The Art of Baking Blind (20 page)

And so she is meeting him to discuss more regular contact with Chloe, she tells herself, though that doesn't explain why she is putting on make-up. Not just the cursory lick of mascara but a silvery eye shadow that throws glitter over her cheekbones, a smear of lip gloss that makes her lips look fuller, a flick of eyeliner that defines her eyes.

She up-ends her hair and ties her ponytail higher; hangs hoops from her ears; tugs her top beneath her trademark hoodie a little lower, puts on boots with a slight heel – polished but in desperate need of re-heeling. I'm not doing this for him, she tries to convince herself; I'm doing this for me. To feel good about myself. Oh yeah, comes a whisper deep inside her. Who are you kidding?

She is still telling herself this as she walks towards the bar on the seafront at Exmouth and spots him coming towards her. Hands in pockets, green eyes smiling from a face bronzed through windsurfing; a lean, well-toned physique. It is less of a saunter, more of a strut: the peacock parading his plumage in front of an interested female. He still fancies himself, thinks Claire, but the galling thing is: he
is
still fanciable. Despite the hurt he has inflicted through his hands-off approach to parenting; despite the fact he loves himself and is immature and selfish, she still finds herself responding to that lazy smile.

‘All right?'

She is back to being seventeen, charmed by the cool boy at college.

He holds out his arms. ‘Can I get a hug, Miss YouTube queen?'

Despite herself, she smiles, and accepts the embrace. Her body remains stiff, cocooned against his muscles.

‘Still angry?' He looks down into her face, strokes her cheek. The tips of his fingers are warm and she can feel the heat of his chest.

She shakes her head, turning her cheek from his fingers, and moves away.

‘Come on. Let's get us a drink. I've got a whole crowd, desperate to meet you.' He slings an arm around her shoulders, friendly but proprietorial.

‘Oh … I thought it was just going to be us.' She falters then blushes. ‘I wondered if you wanted a walk on the beach?'

‘Thinking of the old times? You dirty girl!' He whispers his delight in her ear. ‘You'll have to wait till later.'

‘No, I didn't mean that.' She blushes, furious at herself and at him. ‘I meant I thought we were going to talk about you seeing Chloe.'

‘Of course we are. Of course we are.' He is all sincerity. ‘But first I want to introduce you to the lads. Show them how fantastic you are!'

His hand drops to the small of her back as if to guide her to them.

They have reached the bar: nondescript, modern and heaving with a young clientele propped against the bar or clustered around long, wooden tables. He opens the door and they push through a fug of lager and sweet white wine.

‘Here she is!' he calls to a table at the window, where five young men – three of whom she recognises from their teenage years – are clustered. ‘The New Mrs Eaden!'

‘I am not,' she hisses in embarrassment.

‘Well, all right, not yet. But she will be. And the next celebrity cook. That fit Chinese one had better watch out.'

‘Can you
stop it!
' She is furious.

‘Sorry, sorry. Everyone – remember Claire? Mother of my child, light of my life, the new star of YouTube?'

‘I am NOT.'

‘You are!'

Sean, Ethan and Jason – the lads she remembers from college – grin into their lagers.

One of the others, Rob she thinks – tanned, laid-back, good-looking – hands over his smartphone. ‘I'd say you were. Here, take a look for yourself.'

The clip of her making Chelsea buns shows 16,760 hits – over a thousand more than an hour earlier.

‘And look at that gingerbread beach hut.' Fingers stroke the screen: 31,462 hits. They flick back to the Chelsea bun film: 16,781.

Someone hands her a vodka and tonic, and she finds herself relaxing into the seat as she scrolls through the phone, checking the hits for her film against those of Jenny and Karen.

‘Look at the comments on the Eaden's website.' Jay puts an arm around her lower back, draws her to him.

‘Yeah – not Jay's usual sort of site – but now his favourite,' Jason teases.

‘Yes, well. I didn't know a culinary goddess before now.' He drops a kiss on her head and she tells herself he is just being friendly; just proud of her; almost like a big brother.

‘Hey, enough of that. Look at this.' Ethan hands over another phone showing the Eaden's website.

She squirms as a photo of herself holding a dish of Chelsea buns comes up then begins to smile at the stream of comments from Eaden's customers: ‘The most likeable of the contestants: we want you to win'; ‘Fantastic baking. Those look delicious'; and, predictably – though she doubts he is a regular Eaden's shopper: ‘Claire, love. You can handle my buns any time!'

‘Do you believe what a sensation you are now?' Jay is looking at her intently.

‘Hardly a sensation,' she says, though her cheeks are flushed with pleasure.

‘Well, I don't know what else you'd call it? None of the others are getting the hits you are – apart from that Karen woman. And I don't think they're interested in her cooking. Bet they love you at work?'

‘Well, yes – I guess I'm good publicity.' She is still getting used to the idea. She can feel herself blushing with the attention. Just enjoy it, you deserve it, she tells herself.

Jay smiles; runs his hand up her back; gives her a quick squeeze that makes her insides flutter.

‘You, Claire Trelawney, are a complete star.'

*   *   *

‘So, obviously, when she's brought out her book in time for Christmas and started her second series, we may want to speak to you – but, frankly, we'll probably be holidaying in some foodie mecca like Rome, Paris – or maybe Dubai …

‘As her manager, I will, of course, have to accompany her on all her filming commitments – particularly those in hot countries. And Chloe and I will get first choice on the tastings. Forget this six pack' – and here Jay raises his T-shirt slowly to wolf whistles. He blows Claire a kiss. ‘I am going to get well FAAAT!'

There is a drum roll of hands on the table and he downs his bottle in one, then leans over and gives her a jokey smack on the lips. She wipes away the lager, stung by the sensation and a flood of memories.

He is on a roll, and she has to admit he is funny. Fuelled by his friends and numerous bottles of lager, he has launched into a comic fantasy about how she will win and he, as her self-appointed manager, will lead a life of luxury. At least she hopes he knows it is a fantasy.

He is being Jay at his best: gregarious, charming, attentive. And she has missed this: this camaraderie and good-humoured banter; this sense of feeling protected, for once, and flattered. And the suggestion, that, if she decides she wants to, she could have him – for one night, at least.

So why can't she relax entirely and lap up the attention? Perhaps because he hasn't focused on their daughter, or asked her even once about her day-to-day life as a mum.

In fact, she realises as she takes another sip of her vodka and tonic, for most of the evening they have talked exclusively about her success in the competition. And much of the conversation has been about Jay and his comic fantasies – and not about her at all.

*   *   *

‘That was a laugh, wasn't it?' he had said later, when they finally escaped the bar and she got to walk along the seafront. The sea was a millpond, the tide stroking the shore.

The air was chill though, no duvets of cloud cushioning the air, and she had thrust her hands deep into her pockets. Her shoulders hunched around her ears as she shivered in her thin jacket.

‘Here.' He had put his arm around her, and, self-consciously, she had slung one around him, resting it on the taut skin beneath his jacket. Force of habit, she told herself. And a good way to keep warm.

‘You were fantastic in there. You are fantastic.' He had smiled down at her, his eyes, green flecked with gold, full of amusement. And he had squeezed her close.

But something had bugged her. ‘I'm not just about this competition, you know. There's a lot more to me than that.'

She had dropped her arm; scuffed her feet like a truculent toddler.

‘Hey. Easy … I know that. I know everything you've done for Chloe. How hard everything's been for you with me being so hands-off.'

‘You mean absent.'

‘OK. Absent.' He had shrugged off the criticism as if the word were unimportant. ‘But you should enjoy how excited everyone is for you. You should be thrilled you're doing so well.'

‘I am. But…' She had wanted to articulate her fear – that he was only interested in her because of her new-found fame; that he had reappeared after her clip on YouTube – but he had stopped her.

‘No more buts.' He had smiled and planted the gentlest of kisses on her mouth. His lips felt warm and familiar; his mouth forbidden. She had tasted lager – and leaned in to enjoy the kiss.

The image of Angela, face masked in disappointment, came between them: ‘
I know how he gets to you.
'

‘I can't do this.' She had broken away, almost tearful.

He recoiled. ‘Don't be a tease.'

‘I'm not … I just … I can't. Not yet. Not at the moment.'

She had turned away, face pinched, shoulders hunched, head down. Hating herself for being overwhelmed with doubt; for not giving in to the moment; for being the sort of woman who would be used by him – not the sort who would use him without giving it a moment's thought.

21

Simnel cake is the traditional Easter cake: decorated with balls to symbolise the eleven loyal disciples and packed with fruit, spice and marzipan – all forbidden during Lent.

I prefer to serve a large custard tart – the colour of daffodils; crammed with fresh golden eggs – to celebrate the idea of birth and renewal.

Jenny, at home in her kitchen, is in her element, the preparations for an Easter weekend of foodie decadence well under way. Her brood has returned. Not Kate, who will remain in Sydney, but Lizzie, back from Bristol, and Emma, home from Montpellier, laden with traditional chocolate fish and exquisite eggs from a local chocolatier.

‘Aren't these gorgeous, Mum? Do you want to save a few to decorate your torte for the competition – can you do that?'

Jenny had been delighted to see her daughter's almost childlike excitement – and her sudden, unexpected support.

Nigel, sweeping through the kitchen on his way out for a run, was less enthusiastic. ‘Very nice, but none of us needs to be gorging on those – least of all your mother.'

She had stood there, so stunned she was unable to think of a response.

But Nigel hadn't finished. ‘And if you're going to eat them, you need to remember to clean your teeth thoroughly half an hour afterwards.'

The girls had been incredulous.

‘Do you think we'd get an “I've been to the dentist” sticker for doing that?' Emma had asked, as he slammed the kitchen door and sped off in a display of bad temper and sprayed gravel.

‘Bet he confiscates my mini eggs,' said Lizzie. And then: ‘Has he always been that bad-tempered?'

‘He's just worrying about his weight for this marathon,' Jenny had excused her husband. ‘It's making him grouchy. But I've got a feast planned for tomorrow that, for once, might make even him break his diet.'

*   *   *

The Georgian mahogany table in Jenny's dining room – laid for special occasions – would suit a Dickensian Christmas, or a lavish photo shoot for a glossy magazine. The leg of lamb, cooked to perfection, its pink flesh encased in succulent fat and studded with garlic and rosemary, takes centre stage. A jug of red wine gravy sits alongside it and redcurrant jelly, made with redcurrants from the garden, together with pungent mint sauce – also home-grown and home-made.

The roast potatoes, cooked in goose fat, are a master-class in how to cook them: crisply golden on the outside, light and fluffy within. There are toffeeish roast parsnips; chantenay carrots sautéed in butter and honey; green beans cooked al dente; and, since Nigel prefers them, unadorned homegrown spring greens and a bowl of unseasonal new potatoes. She has steamed them with mint, sprinkled them with ground black pepper, and, with some difficulty, refrained from adding butter. They sit chastely: the abstemious exception in a glutton's feast.

Jenny has been working for the best part of four hours on this meal and she is glowing: not just from the heat of the kitchen – and it is a relief to come into the cooler dining room – but from excitement at having two of her three girls home. For just over a fortnight, she can pretend she can turn the clocks back: back to a time when the house was noisy, filled with chattering, bickering, sometimes squabbling daughters who would always require help with homework, advice with friendships, and – for all three were sporty and required a vast amount of calories – her always nutritious, sometimes indulgent, food.

Despite Nigel's barbs, and his increasing obsession with his pre-marathon weight loss – or lack of it – she also hopes that this meal will remind him of the importance of family – and, by extension, the importance, to him, of herself. Of course, an imaginary Gabby Arkwright is constantly in her peripheral vision; mocking her when she smooths down then discards a wrap dress she had hoped might be forgiving; tutting when she slices cold butter into mashed potato; flitting around Nigel, laughing unnecessarily loudly at his every utterance; gazing at him in adoration.

Recently, when they have met socially – at a mutual friend's drinks party – Gabby had barely spoken to them. But Jenny was constantly aware of her presence and had feared their friends and acquaintances could discern the skeins of attraction that bound her to Nigel.