A Bake Off in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  Surprise flickered in his eyes. “If it isn’t Little Red Riding Hood,” he said, in reference to the red sweatshirt Kitty had worn back in the day she was my ‘unofficial’ assistant — and the person who made his first welcome to Cliffs House a cold one, also.

  There was no flash of anger from Kitty in reply, except maybe a slightly scornful paling of her cheeks. Nevertheless, her expression never changed as she jotted a note on her memo pad.

  “Do you want me to call Linda Green — or wait ‘til you’ve talked with Lord William first?” she asked me, as if Nathan wasn’t here. “You know — get an early start?”

  “Wait,” I said. Time was of the essence, but there was such a thing as too early. “There will be plenty of phone calls to make after this is official. Let’s see if Lady Amanda wants to talk about the plan this afternoon.”

  “You’re the boss.” Kitty rose from her chair and exited the room, still not deigning to look at the event promoter. I couldn’t help but notice that Nathan sneaked a puzzled glance at Kitty's departing figure, as if he still wasn’t quite sure it was really her.

  “She’s your full-time assistant now?” he asked, looking at me. I had definitely been right about the shock in Nathan's reaction.

  “She’s the best one I’ve ever had,” I answered. And the only one, I might add, but didn’t.

  “Hm.” He stared towards the doorway a moment longer, then seemed to recover himself and offered me his usual business-y smile. “So, some news about the contest, huh?” he said.

  “I’ll say,” I answered. "You seem as excited as the village itself will be."

  "I'm feeling a little better after this win," he said. "Truthfully, I was a little nervous about deciding to go freelance after the concert. Trying to make a difference in a smaller market is tough. I'm more like the ... unofficial ... event promoter for Cornwall. Plus, working out of Truro feels a little weird after London. But since a train ride from London is pretty rough on the average working day, it was the only thing to do."

  "You think you're staying on in Cornwall full time?" I asked.

  "Sure. Why not? This proves my instincts weren't wrong. Event promoters basically just work to make attractions bigger, even if the firms and companies here aren't the biggest ones on this side of the Pond. Maybe I needed a change from an international machine like Wendy Alistair's," he said, with a rueful smile that made him seem much more relaxed and human. "Like convincing a popular British program to pick this place as a filming location."

  "I told you this place has irresistible charms," I said.

  ****

  Dear Diary,

  Isn’t it weird, writing a greeting to a book? But I guess that’s how you traditionally start one of these, so I’ll give it a chance. I want to show Matt that this is a serious endeavor on my part, and not just a passing thought. Because it was really considerate of Matt. Really. And I’m not just saying it because I loved the amethyst pendant he gave me, either. Regardless of this fact, I love the journal, and I love Matt...and always want to remember everything I can about Cornwall, so I can carry it with me wherever I go in the future.

  Nobody knows I'm actually doing this, and I'll probably give up before page two. So keep it a secret for me, okay? — Julianne

  ***

  Kitty:

  “Katherine, is that you?” From the sound of her voice, my mum turned down the telly in the living room to ask this question. “Nigel, it’s not you, is it? Not shiftin’ about through my pocketbook for a quid, are you?”

  “It’s only me, Mum,” I called back. I’d been hoping to sneak in and out without getting caught, but even full decibel sound from Big Brother can’t hide the sound of a squeaky kitchen door from my mum.

  I dropped my bag on the floor of my room and slipped off the pair of black heels that Julianne — my sort-of boss — gave me a few months ago when they took me on at Cliffs House. Time to put them back where they belonged after hours: in the closet, with my red sneakers in their rightful place on my feet. I had given the black skirt and coat a quick drape across a hanger, next to a charcoal-colored cardigan and a couple of proper dresses from a shop. The only ones I could afford for this job, but decent enough by my reckoning.

  Posh togs compared to my old one at the pasties shop, anyway. No more cycling around with newspaper bundles in my basket, and the smell of fried fish and potatoes clinging to my clothes. Sadly, however, it wasn’t the end of me having to crash at my mum’s place. The ratty black and red sweater and denim leggings I pulled on weren’t the only old clothes of mine lying about this room, which was now more a storage space for my gran's old sewing supplies than a place for me. Old fabric squares and loads of bits and bobs for her dilapidated sewing machine — a treadle one, believe it or not — that hadn’t been touched since she died. Mum was always swearing she’d take up learning it after Christmas was over, or some such time.

  “There’s shepherd’s pie in the oven, but don’t touch it — it’s for Nigel when he drops in,” my mum continued shouting. “And give your cousin Saul a ring...he’s been calling your mobile for hours.”

  Saul. He was only calling me because he wanted money, most likely. I snorted. All my Uncle Phil's lot was always desperate for cash for some scheme or other. And I wasn’t the least bit surprised that Mum didn’t want me to stay to dinner. The rare boyfriend of the moment usually had her attention, destined to be the recipient of more than one of her awful dishes, since when there was none around we subsisted off frozen pasties and beans on toast. Nigel, a retired salesman and widower, was one of the few men desperate enough not to be driven off by Mum's moods or her cooking.

  “I’m going out, Mum,” I shouted, as I pushed open the front door, my canvas and shoulder bag the only things I was carrying, besides the helmet for riding my motorbike.

  “Already? Where are you going?” The telly’s sound was still low, but Mum was still reclining on the sofa, I could tell. “If you’ve got an extra quid on you —”

  “Gotta go, Mum.” I closed the door behind me.

  At my mate Talisha’s birthday party at the pub, I found a quiet corner under some white twinkle lights and curled up with a book and a half pint, after the initial greeting. Talisha and I weren’t close mates, so turning up was mostly an excuse to go out for an evening — and the book was nothing special, just an old book on psychology I found on a shelf. But the pint was good St Austell brew, so I was fine.

  The place was crowded with loads of people, and was its usual noisy self as I turned pages on Freudian concepts and Jungian stuff that I imagined would help me understand the sort of crowd that was due at Cliffs House in another week for a mental health conference. One would have to be mental to read much of this, I was certain...but when I lifted my eyes, I wished I’d left them stuck to its pages.

  The last crowd of patrons had brought a stranger into the Fisherman’s Rest. Sandy hair spiked with a bit of product, leather jacket, a pair of jeans that had the decency to fit and not look too tailored. I didn’t look twice: not because he wasn’t dishy, but because I’d recognized that odious Yank Nathan Menton without his usual suit.

  He’d ordered a drink and was chatting with some uppity types I recognized from school — a few girls who thought Truro was the high life after living in Ceffylgwyn. I turned the page of my book, and pretended not to see that Nathan Menton had noticed me.

  Blast. He was drifting this direction. Wishing I was mistaken, and that he’d spotted some chum in the far corner wouldn’t change it, anyway. I tried not to mutter an oath under my breath as I hoped he would walk right by.

  He paused. One hand tucked in his back pocket, the other holding a half pint of a pale brew that was no doubt as watery as American beer.

  “Kat,” he said.

  “Kitty.” I corrected him without looking up.

  “Right,” he said. “I meant —”

  “If you’re going to do the Little Red Riding Hood bit again, you can leave now,” I interrupted. I gave him
a look — not a nice one — to prove I meant it.

  I thought he actually turned red with embarrassment, but it was so quick it was probably just the heat of the room. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to offend you,” he said.

  “It offends me more to be called the wrong name,” I answered. Kat was ... well, a name that belonged to a different period of my life. Off limits these days, by my rules.

  He glanced around, awkwardly. If he wanted to leave, it was fine. I didn’t know why he was sticking around at this moment, when his sort-of mates were across the room. “Are you a friend of Talisha’s?” I asked. It would feel a bit odd to go on reading with him standing here like this.

  “Um, more of a hanger-on,” he said. “You know how it is. New person in town, you take any invitation you get. Some acquaintances invited me to tag along ... I kind of think it’s more about my being single than about actually wanting my company.”

  A smile tugged the corner of my lips. “That might be true,” I answered, archly.

  “Well, I knew if anybody would agree, it would be you,” he said. “The welcoming committee for my first day in the village.”

  My turn to feel a bit awkward. “Er, sorry,” I said. Mumbling a bit, but still, the words made it out of my mouth.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He sat down on a nearby chair, which, unfortunately, someone had left close by, and, with elbows resting on his knees, cupped his glass between both hands. A bit close for my taste — we were on eye level now, since I was curled up in the old armchair.

  “I apologize for treating you like everybody’s best friend’s little sister,” he said. “It's kind of a reflex, teasing someone I'm uncomfortable around. Not that you make me uncomfortable," he hastened to add, " — in a bad way."

  "Nice to know." I tried not to smirk, but it was a challenge.

  "You know, I think I'll stop here." Nathan took a long drink from his half-pint. "So there. I apologized."

  "Apology accepted." I turned the page in my book. Not a clue what words were printed on the next one, but it gave me an air of indifference, you might say.

  "Are you here alone?" he asked. "I'm not implying anything by saying that, before you take offense. Just putting that out there." He held up a hand, defensively.

  "I'm friends with some of this lot," I said, glancing towards the crowd. "They're all right. I just felt like being on my own for a bit." I looked the part of a loner, I figured, sitting off in the shadows like this in a noisy pub. I could be playing darts with Charlie and Fez if I wanted, or listen to Talisha's latest moanings about posh customers at the salon, but my closest mates were part of a different crowd. Not that anybody believed I had close mates — even my own mum. And with me, 'close' still had its limits.

  "You can hang out with my friends, if you want some company," he said. "We're over there." He pointed towards a group near the bar.

  "With Melinda and her lot? No thanks." I shook my head.

  "You don't like Melinda?" he asked. "What's wrong with her?"

  "I didn't say anything was wrong with her."

  "Let's just say it's implied."

  "She's not my cup of tea," I answered. Why break tradition with a long reply?

  "Can I ask why?" He shrugged his shoulders, as if implying he didn't care if I answered. "You tend to be very succinct in your explanations. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

  "You can ask if you want. Doesn't mean I'll tell you," I said. "Melinda's a toff. If you like that sort, then it's fine."

  Even from here, I could smell Melinda's rich perfume and the polish from her flawless, twice-weekly manicure. It wasn't being part of the Truro-loving crowd that bothered me — it was the keen recollection that Melinda had mocked me plenty of times at school, and probably still did when she was with that crowd.

  "Toff. Right. Well, I guess since I'm one of those, I'm with the right group," said Nathan. "According to your definition of me from before."

  I think he was waiting for me to say something else, but I wasn't going to contradict him. Not without proof, anyway. "One should always know one's place," I answered, in a fake snooty voice I used sometimes to make Julianne laugh.

  Nathan laughed. It surprised me — and him, too, weirdly enough. "Thanks for the advice, Lady Violet," he said.

  That must be a Downton Abbey thing. I hadn't a clue. But I hated to tell him I never watched anything on our telly except Britain's Got Talent, which had been the only program Mum and I could mutually endure.

  "I guess I —" Nathan began, but now somebody from his group was saying something to him, and I was diving into the pages of some sort of ego versus superego case studies. I pretended I didn't notice him leave, trying hard not to. So what if he looked dishy enough out of his Hugo Boss togs?

  I played a quick round of darts with Charlie and drank a shot toast with Talisha at the height of the party — everybody was joining in around the room, but I didn't see the American event promoter among them. I didn't see him again until I had left the pub, where I recognized the back of his jacket as he struggled with the driver's door of a small black car.

  He wasn't drunk, I realized. His voice and the steadiness of the palm that smacked his window with frustration made that clear. He glanced at me, his face red with frustration, too.

  "My keys are inside," he said. "I was such a moron to forget them — now I'm locked out."

  "You could walk."

  "To Truro?" He ran a hand through his hair, giving it a frustrated raking.

  "Probably not," I answered. I stepped closer, seeing the keys lying on his driver's seat. He hadn't left a window cracked — shame, because that's always easier to manage that way.

  "Is there a lock service in this town?" he asked.

  "Nope." I reached into the twist of hair at the back of my head, pulling out the two pins that kept the braided part held back from my face. "Hold on a moment."

  "What? Why?" he said. I bent the first pin and inserted it in the lock of his car. His ride was a newer model, but too economy to have an alarm system. It took a few seconds for it to pop.

  "Did you just — pick my lock?" he asked. Astonished, he lifted the door handle, opening the driver's side.

  "Best not leave anything you value lying on the seats when you're in Truro," I said.

  "Thanks," he said. "I think." He was still looking at me with surprise. "Um — what do I owe you?"

  "Nothing." I shrugged. "It was two seconds." I lifted my helmet from the seat of my bike.

  "Is that yours?" he said, noticing my battered motorbike — one that had been a classic with black and chrome before my cousin did a horrible bit of painting on it in streaky seafoam green. Despite this, I thought maybe he gave it an admiring glance.

  "Beats a cheap foreign car," I answered, tucking my loose hair out of the helmet strap's way. I started the bike's motor.

  "I still owe you," he said. He jingled the keys in his hand, newly rescued from his car's seat.

  "Yeah. Two hairpins." With a snort of derision, I pulled away from the pavement before he could do something stupid, like offer me a quid. If that was the sort of daft thought in his head, that is.

  ***

  Julianne:

  Ceffylgwyn is a small village — there's only one street of shops in the village, and only the florists and fish and chips besides. So when word spread that the baking contest would be hosted here, it spread fast and furiously. This was bigger than a televised concert special. This was baking.

  "I've heard that Jenny Bryce over Falmouth way's been chosen," said Gemma, as she sampled a ginger-poppyseed biscuit. "Her bloke's been bragging about it at all the pubs — bought her a special whisk that's supposed to guarantee an airy scone."

  "No whisk would ever make a difference in mixing a scone's ingredients," said Dinah, as she stirred her batter. "That's a lot of nonsense." Her batter sloshed onto the table, an unusual mess on the cook's part.

  "Doesn't this recipe take baking soda?" I asked. I hesitated to point this out — a
fter all, my own baking skills were pretty rusty, even after Dinah's coaching. Matt probably discreetly buried my scones when I wasn't around.

  Dinah looked at me. "What?" she said. "Oh. Of course. Silly me. I'll go and leave off my own head next." She reached for the jar of bicarbonate of soda, nestled in a pile of flour beside the sugar canister.

  "Everybody knew Leeman Lawson would be chosen from Devon — he used to have a bake shop near the border," said Gemma to me. "Moved away five or six years ago, but couldn't resist coming back to show off. His apple tarts were always the talk of the village fete. People fought each other to be first in line for a dozen."

  "The last winner had a mean tea cake, as I recall," I answered. "A really good one," I clarified. Sometimes I still forgot myself when it came to Americanisms — more than once I'd accidentally spoken the equivalent of gibberish to the rest of the staff.

  "Even my mum's getting into it. Talking about making a proper pudding in grandmother's old tin, just to celebrate when the show's broadcast on telly. And she never cooks anything but bangers and mash."

  A dish I was mostly good at burning — but I preferred the charming thought of tarts, pies, and cherry puddings more, anyway. If I were a local baking connoisseur, I would be molding little marzipan cherries covered in sugar, or learning the secret behind a good English pudding, the qualities of which Dinah had enlightened me with my first Christmas in Cornwall ... and in real life, I would produce hopelessly soggy dough and overdone meringues, probably.

  "Of course, the judges are tough as old boots, and the way they argue over a sponge puts cats to shame," said Gemma, scornfully. "Butter wouldn't melt in Miss Hardy's mouth, and as for that French chef, he makes a face while chewing English pastry like it's a stack of old laundry."

  I tried not to giggle, since I could picture the face she meant. "Still, that's a little harsh, I think," I answered. "Pierre was really nice to the contestant whose Leaning Tower of Pistachio Sponge collapsed into a big heap. He said it tasted delicious, even if it leaned just a little too much." And he hadn't sounded the slightest bit sardonic when he said it.