall. I can talk about that, maybe?”

  Dr. Harris took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I’d advise you not to do that. Or if you insist, at least tell me you’ve got a very good PA to take the weight off you. What happened was your body giving you a warning, Jake. You need to heed it.”

  “My agent booked me in to see you.” Jake wagged his finger at the doctor. “I can look after myself! My business manager runs the restaurants when I’m busy, and my PA… Well, he’s actually off at the moment because he’s got appendicitis and it got a bit fu—flipping dicey. I’ve got his clipboard, I can cope!”

  “As your doctor, it’s my duty to tell you that you shouldn’t be doing this.” Her lips thinned. “And if you insist on doing it, you could be putting your health at risk. You can’t keep going at this pitch of stress forever, no matter how fit you are.”

  “It was bloody hot in that kitchen when I passed out. And when I keeled over in the studio, well, it was warm, and I’d got up really early.” Jake’s phone went off in his pocket and he took it out and muted it. “I didn’t faint, I just fell asleep. Really fast.”

  She turned to her computer and pressed a few keys, then summarized his test results from the screen. “Your heartbeat is fine, if a little elevated. You’re a healthy weight. But that’s twice you’ve passed out. You didn’t fall asleep. Look, I can’t stop you going to Cornwall to film, but will you at least try to find some time for Jake in amongst it all?”

  Jake toyed with a pen on the edge of her desk, tapping a staccato rhythm. “How do you mean? I’m Jake Brantham twenty-four-seven. I can’t be more fu—Jake Brantham if I tried!”

  “I mean walk on the beach, climb the cliffs, sit on the harbor and watch the waves. I mean take it easy. Slow. Down.”

  Chapter Three

  One of the production team’s people carriers collected Jake from the rented farmhouse on the edge of the village where he was staying. His phone rang three times on the journey, two calls coming through almost at once, and Jake jumped from one to the other. He switched from a call about an error on the timesheets at his restaurant in Whitstable to a call about a sackload of carrots that had gone missing from
his London restaurant.

  “I’m in Cornwall! I don’t fucking know where the carrots are!” And with that Jake ended the call. Wasn’t this what he paid his staff handsomely for? A man like him couldn’t be counting every piece of cress and polishing every spoon. That was what the supposedly crack culinary teams he employed were for.

  Slow down.

  Fat chance.

  The people carrier slowed almost to a halt. “What’s the fucking hold up now? Is it rush hour already? One man and his dog walking down the middle of the street in the path of a tractor? Fuck me!”

  A bicycle bell rang somewhere behind the people carrier, then a familiar figure passed the window, easily overtaking the slow-moving vehicle. The bicycle was neither sleek and highly engineered nor small and foldable, the two species that seemed to be found on every square foot in London, but a large, robust and clearly vintage model painted a rich royal blue. A wicker basket sat between the handlebars, and who should be piloting the bicycle but Locryn Trevorrow, his rainbow-knit scarf flying behind him like a pennant.

  A bike with a wicker basket?

  Is he for fucking real?

  Jake shook his head. He was stuck here now for the next few months and that meant being in the same postcode as the most annoying man he had ever encountered. It was all an act, it had to be, because no one could be that twee. Could they?

  It was bad enough that they were on the way to Locryn’s café. Jake had seen it from the window of the other people carrier the day before, and the floral bunting strewn along the windows had nearly brought him out in a rash.

  There would be publicity photos and a happy couple to bring into line, and that was before he laid eyes on the hellhole he was expected to convert, but that’s what he was paid so handsomely for. From Wreck to Restaurant’s format would be simple. A pigsty would be transformed into a stylish place to dine in the space of one month.

  Jake peered out of the car’s tinted windows. It wasn’t just a man and his dog, it was several men, several dogs and an entire market.

  But he looked at his watch. There wouldn’t be any time for markets today, not with the schedule so tight. He’d be lucky if he could get a cup of tea in Locryn’s café, let alone wander around the stalls.