For the Love of Cake (4 page)

The petite young woman, who looked barely out of her teens, seemed adept at ignoring Alice’s ramblings. She tugged down the hem of her tailored button-down shirt and pulled at the waistband of her skinny jeans, which rode a bit low for Shannon’s taste. Shannon hardly kept up with the latest fashion trends, but she had seen some of her daughter Regan’s friends dress similarly. The young woman effectively shut them out with a look that said she thought she was much too hip to converse with them.

Two other vehicles pulled up and unloaded, but before Shannon could assess the new members, they were all ushered toward the building. They ambled along like a flock of sheep, crowding together as they reached the door, then filing through one by one. The same sense of nervousness that kept Shannon quiet seemed to pervade the group as well.

Their guide called out as they walked, identifying a locker room, hair and makeup, and craft service. Walls had been constructed and painted beige in order to differentiate the various areas, but the soaring ceilings of the warehouse had been left open above them. They entered a conference room that smelled of fresh paint and new office furniture, and were directed into the chairs around a large rectangular table.

“Everyone please get settled so we can begin,” a man called as he entered the room. “I’d like to welcome you all to the show. I’m Hugh, one of the associate producers. You may hear me referred to as an ‘AP,’ and I’ll be around a lot. Before we put you guys in front of the cameras I want to go over a few things.” He scanned the group, making eye contact briefly with each of them.

For the next thirty minutes Hugh paced the front of the room, tugging at the brim of his faded ball cap, and explained what they should expect from the experience. They’d already signed confidentiality agreements detailing these rules. But he reiterated that they would have no access to television or Internet. Also, during any telephone calls with family and friends they weren’t allowed to discuss details regarding the show.

She wasn’t thrilled about having only limited communication with her daughter, especially considering Regan was currently thirty-seven weeks pregnant. She could go into labor during the taping of the show. Shannon had already discussed the situation with the producers, who’d agreed to give her time to go to the hospital when the time came, but they couldn’t guarantee how long she’d be granted. She’d balked when they asked to send a cameraman along with her, knowing Regan wouldn’t want cameras anywhere near her hospital room. In the end, Shannon had consented to talk about the experience in an interview afterward.

“I hope you’re all well rested, because we’ll be filming every day. After filming is over, please remember the details of your contracts—complete confidentiality regarding the results of the show. You’ll resume your normal lives for eight weeks while the episodes continue to run, and then the top three will move on to the live finale. You must wait until after the finale airs to discuss the results with
anyone
, including and especially the press.”

Shannon glanced around, still trying to gauge the personalities of the others in the group. Hugh continued talking about the importance of being aware of the cameras while also ignoring them. The contestants should know where the cameramen were so as not to block an important shot, but shouldn’t appear to be looking into the lenses.

When he was finished, he brought in two other producers, who began another spiel about expectations, much of which overlapped what Hugh had already said. The group spent the first half of the day sitting in the conference room reviewing legal necessities.

During downtime, Shannon tried to check out the competition. In addition to the three from her SUV, there were eight more contestants. She didn’t catch all of the names, but she absorbed a few details. There was Ned, whose boring name didn’t fit his ostentatious appearance at all. A strip of bright-blue hair ran down the center of his otherwise shaved head, and she would be surprised if he had an inch of untattooed skin below his neck. He carried himself with the bravado and swagger Shannon had come across often in chefs who felt they had something to prove. Sometimes they had the talent to back it up, and sometimes they didn’t.

In direct contradiction, Lucia, a petite Hispanic woman, conducted herself with quiet confidence. She held her posture, even while seemingly at rest, as if attempting to offset her short stature. The firm set of her jaw and the alertness shining in her dark eyes indicated she could be a formidable opponent.

*

“So, are you ready to see where you’ll be spending most of your time for the next several weeks?” Hugh clapped his hands together, and the contestants jumped in their chairs. He moved toward the door, his movements slightly twitchy. His nervous energy probably burned enough calories to keep his frame that lean. Shannon put him in his mid-forties, and he’d mentioned earlier that he’d been involved in the show from early on.

They wouldn’t meet the mentors or the host until filming began. The producers wanted their authentic reactions to those introductions on film. They would see them for the first time that afternoon in the kitchen.

The chorus of yeses sounded both excited and hesitant. As they made their way through the building, the backstage feel of the warehouse gave way to more polished sets, decorated walls, and strategic lighting. The cameras around them multiplied until every time Shannon tried to turn away from one, she came face-to-face with another. And being told not to look at them only made her want to more. Judging by the way the others jerked their heads back and forth, they were all experiencing the same problem. The sheer number of people running around the set surprised her. Hugh passed most of them up without an introduction, and Shannon guessed they were the many production assistants and crew that actually kept the set up and ready for filming. Much of the ingredients, supplies, fondant, and even, in some cases, layers of cake would be prepared in advance. Everything had to be available the moment it was needed so no time was wasted when they could be filming.

She followed the other contestants into the kitchen, quietly agreeing with the awed exclamations around her. She didn’t know a chef whose heart didn’t quicken at the sight of stainless-steel counters and top-of-the-line commercial appliances. While the area looked spacious enough, the twelve chefs filled it quickly. And soon, when they were working to complete timed challenges, the area would seem even more cramped. Shannon hoped the trembling anticipation she felt inside wasn’t visible to the others. She felt like a racehorse waiting for the gate to open.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, take a few minutes to look around. After lunch we’ll start filming, and your access to the kitchen will be limited to challenge time only.”

They all moved quickly, eager to memorize the kitchen. As a fan and past viewer, Shannon assumed her ability to efficiently locate tools and ingredients could mean victory or defeat. She only hoped the layout would be the same every day. Each workstation included a two-burner stovetop, a cutting surface, a small workspace, and a folded nylon case that probably held a set of knives.

As she circled the tables, she noted the location of mixers, pots and pans, and accessories on her way to the pantry. Metal racks, five shelves high, contained various flours, sugars, and, among other things, a larger variety of spices than she’d ever had the luxury of working with.

An array of colorful fruits graced one long table. She’d read somewhere that the show regularly donated unused perishable food to local shelters and food banks. She counted herself lucky to have been selected for the show, but just thinking about what she could do in this kitchen made her even more determined to stick around as long as possible.

Before she could spend any more time plotting how to make that happen, Hugh called them out of the kitchen. He directed the group to a large space where they would spend much of their downtime between shots. Comfortable-looking sofas and stylish chairs clustered on one side of the room, and several round tables and chairs spread out over the other side.

He left them to enjoy lunch—a variety of gourmet salads and sandwiches. After they ate, someone would return to take them, in groups, to hair and makeup. That afternoon they would be on camera for the first time.

As they settled around the tables, Shannon found herself once again grouped with Alice and Mason. She ate slowly, nerves chewing away at her appetite. Alice dominated the conversation once more, but Mason and Shannon were just as content to let her prattle on. Alice seemed like a sweet girl, but Shannon couldn’t fathom how much energy it took to stay so wound up. She shared an understanding smile with Mason and forced down another bite. She didn’t know what time they would get dinner and didn’t want hunger slowing her down later.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

“Chefs, welcome to your kitchen. Today, you will begin the competition that may change your life, or at the very least the trajectory of your career. So, would you like to meet this year’s mentors?” The show’s host, Eric Wetzel, smiled wider than Shannon thought possible, as if his contract demanded that, while on air, he show off his too-straight, too-white teeth as often as he could. Eric had hosted since the second season after replacing an annoyingly perky blonde. His dark hair was styled in a smooth wave across his forehead, and his navy suit and bright-pink tie seemed out of place in a kitchen.

This time the affirmative responses sounded more excited, as if each contestant aspired to be heard over the others. Shannon’s nerves had ratcheted up with each step toward this moment. The idea that she was about to meet three legends in the field, particularly Maya Vaughn, had her arms and legs going weak.

“Chefs, welcome an award-winning pastry chef whose mastery of spun sugar is unmatched, Wayne Neighbors.” Eric waved his arm in a sweeping arc toward the swinging kitchen door.

Wayne pushed through like a prizefighter headed for the ring, and the contestants greeted him with the appropriate amount of applause and cheers. In fact, he was built like a fighter, not the world-renowned chef Shannon knew him to be. Even taller than he appeared on television, he towered over most of them. His broad shoulders, round and firm as cantaloupes, strained against the gray fabric of his chef’s coat. His boxy jacket hid his waist but stretched taut again around the tops of his thick thighs.

Shannon didn’t need an introduction as the next mentor entered. Jacques Babineaux was known as the grandfather of modern pastry. His forty-plus years of experience in the business had garnered him a James Beard Award and countless Food and Wine “Bests.” He had his hands in more restaurants than even he could probably count.

“And of course, fans of the show will remember our next mentor as the winner of season one, Maya Vaughn.”

Just hearing Maya’s name sent a shot of adrenaline through Shannon, accelerating her heart rate. She curled her fingers into suddenly damp palms and mentally chastised herself for responding like a teenage girl.

Maya waved at the contestants as she entered, but her gaze never settled on them. She shook hands with the other mentors and smiled at Eric. Shannon continued watching Maya even when Eric began to speak again. When Maya widened her stance and crossed her arms over her chest, her chef coat gaped open at the bottom and her white T-shirt pulled up, revealing a swath of tight skin. Shannon tried to force herself to look away, at least that was her intention, but instead she followed the sexy chasms bisecting defined abdominals and the ridge of each hipbone visible above her low-slung pants. In the years since Maya had first appeared on the show, she’d gotten in better shape, and every magazine cover seemed to show more skin than the last. But having enough money to hire a personal trainer probably helped.

One of the cameramen crept closer, focusing on Maya. If he got the shot, Shannon certainly wouldn’t be the only lesbian lusting after Maya once again this season. In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of a camera panning the contestants and forced her attention to Eric. If she didn’t get busted by one of the dozen other contestants, certainly viewers at home would catch her staring.

“I hope you’re all ready to compete, because we’re going to jump right in with your first challenge.” Once again, Eric kept things moving, and Shannon was grateful she didn’t have too much time to think. “The mentors need a baseline for your individual skills so they can choose teams. Here on the table in front of me, we have a two-layer round cake, decorated using eight classic techniques. Everyone take your place behind a blank cake. You’ll have ten minutes to duplicate as much of the design as possible. Starting now.”

Shannon jostled against Alice and bounced off another man’s shoulder as everyone rushed forward to claim a table. She mumbled a quick “excuse me,” slid her cake toward her, and immediately went to work. She began with one of the simpler applications, copying the piping around the bottom of the cake. At first, the movements of the many crewmembers just out of camera range distracted her, and twice she had to clean off a line of piping that went astray as she involuntarily lifted her eyes from her work. She bent her head more intently toward her cake to block out her surroundings.

Between tasks, she did steal glances at the others. She wasn’t the fastest in the group, but not the slowest either. When it became clear that she wasn’t likely to finish all of the decorations on the sample cake, she switched tactics and began working on some of the more difficult portions. Perhaps she could impress the mentors if she balanced solid technique with the risk of the more demanding tasks.

*

As the clock counted down toward zero, the contestants glanced at its digital display even more often and their pace increased. Maya evaluated them one by one, making mental notes about who she might want on her team. She’d studied the bios extensively and knew the various chefs and their backgrounds, but that research couldn’t replace seeing their skills in person. In her head, she referred to them by the nicknames she and Wendy had given them: Baby Dyke, Hotshot, and Hot Tamale. Okay, some of them were less politically correct than others.