The Art of Baking Blind (19 page)

‘I don't want the Shrimp. I want Kathleen Eaden – and so do our customers.'

‘Oh, I know.' She tried to laugh off her silliness. That's not what I meant, she thought as she extricated herself from his hug. For a moment, she had a flash of a different life: one in which she swanned around London with lovely young men and behaved like a girl in her early twenties. Someone required to look beautiful without the burden of having to behave like the ideal, domestic woman. A girl, not a woman, permitted – no, expected – to have fun.

She smoothed down her dress – no miniskirt but a demure shift.

‘Come on. We'd better get on with the rest of the photos.' Her voice was brisk.

‘If you're absolutely certain?'

‘Of course. The show must go on!'

He had looked at her and some kindness in his face made her pause and admit to her vulnerability.

‘No one here knows, do they, that there was a baby?'

‘Oh, my darling. Of course not.'

‘I'm just being stupid. So silly.' She smiled and swallowed a sip of water, trying to dislodge the hard lump stuck at the back of her throat.

19

To make a succulent Chelsea bun, you need a sumptuous filling: sugar, cinnamon, sultanas, raisins and chopped dried apricots, all enveloped in melted butter, and rolled up tight. Tack down one end of the dough; scatter with the filling, and then roll, tightening as you go. Imagine you are swaddling a newborn baby and then holding her close.

‘We've got a real treat for your final bread challenge.' Harriet is beaming, and making Claire nervous as her definition of a treat, she suspects, will vary wildly from hers.

‘Chelsea buns: something Kathleen Eaden provides a glorious recipe for in
The Art of Baking
and which seemed to have a particular significance for her. She and George had a Georgian town house just off the King's Road, where she spent a lot of time, and he would often joke that she was his “Chelsea girl”. They appealed aesthetically and emotionally. You cannot hope to be the New Mrs Eaden without getting these little beauties right.'

Oh, bloody hell. Claire glances at Vicki, who she cannot help liking, and mouths: ‘So, no pressure!' But Vicki, like an extra-keen pupil, is hanging on Harriet's every word. Jenny and Mike appear equally interested and only Karen, inspecting her nails, seems the slightest bit preoccupied. She looks particularly smug this morning, in her skinny jeans, silk shirt and high leather ankle boots that look completely impractical. Claire glances down at her jeans and imitation Converse. She must feel pretty confident she's not going to coat herself in eggs or flour.

Claire is feeling distinctly bad-tempered this morning. Not a feeling she often experiences, and not one she feels good about. Her whole body aches: her back is stiff and her mind fuzzy from lack of sleep. She has had a bad night, thinking of Karen and Dan, and of her and Jay and their hopeless relationship. Obsessing about what she could have done, if anything, to keep him: to stop him running off when Chloe was three months old and then flitting in and out of their lives ever since. Agonising – yet again – about where it all went wrong.

To counteract this, she has drunk too much sweet black coffee and now feels distinctly shaky. Her heart pounds and she is restless; she can't stand still and keeps jiggling her feet. She is also nervous. Can she create a perfect Chelsea bun – soft, light, with toffeeish fruit and an exquisitely judged filling? Her lardy cake was rubbish; her saffron bread unsophisticated. Her chances of winning the next YouTube slot – let alone the competition – are evaporating as fast as a sugar syrup furiously boiled.

Harriet is continuing to drone on. Something about the buns needing to be regular. She had better concentrate. ‘They require precision. We want neat circles with the filling – a perfect combination of spices and vine fruits – evenly distributed,' the established baker explains.

‘We also want them uniformly baked: we don't want charred fruit; we don't want undercooked dough; but nor do we want corner buns that are dried out even if the central ones are deliciously moist. There must be regularity.'

Well, they don't want much. With a sigh, Claire mixes salt, yeast and flour then forms a well in the middle; pours in liquid; and binds into a dough. She works it hard, turning it on a floured surface, making it smooth and elastic. She keeps her head down, hiding her reddening face, afraid that she might cry.

What really annoys her, what really
upsets
her, she realises, as she works the mixture, is that Jay might not have gone if she had been more of a Karen: a woman who knows how to play men, how to use them, how to get on in the world.

Good old Claire had bumbled along, believing his promise that he would stand by her when she got pregnant; trusting he would be loyal; that he would love her even if, for such a short time, her hair was greasy and her trackies milk-stained; her bras stretched and grey not brightly coloured and taut.

Stupid, naive Claire had thought Jay was her mate. Someone who would stick by her through those first tough months and not go out on the lash with the lads at every opportunity; who would understand she was too tired for sex and not go sniffing around for it elsewhere.

She had assumed he would grow up, just as she had had to do. That having a baby daughter would turn him into a parent, and that, because he said he loved her and Chloe, he would want to be by their sides.

She turns the dough viciously. Of course, she hadn't counted on Jade Russell and the joy of a carefree shag, or the promise of a bar job in Ibiza. The two combined proved far easier, and more appealing, than life in Exeter with Chloe and her.

When he'd told her, he'd given her the old ‘it's not you it's me,' explanation – one he'd repeat when he returned at the end of the summer and then disappeared the following April.

Angela had told him where he could go then. And Claire, crushed and confused, had let her. He had flitted in and out of their lives ever since, seeing Chloe whenever he visited his mum in Devon. It had seemed selfish not to let him; though, when he stood their daughter up the last time, she had vowed never again.

The pathetic thing, she thinks as the dough takes the brunt of her anguish, is that, really, there has been no one to match him. A couple of flings but no one she liked enough to introduce to Chloe. No one she has trusted enough to let into their world. She is like a goose. Something that mates for life. A stupid goose who tried to mate with a peacock. She grimaces at the thought. Well, that was always going to be messy.

The dough is smooth now. She places it in a bowl and, as she does, her emotions shift. Self-pity sharpens to anger – at herself, initially, and then at Karen. She looks up and watches as she smiles at Dan sauntering past. He smiles back and, to Claire, the look seems plump with promise. Karen lowers her head, bashful as a teenager. And Claire has to look away.

It's just not fair, she thinks, as she covers the bowl with clingfilm. That she's flirting with a competition judge. She would never point this out; never betray her. But still. The injustice cuts as deep as a butcher's knife.

There are two types of women in the world, she realises. Those like her, and, she guesses, Jenny and Vicki. Kind women, who put others first; and sometimes struggle in the world. And there are those like Karen. Who are ruthless. Who grasp life and take what they can for it; and who shine in a more forgiving, more obliging world.

*   *   *

Two and a half hours later, and the Chelsea buns have been taken out of the oven. The exhausted bakers appraise their creations, assessing their relative merits: the extent to which the vine fruit have caught; the neatness of the cinnamon swirl; the uniformity of the buns; their softness; the merits of simple caster sugar versus an apricot glaze and drizzled icing top.

‘This one's superb.' Harriet has taken a bite from Claire's offering. Her mouth works as she ruminates. ‘Light and sticky, soft dough … just the right blend of toffeeish raisins and sultanas. Punchy spices but not overpowering … and dusted with the most moreish sprinkle of caster sugar.'

‘Oh dear, this one's less good.' She prods at Vicki's, which is undercooked, the dough too pale, the bun flabby. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.' She prods it again. ‘Someone wasn't sufficiently precise about their baking time.'

The analysis continues. This bun is too charred; that too leaden. Vicki has turned red: shame at her undercooked offering spreads across her face. Claire's despondency vanishes. Slowly she realises that none of the judges' comments on the others' buns has come close to their enthusiasm for hers. Harriet is comparing hers and what she assumes to be Jenny's and appears to have come down in her favour. She glances at Mike, who gives her a wink.

Harriet delivers her verdict. ‘The clear winner of this bake is Claire. Well done. I'm delighted.'

Applauded by her competitors, she looks at each of them, incredulous. Vicki and Jenny beam back; Mike seems genuinely thrilled for her. By the time she meets Karen's eyes, Claire is laughing. A great big laugh that sings of surprise, relief and pure delight. Holding the older woman's gaze, she smiles even more broadly as if to include her in her excitement. And, tentatively, as though the emotion triggering this is unfamiliar, as though she cannot quite trust it, Karen smiles back.

 

 

Kathleen

Like the good girl that she is, she has taken James Caruthers' advice and is baking to enrich her increasingly thin body: making seed-encrusted breads and iron-rich meat pies.

Steak and kidney feature strongly in her kitchen; lamb, chicken and rabbit. Green vegetables, particularly broccoli; eggs and salmon. She bakes and eats compulsively, visualising her blood being enriched, her womb lining strengthening with each mouthful she forces down.

George, ever loving, ever ineffectual, does not know how to help. He sits, watching, as she ladles out another lamb casserole, her face a mask of concentration as she tastes it; her manner devoid of joy.

‘You seem very … diligent,' he ventures.

‘And how should I be?' she snaps, and is shocked by the look of surprise that crosses his face. The utter incomprehension. She has never spoken to him like this before.

Mrs Jennings, her long-standing cook and chief recipe taster, understands her better.

‘Mr Eaden mentioned his favourite, lardy cake, the other day. He wondered if you could make one for him. I'm more than happy to do it – but I haven't got your lightness of touch.'

And so she had obliged, reluctantly at first for it seemed wrong to be baking anything with questionable nutritional value, but, as the dough squished through her fingers, with an increasing sense of delight. The sun had streamed through the window and as she worked, she remembered what a joy it was to bake just for the fun of it. To create something that oozed fat and sweetness and decadence – and that made her poor husband smile.

She was on a roll then. Cakes and pastries; buns and biscuits; tarts and croissants: she revisited old favourites and tweaked the classics. The kitchen was suffused with the scent of spice, sugar and butter as the two women worked, side by side.

Mary came to stay and Susan and James ‘plumped up', as they put it, on a diet of sausage rolls, cream horns and mini Bakewells.

‘It's a good job you don't have children. They'd be roly-poly,' her sister commented, more than a touch disparagingly, as she watched her offspring race around the grounds.

But her niece and nephew looked good on it: their legs sturdier, their cheeks ruddy as they played tag before picnicking on doll's-sized pork pies and crisp Coxes from the orchard.

‘Can we stay with you longer? You cook nicer food,' James had whispered and she had felt an unsisterly pang of delight.

The words began to flow, too. Her section of bread and baked goods almost wrote itself and she was soon testing out pie fillings and thinking of synonyms for flaky and butteriness.

‘This will be written on time,' she told George, and for the first time since her loss, she actually believed it: she would create
The Art of Baking
even if she could not create a child. Her writing became better, each sentence revealing how she loved to bake – both the end product and the process. She crossed out little, and surprised herself with her taut, evocative prose.

At times, when her pen sped across the page, or a new tart proved particularly successful, she wondered if there was a limit to her creativity. Could she really write well, invent new recipes and hope to conceive a baby? Wasn't that sheer greediness?

And, then, as autumn turned to winter, something miraculous happened that disproved that theory.

She became pregnant for the third time.

20

If friends and acquaintances delight in your baking then accept the compliment. To do otherwise is ungracious.

Easter and, alone in her small flat, Claire is experiencing an uncharacteristic bubble of excitement as she flicks open her battered laptop and waits for the connection to YouTube.

There she is, demonstrating how to make Chelsea buns: slightly earnest but almost pretty for once as she tries to explain the process. She wished her hair looked shinier but at least she doesn't sound stupid. And there's the evidence of her success: 15,407 hits. Two hundred and three more than two hours ago. Over fifteen thousand people have seen her winning bake – and, judging from the comments, they have liked it.

Her phone pings. One of them is texting her now. Jay.

Well, of course she rang him. Her mum would be furious if she knew the real reason she was babysitting Chloe tonight but it seemed petty not to meet up, not now that he'd moved home with the intention, he said, of being a real dad.

He seems to have settled down a bit, becoming, of all things, an estate agent. She can see him doing well at it: wearing a sharp suit; driving a company car; selling some sort of dream. Penthouses on the New English Riviera are his speciality, he had told her when he had called last week to suggest they meet up, by which she assumes he means the expensive flats overlooking the beach at Exmouth. If anyone could convince buyers this beach – with its sudden squalls and strong currents – was Britain's answer to the south of France, then she guesses it would be him.