I’m kind of wondering where it all leaves me.
Sushi and canapés
I’m sitting at the big table in Rosemary’s Kitchen. The room is warm and smells of freshly baked bread and slow-cooked roast. I pass a dish of herb-roasted potatoes down the table, feeling happier than I have for a long time. My whole family is here – chatting, bickering, laughing – just enjoying being together. Treacle is asleep in his basket. At the head of the table, Em-K carves the juicy roast, and at the other end, uncorking a bottle of wine is . . . my eyes widen. It can’t be —
‘Scarlett! Wake up!’ Mum’s voice jars me out of my dream. For a second, everything seems fuzzy, then my eyes adjust to rainbow sparkle.
‘Look!’ Mum says. She’s flashing her hand in front of my eyes. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? And from Tiffany’s! I feel like Audrey Hepburn.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Mum doesn’t miss a beat. ‘And it was the most romantic thing ever – a little Italian restaurant – amazing desserts! – and he even got down on one knee! Everyone was watching.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I didn’t think Emory had it in him to plan something like that.’ She beams, fiddling with the ring. ‘But he did!’
‘That’s great, Mum,’ I croak sleepily, still clinging to the last threads of my dream. ‘And I take it you said yes?’
‘Of course! I mean, people were snapping us with their mobiles right and left. We’ll probably be in the papers this morning.’ She beams. ‘In fact – I should go out now to the newsagent and have a look. Would you mind making breakfast?’
‘No, that’s fine.’ I rise up on to my elbows.
She leans over and gives me a kiss. ‘Oh, Scarlett, I’m so happy. I love him so much! It’s going to be such fun to be a real family, and I just feel that this time, it’s right.’
‘That’s great Mum.’ I smile.
‘But I was just wondering,’ she lowers her voice, ‘I mean, do you feel OK about it?’
It strikes me how Em-K must be good for Mum if she too is asking my opinion. ‘You have my blessing, Mum. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?’ I grin. ‘And I’m really happy for you.’ I hold open my arms to hug her.
‘Thank you, darling.’ We embrace each other tightly. She’s still Mum and she still gets on my nerves a lot – I mean, she’s always giving me ‘tips’ on my blog, and telling me that I can’t cook with my friends until after I’ve done my homework. But I know that’s just what mums do. And it’s so much better than the days when she used to write stuff about me on her blog, like how my room stank like a toxic waste dump, how she thought my best friend was thick – or how much being a mum made her wish she’d never had kids. Compared to those days, the little annoyances now seem like nothing.
She squeezes me so tightly that I can barely breathe, but this time, it’s OK. I’m so glad to see her this happy and excited, and so glad that things between us are, for the most part, really good. Finally, we let go of each other.
‘Right,’ she says with a hint of a frown. ‘But what about Kelsie? I mean – do you think she’ll be OK too?’
‘She’ll get used it.’ I shrug. Kelsie was very young when Dad left, so she has even fewer memories of him than I do. To her, he’s like some kind of exciting character from one of her fairy tales, who is off slaying dragons and rescuing princesses in a far off land called London. I tried to set her straight once, but she looked at me with her big blue eyes, and it seemed like she was going to cry, so I decided that she’d just have to figure things out for herself when she was older.
‘I thought so too, but then . . .’ Mum trails off, still not taking her eyes off her ring finger. ‘Never mind. She’ll come around when we go shopping for my wedding dress.’
She stares dreamily out of the window. ‘Part of me thinks we should just run away together – you know – elope. Me, Em-K, you and your sister, a few friends. Have a simple, romantic wedding on a sunny beach somewhere, with me wearing a summer dress and flip-flops.’ She smiles. ‘No blogging, no Twitter, and no stress.’
‘That sounds great, Mum.’ I smile with surprise and relief.
‘But no!’ She jumps up. ‘That wouldn’t do at all. I’m marrying an Em-Pee after all. It will need to be the biggest, best wedding ever. I’ll have an amazing dress, and you and Kelsie can be bridesmaids. Maybe I’ll put you in pink . . . no . . .’ she tuts, ‘lavender.’
So much for running away together – I knew that was too good to be true. I picture myself, itchy and hot in a puffy lavender dress and dyed-to-match satin shoes that pinch. All those people, and photographers . . . My stomach lurches like I’ve gone over the top of a rollercoaster. I want Mum to be happy, but it all just seems so unnecessary.
There is one thing, though, that might be good about Mum’s wedding. The food. I’ve never been to a wedding before, but I’ve seen pictures of lovely tables laid out with all sorts of delicious, beautiful-looking food. Of course, it would be a huge job, but fun too. And I’m sure that with The Secret Cooking Club on board, we’d be up to it.
‘Um, I was thinking maybe I could be in charge of the food instead of being a bridesmaid,’ I say. ‘Posh dresses aren’t really my thing.’
I give a little laugh, expecting her to join in. But her lips are tightly pursed together and she says nothing.
Propping up on my elbow, I turn towards her, alarmed by the sudden change. She’s breathing in heavily, her shoulders rising like a pie crust ready to split in the oven. At first I think she’s doing some kind of meditation, but her face has that stressed-out look she gets when she has a deadline, or a meeting with Boots, or someone leaves a bad comment on the blog, or some celebrity doesn’t retweet her.
‘You don’t want to be a bridesmaid at my wedding?’ Her voice has a sharp edge.
‘It’s not that,’ I say quickly. ‘And I really want to be involved.’ I smile reassuringly. ‘I’d love to make the wedding cake.’
‘The cake . . .’ She ruffles the edge of the blanket absently. ‘I haven’t even thought about that yet. There’s so much to do.’ She sighs. ‘I’ll need to get whole team of caterers, of course. We’ll do sushi and vol-au-vents for canapés, and then maybe a four-course dinner. It will all have to be ordered in from London . . .’ She stands up.
‘You . . . you don’t want us to help?’ I say.
She walks to the door as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘Everything needs to be perfect . . .’ she muses. ‘I’m going to be the wife of an Em-Pee . . .’
It’s all happening, I think the next day, as I get out of bed and get ready for school. I’m happy for Mum, and more importantly, glad that she’s happy – for now at least. Because she’s already got a lot on, and planning a wedding is bound to cause more stress. And to be honest, I feel a little hurt that she didn’t take me up on my offer to do the food for the wedding. I plan to look up exactly what vol-au-vents are, because I don’t have a clue. As I go downstairs to make sure that Kelsie’s ready for school, I think about the wedding cake. Something tells me that Violet is absolutely right – if Mum even lets me have a go, it’s going to need at least six tiers.
The ‘Momster’
18 April
OMG I have some mega-news. Mum is getting married! She’s going to be Mrs Kruffs MP. And guess what? I’m going to be making the wedding cake. It will be so amazing, but a bit nerve-racking too. Let’s just say, I don’t want to be the one who spoils her perfect day. So I was thinking, six tiers all different flavours – like chocolate and salted caramel, raspberry ripple, vanilla and lavender, red velvet – my mouth is watering just thinking about it, and I can’t wait to start experimenting. And it will be covered with white glitter icing and a cascade of edible flowers. I’m not really the best at decorating, so I may need some help. If anyone has been to a wedding recently and has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them!
The Little Cook xx
‘I can’t believe she even hesitated!’ Violet sets down her fork, her mouth gaping open in outrage.
‘I mean, anyone can have London caterers, but not everyone can get a cake baked by The Secret Cooking Club.’
It’s our first day back at school and we’re sitting with Gretchen and Alison in the canteen. Today’s lunch is jacket potatoes with beans and cheese. Ever since we did the charity bake-off last year, the dinner ladies have been trying extra hard to improve the canteen food. Jacket potato day is one of the best of the month. The skin of the potato is crispy but not burnt and the beans – well, no one gets everything right.
‘It does sound totally bogus.’ Gretchen shakes her head. ‘But I saw your blog post – so she must have agreed in the end?’
I lean forward on my elbows. ‘She went downstairs this morning and checked Twitter and Facebook. A few people tagged her and Em-K in some photos from the restaurant. She was all smiley and apologetic after that. She said that of course I should make the wedding cake. So I decided to write her a nice blog post in return.’
‘Well, that’s OK then, I guess.’ Violet chews thoughtfully. ‘And what the heck are vol-au-vents?’
‘I looked it up. It’s finger food. Like a fancy name for sausage rolls.’
Violet shovels in a mouthful of potato. ‘Can’t see the point.’
Alison laughs. Throughout my story, she’s been strangely quiet.
‘Is it really that funny?’ I say indignantly.
‘No,’ she says. ‘The whole thing is mental. But completely normal, I think.’
‘That’s normal? OMG – if that’s true, I wouldn’t want to be there if she started acting NOT normal!’
Alison takes a bite of broccoli sprinkled with cheese. ‘My sister got married a couple of years ago,’ she says. ‘I was a bridesmaid, and she used to bring over her wedding magazines so we could look at them together. It was wicked fun . . . at first.’
‘At first?’ Gretchen says.
She nods. ‘We were both like: “that dress is so hideous”; or “that cake is so OTT”. But then, I noticed she wasn’t laughing any more. Turns out she wanted those things after all. She accused me of spoiling her “special day” and saying that I was jealous. It was like so bizarre. I’m like, “sorry – if you want all that stuff then great, have it”. It was like, one moment she was my sister, and the next minute she was Bridezilla.’
‘Bridezilla!’ Violet and I say at the same time.
‘That’s exactly what Mum was like,’ I say. ‘One second she was normal – she had this lovely idea of eloping to a sunny beach somewhere, and getting married in a summer dress and flip-flops. The next second, it was sushi this and London caterers that. And she wants to put me in lavender!’ I wrinkle my nose.
‘Yeah,’ Alison says. ‘That sounds about right. She’ll want everything her way. And if it isn’t perfect, then watch out.’
‘So when’s this wedding anyway?’ Gretchen asks.
‘No idea. But as soon as possible, I hope. I’m not sure how long I can cope with a “Momster” in the house.’
We all laugh, and at that moment it is funny. We make plans to meet up after school and do some baking to bring to the old people’s home like we do at least once a month. I use the last ten minutes of lunchtime to write a post on what we’re planning to make – I’ll post it later when I get home.
But as I’m walking home after school, my stomach begins to knot. What will I find when I open up the front door? Will it be Mum, or will it be the green-eyed, white-veiled monster?
I let myself in to the house. Kelsie is watching TV in the front room, so Mum must be home too. I put my bag down and go into the kitchen to make myself a snack. Mum’s there talking to a big man in a checked shirt and jeans. He’s got a measuring tape out and a clipboard.
‘Oh Scarlett, there you are,’ Mum says. ‘This is the builder. He’s going to be knocking the two houses into one.’
‘Really?’
Mum looks at the builder and blushes. ‘I just got engaged,’ she tells him. ‘My fiancé owns the house next door. His aunt left it to him.’
‘Right? So do you want a doorway, or the whole wall coming down?’
‘A doorway,’ I say at the same time Mum says: ‘the whole wall.’
She looks at me, and for a second, I fear that she’s about to morph into ‘The Momster’.
‘I just thought we could keep this room as a dining room,’ I say. ‘And leave Rosemary’s Kitchen as it is.’
Mum’s brow creases. Her eyes flick to our small kitchen table, which I notice is strewn with magazines. Modern Bride, Country Bride, Vogue Bride, In-Style Bride, Perfect Weddings, Fantasy Honeymoons . . . If this were happening to someone else, I’d laugh out loud.
Good thing I don’t.
Mum sees me looking at her magazines and takes a protective step closer to them.
‘Fine.’ She waves her hand like she’s practised making her ring catch the light. ‘Knock a hole through for now, and we’ll go from there.’
‘Sure thing,’ the builder says. He checks his phone. ‘I can fit you in tomorrow morning.’
Mum picks up her phone from the table and taps the screen. ‘Wednesday . . . hmm . . . I’m not sure . . .’ She scrolls down. ‘Can you do it Thursday instead? I’m meeting a TV producer tomorrow.’
They agree on a time and Mum walks the builder to the door. I open a tin on the counter and take out a caramel granola-and-seed bar that Alison made. She’s really into trying to make healthy food that tastes good. This one’s an experiment (because the first batch she made with just the seeds and granola was so bland). I put it on a plate and pour myself a glass of milk to go with it. I don’t dare sit down at the table because I might upset some kind of intricate filing system of bride magazines – with Mum, you never know. Instead, I stand at the worktop and take a bite. This one is much better – the caramel adds just enough sweetness to make the bar taste good and healthy at the same time. I’m still chewing when Mum comes blustering back into the kitchen.
‘Scarlett!’ She enfolds me into a hug. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I so need your help. Sit down, will you?’
I plaster a smile on my face and reluctantly obey.
‘I’ve been busy, as you can see.’ She flashes her ring hand again, indicating the magazines, and giggles. ‘It’s going to be such fun, isn’t it?’ She moves Modern Bride to the side and I see that underneath she’s got half a dozen packs of different colour Post-its. Her eyes are shiny as she hands me a single sheet of paper with a typed-on code:
blue = cake
pink = dress
yellow = decorations
orange = honeymoon
white = food
green = top tips
OMG. She hasn’t even been engaged for twenty-four hours yet and already this is getting way out of control. My eyes snag on a handwritten note at the bottom. Wedding Belles – ITV3. There’s a scribbled name and next to it the word ‘producer’. And a time – Wednesday 2 p.m.
‘What was that about a TV producer?’
‘Shh.’ Smiling, Mum puts a finger to her lips. ‘You have to swear to keep it a secret if I tell you, OK?’
‘Um, sure.’ I don’t point out that she’s already told the builder.
‘It’s the MOST brilliant thing.’
‘What?’ I say warily.
‘A TV producer contacted me. She’s a huge fan of the blog, and she’s bought “Mum’s care packages” from Boots for all her friends.’
‘Great . . .’
‘She’s doing a show about celebrity weddings and she wants to feature me! Can you believe that – me, on TV!’
‘Yeah, I can.’ I can totally see Mum on that show where people have to eat bugs in the jungle. Or maybe on Strictly.
‘It will be such a boost for my brand, you know. And secretly . . .’ she leans in conspiratorially, ‘I’ve always wanted to be a real celebrity. This is my big chance.’
‘Wow, Mum, I didn’t know you wanted to be on TV.’
‘Well, it will be exciting,’ she says, grinning from e
ar to ear. ‘And guess what else?!’
‘What? There’s more?’
‘She wants to feature you too. Isn’t that brilliant!’
‘Oh.’ My heart does a dive. Mum may dream of being a celebrity, but I definitely don’t.
‘She LOVES the idea of you and your blog, and your secret club!’
‘But if we’re on TV, it will hardly be secret.’ I swallow hard, knowing that I’m grasping at straws. In real life, the club isn’t ‘secret’ any more. I mean, we’ve posted lots of photos of ourselves on the website, and ever since our first online bake-off, word got out on social media that ‘The Little Cook’ is some girl named Scarlett Cooper, and that her friends are Violet, Gretchen and Alison. But in a way, that’s been good – kids all over who want to join up can see that we’re real people just like them. Our identities may not be secret, but there’s a huge network of members out there, most of which I’ll never meet. And the fun thing is, sometimes when new people join up at our school, they leave cakes or puddings in the canteen at lunchtime and we don’t know who they are.
‘Come on Scarlett,’ Mum chides, sensing my lack of enthusiasm. ‘You know how often we’ve talked about this. If you want your blog to work over the long term, you’ve got to keep it fresh – and keep getting exposure. Think of how many new members you’ll get if you’re on TV.’
I nod reluctantly. It’s true that Mum and I have talked a lot about blogging and online stuff – I mean, it’s the one big thing we have in common. And even though it can be annoying to have Mum giving me tips on something that started out being a secret from her in the first place, when it comes to blogging and social media, Mum sure does know her stuff.
She’s got thousands of followers who subscribe to her Mindfulness for Mums blog and meditation and lifestyle Tips of the Day. She makes money from advertisers for things like exercise gear, vitamin supplements and health foods. Not that it seems like she’s been following her own tips – at least not lately. Mum’s one of those people who thrives on stress.
Confetti & Cake Page 3