The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  Locryn had said he could buy fresh seafood on the quay, and Jake hadn’t seen any yet. But then he just hadn’t had time.

  He’d barely had time to see the ocean, let alone Porthavel. All he’d seen was Fionn, his producer, and a mountain of shooting schedules. All he had was a vague impression of jauntily painted cottages and a fearsome sea, but beyond that it was a blur. It wasn’t easy being the name above the title.

  Jake looked at his watch. The quick drive into the village had been anything but and he had five minutes to get to the café if they were going to stay on schedule. And they had to, because Jake wasn’t going to let it all go tits-up.

  “Unless this car grows stilts in the next three seconds, I’m getting out and I’ll bloody walk!”

  His phone rang, Fionn’s name lighting up the display. Why couldn’t he get a signal when he wanted one, but now people wanted to hassle him, those absent bars had returned?

  “Yes!” Jake barked. He pinched the skin between his eyebrows, hoping it would lessen the ache growing there. “Fionn, what is it?”

  “Sweets, everyone’s here but you’re not. Where are you?” In the background he could hear soft sixties pop music playing and the gentle sound of tinkling crockery. “Can’t do Jake’s meet the public moment without Jake!”

  “Yeah, I know that, but it’s market day!” Jake slapped the empty seat beside him. “Wish we’d fucking known. Who’s the researcher on this series? Didn’t they check? Right, I’m getting out! I’m fucking walking!”

  Jake slid open the door and bounced onto the pavement. He knew they were heading toward the harbor, where Locryn’s café stood, commanding a view of fishing boats, so he power-walked the rest of the way.

  “Got that, Fionn? I’m walking!”

  “Cool, cool! Don’t stop for autographs and selfies. There’ll be oodles of time for that,” she reminded him as mobile phones were raised and pictures snapped. “You’re stuck here for a couple of months, after all! Oh, Locryn’s here now. I’m going to say hi. I’d love to get in on his telly stuff. Toodles, lovely, toodles!”

  “Don’t kiss his—” The call had ended and now Jake was slaloming between a forest of arms bearing phones. “Sorry! I’m in a rush! I’ll see you all later! Coming through! Come on, guys, I’m in a fucking rush!”

  Having managed to fend off most advances, Jake arrived at Locryn’s café.

  “Fuck me,” he muttered as he ran his gaze along the bunting again. “Fuck me!” he repeated when the bell jingled above the door like something from a children’s story. The café smelled like fresh-baked bread and cooling sponge cakes and every eye in it was turned on him, Jake Brantham, as he fuck me’d his way into a café that appeared to have been created by Beatrix Potter. He was confronted by gingham textiles and dressers filled with china and right in front of him, one arm in his coat and one arm out, was Locryn Trevorrow.

  Jake hadn’t seen him since London, when he’d blinked up from the studio floor and seen Locryn’s face among the crowd that had been looking down at him.

  It was better seeing Locryn in a café, that was for sure.

  “This is very you,” Jake said. “Very…cute.”

  “Am I cute?” Locryn slapped his hand to Jake’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you looking better. Fionn was just telling me that you had a nasty virus that day. All better now?”

  Lingering beside a Welsh dresser piled with china, Fionn pursed her crimson lips. A virus. That was the official line, the one they were feeding interested parties. It would never do for Jake, the man who thrived on stress, to have been laid low by it.

  Even if only for a few seconds.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m much better, thanks!” Jake stretched as if he’d just woken from a nap. “Tip-top form!”

  “I know you’ve got filming to do, so I’ll leave you to it.” Locryn took his coat off. “Can I get you a cup of tea? A coffee? A big hot chocolate with a mountain of fresh whipped cream and handmade marshmallows on top?”

  Why not?

  But there was a film crew and the public to deal with and Jake couldn’t drink something as outrageous as that.

  “Black coffee, thanks,” Jake said, sounding chirpy as he tried not to pretend that he didn’t regret his choice. “There’s my bride and groom, right? Zoe and…” Shit. What’s his bloody name? “Daniel.”

  “An excellent choice! It’s only traveled six miles along the coast into our grinder.” Locryn smiled, then whispered, “David. And that’s his dad, Petroc, and Zoe’s mum, Merryn. Have you got all that? Can I take your co—leather jacket?”

  “Locally grown Cornish coffee beans?” Jake laughed. “Right. Petroc, Merryn, David. Petroc, Merryn, David…and Zoe. I think that’s it. And the jacket’s fine, I’ll keep it on for the camera.” For some reason that Jake couldn’t define, he raised an eyebrow at Locryn and whispered, “Y’know, for that bad-boy vibe.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Locryn unknotted his scarf. “We don’t get too many bad boys in Porthavel.”

  “You two can chat each other up later on your own time,” Fionn told them, her smile rather chilled by her brusque tone. She slipped her arm through Jake’s. “Jake, come and say hello to our winners and their gorgeous Cornish parentals!”

  Jake waved as he approached the sofa they were sitting on, Zoe and David in the middle, holding hands, with Merryn beside Zoe and Petroc flanking David. Merryn was like a woman from Dallas or Dynasty with her small-town glamour look going on. Big earrings, big hair, enormous smile, with a jacket that bordered on power-dressing. Her daughter was like a miniature, calmed-down version, in a cardigan instead and frilly blouse. Petroc looked like he would rather be anywhere else and David—who had the sort of enviable cheekbones you could slice bread with—laughed nervously.

  Zoe and David made a good-looking pair, and Jake announced, “Hi there, bloody hell, what a bunch of gorgeous bastards!”

  “Hello!” Zoe waved, her eyes wide with excitement, her entire demeanor that of a tightly coiled spring. “Oh God, we won. How did we win? I can’t believe Jake Brantham’s catering our wedding! We had no idea when we ent—well, I entered. I didn’t even tell David. I had no idea we’d get to the final!”

  She took David’s hand and squeezed it, exchanging a proud look with her mother.

  “Yeah, I had no idea!” David’s Cornish accent was so strong that it took Jake by surprise all over again. He seemed to add three extra syllables to every word he said, four if it was already a long one. “My Zoe’s a naughty one! And now we’re on the telly. And you’ve already called us bastards.” Jake was impressed by the length of David’s first vowel in that word, then was doubly impressed when David said, “When are you calling us fuckers?” and rolled the R from Porthavel to Bodmin.

  “I’ll call you a fucker every day if you like!” Jake laughed. Then he rubbed his hands together, getting down to business. “So, David and Zoe, you want your parents involved in the wedding day. Proper family occasion, right?”

  “Don’t say fucker on the telly, lad,” Petroc chided his son gently. His accent was as strong as the younger man’s, stronger if that were even possible, his ruddy cheeks suggesting a man who was more used to being outdoors than sitting in tea rooms. “Mr. Brantham, hello.”

  Jake held out his hand to shake. Playful, he said, “Petroc, great to meet you. Is bastard okay if we can’t say fucker?”

  “Well now, you can say whatever you please.” Petroc took his hand in his bear’s paw grip. His palm was coarse and weathered as they shook, but his manner was almost bashful. “It’s your program, I wouldn’t tell you—”

  Zoe smiled gently and said, “Petroc’s a bit nervous about the cameras.”

  “I’m bloody shitting bricks,” he admitted. Then he looked to Merryn and murmured, “Sorry, sorry.”

  “See, he likes having a swear himself!” Merryn cackled. She’d be trouble after a few a Lambrinis. “You should hear them, the old trawlermen, jawing away on their swears! They’d make you sou
nd like Locryn, Mr. Brantham!”

  “Jake, please. Just call me Jake.”

  The cameras had been hovering discreetly but now came closer, one crouching in front, pointing at the group on the sofa, and one behind, fixed on Jake.

  “Ignore them! You’ll forget they’re there soon enough,” Jake whispered with a smile. “So I’m the caterer for your wedding. What does your dream wedding reception look like? Classic roast chicken or smoked salmon, or have you got something else in mind?”

  “We both come from old Porthavel families,” Zoe told him, linking her fingers with David’s. “And we want our wedding to be exactly what you always say. Fresh and local and simple, so we thought maybe little pasties, squab pies, that sort of thing? But with a Jake Brantham spin?”

  “That’s just the sort of thing I was hoping for!” Jake slapped his knee as he emphasized each word. “Simple. Local. Fresh. So that’s the savories dealt with. Any ideas for your cake? Traditional tiered, or a big fondant trawler? Or something else!”

  She looked at Merryn, as though seeking a bit of moral support. “We wondered— I know there’s the contract and everything, but I work in the café with Locryn and we wondered if maybe he could do the cake? He’s ever so special to us, you see.”

  “He is.” Merryn nodded. “He really is.”

  Bloody Locryn.

  “Ah… Well, you see, don’t worry, they’ll edit this later—you see, it’s part of the deal. You get me to do the food, and that includes the cake. There’s a whole episode just about the cake, you see, so I…I have to do it because it’s my show.” Jake wasn’t too sure about the rapid blinking of the two women, which seemed to signal the onset of tears. “I mean, it’s not set in stone. Maybe Locryn could…?” Line a baking tin with greaseproof paper?

  Jake glanced at Fionn. Surely she didn’t want people crying on the show. Or at least, not until the last few pressured days before the wedding, when events were edited to make it look like a disaster zone, and it all turned out perfectly.

  The producer swooped, stepping between Locryn and the table as he seized the break in filming to approach with Jake’s coffee. She was still smiling, but there was no warmth in the expression.

  “It’s a no can do, I’m afraid. This show’s about Jake working with the community to open a restaurant and give you your dream wedding.” She laid the thick contract the couple had signed down on the gingham tablecloth. “Jake’s catering the entire event. It’s the Jake show, not the Jake and Locryn show. They’re not…I don’t know…Jakryn. This isn’t TOWIE.”

  “But we just thought—” Zoe began, but Fionn silenced her with a shake of her head, the hair of the producer’s blunt silver bob moving as one.

  “No.” Fionn looked Locryn up and down as he put Jake’s coffee on the table. “Lovely though Loc is, it’s the Jake show. We do swearing and drama, we don’t do sugar strands.”

  David set his jaw. “But we been talking about a Mr. Trevorrow cake for an age, haven’t we, angel? And I never saw no business about cake in the contract.”

  “It’s all right,” Locryn soothed. “I’ll do your Christmas cake instead if you like. Let’s not rock the boat.”

  Something about that seemed to cause a ripple of amusement around the table. Even Fionn gave a chuckle, which struck Jake as particularly worrying.

  “There you go, a Locryn Trevorrow Christmas cake awaits!” Jake could picture it, a traditional cake covered in spiky royal icing with a carnival of fondant figures skating over the winter wonderland. The last Christmas cake Jake had made had been sprayed gold with a toy motorbike on top of it.

  Zoe looked at her mum again, then at David. She asked, “What do you think?”

  “A Christmas cake would lovely,” Merryn said, her smile rather forced. “And your first Christmas together as man and wife, too. It’s very special.”

  “Take the Christmas cake, love,” Petroc advised in a curt voice. “Let’s not be causing a scene now.”

  Jake glanced over to the cameras. “Rolling?”

  The cameramen nodded, and Jake carried on as if the upset about the cake had never happened. “So what about your cake? Are you having a tiered cake with a bride and groom on top, or something completely different?”

  Zoe looked over the top of his head to where Locryn was standing, then at Petroc, who nodded her on. After a moment she asked David, “What do you fancy?”

  “A great big boat!” Then he roared with laughter and slapped his leg. “You’ll get used to them around here, Mr. Brantham!”

  “Yeah, bet I will. So, a great big boat. Well, that’s certainly food for thought!”

  “I think that’s perfect.” And who asked you, Jake wondered as Locryn spoke. But everyone at the table turned as one, apparently hanging on his words. “David and Petroc are trawlermen and so was Zoe’s dad. They’re the engine of a village like this one.”

  “Never a truer word spoken,” Merryn said. “Though you’d never get me out at sea in a boat!”

  Jake laughed, even though the thought of making a boat-shaped cake was less of an entertaining challenge than an insurmountable nightmare. “But you’d eat the cake version?”

  “I’d definitely have a nibble!”

  Zoe looked unconvinced, her gaze still lingering on Locryn as he strolled back toward the counter. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Jake could recognize an unhappy bride when faced with one.

  This bloody cake better not turn into an issue. Fuck’s sake, some people are never happy.

  That scene finished, Jake was off to shoot the next one. As he and Fionn headed out of the café, he asked her, “You sure about the cake? Really? Zoe’s not happy about it, and I don’t give a shit whether it’s in the contract or not. A fucking boat cake? That’s Locryn’s territory, not mine. I’m not fucking up a wedding cake on telly. There’ll be tears. The bride and groom are meant to look pleased, not as disappointed as someone whose fucking tent’s blown away on the first day of their hols.”

  Fionn bundled Jake into the people carrier as she said, “Okay, if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do. If you want to give away the money shot to a man who’s already chasing you in the ratings and in book sales, who am I to tell you it’s the worst idea that I’ve ever fucking heard? Give the wedding cake to Locryn Trevorrow? If you do that, he’ll be hosting this program next year instead of you!”

  Fuck that.

  “I’m not having Locryn steal my show!” Jake took the blindfold from his pocket and smoothed it out on his thigh. “Imagine all those fiddlesticks and hundreds and thousands. Fuck me, it puts my teeth on edge!”

  “Exactly. We’ll get a few talking heads from him about what a fantastic job you’re doing, grab some pickups of him peddling merrily along the quayside, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s all the screen time he’s getting.” Fionn pulled the car door closed. “You can do a cake. How hard can it be?”

  Jake nodded, although a film reel spooled through his mind showing him every cake he’d ever attempted, almost all of which had failed. Soggy bottoms, burned tops, dry buttercream, collapsing tiers. And he somehow had to make a boat out of cake.

  Cake. Fuck’s sake.

  “Easy-fucking-peasy,” Jake said. He held up the black length of cloth. “Blindfold time?”

  “If you like.” She shrugged. “This place is smaller than one of my handbags. Nowhere’s more than a minute from anywhere else. Can you imagine living here? I’d go stir crazy in a day! Give us the city, eh? Give us the bustle and the noise and the not giving a fuck.”

  “Too right!” But Jake gazed out at the market stalls as they crawled by them and he saw tempting heaps of vegetables, arrays of seafood and produce he could only glimpse for a second. Were those huge jars of honey, with honeycomb? Did he see a stall full of nothing but herbs?

  Imagine having all that on my doorstep.

  Jake reluctantly drew on the blindfold. What awaited him? An old sail loft, maybe. He’d like that. It wo
uld definitely tie-in with the boat-shaped cake.

  “Right, cameras are rolling. I’ll steer you into position.” He heard the car door open then Fionn took his arm and escorted him out and the noise of the market hit him, filled with laughter and chatter. “Ready?”

  Jake took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a sail loft. Was it a street food stall? Could anyone have a wedding reception at a stall?

  “Ready!” Jake flexed his fingers.

  And what a happy place Porthavel was. All around him, he heard laughter. It wasn’t such a bad place to be. He could prove the doctor wrong. He’d be chill in no time.

  Fionn shepherded him into position. He heard her heels clicking away then she called, “Whenever you’re ready, darling!”

  Jake closed his eyes, even though he was wearing a blindfold. A hush descended, disturbed only by quarreling seagulls on the harbor wall and a shout of “Shut it, you noisy gits!” from a local.

  Jake tugged down the blindfold and blinked.

  And there in front of him was a pirate galleon.

  At least, it looked like one, moored up in the harbor.

  “No. Fuck me, no. It’s… It’s a fucking pirate ship! What the fuck!”

  He was no longer wondering if this would make great telly or not. All he could do was stare, wondering how the hell he could turn a run-down novelty pirate ship into a restaurant. And host a wedding on it without it looking like something from a cartoon.

  I bet it’s riddled with more woodworm than a pirate’s peg leg. And seconds from sinking! With me and my career.

  And so this was why everyone was laughing.

  Jake heard the flutter of simulated camera shutters catching the moment of horrified realization. A pirate ship. In Cornwall. In autumn.

  Fionn and the show’s director were watching him expectantly, a camera on the deck waiting to catch him as he climbed the gangplank.

  The narrow, slippery gangplank.

  What if he passed out again and fell in the harbor?