A Spoonful of Sugar (7 page)

‘Really?’ I said, shocked. ‘Then what will she do?’

Millicent grimaced.

‘Haircut,’ she said. ‘Quite a severe one, I imagine.’

It seemed ridiculous that Amelia was suffering, when I could probably get rid of all the caramel with one twitch of my little finger. I turned to Harry, who’d come with us to the B&B. We’d left Portia drafting yet another press release with a definite glint in her eye, and Mum and Suky giving the contestants, Lizzie and Peter, cups of coffee to keep them occupied.

‘Harry,’ I started. She gave me a fierce look and I shut my mouth.

‘God,’ I said instead. ‘A haircut.’

‘I might just go and phone the hairdresser and get her to come here,’ Millicent added. ‘You sit in the lounge and I’ll be back in a mo.’

Obediently, Harry and I filed through the door she’d opened for us and sat down. Millicent was English, but she loved Scotland and she’d decked out her B&B in tartan-trimmed glory. Tourists adored it, and the rest of us had grown to love it. Millicent was definitely one of a kind, but she was brilliant in an emergency – Harry had been right to call on her.

We sank into the squishy red sofa.

‘Poor Amelia,’ I said, conveniently forgetting how much she’d been annoying me. ‘Can’t we do something to help?’

Harry made a face.

‘Don’t see how,’ she said. ‘We’re being filmed all the time. Everyone saw how bad Amelia’s hair is – if it’s suddenly better it’ll look so strange. Plus the cameras are bound to pick something up.’

‘There aren’t any cameras here,’ I pointed out.

‘Millicent’s here,’ Harry said. ‘She’s worse than a hundred cameras. If she gets a whiff of something strange going on, we may as well turn everyone into frogs on live television.’

I winced. I’d once had an unfortunate incident involving Millicent and a frog that I didn’t like remembering.

‘People here know though,’ I said. ‘They just don’t know they know.’

Our family’s talents were kind of an unspoken secret that everyone in Claddach was in on. Though no one ever said the word witch, it was clear they knew they could call on us to help.

Harry shrugged.

‘It’s not worth the risk, Ez,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to blow generations of secrets for the sake of some silly girl and a haircut.’

‘Woah,’ I said. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

Harry glared at me.

‘Don’t pretend to be all friendly now,’ she said. ‘I saw the way you were looking at her in the tent.’

She had a point.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I just think it must be upsetting to have to cut all your hair off like that.’

Harry wasn’t listening. She’d got up and was leaning out of the door, into the hall.

‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘I can hear Amelia and her mum arguing.

I loved a good fight. I was there in a shot. Or at least as close to a shot as I could manage, given my size.

‘I can hear that they’re shouting at each other, but I can’t hear what they’re saying,’ I said, frustrated. ‘Do something, H.’

Harry flicked her beautiful hair over one shoulder and like a conductor bringing in the clarinets, she lifted her hand, palm upwards as though she was turning up the volume on Amelia’s row. There was a slight shimmer in the room and suddenly we could hear every word.

‘Oh you’re good,’ I breathed.

‘Shhh,’ Harry said.

I rolled my eyes, but I did as she said.

‘I’m phoning Daddy,’ Amelia was shrieking.

‘Oh, darling, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ her mum said.

‘Just because you can’t stand him moving on with his life and meeting someone new, it doesn’t mean I have to suffer,’ Amelia said.

Harry made a face at me.

‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘Nasty.’

‘It was an accident,’ Amelia’s mum said soothingly. ‘There’s no point in disturbing your father at work, and upsetting him.’

‘There’s every point,’ Amelia said. ‘This whole competition only exists because of him.’

I nodded at Harry. It was true then, about Amelia’s dad running the production company.

Amelia hadn’t finished.

‘And it wasn’t an accident,’ she said. ‘Someone pushed that bowl, just like someone shut Ronald in the freezer. I want Daddy to find out who it was and I want them punished.’

‘Now, darling,’ her mum began, as the B&B doorbell rang. We heard Millicent bound down the stairs to answer it, and quick as flash, Harry brought her hand down and lowered the volume on the argument.

It was Portia, looking solemn, and still clutching her clipboard.

‘Where’s Amelia?’ she said, as Millicent showed her into the lounge.

‘Upstairs,’ Millicent said. ‘The hairdresser is on her way.’

Portia lowered her voice and gave us a cheeky grin.

‘I’ve emailed the press release to every TV journalist I know,’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘They’re all going mad for this story. The
Sun
are sending someone up from Edinburgh. And Holly and Phil are all over it.’

I tried to look impressed.

‘What happens now?’ I asked.

Portia grinned again.

‘We’ve got some more filming to do,’ she said.

‘Really?’ Harry, Millicent and I all said in unison.

‘I didn’t think we’d carry on,’ I added. ‘Not now.’

‘Indeed we will,’ Portia said, glancing at her watch and making a note on her clipboard. ‘In fact, we need to crack on. Let’s go.’

With Portia gabbling at us about Lorraine and
Loose Women
, we headed back to the tent and filed in to join June, Wilf and the judges. We stood by our benches where our biscuit creations still rested and I noticed the pool of caramel left by Amelia had been cleared up, leaving just a slightly sticky splodge on the marquee’s carpet tiles.

Peter and Lizzie did the rounds of everyone’s 3D biscuits. They pronounced Wilf’s Tardis ‘inventive and delicious’ and he was so pleased with the verdict that he gave Lizzie a huge smacker on her cheek, making her giggle like a schoolgirl.

June’s house was called ‘charming’ and Peter broke one of the walls apart with a satisfying ‘snap’ and told her it was perfectly baked.

And Harry’s beach hut was the absolute star of the show.

‘Oh now I adore this,’ Lizzie said, turning it round on the bench so she could see it from all sides.’

‘It’s quirky and fun,’ Peter agreed. ‘But how does it taste?’

We all held our breath as they tasted it, but of course it was perfect too. Of course it was.

And as for my tiny wedding biscuits. They were fine.

‘Nothing special,’ Peter said, as I resisted the temptation to glower at him. ‘They’re really too simple for this stage in the competition.’

Oh well, I thought, as we all settled down on our stools and waited to hear who would be going home, at least I would definitely be going home this week. I’d done my bit and now I could watch the rest of the competition from the comfort of my own sofa.

‘And so Amelia’s made the difficult decision not to return to the competition,’ Peter was saying.

Hang on, she’d done what?

‘Which means, once again, we won’t be sending anyone home this week.’

My fellow competitors all smiled, as I grimaced. Pastry week it was then. Bugger.

Twelve

‘Clemmie,’ I said with forced patience. ‘Darling, you can’t go to nursery without trousers.’

‘No,’ said my daughter, giggling madly and darting away from me. ‘No.’

I sighed. Clemmie was definitely in the middle of the terrible twos and she was trying my limited patience. It didn’t help that I was knackered. I’d stayed up late reading social media after the episode of
Britain Bakes
featuring Amelia’s accident aired. There had been a lot to read. The unfortunate incident seemed to have divided the nation, and if people had been interested after Ronald was shut in the freezer, then now they were gripped.

Lots of people said the show was unlucky or cursed. Others said it was a publicity stunt – I’d remembered the glint in Portia’s eye as she drafted her press release and barked down the phone at a researcher from
This Morning
and grinned as I read that tweet – and others said someone was sabotaging the bakers.

This morning I’d woken up to an email from Portia saying ratings for the latest episode were through the roof. Apparently the whole country was in the grip of
Britain Bakes
fever. I was absolutely terrified. With the eyes of the nation on me, how on earth was I going to get through pastry week? Especially when I had an uncooperative two-year-old, a job, and an ever-increasing baby bump to deal with.

I grabbed Clemmie as she danced past me and tickled her with one hand while I dragged her leggings on with the other. She laughed and laughed, which made me smile. She was a real tonic, I thought. As she squirmed on my lap, I pulled up her top and blew raspberries on her little rounded tummy.

Giggling, she pushed me away, sat up and grinned at me.

‘No trous-uhs,’ she said sternly.

I tickled her again.

‘But you’re wearing your trousers, so I win,’ I said. ‘Mummy wins.’

Clemmie smiled serenely, waggled her fingers and in a shimmery haze of silver, her leggings were gone.

‘No trous-uhs,’ she said.

I groaned. Parenting was much harder now Clemmie had discovered her magical talents. I had a sudden flash of sympathy for Harry, whose twins had been enchanting stuff since they were teeny.

‘Where are they, Clemmie?‘ I said, looking round the room. I spotted the leggings balancing on top of the TV, where Peppa Pig was tormenting her poor parents just as Clemmie tormented me.

‘Right you,’ I said, trying to do my best ‘don’t mess with Mummy’ voice. ‘No more Peppa until the leggings are on.’

‘Noooooooo,’ Clemmie cried, throwing herself off my lap and onto the floor in a most dramatic fashion. ‘Peppppppaaaaaa!’

I sighed again, watching my daughter flail about on the floor, then I smiled. Parenting a toddler witch wasn’t easy – but at least I had my own talents to fall back on.

With a wave of my hand, I retrieved the leggings, changed the TV from Peppa Pig to BBC Breakfast and made bubbles fall from the ceiling to distract my drama queen daughter.

‘Bubbles,’ she said, pointing as I pulled her leggings on for a second time. ‘Pretty bubbles.’

But I wasn’t listening. Instead my attention had been caught by the newspaper review piece on the TV. The smiley woman presenter was holding up a copy of the
Sun
, which had a huge picture of Amelia, dripping with caramel, on its front page.

‘Sticky end!’ the headline shouted.

‘Oh. My. God!’ I said.

Now the man was holding up the other tabloids. They all had Amelia on the front.

‘Did someone sabotage Amelia?’ the
Daily Mail
asked.

‘No,’ I muttered. ‘It was an accident.’

Even the
Guardian
had Amelia on its cover, her caramel-covered head peeking out from the top of the page.

‘Toffee Gate!’ its headline teased. ‘Who’s to blame?’

I stared at the TV in horror. This was getting out of hand.

‘Coming up,’ the woman was saying. ‘We speak to Amelia Watts to hear what she has to say about Toffee Gate.

I let out a small shriek, which Clemmie immediately copied, and grabbed my phone to call Harry.

‘I’m watching,’ she said as soon as she answered. ‘This is crazy.’

‘Amelia’s coming on in a minute,’ I said. ‘Let’s watch it together.’

‘Don’t you have to go to work?’ Harry pointed out.

‘I’ll say I had an unexpected midwife appointment,’ I said airily. ‘It’ll be fine. Aaaahhhh, here she is.’

On the screen Amelia was sitting on the sofa, opposite the presenters. Her hair was cropped into a pixie cut – a bit like Anne Hathaway’s after she went all arty for
Les Mis
– and it looked amazing. She no longer looked like a mousey teenager, instead she looked like an edgy, beautiful art student. Her eyes were enormous, her smile broad and she’d ditched the unflattering boot-cut jeans for a pair of skinnies that really suited her.

‘What’s happened to her?’ I said in amazement. ‘We only saw her about three days ago. She looks completely different.’

‘Media training,’ said Harry in disgust. ‘That’s what happened. I bet Daddy pulled some strings and got her a stylist for these interviews.’

‘She did say she was going to phone him,’ I remembered. ‘Looks like he’s got Portia’s talent for publicity.’

On screen, Amelia was looking sad, her huge eyes filling with tears.

‘I’m so disappointed,’ she said, her expression earnest. ‘I was really looking forward to taking part in the competition.’

‘And you were doing so well,’ the female presenter schmoozed.

Amelia smiled faintly.

‘Oh the others are all very talented,’ she said. ‘But I would have given it a good shot.’

‘But you’re not returning to the competition?’ said the man, his voice oozing with sympathy.

Amelia took a deep breath and down the phone, Harry snorted impatiently.

‘I’ve decided to take a step back,’ Amelia said, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘I’m sure it was just an unfortunate accident, and just coincidence that Ronald – another competitor – also had his accident last week…’

‘Ronald was shut in a freezer,’ the woman explained to surely the only viewer left in the country who didn’t know what had been happening on
Britain Bakes
.

Amelia looked a bit cross to be interrupted but carried on.

‘So after my accident, and having to cut my hair off …’

‘It looks very nice,’ the man said. Amelia gave him a quick smile but didn’t respond. She obviously had something to say.

‘So after my accident,’ she said again, ‘I felt the competition had lost its cosiness. I didn’t feel safe returning to
Britain Bakes
.’

‘What the …’ said Harry in my ear.

On the television, Amelia smiled directly at the camera.

‘I had to pull out,’ she said. ‘
Britain Bakes
is dangerous.’

Thirteen

The media attention after Amelia’s little announcement was massive, obviously. Portia drafted in two assistants to help her deal with it, and bombarded us with requests from newspapers, magazines and television shows. Harry and I decided we’d only take part if they wanted all four of us, and if Wilf and June were willing. We both had our children to think about and Harry wanted to spend every minute she could with her twins, because she missed them dreadfully every weekend when we were up in Claddach. I suspected Harry’s wife Louise felt the same – she wasn’t a witch so coping with Finn and Fifi’s blossoming talents kept her on her toes at the best of times, let alone when Harry wasn’t around. She and Jamie – who were old pals from their student days – had taken to meeting up with the children every weekend. It was good for the kids to play together and nice for them to have each other as moral support.