The Art of Baking Blind (40 page)

Claire and Vicki push their way through to the front to stand alongside them and to the right of Dan and Harriet. In front of them, the cake stands are slightly depleted. Claire recognises her éclairs and notes that her tartlets have disappeared altogether. She glances at the tier alongside it – Jenny's, she thinks – and tries to assess if more has been sampled. Can she read anything into this?

The general babble diminishes and then stops abruptly with a few giggled ‘shushes'. Harriet holds up one hand and silence descends.

This is it, thinks Claire. The whole point of the competition. The announcement of the winner. Any moment, the New Mrs Eaden will be revealed.

‘Thank you.' Harriet looks particularly gracious. ‘As you know, this is our inaugural baking competition held in honour of Kathleen Eaden, who sadly passed away last December.'

Oh no, we're in for a long speech, thinks Claire.

‘We weren't sure if we'd find anyone to match her. But we have! All four bakers would have made Mrs Eaden proud but one in particular had what we were looking for: her intense passion, her compulsion even, to bake.

‘This baker combines a quiet accomplishment with moments of culinary genius and has developed throughout the competition into someone who knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she excels when she bakes.'

Not me then, thinks Claire with a rush, but the disappointment is expected and is mingled with joy when she takes in the announcement and the swell of cheers that greets it.

‘Our New Mrs Eaden,' says Harriet, ‘is Jenny.'

41

There are many reasons to bake: to feed; to create; to impress; to nourish; to define ourselves; and, sometimes, it has to be said, to perfect. But often we bake to fill a hunger that would be better filled by a simple gesture from a dear one. We bake to love and be loved.

Well, the best woman won, thinks Karen as she watches the live YouTube feed on her laptop in the kitchen.

Jenny appears to be crying: fat tears that spill from her eyes and draw a path through the pressed powder on her cheeks. Vicki is also blubbing. Well, that's no surprise. Claire is smiling and her beam, as she hugs Jenny, seems genuine. Mike embraces them all in one group bear hug and then gives Claire a second squeeze.

She turns from the screen and reaches for a Diet Coke: her security blanket; her poison. It could have been me, a tiny voice pipes up inside her. Well, perhaps it could have been but there's no use thinking of that now, she reproves herself somewhat testily. She runs through some positive thinking gleaned from a cognitive behavioural therapy handbook: she chose to leave the competition; there is still that agent interested in a book on low-fat baking; and nothing can take away the 186,000 hits she received for her three films; the knowledge that she was the clear front-runner in the populist stakes.

Oliver walks into the kitchen, and glances at the laptop, then stands beside her, hands dangling ineffectually. He takes off his titanium-rimmed glasses and cleans them with the tail of his shirt then pushes them back on the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

He has been more of a presence this past fortnight since Jake was arrested. Today has felt decidedly odd. He has been around: not in London; not in the gym; not holed up in his study, but here, in her house, in her bed, in her
kitchen.
And though she is not used to it, is not even sure she likes it, she appreciates what he is doing. In his own, non-verbal way, he is trying to make up for lost time.

Of course, her secret eating and purging rituals have had to change, which has been exhausting. The fear of disclosure at first overwhelmed her but the need to purge herself soon surpassed that. She has just had to choose her times.

She still fears he knows, though. As ever, when he notices her, he really notices her, assessing her with those unflinching eyes.

Take now, for instance.

‘Do you wish you were doing it?' He gestures at the Macbook.

‘Oh, no, not really…' She is unconvincing.

‘Of course you do.' He says it as a given. Then, as if he realises he sounds dismissive: ‘I do appreciate what you've given up, you know. And so does Jake. He does know what you've done for him.'

‘Oh – it's nothing. A baking competition. And not even one on the telly.' The lady doth protest too much, she thinks, as she turns from the screen and reaches for a cold bottle of sparkling water.

‘No. It's not nothing.'

She keeps her back turned, unsure of how to respond. The fridge door has a smear on it and she polishes it clean with an antibacterial wipe, still avoiding his eye.

Jake, ambling into the room, clocks the screen and his mother now sipping a fresh glass of watery bubbles.

‘All right, Mum?' He throws a long arm around her shoulders and, slightly self-conscious, gives her a bracing squeeze.

‘What's that for?' She is surprised.

‘Heard what Dad said … And I do appreciate it. Your being here for me…'

He drops his arm and reddens.

‘Did you put him up to this?' she confronts Oliver.

Her husband is exasperated. ‘Perhaps you've just brought up a son who's considerate, after all. Perhaps he's trying to thank you for what you do for him.'

‘We've got to sort you out next, though, Mum,' Jake mumbles, and she sees that he has flushed bright red now and is looking at the chewed quicks of his fingers.

Her stomach flips. Is he going to betray her now and bring up Jamie? After all she's done for him? She daren't look at Oliver, standing by his side.

Her son scrutinises his fingernails more intently, then directs his gaze at his father.

‘We've got to look after her, too, Dad. Got to stop her starving herself – and then vomiting.'

The room spins, tiny stars crowding in in a wave of dizziness.

‘
You knew about that?
' she wants to cry, but to do so would be a confession. She remains silent, rooted to the spot like a terrified child, hoping that somehow Oliver has not heard or understood.

But nothing gets past her clever husband – or, rather, her husband with a memory for these things.

‘You're still doing that?' His face is blanched of colour and she sees the reality of all those missed dinners and impromptu trips to the bathroom flicker through his mind. Perhaps the memory of that night in Rome – of her frozen in the moonlit bathroom as he stumbled upon her, incredulous – has resurfaced. And that incident eight months later, when he came across her in Val d'Isère.

‘But … I thought you'd got over all that years ago?' he says.

He walks towards her, this cerebral, habitually distant man, and stretches out to touch her arm. His hand falls back, limply.

For God's sake, hold me,
she wants to scream as she lowers her head, succumbing to tears.

‘Just give her a hug, Dad.' Jake understands her better.

And, tentatively, as though he has not done it for a long time and as if he has difficulty remembering how to, Oliver takes her in his arms.

Epilogue

14 June 2011

 

 

Kathleen

She works rhythmically and efficiently, the fingers of her right hand now a little gnarled with arthritis but still adept at shaping the dough.

It rolls easily, spread along the worktop like a pat of soft butter. She calculates how many biscuits she can make with this first rolling then presses down the cutters. Ten adults and now for the fun bit: ten little boys and girls.

With a palette knife, she eases the shapes and places them on a greased baking sheet before pressing in currant eyes and buttons. Then it's into a hot oven while she wipes down her worktop and washes up in preparation for her visitors.

A breeze, fresh off the Atlantic, lifts her washing strung out in the garden, and strokes her cheek as it blows through the window. She smiles. Her face, etched in wrinkles, becomes recognisable: no longer exquisite but still charismatic; still high cheekboned.

‘The doyenne of baking with the enviable figure.' The description that once drew a smile now seems absurd. How long did she exist? That stylised dolly bird fled pretty swiftly – kitten heels incompatible with pushing a wheelchair and wet Cornish winters.

Mrs Eaden also vanished. Her friends here know her as Kitty, and Kitty Pollington since George died in 1993. To all intents and purposes, Kathleen Eaden, the culinary construct and millionaire's widow, has long since disappeared.

Well, a good thing too. She has never missed her. She opens the window wide; breathes in the air sweetened with thyme and honeysuckle; drinks in the cry of skylarks, chattering up high. From her window she can see the sea: a navy strip against the muted gold of the sand, the soft pink of the thrift, the lush green of the cliffs. She is seventy-four and it comforts her to think that this will remain long after she dies.

It is low tide. The sand will be ribboned with the bumps of the waves, christened with puddles of salt water, strewn with shells and bladderwrack. Down on the beach, someone is flying a kite and for a moment she half sees a wheelchair streaking behind it and a small girl, dark hair streaming, screaming in delight.

Silly old fool. She is being uncharacteristically sentimental but that's no surprise. Today would have been Lily's forty-sixth birthday and, though she does not want to dwell on this, she cannot help commemorating her.

The gingerbread men are in her honour, as is the massive Victoria sponge, filled with whipped cream and strawberries – the first of the season – which was always her favourite birthday cake. Her mind crowds with an image from her ninth birthday – her very last: Lily dabbing her nose with whipped cream as she licked it from a plump strawberry, eyes bright with transgression. ‘Lily…' she had started to reprove her and had been silenced by her giggles.

Oh, she must stop this. They will be here soon and they mustn't see her upset. Laura never knew Lily and Kitty has gone to great lengths to keep her sorrow private. To ensure the dead sister shouldn't haunt the living one, who burst into the world so emphatically, two years after her death.

Laura had been a surprise: a glorious, unexpected treat conceived on the cusp of her fortieth birthday when she could not think of another child and could only just cope with her grief. She had had another stitch, and perhaps, this time, Caruthers had sewed her more tightly. Or perhaps she had no expectations. Laura arrived at thirty-nine weeks. Just five after her sister, but, oh, those five made all the difference.

Enough of this. She peers out of the window and can just spy three figures making their way along the clifftop: two small ones scampering in front and a third: taller, laden with bags and walking more slowly. She is tall, Laura, where Lily was small; blonde where she was dark; broad where she was slight. Physically, she is George's child whereas Lily: Lily was hers entirely.

The timer pings. Better get those gingerbread babies out of the oven. It wouldn't do to burn them for Max and Kit. Right on cue, she hears the garden gate slam and four small feet race up the path, sandals thudding on the slate.

‘Careful, boys,' says their mother, more in hope than expectation.

‘They've worn you out,' Kitty calls from the door, trying to sound normal, as her grandsons whirl around her legs.

‘As ever!' Laura rolls her eyes. She drops her bags and takes her mother in her arms, kissing her cheek. ‘Hello, Mum. Are you OK? Gosh, I'm exhausted.'

The boys are circling the women now, yapping for attention like clamouring puppies. Their yelps stop when they spot the baking tray.

‘What have you been baking?' Max, the five-year-old, asks, as they cluster around it, jostling each other. ‘Oh! Gingerbread men.'

‘I used to make them for your mummy when she was small. Do you remember?'

Her daughter gives her a squeeze. ‘As if I could forget … Oh, look: Granny's made whole families … Gingerbread men and women and lots of babies: girls and boys.'

The three-year-old, Kit, reaches to touch one.

‘Careful, sweetheart. You'll burn yourself.'

Kitty moves his small fingers from the hot tray and blows on them, pretend-nibbling then kissing them.

‘Kit watch?'

‘All right, my love.' She lifts up his still-toddlerish body as she eases the biscuits on to a wire rack. He is soft enough to eat.

‘Which one would you like?'

He pauses, eyes wide as he deliberates.

‘Do you want the biggest?' she whispers.

He nods solemnly.

‘Here you are then.' She hands him a gingerbread man, flecked with caster sugar: almost too warm, soft and sweet.

He grasps it in his hand and peers at its currant eyes intently.

‘What is it?'

‘He looks like he's smiling,' he says.

Then, overwhelmed with shyness, he buries into her and nestles his hot face in her neck.

Acknowledgements

This novel would not be in the state it is were it not for my agent, Lizzy Kremer, who guided me with intelligence, compassion and just the right amount of steel.

Special thanks, too, to Kate Parkin, for her delicate editing and passionate championing; to the team at Hodder for creating such a stunning edition; and to Clare Bowron and Harriet Moore at David Higham Associates.

My sister, Laura Tennant, was the only person who read this before submission and provided typically perceptive comments and a massive boost of confidence. My mother, Bobby Hall, offered continual love and support, as did my father, Chris Hall, and step-parents, David Evans and Lynn Sime.

Mary Goodman listened to me talk about it for far too long; persuaded me to submit it after 30,000 words; and turned up on my doorstep when I had a momentary wobble. Thanks, too, to Nikki Wilkinson for the natural photo; to Hazel Rayment, for the IT help; to Colleen Marshman, for the running advice; to Brenda Bishop for the cookbooks; to Sarah Sharrock for telling me to get on with it; and to all my friends who never appeared to doubt I could pull this off.