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.
‘Is that an original?’ Vicki feels as if she has been trumped though she doubts that was Jennifer’s intention.
‘My mother’s. I was brought up on Mrs Eaden. So I thought this should come along.’
She passes it over and Vicki spends a few moments flicking through the pages. Recipes for Chelsea buns, Bakewell tart and apple Charlotte catch her attention; Battenburg and lemon meringue pie; salmon and watercress quiche. The black and white photos in this original book are sparse but most show Kathleen Eaden smiling as she holds up a finished product. Her smile mesmerises so that the reader’s eyes are drawn only to her, and not the tart or pudding.
‘I just love this book,’ Vicki enthuses. ‘I only discovered her a couple of years ago. Of course I’d heard of her but it wasn’t until they reissued this that I tried out all these recipes.’
‘In my childhood, she was what every baker aspired to,’ says Jennifer. ‘I can remember my mother saying, “I’ll just consult Kathleen,” just as we might turn to Delia. Amazing, really, that this one book had such an effect.’
‘And she sounds like such a wonderful woman. Did you read that interview in Eaden’s Monthly, after she died, with her daughter, Laura?’
‘Oh, I know. What a glorious childhood. It sounded completely idyllic: bonfires on the beach; surfing; flying kites – and all that wonderful baking.’
‘I’d love it if my son ever remembered me that way.’
The words fly out of Vicki’s mouth before she can stop them, and she wants to curl up in embarrassment. Jennifer looks away tactfully.
‘Oh, I mean, I’m sure he will. Well, I hope so. But I can’t quite imagine it,’ Vicki hears herself over-explaining. ‘It’s pathetic really. I absolutely adore him but it doesn’t seem to come as easily to me as it did to Kathleen. I find it quite hard at times.
‘Do you have children?’ she hurries on. ‘You look as if you might have—’ She blushes as if the older woman could somehow detect her thought process: that Jennifer’s stomach, voluminous under a tunic, is one that has surely expanded to cope with more than one child.
The older woman seems impervious. ‘Three girls. Nineteen to twenty-three so all grown up now – or so they like to think.’
‘I’ve just the one. A three-year-old,’ Vicki repeats herself as if she needs to apologise. As if to confirm it, her womb gives a dull ache.
‘The first one’s always the hardest. The biggest shock to the system. I found my first a real thunderbolt. It gets easier with the second, and eases over time.’
Jennifer smiles. And while Vicki would usually find this patronising: a platitude uttered by someone who had effortlessly had multiple children, from this woman it merely sounds kind.
Far from being diminished, she feels instantly reassured, immediately acknowledged. As if she might have just met a possible friend.
* * *
Three minutes to ten and Vicki feels increasingly nervous. The door swings open and Cora ushers in a man who is apologising profusely: dark hair flecked with grey; a neat physique; early forties; somewhat anguished deep brown eyes.
‘Thank God I made it.’ His face, anxious, pleasant, largely unexceptional, relaxes, as he sees that only two people have arrived so far. The line between his eyebrows eases into more of a furrow, less of a crevasse.
‘So sorry I’m late,’ he continues. He shrugs off a large rucksack, containing what must be his baked products and rearranges his damp trench coat. The blue shirt underneath has been badly ironed.
‘Coffee?’ Cora chirrups as she gestures to the table, covered in coffee cups.
‘An espresso would be lovely,’ he answers. Then, as he catches sight of the catering flask containing filter coffee made an hour ago, ‘Ah, just an Americano then.’
He takes the standard white cup and saucer with a smile and hovers over the plates of goodies. Chewy oat and raisin cookies, baby blueberry muffins and mini pains aux raisins.
‘The cookies are good,’ Vicki says with a gesture, skirting the table. ‘Not home-made, but still.’ She bites her lip, aware that Cora may take this as an insult. ‘I’m sure they’re freshly baked downstairs.’
He selects a muffin then touches his rucksack as if in reassurance. I wonder what he’s got in there? thinks Vicki. Panettone? A spelt and honey loaf? Or something less interesting. Then: I wonder how good he is; and what made him apply to be here?
‘Hello.’ Jennifer is more welcoming.
‘Sorry … Hello. Mike. Mike Wilkinson.’ He offers his hand and a firm handshake.
‘Jennifer.’
‘Vicki.’
They smile broadly and chorus their delight.
Mike nods encouragingly but they lapse into silence. The sound of cups chinked on saucers fills the void.
‘Oops.’ Vicki slops weak coffee over her hand. She grimaces in embarrassment, then grabs a paper napkin and dabs ineffectually at th
e few splashes christening her vintage-style tea dress. Jennifer smiles, eyes brimming with sympathy. Mike, keen to avoid witnessing her mortification, turns aside.
‘I’m suddenly really nervous. Stupid really,’ Vicki burbles in explanation. Her stomach fizzes with fear.
‘We all are,’ reassures Jennifer. ‘It’s only natural. There’s no guarantee we’re going to be selected for the competition, even though we’ve got this far. And, if you’re anything like me, it just feels like such a big thing!’
They segue into conversation: their interest in the competition; their apprehension; their expectations for these interviews; and what each of them has brought to woo the judges: croissants aux amandes and a chocolate torte from Jennifer; a devil’s food cake and brioche from Mike.
‘There have to be more of us than this, though?’ Vicki queries. ‘Cora said they were looking for five contestants. Any fewer and they won’t have enough variety for the YouTube clips.’
On cue, the door swings open. Another competitor? Their chatter peters away.
The woman who enters looks dressed for battle: knee-high boots; a crisp white shirt; dark indigo jeans; a mane of expensively low-lighted brunette hair. Her face glows with the lightest dusting of bronzing powder and a glimmer of excitement. She carries a grey wicker basket and the air of someone holding a delicious secret they can barely suppress.
Mike blushes and looks a decade younger. Jennifer’s smile is characteristically welcoming, if a little guarded. Vicki feels instantly apprehensive.
‘The Search for the New Mrs Eaden audition?’ says Karen superfluously and somewhat self-consciously. Then, with a touch of irony, ‘Well, let’s bake.’
Kathleen
She wishes she were baking, she thinks, as she stands at the entrance of the one hundredth Eaden’s, ready to cut the ribbon and open the store.
Around her, staff smile in expectation while the gentlemen of the press just restrain themselves from jostling like a crowd of children promised cream cakes and slabs of chocolate; sweet ginger beer; warm custard tarts.
Yes, she wishes she were baking – or writing. Creating something, at any rate. A blowsy choux bun to be wolfed down in a moment or a description that lasts just a little while more.
Instead of which she is here, on the King’s Road, Chelsea, being buffeted by a brisk April breeze and wishing she were wearing something more substantial than a light dress coat and the sheerest of stockings. Her new heels pinch and she feels distracted by the nagging pain and insistent cold.
‘A smile for us, Mrs Eaden?’ It is one of the reporters. Flashbulbs fire as she shoots them a beam.
What if she’d refused? The thought occurs as a gust of wind flares against her and she reaches to check her bob: impressively backcombed, stiff with Elnett. Well, of course she wouldn’t. Being Mrs Eaden – George’s wife; culinary authority; and Eaden’s asset – is who she is; is what she does, even if, at times, she would rather be spinning words or sugar. Pose, smile, nod, that’s her job: and, latterly, to her relief and unexpected delight, write and bake.
Just another five minutes, she estimates, trying to warm herself by rubbing her arms; then twenty meeting the staff inside the store and exchanging pleasantries. It is not much to ask, and she knows it is central to the success of their company – and good for her career, if she is going to write her Art of Baking.
The voice of an older woman, straining to see what is going on, proves the point.
‘Who is she? Is she in the movies?’ The question blows towards her.
‘No. She’s Kathleen Eaden. Owns this shop and writes that fancy column. You know? That one in Home Magazine.’
‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ Her friend is reverential. ‘And much younger than I thought.’
‘Bit skinny for my liking but that’s the look now, isn’t it?’
‘She’s beautiful.’ A third voice joins in.
‘Who? Kathleen Eaden? Oooh. I didn’t realise.’
‘It’s Kathleen Eaden!’
‘Who?’
‘Kathleen Eaden. You know, Mrs Eaden.’
‘Ooh.’ The voice sounds hushed. ‘I like her.’
The fact filters along the pavement, towards the newly opened Habitat with its whitewashed brick walls and wooden-slatted ceiling, its waif-like assistants and glamorous young customers. ‘Mrs Eaden,’ the five-deep crowd pulses, and she wonders how long she can cope with this pressure. Like champagne bubbles thrusting against a cork.
‘If you’re ready, my dear?’ It is George, coming to the rescue.
‘Of course, my darling.’
‘Here are the scissors. Do be careful.’
He hands them to her, blades down, thick fingers wrapped around them, as if she were a small child in need of protection. For one awful moment, she imagines the havoc if she grabbed them and snipped wildly at the air.
‘Darling?’ The look George gives her is one of concern clouded by love: as if he still cannot believe his luck, three years into marriage.
‘Just a moment,’ she reassures him as she opens the scissors and places the blades either side of the satin, stretched taut. Let me make a wish. Let me wish for the thing I always wish for. She closes her eyes for perhaps three seconds then forces them open. The ribbon slices in two and the satin slithers to the floor amid cheers and applause.
Perhaps it’s a good omen, she thinks. If Eaden’s can burgeon like this – from a handful of grocer’s shops to one hundred branches in ten years – then, perhaps, I too can burgeon? Women do it all the time.
‘Kathleen?’ George places his hand in the small of her back and ushers her into the supermarket of the future: all fluorescent lighting and self-service freezer cabinets.
And Mrs Eaden switches on her smile.
5
Never assume that to be a good baker you need to have attended cookery classes, whether at your local Women’s Institute or at the Cordon Bleu. Anyone can learn to bake, and while a good teacher will undoubtedly help you, you can educate yourself. Some of the most exquisite baking I have ever tasted has come from the humblest of homes.
The rain that has splattered Vicki and drenched Mike is drowning the cathedral city of Exeter, fat raindrops running down the hills and sloshing the pavements, impervious to the brimming drains.
Claire Trelawney is spending a lacklustre morning at the checkout of the local Eaden’s reaping the benefits of the downpour: the store is less crowded than usual, though time drags just as slowly.
She gives a mother with a small baby a quick beam as she begins to load up the conveyor belt but most of the smiles she bestows are wan; a common courtesy expected by her bosses and normally delivered with some enthusiasm. But not this morning. The rain lashes the windows in a sudden squall that leaves shoppers stunned – and blasts others inside, escaping the dripping canopy. I am going to get soaked, thinks Claire, taking in her regulation black trousers, which chill her thighs when drenched, and her cheap slip-on shoes, already sodden. She tries to rally herself but is half-hearted. What is there to smile about in a provincial superstore on an overcast mid-February morning?
She begins to scan the items, the scanner beeping with monotonous regularity. Nappies, beep; wipes, beep; milk, beep; butter, beep; Dairy Milk chocolate, beep; beep; beep.
‘On special offer.’ The mother gives a guilty grin.
She must have displayed some emotion. You can tell a lot about people from their shopping. You don’t just root out the bulimics or the alcoholics, but the obsessives, the ones who stick rigidly to their lists; the ones who never cook; and the ones who cook perpetually.
Take this mother. Now her haul is getting more interesting. Perhaps she was wrong to judge her over her kilo plus of Dairy Milk for here are organic eggs, icing sugar, caster sugar, mascarpone, cream cheese, vanilla essence – the expensive stuff in its tasteful brown bottle, not the extract – digestive biscuits.
‘Making a New York cheesecake?’
The question is involuntary.
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Claire lowers her head in embarrassment and goes back to the scanning. Self-raising flour, beep; raisins, beep; carrots, beep; courgettes, beep – both organic.
‘Yes.’ The mother smiles, and her voice is educated but friendly. ‘However did you guess?’
I could recite the recipe, thinks Claire. Not that I can afford the ingredients to make it – or not unless they’re up to their best-before date and I can scrounge them from the staff room. Is she doing Nigella’s version, she wonders, Rachel Allen’s or Mary Berry’s?
The question flies out before she can stop it.
‘Nigella’s,’ the woman replies quizzically, and the unspoken question hangs in the air: Why would someone like Claire be so knowledgeable about such sumptuous puddings?
‘Do you like to cook?’ the woman continues.
But Claire has spotted Margaret, the checkout supervisor, watching her. She is meant to scan eighteen items a minute, and, while she is supposed to be friendly, excessive chatting slows her down. ‘Erm … I just read recipe books; food porn, mainly,’ Claire replies with a quick beam.
The customer blushes. Food porn. Did I say that? Claire cringes. The woman stabs her pin number into the chip and pin and they wait in silence for the transaction to go through.
‘Well, bye then,’ the customer manages. She sweeps her jute bags into her trolley and rushes her baby away from the skinny girl who has unsettled her by showing some character; surprised her with her unexpected quip.
It’s true, though, I do read recipe books, thinks Claire defensively. And watch re-runs of Saturday Kitchen; and The Great British Bake Off; and MasterChef. What else is a single mum to do with no money, a nine-year-old girl and little social life?
Much of the time she is too exhausted to put these recipes into practice, or too skint to buy the ingredients for the more complex ones. But she and Chloe regularly make sponges and pastry; gingerbread men, cupcakes, saffron bread, even Cornish pasties. Recipes that don’t require expensive ingredients or excessive skill but that fill their tiny flat with the scent of a buttery hug and the promise of good times.
The Art of Baking Blind Page 3