The Art of Baking Blind (24 page)

She had thought she had had it bad then, but with Dan her infatuation has reached a new level: a groin-juddering, heart-thumping obsession that dictates her actions – what she wears; what she bakes; what she says – and dominates her thoughts. It is not just his beauty, not just his charisma. It is the fact that the attraction seems mutual. Apparently reciprocated, her infatuation fuels her. She believes herself to be as beautiful and charismatic as him; she believes herself to be worthy of his desire.

So where is he? In the third hour, anticipation turns to trepidation. Perhaps he is waiting until the coast is clear; until he is less likely to stumble upon the other contestants; until it is so late that his intentions – turning up at her bedroom in the night – are sufficiently unambiguous. Perhaps he got caught up in a discussion with Harriet and was unable to sneak away. Or perhaps he has had second thoughts.

In the fourth hour, trepidation turns to despair – and then self-flagellation. How could she have been so stupid as to have thought she was being anything other than played? She looks at her face in the mirror: the exhaustion of a hard day's work and the shock of her fall perceptible under her eyes despite a generous application of Touche Éclat.
You're fooling no one, Ma.
She sees her forty-seven years. How could she have believed he wouldn't notice them?

As the fourth hour passes, she knows what she must do. She pulls on ballet pumps and a long cashmere cardigan and leaves the room, walking lightly but purposefully towards the competition kitchen. To her surprise, it is open. A shaft of light filters from the corridor, illuminating her way as she slips into the room and finds her work station. She turns to the nearest fridge and opens the door, bathing her face in the unearthly glow. Quickly, she reaches in and grabs what she was looking for.

Her tarte au citron has been tested by the judges but is still more than half complete. She plunges a knife in and cuts a sliver; then immediately a second, larger, slice and a third. The triangles sit quivering in the gloaming. The fluorescent yellow filling wobbling; tantalising her. ‘Eat me, eat me.' She takes a breath, then obliges.

Crouched on the floor, shielded by work stations, she crams the first slice into her mouth, barely tasting the tart citrus fruit, the buttery pastry. Then comes the second, more substantial piece, closely followed by the third. Her mouth fills with cloying softness cut through with sharpness. Her stomach – empty since a small chicken salad at lunchtime – feels immediately bloated.

She is tempted to continue cutting, chipping away at the semicircle until there is only a third then a quarter then an eighth left but her self-loathing is already overwhelming. She thrusts the plate back in the fridge; rinses and dries the knife; buries it in the drawer. Then she slips from the room, almost running now in her desire to be rid of her taut belly. She needs to purge herself of the gelatinous mass lining her stomach, or making its way to it, just as she needs to purge herself of her self-disgust.

Later, this is the only explanation she can give for using the toilets off the kitchen rather than running the two flights up to her room. Immediacy – the fear that she will not be able to rid herself of the food before it hits her stomach – appears more important than privacy. The stalls are empty. She enters one, locks the door, ties back her hair and, toilet paper in hand, lifts the seat.

With her clean, right hand, she puts her fingers to the back of her throat, finds her gagging reflex and pushes. A spurt of vomit spews into her mouth. She makes herself press again, and unleashes a torrent. She rocks back on her heels then forces herself to push a third time, lurching to the toilet bowl to release the bile. Her throat burns and she is spent. Briefly, she rests her head against the cool of the toilet wall before the dangling toilet roll and sweet stench of urine fill her with repulsion. She wipes her mouth with a piece of paper, flushes, checks the vomit has cleared, and then unlocks the door.

Claire is waiting by the sinks, her eyes wide as she sees that it is Karen who emerges.

It is a shock for them both.

‘How long have you been here?' Karen is peremptory.

‘Uh … I've just come in. Bit of a late night in the bar. Stupid really. I just got chatting to Mike for too long. Then I felt hungry so thought I'd sneak to the kitchen.' She is rambling.

The question remains unsaid.

‘Are you OK?' Claire ventures.

‘Why wouldn't I be?' Karen turns away from her, presses the soap dispenser with the back of her hand, lathers suds under running water.

‘You just … you just sounded as if you might be feeling a bit poorly.' She meets Karen's gaze in the mirror but there is concern not rancour in the look she gives.

‘Nothing gets past you, does it, Claire?' Karen gives a sharp laugh as she dries her hands then turns to face her. ‘To be honest, I think I've got a touch of food poisoning. I've a really gyppy tummy.'

She pauses, pained to make a request but realising she needs to. ‘Please don't mention it to the others, will you? I'm sure I wouldn't be able to compete, for health and safety reasons, if they knew about this.'

‘No, of course not … But are you sure you're OK to carry on?'

‘Of course I am. It's a bit of food poisoning. Nothing contagious. I'm not going to die of it.' She is brisk. ‘Nothing I can't get over by drinking plenty of water and having a good sleep.'

She brushes past the younger woman but holds open the door, gesturing that they should both leave.

Claire takes it but watches as Karen walks along the corridor, her head held high though her colour is pale.

Food poisoning? She must think I'm stupid. Yet the alternative is more incredible. She has a sharp recollection of the toilets at her comprehensive; the stench of disinfectant; the shine of toilet paper; and Hazel Adams, the class fatty, making herself sick.

Is that what was going on there? She makes her own way to bed, a knot of sorrow pressing in her chest like a granite pebble: her mind trying to process what she has just seen.

 

 

Kathleen

Still no baby, there is still no baby. As spring bursts into summer and summer melts into autumn, she no longer wants to play this exhausting game.

At first she had blamed the writing. The day after her loss, she had ripped up the entire section on pies and pastries and stuffed it in the drawing room hearth. The flames had licked the cream sheets of paper then gobbled them up in one greedy whoosh and she had felt nothing but relief.

George had been somewhat dismayed.

‘But all that work … You were two-thirds done.'

‘And I'm not going to finish it,' she had insisted, not minding that she sounded melodramatic. ‘Is that all that matters, George, that I write this book? I couldn't include those recipes. They feel tainted.'

‘That's ridiculous.'

‘No it isn't. Not to me.'

The deadline is pushed back indefinitely and George refrains from commenting. Nor does he complain when, three months after her loss, she is still pulling out of store openings. She fears she is not doing her bit for their business. For Eaden's. And yet, selfishly, she does not care.

The columns keep coming, delighting the readers of
Home Magazine
who have no idea of her anguish. She finds she is writing about the most frivolous of puddings: meringues, baked Alaskas, croquembouche, vacherin. Nothing sustaining, as recommended by Mr Caruthers, and nothing to do with pastry.

Her prose sparkles, as bright as beads of caster sugar, as brittle as spun caramel. And yet she feels it is soulless. She knows she is writing entirely from the head.

If she can dazzle in print, in life she is increasingly sombre; retreating into herself and away from George.

She flinches from his touch now. There can be no habitual abortion, as James Caruthers insists on referring to it, if there is no sexual intercourse. And yet intercourse is required if she is to chance another pregnancy. Intercourse and a massive leap of faith.

In September she decamps to Bradley Hall, and the move to the countryside, and her once vulgar house, seems to free her. The estate is fecund. Trees drip fruit; the kitchen garden provides limitless squash, plums and pears.

Even the grass yields treasures: wild mushrooms, dark-gilled and dewy, and conkers, fat and burnished; shiny like chestnut leather. She caresses them like prayer beads as she picks up apples and roots out acorns; feet scuffing through leaves as she circles the grounds.

With Mrs Jennings struggling to cope with this autumn bounty, it seems almost immoral not to return to the kitchen. The cook smiles and George breathes a deep sigh of relief.

One Saturday, he slaps a brace of rabbits on the scullery table.

‘And what am I supposed to do with these?' She strokes the short brown fur and the softer white belly, and thinks of Peter Rabbit.

‘Make a pie,' George, flushed at playing the country landowner, challenges her.

And so she does, creating the most flavoursome concoction of bacon, shallots, carrots, thyme and rabbit, simmered in stock and cider and finished with cream.

She serves it with purple sprouting broccoli from the garden, and finds, at the end of the meal, that not only has she cleared her plate for the first time since March, when she lost her baby, but that she is smiling.

‘Kathleen?' George looks as if he is wondering if he can smile too.

‘George?' And for the first time in months there is a hint of humour in her voice, the suggestion, however tentative, of a tease.

For a moment, she is the Kathleen who spied him at the Carltons' dinner dance and went after him: this older man, who offered both the chance of rebellion – with his humble roots initially scandalising her mother – and the ultimate stability.

She looks at him – this man who has been unable to ease or even understand the full extent of her sorrow but who is nevertheless her rock: the person she relies on – and burrows herself deep into his arms.

25

I am a firm believer in the importance of breakfast. Not a fry-up or even going to work on an egg, but a slice of home-made toast spread with blackcurrant jam and a cup of Earl Grey. This is my minimum requirement, without which I am liable to be crotchety. However modest, a breakfast balances your blood sugars and sets you up for the day.

Eight hours later, the morning of the Paris marathon and Jenny is perched on the edge of her bed, brow furrowed in concentration, as she struggles to construct the right text. Her fingers fumble on the screen as she tries to get the balance right: to send a message to Nigel that is supportive but in no way imposes expectations. She ends up being girlish. ‘The very best of luck! Thinking of you, my darling!' She cringes the moment she sends it. Why be so effusive? Why call him darling? She no longer thinks of him as her darling.

When no reply is forthcoming – she hadn't expected one, but still she hoped for it – she sends one to Emma, pulling the umbilical cord tight: ‘Thinking of Dad and wishing him all the best. Please give him a hug from me – and one to you of course!'

Emma responds quickly. ‘Huge excitement here. He's very pepped up and hoping for a good personal best. Hope the baking competition's going well. Thinking of you too! Xxx'

All is well in the world. Jenny allows herself a small smile, gratified that her daughter is acknowledging the importance of this competition to her. Then a second message pings, and her happiness dissolves like sugar gently heated with water.

‘Just seen Gabby Arkwright. Very over-friendly. Going to watch with me as Peter's running too.'

A chill runs through her as she tries to decode the message and Emma's reason for sending it. Is she being naive? Is Gabby's husband really in Paris? Why hadn't Nigel mentioned this? She does not need to ask.

‘How nice. Please call me if you have a minute,' she texts, then tries Emma's number, as frenzied as a jilted lover. It rings out: an unfamiliar, nasal French beep. She leaves a message: her voice shaking with false cheeriness; the words – ‘Em, when you have a minute, please could you call?' – conveying nothing, and everything.

She is too jittery to eat much breakfast. A pot of Earl Grey is swapped for a black coffee; a sliver of cold toast smeared with butter and blackcurrant jam is discarded. Food, for so long a great comfort, provides no succour today.

‘Jenny? Do you mind if I join you?' Smiling from the next table, Vicki looks as if she wants to intervene. She picks up her cup of white coffee and hovers, as if reluctant to pull out a chair until she is sure it is OK.

‘Oh, of course.' Jenny tells herself to pull herself together; to welcome the intrusion. She forces a smile. ‘How are you this morning?'

‘Oh, I'm good, thank you – and you?'

‘Me?' She gives the automatic answer: ‘Oh, I'm fine.'

‘Really?'

‘No, not really.' She grimaces at trying to fool her. Vicki's kindness makes her falter. ‘Not really at all.'

‘Can I get you something nicer to eat?'

Jenny demurs, and Vicki bustles about, selecting the choicest morsels from the buffet: a couple of warm pains aux raisins, some fresh granary bread and a cold pat of butter, christened with a pearl of water; a bowl of Greek yoghurt; a bunch of red grapes.

‘I'm not really hungry.'

‘I can see that,' says Vicki. She butters the thick bread and spreads jam; cuts it into four triangles; gestures that she should take one, treating her, Jenny can't help thinking, much as she might her little one – what was he called: Alfie? ‘But I always think that, if you're feeling a bit down, you need to eat.'

Jenny forces herself to take a mouthful, then a second. The bread, coating the roof of her mouth, tastes of nothing. The jam is good, though: fat apricot halves coated in a thick golden syrup that gleams.