The Art of Baking Blind (3 page)

He brays a laugh. ‘Chill, Ma. Calm down.'

He looks at her as if she were from another planet then continues to demolish the cake, jaws moving efficiently.

‘This is good, by the way. Here, try a bit.'

He holds it out to her, pushing it towards her lips. She recoils, suddenly fearful.

‘I'm fine, thank you.' Her voice is tight. ‘I'm not hungry.'

He gives a shrug. Goes back to finishing the cake.

‘What about the icing?' he persists as he cuts himself a second, smaller, slice. ‘Here, just taste it on the knife. Go on.' His upper lip curls as he holds it in front of her, a reward for good behaviour. It is dangerously close to her mouth but she refuses to flinch.

‘I said: “No.”'

It comes out almost as a shout. He raises an eyebrow. She forces herself to soften her voice and breathes deeply.

‘I'm fine, thank you, darling. I just wish you'd listen to me.'

She busies herself to deflect attention from her outburst: begins to put his food back; takes a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. The caramel liquid fizzes in a crystal tumbler then burns as the bubbles run down her throat. It is her poison of choice now she has ditched the nicotine: a wonder drink that has zero calories but appears to fill her up.

Her son is still watching her, his hands now raised in supplication. ‘I don't get you. You make these gorgeous cakes and you won't even taste them. What's that about? It's not like you're fat or something.'

He takes in her size eight frame: the flat abdomen and pronounced sternum; her skin taut against her cheekbones; her upper ribs radiating across her chest. He shakes his head, as if he were the parent bemused by the offspring, and ambles away.

She is about to remonstrate – to tell him to help clear up – when he lobs his parting shot: an insult tossed so casually that, at first, she wonders if she has misheard him.

‘You're fooling no one, Ma,' he drawls as he slopes away, hands thrust deep in his pockets. And, again, under his breath, almost as a whisper: ‘You're fooling no one.'

*   *   *

What the fuck did he mean by that? Fear powers her as she runs from her substantial Victorian house in Winchester towards the edge of the city on a forty-five-minute run that will burn a good 565 calories, she calculates, and, she hopes, extinguish her sense of shame.

She keeps up a brisk pace: feet striking rhythmically heel-to-toe, torso erect but at ease, breath regular and even. The houses blur, their price tags diminishing as she leaves the centre of the city: Georgian town houses blurring into cutesy terraces; merging into more modern detached properties; the majority nondescript, the rare one a suburban gem.

She has come a long way, she tells herself as she powers past the law courts, the railway and the hospital towards open countryside. She has come a long way and she is not going to let it all crumble because her son, this beautiful boy-man she often cannot believe she produced, thinks he knows something that will put her back in her place.

Her stomach corrodes.
You're fooling no one, Ma.
A general reference to the working-class roots she refuses to discuss or something more specific? What does he know? Which of her two dirty secrets has he picked up on? Or is he chancing it?

Has he told Oliver? Still her husband, though with him spending the week at their London flat, their lives are increasingly separate. She sometimes wonders if he even cares for her, so immersed is he in his work, so completely is he drifting away. What about Livy? She thinks of her serious girl – so different from her at fifteen – and finds her fists are clenched, as if she were trying to cling on to her daughter's innocence.

She thinks back ten years: Jake, aged seven, scoring his first try in tag rugby, knees grazed, shins mud-splattered, pride stretched across his face. And the person he had run to for a victor's hug wasn't Oliver, or his coach: it was her, freezing on the touchline. ‘I love you, Mum,' he had whispered into her neck, his arms tight around her, his voice fierce with passion. She was his world. ‘The best mum in the world – in the universe.' The passion had continued for quite some time. So why, now, was there this contempt?

The question niggles as the run becomes harder: a steeper incline to the crest of one of the high hills in the area. A chance to push her body. There is no pavement here and she runs on the tarmac, segueing on to a grass verge hedged with brambles when a car thunders past, spewing water at her legs.

She glances at the running watch strapped to her upper arm. Nearly halfway. Three point one miles; twenty-two minutes; 257 calories. She surges forward. She needs to burn more, run faster; she should be able to run faster.

Her breath is ragged and uneven now. She tries to hum, as if to block out her anxiety. Keep going, she tells herself. He knows nothing. Just keep going.

Blood floods her head in solid waves out of sync with her iPod. Just keep going. Keep going. He knows nothing. She repeats the mantra – and wishes she could believe it.

And then, suddenly, she is at the top of the hill and her voice comes out in a burst: a yelp of relief and a cry of achievement. Behind her, Winchester spreads: all affluence, heritage and privilege. You have come a long way, she reassures herself. You have come a long way.

The flooded water meadows shimmer and, as she catches her breath, a ray of sunshine illuminates the cathedral and the prestigious school. She resumes her jogging, breath steadying as she runs for a while on the flat. Her pace picks up; fast and rhythmic. You've come a long way; you've come a long way; and you are going to hold tight to this.

4

If holding a coffee morning, always ensure that your coffee is Eaden's finest and your biscuits, it should not need saying, are home-made. Do not allow your standards to slip even if you only offer a hot beverage. You do not want to be the sort of hostess who offers merely a cup of instant coffee.

Three weeks later. A wet and windy February morning and Vicki is scuttling through the raindrops on the King's Road, Chelsea, on her way to the Search for the New Mrs Eaden audition.

Her watch says she has plenty of time – that she's fifteen minutes early – but Vicki hates being late for anything, just as she hates being unprepared. She pulls a wicker basket tight towards her, and peeks under the gingham tea towel cover in case her home-made blueberry muffins and Emmenthal croissants should have somehow escaped. Of course they haven't. Fat raindrops splash on her cake tin and she walks faster, readjusting her umbrella.

Just stop being so nervous, she tells herself as she spies Eaden and Son's flagship store, with its elegant lettering and all-glass frontage. Look, you're here now. Just enjoy this. This is what you wanted: a chance to bake; to excel; to do something outside the home.

Oh, but will Alfie be all right? She feels her habitual twinge of guilt at the thought of his tear-streaked face as she left him at Ali's. He was just putting on a show for your benefit, her rational, teacher-voice reassures her. But was he? Perhaps he was coming down with something and she hadn't noticed? Why else would she have to pull away from his grasp?

For a moment she considers ringing Ali again, just to check, but she has already texted her since leaving Sloane Square station and she fears looking neurotic. Her phone pings in her pocket. A text from Ali: ‘Of course he's fine. Now go and enjoy yourself!'

She grins – given permission by another mother – and, with a lighter heart, almost runs the last few steps to the store. There. She is not a bad mummy. Not really. She is just seizing a rare opportunity to shine.

Walking into the store, it actually feels incredible that she is here, summoned to the audition. She only applied right at the last minute, on 31 January, the entry deadline. It wasn't that she didn't want to do it. The advert, cut from
Eaden's Monthly,
had been pinned to her fridge since early December, fighting for space among Alfie's potato cut prints and stick drawings. But she had dithered: reluctant to commit to something that meant time away from her boy. And then there had been one particularly lonely morning and she had realised, somewhere between tidying up the train track and the Lego, the play-doh and the farm set, that, if she didn't get out more, she would combust with bad temper, or go quite quite mad.

And so she is here. Hardly the most intrepid destination and yet this feels thrillingly exciting. Trepidation replaces anxiety as she takes in the table by the entrance, arranged with bottles of Prosecco and elaborately beribboned boxes of truffles, and breathes in the scent of freshly baked pain aux raisins.

Everything in Eaden's flagship store looks perfect: the apples, piled in pyramids on reproduction market barrows, are without blemish; the cavolo nero dark and prolific; the bread – sourdough flutes wrapped in artfully ripped brown paper – looks as if it has been crafted in the early hours by an artisan baker. The butcher's counter boasts vast hunks of topside, generous fillets of sirloin: rich, succulent, vermilion. The sea bass and langoustine shimmer on a mound of crushed ice.

Even before 10 a.m., the shop hums with contented shoppers as they select their fresh produce and deliberate over their espresso coffee, their fair trade tea bags, their 85 per cent cocoa chocolate, their organic oatcakes, their cantuccini.

The wide aisles can easily accommodate two trolleys and Vicki watches three middle-aged women negotiate the space. As one squeezes past, there is no tension, no rancour, just an apologetic smile and a gracious nod of acceptance. This isn't the sort of supermarket where customers swear at one another, ram trolleys into heels or try to beat fellow shoppers to the checkout. Eaden's embodies old-fashioned values such as good taste, quality, refinement. Above all, it stands for courteousness.

There's no one here to greet her now, though, and so Vicki makes for customer services, glancing at the baking aisle as she does so.

An elderly gentleman is peering at the flavourings. Mustard cords; cravat; a tweed jacket that has lasted forty years and will see him out; a face that is markedly florid. He looks distinctly lost.

‘May I help you, sir?' A slim young assistant smiles in concern.

‘Looking for fresh vanilla pods. My wife insists she needs them. Damned if I can find them.'

‘If you just come this way, sir, I can show you.' She holds out an expansive arm behind him but does not touch him. ‘There you are: three choices but, if I was baking, I'd choose this one.'

‘Really?'

‘Less expensive but grown on the same plantation so the same quality.'

‘How extraordinary…'

‘May I help you with anything else?'

‘No … No, that's fine. Thank you.'

Leaving him to scrutinise the withered black sticks in their minute test tube, the girl melts away.

‘Vicki … Vicki Marchant?'

A young woman with a neat blonde bob and pearl earrings is smiling at her.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry.' She immediately feels wrong-footed.

‘Welcome to the Search for the New Mrs Eaden competition!'

Vicki smiles, suddenly filled with excitement.

‘I'm Cora Young. Eaden's marketing assistant.'

She holds out a neat hand with a signet ring on her little finger. Vicki wipes her own sweaty palm before taking it.

‘The interviews are in our conference room upstairs, in the head office. If you'd like to come this way?'

*   *   *

Someone is already waiting in the conference room above the store. A middle-aged woman who looks like the epitome of a baker, with her gentle smile, her broad face, and a bosom so ample that Vicki's eyes are instantly drawn there.

She looks nervous – and lovely. A proper mum, or a proper, young, granny. Alfie would love her. He'd nestle against that chest and gaze up adoringly in his own version of small boy heaven.

‘Hello. I'm Jennifer.' The older woman moves towards her and holds out a hand, slightly self-conscious.

‘Vicki.' She grasps it. Jennifer's fingers are cool and her handshake surprisingly firm for someone who looks so diffident.

They smile, both searching for the start of a conversation.

‘Did you…?'

‘Are you…?'

Their voices collide.

‘No, after you,' Vicki defers to the older woman.

‘I was just going to ask if you were nervous. I know I am. They only rang me two days ago, and I can't quite believe it. I keep expecting them to say they've made a mistake.'

‘Oh, I'm sure they haven't. You look like you know how to bake – oh, I don't mean that rudely. I mean, you just look experienced…' Vicki's voice tails away in embarrassment. ‘Oh, I'm digging a bigger hole, aren't I?'

Jennifer laughs. ‘Not at all. It's just nerves. Good to know we're both feeling the same.'

She glances at a framed black and white photo of Kathleen Eaden, standing outside the building they are now in, which takes pride of place on the wall opposite.

‘She, on the other hand, doesn't look as if she was ever nervous, does she?'

Vicki looks at the shot. The woman is dressed in the style of that 1960s icon, Jackie Kennedy: a dark bouffant bob, the ends curling up at her shoulders; pale lipstick; lightly kohled eyes. Her face is striking rather than pretty with an intelligent gaze and high cheekbones. Her smile is alluring. She wears a dress coat with oversized buttons and a shift dress ending just above her knee. Slim calves taper down to kitten heels.

‘It's the same picture used in here, isn't it?'

Vicki draws out a copy of
The Art of Baking
from her capacious handbag: a glossy duck-egg-blue hardback, with lavish photographs, published to coincide with Kathleen Eaden's death the previous year.

‘Oh! A real Kathleen enthusiast.' Jennifer waves her own paperback copy: dog-eared, besplattered, and at least forty years older than Vicki's edition.