The Dough Must Go On (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 9)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Ah… well, Zoe’s always been famous for her pouty lips and she’s always claimed that they’re completely natural. But of course, they’re not.”

  “They’re not?”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? That pillowy pout is the result of gallons of fillers! Zoe Carlotti is a cosmetic surgery addict. There isn’t one part of her face that hasn’t been nipped and tucked and smoothed and plumped. But she’d never admit it. In fact, she claimed that the only thing she put on her lips was a home-made ‘miracle salve’ that she applied every night before going to bed. It was supposedly made from a secret recipe, passed down from her great-great-grandmother in Italy.” He gave me an ironic smile. “And of course, she soon launched a cosmetics line, selling this salve to the public, as a ‘natural way to create plump, beautiful lips’. She’d sold thousands of pots and made a tidy sum for herself, before it was leaked that the famous lips which were advertising the product were the result of injectable fillers and had nothing to do with any ‘miracle salve’. There was a huge scandal on the news and social media—but all that happened was that she became even more famous and her sales shot up even more.”

  “What an extraordinary story,” said my father. “You mean, people knew that she had lied and her product was misrepresented, but yet they bought it anyway?”

  “I’m afraid that’s the way of the world these days, Philip,” said Stuart. “People worship celebrities and will do anything to emulate them. Just being famous—even if you’re not famous for a ‘good’ thing—is still enough to give you power and influence.” He gave us a cynical smile. “I shouldn’t talk though—I’m part of the circus myself, taking part in this talent show. I mean, that title says it all, doesn’t it? ‘From Pleb to Celeb’!”

  “I can’t believe he went with that name,” I said, grimacing. “It’s just so… well, so blatant.”

  Stuart laughed. “You have to hand it to Monty Gibbs: whatever else I don’t like about him, I admire his chutzpah and blunt honesty. There’s none of the mincing hypocrisy of the other shows, pretending to foster artistic talent and build dream careers… Nope, all Gibbs is offering is exactly what all these people want: their fifteen minutes of fame. As the show tagline says, we ‘turn nobodies into somebodies’. You know that slogan caused a furore when it was first released? There were cries of elitism, racism, celebrityism… you name it. But Gibbs was unrepentant. He refused to change it and he refused to apologise. That was what his show was really about and he wasn’t afraid to be honest about it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem to have hurt the popularity of his show,” I observed dryly.

  “Yes,” Stuart agreed. “And all the controversy has just fuelled more interest in the show. You know the old saying: if you want to make a book a bestseller, ban it. This was a bit like that. Suddenly everybody wanted to watch this daring new show where contestants—and us judges—didn’t have to worry about being politically correct all the time… It’s been pretty liberating, I can tell you.”

  I started to answer, but at that moment a shrill ringing penetrated the quiet of my parents’ elegantly furnished sitting room. I hastened to find my mobile phone and answer it, then paused in bemusement as my mother’s voice rang out of the speaker, followed almost instantly by an echo drifting down from upstairs.

  “Darling, where are you? We’re all waiting for you to start dinner and it’s really very bad manners to be tardy, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother, I was a bit late—but I’m here now.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Here?”

  “Here… downstairs.”

  “Oh, how lovely. Would you like a drink, darling, before dinner?”

  Why are we having this conversation through the mobile phone when she could just come downstairs? “Um… no, I’m fine, thanks, Mother.”

  “Well, don’t forget to wash your hands before we sit down at the table. And I hope you’ve put on something nice, Gemma, and not those dreadful jeans that you always wear. Really, a lady should wear a nice dress or perhaps a skirt and blouse—”

  I flushed as I realised that Stuart Hollande could hear every word of this conversation and he was trying hard not to smile.

  “As it so happens, Mother, I am wearing jeans,” I said in exasperation. “But I’m already here—I can’t go home to change now.”

  My mother made a tsk-tsk sound, then said, “Oh, well, I suppose if you’re sitting at the table, no one can see your legs. And did you put on some make-up?”

  “Mother!”

  “Ooh! I just remembered, I bought a new Elizabeth Arden lipstick—it’s a lovely, bright fuchsia shade—I can bring it down for you—”

  Ugh. I wouldn’t be seen dead in fuchsia lipstick. “No, thanks, Mother. I’m fine. I’ve got… uh… some tinted lip balm on already. Look, isn’t it silly us talking on the phone when we’re both here? Why don’t you come downstairs and we can talk in person?”

  “Oh yes, I’ll be down in a jiffy… just noticed that the loo bowl needs a new toilet freshener…”

  Several minutes later, we were finally all seated at the dining table and my mother brought out that old British classic, ham and split-pea soup, as the first course. I had to admit, while my mother’s cooking was very “old school” and not the sort of things I’d usually make myself, I did enjoy eating at my parents’ place. My mother was a fantastic cook and sometimes all the exotic fusion cuisine in the world didn’t compare with a simple, home-made roast chicken.

  Conversation over dinner was animated, with Stuart telling us more about the show and my parents listening with fascination. I had been shocked to discover that my mother actually watched From Pleb to Celeb. With my parents’ tastes in TV usually running to highbrow programmes about the French art movement or roundtable discussions by leading sociologists on the conflict in the Middle East, a cheesy talent show was the last thing I’d imagined my mother enjoying. She seemed incredibly knowledgeable too. I was ashamed to realise that despite my backstage access, my mother knew more about the contestants than I did.

  “Oh, I do like that teenage boy who does the hoppy dance,” she said enthusiastically as she served the roast potatoes. “Although… he doesn’t always look very coordinated, does he?”

  “That’s the type of dance, Mother. It’s called hip hop.”

  “No, your mother’s right,” said Stuart, with a thoughtful look. “Tim tries very hard and he has the right technique, but as you say, Evelyn, there isn’t a strong unity with the music… But of course, he’s only sixteen and I imagine that would come with time and maturity.”

  “What do you think of the lady who plays the piano?” I asked, thinking of the fight I had witnessed earlier.

  “Nicole Flatley? She’s lovely… but she’s very shy and quiet, isn’t she?” said my mother. “It’s almost as if she is apologising for being on stage.”

  “That’s spot on, Evelyn!” said Stuart, looking at her admiringly. “Yes, Nicole is sweet, but she lacks stage presence.”

  “And the lady with the puppets?” I asked. “I met her today. She seems very nice.”

  “Oh, yes, Cheryl Sullivan—there was an interview with her in the last episode,” said my mother. “She’s a nursery school teacher, but her dream is to present a children’s television programme and she’s hoping to catch the interest of a network if she wins, so that she might host her own show.”

  “I don’t think she’s a strong contender to win,” said Stuart regretfully. “I mean, her act is delightful—the puppet show combined with singing and telling stories—and I’m sure children would love it, but to win this competition, you have to wow the crowds. The adult crowds.”

  “What about the magician fellow?” my father spoke up.

  I stared at him. “Dad? Have you been watching the show too?”

  My father coughed sheepishly. “Well… I happened to see a few episodes… because your mother was watching,” he hastened to add.

&n
bsp; “Albert Hodge. Hmm… yes… he’s an interesting young man,” said Stuart. “He’s not very confident and I would have thought that a career on the stage would be the last thing he wants. But I suppose the lure of the prize money is enough to make anyone overcome their fears, especially if it gives them the chance to get out of their current situation. I believe Albert lives with his mother in council estate housing, and from the little he’s said, it sounds like he’s had a tough childhood.”

  “Oh, the poor boy,” said my mother. “You mustn’t be too hard on him in the next round.”

  “Unfortunately, Evelyn, it doesn’t work like that. We have to judge them based on their talents and performance, not on their background.”

  “But surely his challenging situation means that his performance is worth even more?”

  Stuart shrugged. “You could argue that every contestant has his or her unique challenges. We can’t favour one over the other, just because they come from more humble backgrounds. And in any case, much as I hate to say it, I don’t think Albert has a real chance at winning the contest. I think he will be eliminated in the next round.”

  “Only two of them will go through to the Finals, won’t they?” I asked, remembering what the Old Biddies had told me.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And I heard that the twins, Molly and Polly, are the favourites to win the competition?”

  Stuart smiled. “Well, you know I’m not officially supposed to comment… but yes, I think they’ve got a strong chance of winning the show. Of course, there are still a few weeks to go and anything can happen. Things are notoriously unpredictable when there’s a public vote involved. So much depends on the popularity of the contestants and—as we’ve seen with politicians during election campaigns—that can change from week to week. The twins are certainly in the lead at the moment, but several of the other contestants are also very popular. Lara King, for example, is a huge favourite—there has been more coverage of her in the press and social media than of any other contestant…”

  Probably because of the size of her fake breasts, I thought cynically.

  “…then there’s that chap, Gaz Hillman—the comedian who does the impressions—he’s very good, very charismatic, and the crowds love him. And of course, there’s the dog dancing duo.”

  “Oh, there’ve been so many dancing dogs now in so many shows…” said my mother, wrinkling her nose.

  “Yes, you’re right—they’re not very original anymore,” Stuart agreed. “But you know how much the British love their dogs. In fact, any contestant with an animal in their act probably has an advantage.”

  I thought of Cheryl with her naughty cat, Misty, and wondered if that still held true! Then I remembered the contestants who meant the most to me.

  “Er… what about the Old Bid—I mean, the granny band with the old ladies?” I asked.

  “You mean the Pussy Puffs?” said Stuart with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  I winced. “Can’t you get them to change their name?” I implored.

  “Why? What’s wrong with their name, darling?” my mother asked.

  Oh God. Not her too. “Er… nothing, Mother. I just think they could have a better name.”

  “Oh, I think they’re delightful as they are,” said Stuart, chuckling. “It’s just the sort of name you’d expect someone of that generation to choose, since they don’t know the slang meanings of many perfectly innocent words. And Monty Gibbs likes to leave things as natural and genuine as possible, politically correct or not.”

  “But they’re going to be the laughing stock of the country!” I said.

  “They really shouldn’t have joined the show then,” said my mother with a disapproving sniff. “I was most astonished when Mabel Cooke told me that they were auditioning for the contest.”

  “I think they’re doing it to help their friend, June. The prize money would mean a lot to her. And they’re not bad,” I added doggedly, out of a sense of loyalty to my geriatric friends. “I mean, I know they don’t always sing in tune and… and… they forget the words sometimes… but it’s pretty cool that they’re willing to give it a go at their age.”

  “Yes, they’re certainly inspirational, even if they’re not aspirational,” said Stuart, laughing. “And the public does love them. Who doesn’t like a spunky grandma, eh?”

  “So do you think they might have a chance to win?” I asked eagerly.

  He rubbed his chin. “Well, first they’d have to get through to the next round and I’m afraid they’ve got some tough competition to beat, especially since there are only two places in the Finals. Several of the other contestants are going to put up a good fight.” He gave a wry laugh. “In fact, some of them look ready to kill to win the contest!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At just five foot one, Monty Gibbs put the “micro” into micro-managing, but what he lacked in stature, he more than made up for in attention and fervour. Nothing escaped his eagle eyes and I watched nervously now as he hovered over the trays laden with freshly baked scones, teacakes, Chelsea buns, and miniature treacle tarts, all ready for the afternoon tea break.

  “Mm… good… good…” he said, rubbing his hands. “And do we ’ave a cake as well?”

  “Oh, yes…” I hurried to lift a large platter from the trolley and deposited it on the table, revealing a majestic Victoria sponge cake, resplendent with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

  “Ah…!” Monty Gibbs stepped back in admiration. “Fan-tastic!” He turned to the girl carrying the clipboard and said, pointing to the table, “Make sure yer cop close-ups of all the food and also footage o’ the crew tuckin’ in. And the contestants too—we want everyone ter see ’ow well we’re feedin’ them.”

  “Sir… I was thinking, maybe we could do, like, a food-poisoning scenario,” she said eagerly. “You know, like one of the contestants had some cake with cream which wasn’t fresh and they started getting sick just before their act. That could add some real drama to—”

  “What? What are you saying? The cakes I provide are always fresh!” I said in indignation.

  “Yeah, I know—but we could just, like, pretend,” said the girl.

  “No, you can’t,” I said, really starting to get annoyed now. “My tearoom is renowned for using the best and freshest ingredients, and I’m not having you spread lies and ruin my reputation, just to create fake drama for the show!”

  “Well, it was just an idea,” said the girl with a sulky look.

  Monty Gibbs said: “Good suggestion, Natalie. I like the way yor mind works. But—” he held up an appeasing hand as I started spluttering angrily, “—I think we can get a right good story ’ere, wivout artificially raisin’ the stakes. In fact, right, why don’t yer play up the feel-good angle? That boy, Albert, tell ’im ter give yer some soundbites about ’ow ’e could never afford to ’ave cake as a child. ’e’s the one who grew up on a council estate, right? And maybe a couple o’ lines from that woman—the one wiv the puppets—she’s a schoolteacher, ain’t she?

  “Nursery,” Natalie supplied.

  “Even better! Get ’er ter say ’er ’eart breaks ter see children gahn ’ungry. And then cut ter Albert stuffin’ ’is face at the table, like a starvin’ man who ain’t seen food in days. There won’t be a dry eye in the ’ouse!” said Gibbs with a satisfied smile.

  “But… but you don’t know if he couldn’t afford cake as a child,” I protested. “Maybe his mother baked lovely cakes at home. And you can’t go putting words in Cheryl’s mouth if she didn’t think that herself. You should be telling people the truth—”

  Monty Gibbs threw his head back and laughed. “The truth, isit? Darlin’, this is TV! We’re ’ere ter entertain people and what people want are stories: sob stories, luv stories, funny stories, scary stories… Nobody wants the borin’ truth! Besides, we might bend the edges but we’re still tellin’ the truth, ain’t we? Albert did ’ave a tough time growing up; whether he ate cake or not doesn’t right matte
r. It’s just a detail, innit? A… a—whatchamacallit—a symbolic thing, ter show everyone ’ow deprived ’is childhood were. And I’m sure Cheryl would be upset if she saw some poor kid gahn ’ungry.”

  Natalie nodded. “Yes, we’re just helping her articulate it.”

  “Yes, but…”

  Gibbs shot a glance at his watch. “Sorry, got ter go! Need to do the judges’ briefin’.” His gaze went beyond us to the tall, ponytailed man on the other side of the room. “Eh, Stuart, mate! Where’s Zoe?”

  Stuart Hollande strolled over to join us. “Haven’t seen her,” he said, shrugging.

  Monty Gibbs looked at his watch again and swore. “Always late! Somebody get that bloody cow on the phone and find out wot she’s doin’—she’s supposed ter be ’ere by now! We’re on in a couple of ’ours.”

  Before he even finished speaking, a young man in oversized dark-rimmed glasses was rushing up to us. “Sir! Sir!” His face was a mask of consternation. “Oh sir—there’s been a disaster!”

  “Wot? Woss ’appened?”

  “Ms Carlotti’s agent has just contacted me and said that her client is unwell and unable to make it tonight.”

  “Whotcher mean, she can’t make it?” Gibbs, demanded. “’ow can she be sick, then, eh? I seen ’er at the bloody breakfast meetin’ this mornin’ and she were fine.”

  The young man shot a glance at me, then gave a discreet cough and said: “Er… apparently, Ms Carlotti went for a Botox injection after that and something went wrong with the procedure… So… um… her face is frozen.”

  “Wot?” Gibbs gaped at him.

  The young man shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir—she can’t make any expressions at all. I don’t think she can even shut her eyes properly.”

  “Maybe she can just pretend that she’s astonished by every performance,” suggested Stuart, grinning. “Then she can just keep re-using the same expression.”

  Monty Gibbs groaned. “This ain’t funny, Hollande! Tonight’s the bloomin’ Semi-Finals. We ’ave ter ’ave three judges! W’am I gonna find a substitute for Zoe now?”