The Art of Baking Blind (12 page)

Back in the present, the hum of steady work fills the stable block, interspersed by Harriet's questioning as she makes her way between the work stations like an exacting science teacher.

Jenny rubs her unsalted butter into the flour, sugar and salt, watching the crumb sprinkle back into the bowl as she lifts her squat fingers. Lightness of touch, she reminds herself automatically. In baking as in life.

She combines the crumb into a dough, wraps it in clingfilm and places it in the fridge then repeats a similar process for the cheese biscuits, beating butter with Cheddar and dried chilli; then adding flour and water. Plump blanched almonds are caressed with the mixture before she rolls it into firm golden cylinders and puts it in the fridge to chill.

Now it's time for the fripperies and she allows herself a small smile as she contemplates the moreish mouthfuls. She whisks egg whites into airy peaks then gradually adds caster sugar to form a glossy meringue. Ground almonds mixed with icing sugar are gently folded in and the gleaming concoction piped on to non-stick baking paper in neat circles, three centimetres in diameter. She taps the baking sheet gently to pop any air bubbles, flattens peaks with the tip of a knife then leaves them for an hour for a skin to form.

And then, finally, it's the melting moments. After forty minutes of quiet industry she contemplates the final recipe. Her freshly washed whisks whizz yet another block of softened butter with icing sugar. Vanilla extract, flour and cornflour are added and mixed until smooth. Then comes the fun bit. With characteristic dexterity, she paints a straight line of pink food colouring inside a piping bag, spoons biscuit mixture inside, and pipes twenty-four perfect swirls. Glossy with butter, they sit: precise and symmetrical. There is nothing healthy about a melting moment. And yet there is a primness to them. They are not decadent like a chocolate torte or mascarpone cheesecake. She thinks Mrs Eaden would have approved of these.

With this final tray of biscuits chilling, and the oven warming up, she moves outside, craving a moment of quiet away from her fellow competitors.

The rain is lacklustre now, splashing the cobbled courtyard as if apologising for its earlier bravado. She draws her puffa jacket around her as she shelters in the stable block and pulls out her iPhone. Nothing from Nigel. She switches it off and on to check again. Still nothing. Disappointment throbs like a gobbled lump of pizza dough.

She does not know why she had hoped, against all experience, that there would be some conciliatory gesture from him. Some text, if not of love, then of good luck. Of course, she hasn't brought up the chance sighting of him with Gabby Arkwright. To hear an admission would be more than she could bear; but, then, so would a lie. Besides, she does not know how to begin that conversation with a man she no longer seems to know. She fears he would brazen it out. Twist it so that she would be left feeling guilty for having the audacity to suspect him of such a betrayal.

Rather than confronting him, she has tried a typically conciliatory approach to the impasse that has widened since the night he broke their unspoken verbal agreement and accused her of being fat.

Tears burn her eyes as she recalls that row and teeter as she dwells on the humiliation of the previous night.

They had been in bed, a super-king-sized expanse they had bought years earlier to accommodate early morning cuddles with their three small daughters but which has latterly allowed them to sleep all night without touching one another. These days, bed invariably involves wearing a long nightie; a demure affair that smacks of Victorian prudishness and drapes her in virginal white. It acts as a signal; as clear as Nigel's donning pyjama bottoms or, in happier times, a Tampax box left out in the bathroom. Not tonight, darling.

Last night, she had slipped on a shorter version: still a sensible cotton jersey; still pristine white; but distinctly un-Victorian. She had tugged at the fabric clinging to her saddlebags and hoped her ample cleavage, framed with soft white lace, would provide sufficient distraction. Twenty-five years ago, and six stone lighter, she had flaunted her breasts for him, occasionally flashing them in private. She cannot remember the last time that happened. She had also delighted in energetic sex, approaching it as she might a sport, and making up in enthusiasm what she lacked in finesse. Recently, any lovemaking has been diligent and curiously joyless, Jenny willing her weight to melt into the mattress as she endured the missionary position; loath to initiate anything more exciting for fear of exposing herself.

Nigel, his back turned to her as she entered the room, had ignored her. She had slipped under the goose-down duvet, enjoying the softness of the fresh sheets, and steeled herself for action. Tentatively, she had stroked the front of his thigh, surprised at the tautness of the muscle, its contrast to her own dimpled softness. Her hand had crept to the softest skin between his legs, velvet where leg met groin.

‘Don't.'

The voice was tight. His hand had reached for hers and shoved it away, crushing her knuckles.

‘I'm not interested.'

Chill had separated every word.

She had rolled to her side, hot tears seeping into her pillow, fist pressed to her mouth to stifle her sobs.

The evidence of her distress seemed to thaw him and he had turned towards her, propped himself on one elbow, placed his firm fingers on her arm.

‘I'm sorry … I'm just not in the mood; and, if you're honest, neither are you.'

He had waited for her conciliatory nod, her confirmation he was right.

‘I've just got a lot on at work and I'm tired. This marathon training's taking it out of me.'

Not to mention Gabby, she had wanted to mutter.

‘Of course,' she had said, suppressing the image of them having wild sex in her mind.

She had bestowed an understanding smile; received a benedictory kiss on her forehead. Satisfied, he had hunched up on his side of the bed, turned his back, and was rewarded by sleep.

She, however, had spent the next three hours consumed with anxiety, wrenching the duvet around her, then kicking it off, her mind crowded with images she still cannot force away: Nigel biting Gabby's pert breasts, squeezing her buttocks, moving inside her; Nigel, shuddering with the impact of an orgasm; Nigel, his face tender in a way she remembers – but now never sees.

When sleep finally came, it was disjointed. She dreamed of a lithe triathlete riding her husband and screaming hysterically.

It had been a relief when the fluorescent numbers on her alarm showed 5.30 a.m., and she could abandon the pretence of sleep.

The image fills her mind, once again, in that sodden courtyard as she brushes the face of the iPhone. She needs to get a grip, she tells herself, as she swipes away her tears, smudging mascara across her cheek.

Sending a message to her girls will cheer her up. She is strict in rationing her contact to them. When she first got the phone she adopted their behaviour, texting liberally, straining to keep the umbilical cord taut. An exorbitant phone bill and some gentle joshing from Lizzie – and a less than gentle barb from Emma – had put her in her place. Incontinent texting was for teens; occasional cheery messages for mums. She allows herself one text conversation every other day with her youngest; a twice-weekly text – sometimes, to her anguish, not responded to for a day – to Kate and Em. She had gone cold turkey yesterday so feels justified in reaching out to her baby today.

‘Just at the Mrs Eaden biscuit auditions. Bit harder than last time! Wish me luck!' Her fingers tap lightly as she conveys false chirpiness. Is she allowed some sentiment? ‘P.S. I love you, Mum.'

The satisfying swoosh sounds, and then, more gratifyingly, a ping.

‘Go, Mum, go! Talk later? Luv u 2.'

Warmth floods Jenny's heart and she re-enters the kitchen lit by the flicker of a smile.

*   *   *

Back in the kitchen, there is a heady scent of warming butter and sugar. The macaroons come out of the oven, and sugary meringue and subtle nuttiness fill the air. Vicki looks up and spots Jenny's tear-streaked face.

‘Are you OK?' she asks, touching the older woman's arm.

Jenny nods, and smiles reassurance. ‘Fine now. Nothing to do with my biscuits.'

‘No … I didn't think it was…' Vicki's eyes are pools of concern.

‘Just … preoccupied by something.' Jenny feels she has to explain, or perhaps she wants to open up to this attractive young woman. ‘Oh, I don't know … I was just trying to make contact with my husband. I don't know about yours, but mine is absolutely useless when it comes to answering the phone. Doesn't understand the concept of a mobile. But I guess that's just men!

‘But it's all absolutely fine now. And I've had a lovely text message from my youngest daughter. Yes, everything's absolutely fine.'

*   *   *

There is to be an hour's break and the contestants leave, eager for a drink and an escape from the tension of competition. Like divers signalling to one another underwater, Mike and Claire head for one another with the bashful smiles of those keen to make each other's acquaintance but unsure of how to start.

He holds the door open for her and then falls in line as they splash their way through the kitchen courtyard to the rear door of the property. The silence is initially companionable; then strained as each waits for the other to initiate conversation.

‘Good baking?'

The words tumble out as Mike makes the first approach. He glances at her, taking in the gentle flush that now colours her pale features.

‘Not really, no.' She gives a rueful smile that turns into a grimace. ‘Oh, I think I've cocked up – sorry.' She checks to see if he's offended.

He shakes his head in reassurance.

‘My macaroons aren't crisp enough and I had trouble getting them off the baking parchment. But there isn't time to remake them before filling them.' She bites her lip.

He nods, wary of offering trite reassurance but keen that she should not stop talking. He seems to have forgotten how to make simple conversation.

‘What about you?' She helps him out.

‘Oh, OK.' He does not tell her that he has found today's session surprisingly easy.

‘Bit fancy, really, aren't they?' he manages. ‘Not the sort of thing I'm used to baking.'

‘Oh, what's that?' She smiles encouragement, liking his self-deprecation, his hesitancy.

‘Oh, you know, kids' stuff. Endless cupcakes and birthday cakes; gingerbread men; baked puddings – custards, junkets, rice puddings. Bit of bread when I can get organised.'

‘Your wife must love you.'

‘Oh, I don't have a wife.'

Colour suffuses Claire's cheeks. ‘I'm so sorry. Your ring. I presumed…'

‘She died two years ago.' He smiles to make it easier for her; stops; places a firm hand on her forearm. ‘Please,' and his eyes beseech her. ‘Don't worry. You weren't to know.'

They continue walking.

‘It was cancer. She – Rachel – was forty. I sometimes think people should be warned before they meet me, given a handout, a potted biography; perhaps we should all have that.' He gives a laugh that manages to sound both nervous and bitter.

‘She had a mastectomy but it was a particularly aggressive strain and it spread to her bones. She died just before Sam, my boy's fourth birthday. Pippa was six.'

He is silent; reluctant to add to the brutal facts; aware he has already shocked a stranger. She too is silent, running possible responses through her head; dismissing each as trite. The silence stretches between them like a piece of elastic pulled to its most taut, waiting to ping.

‘The kids are fantastic, though.' He provides happier, common ground, and she rushes to it with relief.

‘Eight and six now? I've a nine-year-old girl, Chloe. First time I've spent a night away from her, and I'm missing her like mad.'

‘Bet she's having a whale of a time with her dad?' It is his turn to probe.

‘I doubt it. We don't bother with one of those.' It is Claire's turn to shock, and she laughs – feeling that his gaffe has somehow cancelled hers. ‘Well, I mean, I did bother once – didn't use a sperm donor or anything. But not for a long time. Not since she was a baby. And we're just fine.'

He doesn't pursue it. Already in the distance from the kitchen to the rear door of the hall they have covered more emotional ground than anyone else in the competition, exposed their souls, for a few fractured seconds, shared an intimacy lacking in their lives.

Their smiles are fulsome, this time. He has lovely eyes, thinks Claire with a shock. Deep brown and frank. When you look at him closely he's not that old, either. Wonder what he looks like when he laughs?

She has a lovely smile, thinks Mike. And a real vibrancy. She doubts herself, but she shouldn't. Bet he hurt her like hell. But she's a survivor.

12

If baking with friends – for a W.I. show, perhaps, or a church fête – try not to become overly competitive. Baking can be the most inclusive of activities.

Karen rests her head against the back of a Windsor chair in the bar of Bradley Hall, which has been opened for the contestants, and allows herself a gentle sigh.

It is the end of a long day and the bakers have gathered here to ruminate on their baking; muse on the judges; assess their chances. The atmosphere has mellowed, for no one – not even Karen – can sustain high levels of competitive tension. We are beginning to know each other, she thinks; perhaps we will even like each other.

Why else would we be here? she wonders, as she looks around the bar – yet another room ripe for refurbishment. Mike and Claire are perched on a burgundy leather banquette thrust against mahogany panelling; Jenny and Vicki on nineteenth-century rush-seated chairs. Beer mats are scattered over the heavily varnished wooden table which looks – no, is – distinctly sticky.