by Nancy Warren
Now that I wasn’t in the middle of baking, I could see that Jonathon had a kind, handsome face, not the severe features I’d expected of someone known for his tough critiques. His blue eyes were lively, mischievous almost, and despite his age, he still had a head of thick, black hair. He reminded me a bit of my dad, and I was struck by a wave of homesickness again. Jonathon was looking at me quizzically.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “A bit overwhelmed, I think. But mostly I’m just really, really enjoying being here. It’s an honor.”
He gave me a wide, warm smile. “You’re doing wonderfully. Do you find all the cameras unnerving? I do. I think I’m having a quiet private moment and look up to see two cameras trained on me.”
I laughed. “I can’t say it’s not strange, but I think I’m already getting used to it. It is hard when the cameras zoom in to watch you put your cake into the oven, though. I always think at that moment I’ll drop the lot onto the floor.”
“Don’t worry, there’s only been a couple of droppers on the show’s history. Everyone holds onto their tins for dear life.” He smiled again. “I’ll leave you to finish setting up.” The cameras were heading my way to film me prepping. I tried to look amenable and open while also looking nonchalant. It was hard. Florence was at her station beside me, head down and frowning in concentration. “Good luck, Florence,” I said.
“Good luck, dear Poppy,” she replied in her languid way, raising her manicured hand to wave.
Marcus was the last one to arrive at the tent. As we all got our supplies ready, I saw Gerry call Aaron Keel over. The electrician’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he did not look happy. He took two steps toward Gerry and said, loud enough for all of us to hear, “You complain about that oven again and I’ll stuff your head in it.” Then he stalked off.
“Told you he had a bad temper,” Gordon said, fitting me with my mic pack. “I’m so glad I didn’t join the game. I had a much nicer evening with two lovely ladies.”
Was he flirting? He was so awkward it was hard to tell. Even as I looked up, startled, he was moving to Florence. He spoke softly to her, and she laughed. I shook my head at my own foolishness. He was just being friendly.
Soon Elspeth, Jilly, and Arty made their presence known. Elspeth came to the front of the tent and cleared her throat. Her white hair was twisted into an elegant chignon, and she was wearing a gorgeous peach trouser suit, perfectly tailored and glowing gold under the show’s lights. I looked down at my comfortable jeans and re-tucked yesterday’s shirt. I rubbed at a bit of lemon filling that had made a sticky mark on one sleeve. Despite Gina’s herculean efforts with hair and makeup, I knew I was about to get covered in flour and food. It was about to begin all over again. I donned my apron. I took a deep breath. Blew it out.
“Bakers, your final challenge of the episode has been designed to test your skill but also your sense of innovation.” Jilly paused and turned her smiling face to each contestant in turn. “Elspeth and Jonathon want you to bake a fruit pie with delicious golden pastry and excellent texture, but it must represent something about where you come from. This should be your showstopper.”
She turned to Jonathon, who added, “We want to be wowed and astonished. I know you each have a masterpiece in you. Make sure your pie says something about your upbringing.”
Jilly looked at Arty coyly and said, “I think my pie would say, ‘should have paid more attention in school. There’s no future in being the class clown.’”
“And look at you now,” Arty said. Then, he turned to us. “All right bakers. On your marks, get set, bake.”
This challenge had given me the greatest trouble when I’d been brainstorming ideas. Gina had suggested I create a pastry box with a pink marzipan baby inside. She was joking, or at least I hoped she was. In truth, it had taken some real soul-searching to come up with a good idea. The mystery of who I was had obsessed me for most of my life, but I really didn’t want to share that mystery with a huge TV audience. This was a baking contest, not a therapy session.
Eventually, I thought about how much I loved being at the beach as a kid. I’d always been so happy when my parents told me we were going to the ocean for the day. I made endless castles in the sand, dug huge holes to bury my poor father in, and swam confidently in the ocean, silently goading myself to go farther, faster. I felt most free when I was in the water, weightless yet anchored somehow. I was never afraid.
So in preparation, I’d designed a seaside scene from the Pacific Northwest. I would do a granite rock with a few mussels clinging on, surrounded by a blue, glimmering ocean with some swirling seaweed detail. Of course, I couldn’t make it taste like seafood (and wouldn’t want to!), but I chose flavors that would be native to that part of America: hazelnuts and maple syrup and, naturally, being that I was from Seattle, coffee.
I was intrigued to see what everyone else was doing. This was such a personal task. Although baking always gave something of your personality away, this pie was going to be especially intimate. It forced us bakers to consider ourselves more closely. Amara was making a beautiful pear and cardamom pie, imbued with spices from her native India; Florence was making a toasted almond and cherry ricotta pie to represent her Italian roots. I couldn’t tell what fruit Daniel was using, but he was fashioning giant fondant teeth that looked as terrifying as they did impressive! Hamish was making a pie inspired by the fluffy tail of one of his Shetland ponies. I overheard Gerry telling the judges that he was doing the four seasons because his job meant he was always outdoors. It was a great idea. He was using pear for fall, red cranberry for winter, strawberry for spring, then peach for summer. Maybe he was sucking up to Elspeth with that last choice of fruit, but I hoped he’d pull it off. He and Evie were both jumpy and even more nervous than the rest of us. It was clear that they were in trouble. However, any of the rest of us could screw up, and Evie and Gerry could pull off a masterpiece. It was still anyone’s game.
There was no more time for eavesdropping or worrying about Gerry. I had to get my head down. I poured my energy into rolling hazelnut-flavored fondant into seaweed strips, curling the edges and spraying them with green food coloring. I was having trouble making them quickly. They were fiddly little suckers, and I was beginning to panic that I wouldn’t finish. I was struggling with one of the strips when I felt Elspeth approach me. As much as I looked up to her, I was dreading having to talk at this tricky moment. I smelled her perfume, something figlike and green, before she spoke, so softly I wasn’t certain I was hearing right. “Ah, a water witch. Of course. Poppy dear, just visualize the seaweed in your mind as you make them.” And with that bizarre comment, she walked away again. Hmm, now if only what she said was true, that I could just imagine them into being and it would happen. But it was worth a shot, at least. I made sure that the cameras weren’t on me, and then I closed my eyes for a few minutes. I pictured the Oregon coast, where we’d enjoyed so many family holidays, all the trips to the beach with my parents that I’d loved so much as a kid, and the swirling seaweed as the foaming ocean washed it up onto the sand. I felt my fingertips begin to twitch and move automatically. I suddenly sped up, spurred on and working double time compared with before. It was as if my hands had a life of their own. Goodness, I had no idea where this sudden—and much-needed—burst of energy was coming from, but I was extremely thankful that it had appeared.
By the time Arty warned us we had five minutes left, I was putting the final touches to my pie. I realized that I’d actually been having fun.
But that wasn’t the case for everyone. I’d been so absorbed in my work that I hadn’t noticed things had gone awry for Gerry again. He was hunched over his pie, shaking his head. I couldn’t tell what was up. I hoped it wasn’t serious and he was just being a perfectionist. Maybe that’s what had been his trouble all along: He was just too obsessed with details and made foolish mistakes along the way.
But as Jonathon asked us to bring our pies over to the judges’ table, I saw that his pie was burn
ed! The fruit was a charred mess. The should-be golden pastry was the color of mud, his fruit a charred, messy pulp.
I tried to catch Gerry’s eye, but he was looking firmly at his feet. He wasn’t the only one who seemed tense. We were a nervous dozen. Even Daniel, who was so chatty, tripped over his words as he was asked to present his pie and explain the decoration. The production manager asked us to reshoot that part, and Jilly told us a silly story about her dog to try and get us to relax. It didn’t work. We were down to the final judging for this episode, and someone was going home. I felt sick to my stomach, as I was fairly sure I knew who that someone would be. I tried to keep a smile on my face for the cameras, but it wasn’t easy.
Amara went next with her pear and cardamom pie. She’d grown up in Jodhpur and walked past the silk markets every day. She presented her showstopper, and Jonathon and Elspeth first commented on its artistic flair. She’d used spun sugar, icing and glazes colored with natural dyes from fruit to recreate bolts of brilliantly colored silks. Then each took a delicate forkful of the pie and judged its culinary merits. They praised the balance of the flavors and the richness of the pastry.
Evie was up next. They beamed as they ate her offering—a rum and coconut pie, inspired by her home country of Jamaica. She had clearly recovered from her disaster of the day before. I was glad for her, but it didn’t bode well for Gerry. Then it was my turn. Jonathon was really taken with my coffee and hazelnut combination. “Perhaps even better than your sponge,” he said to me, looking at his co-judge. Elspeth nodded in agreement. I glowed.
But Gerry was grim-faced as they called him forward. He was in trouble, and we all knew it. Jonathon and Elspeth both took the tiniest forkful of his burned pie. “It’s burned,” Jonathon said, stating the obvious. “The combination of flavors would have been lovely,” Elspeth said. “What a pity.”
The judging came to an end. Jilly got the honor of announcing episode one’s best baker. “There’s been some fantastic baking here today,” she said. “Excellent flavors. Immense skill. Or at least that’s what Elspeth just whispered to me. I couldn’t tell a walnut whip from a wagon wheel myself.”
There’d been several possibilities for the day’s best baker, but none of us were surprised when Jilly called out Maggie’s name. We all clapped, but I imagined each of us was dreading finding out who would be sent home.
That was Arty’s job. His face softened, and I could tell he was going to be kind enough not to make any sort of joke. I was grateful.
“This is the hardest part of the show,” he began. “I really hate having to do this. But it’s my job to announce that the one baker leaving the show today will be…”
He paused and looked at us.
“Gerry.”
Even though I wasn’t surprised, I was still upset. Gerry was the only friend I’d made so far. He turned to me and gave me a brief smile. “Don’t forget. Say nice things about me,” he joked. But his eyes were sad.
I held out my arms and gave him a huge hug. And then, everyone seemed to be hugging everyone else. Marcus made a fuss of Maggie but didn’t go near Gerry. He was noticeably smug. I hugged Maggie and congratulated her, and she said how pleased her grandchildren would be. Of course, this is where they would run the credits. It was hard to remember sometimes how we were part of a television show and that this scene had happened over and over for those who’d come before us and would happen again every week.
As everyone drifted back to their workstations, I went to console Gerry. I expected to find him upset, maybe even teary, but instead, he looked furious.
“I’m so sorry, Gerry,” I said, putting an arm around him.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, “because I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I meant what I said yesterday: This is sabotage. Today was further proof.” He raised his voice loud enough for the whole tent to hear. “I’m going to find out who sabotaged me this weekend.” He stopped for breath, gathered himself and then said in a voice that reverberated around the tent, “And then I’m going to the press with my story—if it’s the last thing I do.”
Chapter 7
“Poppy,” Florence called out in her silky voice. “Are you coming for a drink?”
The bakers had gathered outside and were murmuring about Gerry being childish and a sore loser. I had to admit that I’d been taken aback by his intensity. I couldn’t believe he’d threatened to take his story public. I was worried about him, and I was worried about the show. But I was also concerned that he might have a point. He must have been an excellent baker to win a place on the show, and yet three separate incidents had occurred over two days and ruined all his hard work. Could foul play really have taken place beneath the safe space of our white tent?
He was still by his workstation, and Donald Friesen was with him. From the sounds of it, the series producer was irate.
“You can’t go around making outlandish claims like that, Gerald,” he said. “I know you’re upset, but this is a serious allegation. You’re risking the reputation of the entire show. We’re an institution, greatly beloved by all of Great Britain and beyond. Be a good sport, and have your exit interview.”
Gerry’s face was nearly as red as his shirt. “The only thing I’ll say on camera is the truth. Someone destroyed my chances, and they did it deliberately.”
“You had some bad luck, but let’s agree to put this episode, so to speak, behind us. Be sensible and do your exit interview properly.”
“You’ve got more chance of the Queen of England joining the show to bake a jam roly-poly.”
At that, Donald picked up Gerry’s burnt fruit pie and threw it across the tent. It landed with a heavy thud on one of the potted ferns that lined the entrance.
Donald stomped off, muttering what I was sure were threats under his breath. A runner dashed to the poor fern and attempted to scoop the sticky remains of the pie from its leaves.
I whisked Gerry outside. Evening was approaching, and the air had cooled. I shivered and pulled my shirtsleeves tighter around me. “You didn’t mean that, surely? About going to the press?” I asked him.
“Poppy. Something is really wrong here.”
“Look, come for dinner at the pub and let’s forget about the whole thing. You’re off the show now, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so why not enjoy a last supper with everyone and show them that you’re a gracious loser?” I suggested, playfully digging him in the ribs.
“Couldn’t face it. They’ll be so smug. No, I’ll pack up my recipe book and be on my way. Commiserate with a large scotch whiskey at home.”
“But what about your things at the inn? We’ve all got to pack up for the weekend and head home till next week. Everyone will be doing the same thing.”
“I’ll get my bag tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll keep it safe for one night.”
“Don’t be silly. Look. I’ll pick up your bag for you. Then you won’t have to come back.”
“Poppy, I think I’m in love with you.”
I laughed. I knew he was hurting, but at least he hadn’t lost his cheeky sense of humor. Despite all the drama, I was going to miss him. He gave me his room key, and I told him I’d get his bag and meet him in the parking lot behind the catering truck. It was quiet back there, so no one would notice him waiting.
“Come to my workstation in the tent instead,” he said. “There’ll be no one left there. I want to take another look at that oven. Have a snoop around. I think I know who’s behind this.”
“Who?” I doubted it was more than bad luck but was still curious.
But he only shook his head. “Wait until I’m sure. Then I’ll tell you.”
I saw Florence walking back up the road. She’d wrapped herself in a luxurious-looking black cashmere sweater. Her knee-length skirt was silky and caught the light. I waved. She skipped the rest of the way and tried to pull me back to the pub to have drinks. Everyone was waiting for me so that they could crack open a bottle of fizz to celebrate Maggie’s win
and our joint safety for another week. She tugged at my arm and pouted at Gerry and told him not to be a party pooper.
“Go,” Gerry said. “Have yourself a glass of bubbly and then meet me back at the tent in half an hour?”
“I demand an hour, Gerry,” Florence said.
He agreed, and Florence and I raced back to the inn. Apart from Marcus, everyone was there, and the fizz was flowing. I accepted a glass and clinked to Maggie’s success, all of our successes really, but I had one eye trained on the bar to see if Eve was working. I wanted to get to the bottom of what happened this morning with Katie Donegal. But it looked like Eve was off tonight. It would have to wait until next week. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing; I’d certainly had my fill of drama for one weekend. What I really wanted was peace and quiet, a hearty meal before packing, and then head home to my own bed for the week. Bliss. I already regretted telling Gerry I’d pick up his bag. But he’d been so nice to me, and I felt so bad for him that I wanted to help in whatever small way I could.
We sat down, and everyone began praising Florence’s show-stopping pie. Maggie thought that Florence should have won today’s best baker. She asked her about the beautiful pastry decoration that crowned her ricotta pie.
“It’s sfogliatella. Like a lobster tail. They’re a classic shell-shaped Italian pastry. It’s so hard to make each section look like little leaves. I was worried I hadn’t sliced it thinly enough.”
“It was perfect,” I said, “just like your cakes yesterday.”
She smiled and then asked me not to leave before we all had dinner. I reminded her that I’d promised to drop Gerry’s bag because he was too embarrassed to come back to the inn.
“Don’t want to be late for your boyfriend,” she joked.
“Not funny,” I said. “I’ll only be ten minutes.”