18
Lardy cake – my husband’s favourite – may seem somewhat old-fashioned: a sweet tea bread layered with lard that oozes stickiness, each bite yielding sultanas, sweetness and spice.
Historically they were seen as celebration cakes since sugar, dried fruit and spice were dear. These days, we need have no such qualms, and the only limitation will be how strongly we value our waistlines.
‘Morning!’ Karen Hammond tosses a smile over her shoulder as Dan Keller walks past her in the competition kitchen, assessing her technique as she makes her signature leaven bread.
She thinks she is on to a winner: a spelt loaf topped with rye flakes. Wheat-free, unusual and contemporary. Claire’s saffron bread, Mike’s cardamom and fennel loaf, and Vicki’s hazelnut and honey wholemeal will have nothing on this.
‘Do you always knead like that?’
Dan’s question, delivered with wry amusement, takes Karen by surprise.
‘I … uh.’ She stops what she is doing, thrown by his physical presence; the proximity of his arm to hers; fine hairs almost touching as he reaches over and takes the dough.
‘You’re using spelt, aren’t you? So you’re going to have to knead for longer than with a usual dough. Do you mind if I demonstrate?’
‘Is that allowed? Isn’t it cheating?’
The thought of breaking the rules in this open environment thrills her.
‘I’m not going to do it all for you – but a quick knead is permitted.’ His words seem suffused with sexual innuendo and she glances around. Her competitors, ensconced in their kneading, seem oblivious and continue with their work, heads down.
She moves along the bench, giving him excessive space so aware is she of the need not to be physically close. He glances at her and then begins to stretch and rotate the dough, his hands moving quickly and lightly though she can see the strength of his biceps, straining against his shirt.
‘Now you try.’
He moves aside as she takes his place and puts her hands on the dough, warmed and softened by his touch. Push, turn, fold; push, turn, fold; push, turn, fold. She mimics his movements, concentrating fiercely as she tries to ignore his presence beside her, the thought of her fingers being where his have been, the heat in her groin.
‘Much better.’
He gives another smile and ambles off, leaving her watching his pert glutes enhanced by his slim-fitting jeans, the triangular tapering of his waist, his broad shoulders. She feels played – like a teenage girl pining for the school pin-up, who throws her a casual smile, then flings an arm around her classmate, oblivious to her desire.
She returns to her kneading. What is it that makes him so attractive besides the obvious good looks? she wonders. Perhaps, on a basic level, there is something very manly about the fact that he can provide. He can bake pies, make bread, could feed a family with some flour, yeast and water and the skill of his hands. She has little doubt that, if returned to the wild, he is the sort of man who would instinctively know how to build a shelter, hunt and skin small mammals, spear fish, construct a fire that blazed – not fizzled. He is physically capable as well as physically desirable.
He reminds her of Dave, the builder who constructed their £200,000 double-storey extension five years ago, and who spent three months, on and off, camped in her kitchen. Initially she had dismissed him as boorish: a labourer who read the Sun on his numerous tea-breaks; who seemed to be forever retiring to his van to eat rounds of sliced white sandwiches; who insisted on turning up for work before 8 a.m. but would knock off as soon as it became dusk.
But he soon grew on her. There was humour and intelligence in his dealings with her and his crew of brickies, chippies and plumbers; genuine embarrassment on the day he turned up just after seven before she had dressed; a gentle courtesy as he tried to tiptoe over her kitchen floor, giant hobnailed boots trampling detailed footprints of mud.
Above all, he was capable – in a refreshingly physical, practical way. When the council planning department decided that another wall should be knocked down, he dealt with it within the day and organised a skip for its immediate removal. When a nail pierced a pipe and water cascaded through the ceiling, he found the source of the problem, summoned his plumber from another job and stood over him, swearing gently, until he put it right. When snow fell and temperatures plummeted to minus twelve, meaning the tilers were unwilling to scale the scaffolding, he began their job for them, putting them to shame. At one point – the one occasion when she lost her cool over the build and nearly cried when a £40,000 roof light arrived broken – she half expected him to put his arm round her, and somehow fuse the fractured pieces of glass. Instead, for a couple of seconds, he had looked nonplussed. Then he reached for his mobile and demanded a replacement from the suppliers.
The employer/employee relationship was maintained – scrupulously on his part; more shakily on hers – and it was a relief for Karen when the build was finished and she no longer had to contend with the extra testosterone swilling around her home. But her experience of Dave made her realise the attraction of men who did physical work. Compared to Oliver, who worked in an alternative universe – playing with numbers, accruing and sometimes losing vast sums of money that he would never touch and she could never visualise by responding to a computer – Dave could build her a home. She had no desire to be married to someone like him; Oliver’s job might seem risible in contrast but she appreciated his salary and bonuses. But she wouldn’t have minded shagging Dave. And think how much she could have fed him. She could definitely see the allure.
* * *
Well, of course she wins the bread challenge and comes second – to Jenny – when they later make lardy cake: plump, glossy, sticky; saturated in fat. The thought of eating it makes Karen gag, and she flits round the kitchen, trying to offload her caramelised rectangles, inwardly shuddering at the trickles of lard that seep between currants and sultanas.
‘Can I interest you in my wares?’ She is in front of Dan, whose eyes wrinkle in amusement.
‘I feel like a seventeenth-century serving wench,’ she finds herself explaining, and to her horror fears she is about to blush.
‘I’d be very interested in your wares,’ he replies, taking in her slightly heightened colour and the glow of success that somehow softens her; making her mannerisms less calculated; her features less angular. He holds her gaze for a fraction too long.
‘As for your lardy cake … delicious though it was, I have had to try five samples in the last half-hour, and a couple of those’ – he glances at Vicki and Claire, the least successful contenders in this challenge – ‘were dripping in fat.’
He laughs. ‘I guess that’s where the expression “getting lardy” comes from. I’m now desperately in need of a stiff drink … or some exercise?’
There is something about his manner that invites flirtation, or at least that is how Karen manages to explain her behaviour, later.
‘Well, I’m sure I could oblige,’ she hears herself reply. ‘The exercise, I mean,’ and then, as he raises an eyebrow, she elaborates, slowly yet with a distinct gurgle in her voice. ‘I’ve got my running kit with me. I was going to go for a five-mile run, if you’re interested?’
‘I’m not sure I’m meant to fraternise with the competitors.’ He smiles.
‘Why? Scared we’ll beat you?’ The challenge is automatic, and works.
He draws himself up to his full six foot four. ‘Oh, I think I could put you through your paces, Karen Hammond. Meet you at the back of the hall in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
* * *
It is dark when they meet; a clear late March night in which a full moon has risen and the stars gleam preternaturally in an indigo sky. Karen’s breath forms clouds of mist as she runs on the spot, in an attempt to keep warm. She wears no hat or headband – her hair being her best asset – just a hot-pink fleece and black Lycras that sculpt her legs.
Lit initially by the floodl
ights leading up to the hall, and then by the moon, they take the path from the mansion, then make a circuit of the perimeter of its grounds, running along paths where possible but making forays over grass and leaves. Dan takes the lead, running at an even pace that allows him to talk without breaking into a sweat or showing the least sign of breathlessness. Karen keeps up, powered not just by her aerobic ability but by a determination he should be cowed by her. She wants to turn the tables: to have him in her thrall, not the other way around.
For a while they are largely silent, both focused on achieving a consistent brisk pace – an eight-minute mile – as their feet pound the musty leaves and damp grass. Karen realises they are breathing in time with one another, and concentrates on the synchronicity, delighting in the power of their bodies, and how well matched they are in terms of fitness, as they storm up a hill and begin to run on higher ground.
The more even ground allows for some conversation but it is minimal, as if both want to focus on the physicality of what they are doing. Words – the usual currency of flirtation – are superfluous.
‘Faster?’ Dan asks the question; refrains from a challenge.
‘But of course.’ She ups her speed, pushing her legs faster, feeling the blood pound in her head. Her heart feels as if it will burst.
‘Easy…’ He gives a laugh, between breaths. His breathing has become more laboured, as if his heartbeat were audible. ‘I didn’t mean a sprint.’
They slow down, taking a dimly lit path into a copse shielded from the moonlight.
‘Glad I’m not alone,’ she pants.
‘Glad I’m not either,’ he says.
To either side, thickets rustle. A rabbit streaks across the path, the flash of its white tail catching in the minimal moonlight. The ground is more uneven, causing them to slow down further.
‘Fancy a rest?’
‘Are you slacking?’ She laughs over her shoulder, powering through the trees, exhilarated by her strength, by the flirtation, by her sense of being pursued. It would be so easy to pause in the privacy of the copse, unzip her fleece – ‘God, I’m hot,’ – and see what would happen. But Karen rarely takes the easy option. Besides, she wants the thrill of the chase.
They leave the clump of trees, and the grounds open up in front of them to reveal Bradley Hall in all its Gothic splendour.
‘Not much further.’ Dan has caught up and overtakes her, shooting a grin over his shoulder as he pounds past. She raises her pace once more and is swiftly alongside him. He slows down to a more companionable speed.
Her breathing is ragged now. Pearls of sweat bead her cheeks but the freezing air wicks them away. She hopes her flush is attractive.
‘We’re a good match,’ he says, as their feet crunch over gravel.
‘We are.’ She slows down, running more gently in a cool-down then beginning to stretch.
‘We’ll have to do this again,’ he persists, looking into her face as she glances up after stretching a hamstring.
‘Are you sure that’s allowed?’
‘I’d have thought it was a necessity, given all the fat I’m going to be consuming in the next few weeks. What is it: pastries and then puddings? I think you’ll need to put me through my paces.’
The smile he bestows hints at a complicity between them; an understanding – or at least that is how Karen reads it as she takes in the frank invitation in his eyes. He likes me, she thinks with a jolt; he likes me and he desires me. She feels a flicker of joy.
* * *
Watching from the window of her bedroom, where she has gone to draw the curtains, Claire cannot see the couple’s faces. But she can read their body language: the way he bends towards her, puts his hand on her shoulder, and then fleetingly – there’s no doubting it now – caresses her cheek. How long has it been since a man touched me like that? she wonders; as if he couldn’t help showing some tenderness? As if, at that moment, I was the only thing that mattered to him in the world?
There has only been one person who has ever made her feel like that: the man who has caused her the greatest pain, and the greatest excitement. Sexy, charming, unreliable, unconsciously cruel Jay. She picks up her phone; re-reads his message; and wonders, for what must be the hundredth time, what would happen if she replied.
Kathleen
Two days after the D and C, Kathleen Eaden is back on form and by George’s side for another opening. Then it’s time for a photo shoot in which she is pictured cradling a home-made bloomer: heavy as a newborn and still warm.
‘Kathleen? Are you sure you’re all right?’ George, his arm placed protectively around her, was solicitous as if questioning if he had pushed her too hard by suggesting she still go ahead with the photographs.
‘Of course!’ Her tone was bright and she heard a sharpness, not usually there. ‘I mean’ – and here she gestured at the callow photographer – ‘he’s hardly David Bailey.’
‘He comes very well regarded.’
‘Oh, I know, my darling.’ She regretted her tone in an instant. ‘I just meant: it’s not very cutting edge. This poster campaign. It’s not as if I have to be a Jean Shrimpton.’
He pulled her close, and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
‘I don’t want the Shrimp. I want Kathleen Eaden – and so do our customers.’
‘Oh, I know.’ She tried to laugh off her silliness. That’s not what I meant, she thought as she extricated herself from his hug. For a moment, she had a flash of a different life: one in which she swanned around London with lovely young men and behaved like a girl in her early twenties. Someone required to look beautiful without the burden of having to behave like the ideal, domestic woman. A girl, not a woman, permitted – no, expected – to have fun.
She smoothed down her dress – no miniskirt but a demure shift.
‘Come on. We’d better get on with the rest of the photos.’ Her voice was brisk.
‘If you’re absolutely certain?’
‘Of course. The show must go on!’
He had looked at her and some kindness in his face made her pause and admit to her vulnerability.
‘No one here knows, do they, that there was a baby?’
‘Oh, my darling. Of course not.’
‘I’m just being stupid. So silly.’ She smiled and swallowed a sip of water, trying to dislodge the hard lump stuck at the back of her throat.
19
To make a succulent Chelsea bun, you need a sumptuous filling: sugar, cinnamon, sultanas, raisins and chopped dried apricots, all enveloped in melted butter, and rolled up tight. Tack down one end of the dough; scatter with the filling, and then roll, tightening as you go. Imagine you are swaddling a newborn baby and then holding her close.
‘We’ve got a real treat for your final bread challenge.’ Harriet is beaming, and making Claire nervous as her definition of a treat, she suspects, will vary wildly from hers.
‘Chelsea buns: something Kathleen Eaden provides a glorious recipe for in The Art of Baking and which seemed to have a particular significance for her. She and George had a Georgian town house just off the King’s Road, where she spent a lot of time, and he would often joke that she was his “Chelsea girl”. They appealed aesthetically and emotionally. You cannot hope to be the New Mrs Eaden without getting these little beauties right.’
Oh, bloody hell. Claire glances at Vicki, who she cannot help liking, and mouths: ‘So, no pressure!’ But Vicki, like an extra-keen pupil, is hanging on Harriet’s every word. Jenny and Mike appear equally interested and only Karen, inspecting her nails, seems the slightest bit preoccupied. She looks particularly smug this morning, in her skinny jeans, silk shirt and high leather ankle boots that look completely impractical. Claire glances down at her jeans and imitation Converse. She must feel pretty confident she’s not going to coat herself in eggs or flour.
Claire is feeling distinctly bad-tempered this morning. Not a feeling she often experiences, and not one she feels good about. Her whole body aches: her back is stiff and her
mind fuzzy from lack of sleep. She has had a bad night, thinking of Karen and Dan, and of her and Jay and their hopeless relationship. Obsessing about what she could have done, if anything, to keep him: to stop him running off when Chloe was three months old and then flitting in and out of their lives ever since. Agonising – yet again – about where it all went wrong.
To counteract this, she has drunk too much sweet black coffee and now feels distinctly shaky. Her heart pounds and she is restless; she can’t stand still and keeps jiggling her feet. She is also nervous. Can she create a perfect Chelsea bun – soft, light, with toffeeish fruit and an exquisitely judged filling? Her lardy cake was rubbish; her saffron bread unsophisticated. Her chances of winning the next YouTube slot – let alone the competition – are evaporating as fast as a sugar syrup furiously boiled.
Harriet is continuing to drone on. Something about the buns needing to be regular. She had better concentrate. ‘They require precision. We want neat circles with the filling – a perfect combination of spices and vine fruits – evenly distributed,’ the established baker explains.
‘We also want them uniformly baked: we don’t want charred fruit; we don’t want undercooked dough; but nor do we want corner buns that are dried out even if the central ones are deliciously moist. There must be regularity.’
Well, they don’t want much. With a sigh, Claire mixes salt, yeast and flour then forms a well in the middle; pours in liquid; and binds into a dough. She works it hard, turning it on a floured surface, making it smooth and elastic. She keeps her head down, hiding her reddening face, afraid that she might cry.
What really annoys her, what really upsets her, she realises, as she works the mixture, is that Jay might not have gone if she had been more of a Karen: a woman who knows how to play men, how to use them, how to get on in the world.
Good old Claire had bumbled along, believing his promise that he would stand by her when she got pregnant; trusting he would be loyal; that he would love her even if, for such a short time, her hair was greasy and her trackies milk-stained; her bras stretched and grey not brightly coloured and taut.
The Art of Baking Blind Page 14