Stupid, naive Claire had thought Jay was her mate. Someone who would stick by her through those first tough months and not go out on the lash with the lads at every opportunity; who would understand she was too tired for sex and not go sniffing around for it elsewhere.
She had assumed he would grow up, just as she had had to do. That having a baby daughter would turn him into a parent, and that, because he said he loved her and Chloe, he would want to be by their sides.
She turns the dough viciously. Of course, she hadn’t counted on Jade Russell and the joy of a carefree shag, or the promise of a bar job in Ibiza. The two combined proved far easier, and more appealing, than life in Exeter with Chloe and her.
When he’d told her, he’d given her the old ‘it’s not you it’s me,’ explanation – one he’d repeat when he returned at the end of the summer and then disappeared the following April.
Angela had told him where he could go then. And Claire, crushed and confused, had let her. He had flitted in and out of their lives ever since, seeing Chloe whenever he visited his mum in Devon. It had seemed selfish not to let him; though, when he stood their daughter up the last time, she had vowed never again.
The pathetic thing, she thinks as the dough takes the brunt of her anguish, is that, really, there has been no one to match him. A couple of flings but no one she liked enough to introduce to Chloe. No one she has trusted enough to let into their world. She is like a goose. Something that mates for life. A stupid goose who tried to mate with a peacock. She grimaces at the thought. Well, that was always going to be messy.
The dough is smooth now. She places it in a bowl and, as she does, her emotions shift. Self-pity sharpens to anger – at herself, initially, and then at Karen. She looks up and watches as she smiles at Dan sauntering past. He smiles back and, to Claire, the look seems plump with promise. Karen lowers her head, bashful as a teenager. And Claire has to look away.
It’s just not fair, she thinks, as she covers the bowl with clingfilm. That she’s flirting with a competition judge. She would never point this out; never betray her. But still. The injustice cuts as deep as a butcher’s knife.
There are two types of women in the world, she realises. Those like her, and, she guesses, Jenny and Vicki. Kind women, who put others first; and sometimes struggle in the world. And there are those like Karen. Who are ruthless. Who grasp life and take what they can for it; and who shine in a more forgiving, more obliging world.
* * *
Two and a half hours later, and the Chelsea buns have been taken out of the oven. The exhausted bakers appraise their creations, assessing their relative merits: the extent to which the vine fruit have caught; the neatness of the cinnamon swirl; the uniformity of the buns; their softness; the merits of simple caster sugar versus an apricot glaze and drizzled icing top.
‘This one’s superb.’ Harriet has taken a bite from Claire’s offering. Her mouth works as she ruminates. ‘Light and sticky, soft dough … just the right blend of toffeeish raisins and sultanas. Punchy spices but not overpowering … and dusted with the most moreish sprinkle of caster sugar.’
‘Oh dear, this one’s less good.’ She prods at Vicki’s, which is undercooked, the dough too pale, the bun flabby. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ She prods it again. ‘Someone wasn’t sufficiently precise about their baking time.’
The analysis continues. This bun is too charred; that too leaden. Vicki has turned red: shame at her undercooked offering spreads across her face. Claire’s despondency vanishes. Slowly she realises that none of the judges’ comments on the others’ buns has come close to their enthusiasm for hers. Harriet is comparing hers and what she assumes to be Jenny’s and appears to have come down in her favour. She glances at Mike, who gives her a wink.
Harriet delivers her verdict. ‘The clear winner of this bake is Claire. Well done. I’m delighted.’
Applauded by her competitors, she looks at each of them, incredulous. Vicki and Jenny beam back; Mike seems genuinely thrilled for her. By the time she meets Karen’s eyes, Claire is laughing. A great big laugh that sings of surprise, relief and pure delight. Holding the older woman’s gaze, she smiles even more broadly as if to include her in her excitement. And, tentatively, as though the emotion triggering this is unfamiliar, as though she cannot quite trust it, Karen smiles back.
Kathleen
Like the good girl that she is, she has taken James Caruthers’ advice and is baking to enrich her increasingly thin body: making seed-encrusted breads and iron-rich meat pies.
Steak and kidney feature strongly in her kitchen; lamb, chicken and rabbit. Green vegetables, particularly broccoli; eggs and salmon. She bakes and eats compulsively, visualising her blood being enriched, her womb lining strengthening with each mouthful she forces down.
George, ever loving, ever ineffectual, does not know how to help. He sits, watching, as she ladles out another lamb casserole, her face a mask of concentration as she tastes it; her manner devoid of joy.
‘You seem very … diligent,’ he ventures.
‘And how should I be?’ she snaps, and is shocked by the look of surprise that crosses his face. The utter incomprehension. She has never spoken to him like this before.
Mrs Jennings, her long-standing cook and chief recipe taster, understands her better.
‘Mr Eaden mentioned his favourite, lardy cake, the other day. He wondered if you could make one for him. I’m more than happy to do it – but I haven’t got your lightness of touch.’
And so she had obliged, reluctantly at first for it seemed wrong to be baking anything with questionable nutritional value, but, as the dough squished through her fingers, with an increasing sense of delight. The sun had streamed through the window and as she worked, she remembered what a joy it was to bake just for the fun of it. To create something that oozed fat and sweetness and decadence – and that made her poor husband smile.
She was on a roll then. Cakes and pastries; buns and biscuits; tarts and croissants: she revisited old favourites and tweaked the classics. The kitchen was suffused with the scent of spice, sugar and butter as the two women worked, side by side.
Mary came to stay and Susan and James ‘plumped up’, as they put it, on a diet of sausage rolls, cream horns and mini Bakewells.
‘It’s a good job you don’t have children. They’d be roly-poly,’ her sister commented, more than a touch disparagingly, as she watched her offspring race around the grounds.
But her niece and nephew looked good on it: their legs sturdier, their cheeks ruddy as they played tag before picnicking on doll’s-sized pork pies and crisp Coxes from the orchard.
‘Can we stay with you longer? You cook nicer food,’ James had whispered and she had felt an unsisterly pang of delight.
The words began to flow, too. Her section of bread and baked goods almost wrote itself and she was soon testing out pie fillings and thinking of synonyms for flaky and butteriness.
‘This will be written on time,’ she told George, and for the first time since her loss, she actually believed it: she would create The Art of Baking even if she could not create a child. Her writing became better, each sentence revealing how she loved to bake – both the end product and the process. She crossed out little, and surprised herself with her taut, evocative prose.
At times, when her pen sped across the page, or a new tart proved particularly successful, she wondered if there was a limit to her creativity. Could she really write well, invent new recipes and hope to conceive a baby? Wasn’t that sheer greediness?
And, then, as autumn turned to winter, something miraculous happened that disproved that theory.
She became pregnant for the third time.
20
If friends and acquaintances delight in your baking then accept the compliment. To do otherwise is ungracious.
Easter and, alone in her small flat, Claire is experiencing an uncharacteristic bubble of excitement as she flicks open her battered laptop and waits for the connection to YouTube.
> There she is, demonstrating how to make Chelsea buns: slightly earnest but almost pretty for once as she tries to explain the process. She wished her hair looked shinier but at least she doesn’t sound stupid. And there’s the evidence of her success: 15,407 hits. Two hundred and three more than two hours ago. Over fifteen thousand people have seen her winning bake – and, judging from the comments, they have liked it.
Her phone pings. One of them is texting her now. Jay.
Well, of course she rang him. Her mum would be furious if she knew the real reason she was babysitting Chloe tonight but it seemed petty not to meet up, not now that he’d moved home with the intention, he said, of being a real dad.
He seems to have settled down a bit, becoming, of all things, an estate agent. She can see him doing well at it: wearing a sharp suit; driving a company car; selling some sort of dream. Penthouses on the New English Riviera are his speciality, he had told her when he had called last week to suggest they meet up, by which she assumes he means the expensive flats overlooking the beach at Exmouth. If anyone could convince buyers this beach – with its sudden squalls and strong currents – was Britain’s answer to the south of France, then she guesses it would be him.
And so she is meeting him to discuss more regular contact with Chloe, she tells herself, though that doesn’t explain why she is putting on make-up. Not just the cursory lick of mascara but a silvery eye shadow that throws glitter over her cheekbones, a smear of lip gloss that makes her lips look fuller, a flick of eyeliner that defines her eyes.
She up-ends her hair and ties her ponytail higher; hangs hoops from her ears; tugs her top beneath her trademark hoodie a little lower, puts on boots with a slight heel – polished but in desperate need of re-heeling. I’m not doing this for him, she tries to convince herself; I’m doing this for me. To feel good about myself. Oh yeah, comes a whisper deep inside her. Who are you kidding?
She is still telling herself this as she walks towards the bar on the seafront at Exmouth and spots him coming towards her. Hands in pockets, green eyes smiling from a face bronzed through windsurfing; a lean, well-toned physique. It is less of a saunter, more of a strut: the peacock parading his plumage in front of an interested female. He still fancies himself, thinks Claire, but the galling thing is: he is still fanciable. Despite the hurt he has inflicted through his hands-off approach to parenting; despite the fact he loves himself and is immature and selfish, she still finds herself responding to that lazy smile.
‘All right?’
She is back to being seventeen, charmed by the cool boy at college.
He holds out his arms. ‘Can I get a hug, Miss YouTube queen?’
Despite herself, she smiles, and accepts the embrace. Her body remains stiff, cocooned against his muscles.
‘Still angry?’ He looks down into her face, strokes her cheek. The tips of his fingers are warm and she can feel the heat of his chest.
She shakes her head, turning her cheek from his fingers, and moves away.
‘Come on. Let’s get us a drink. I’ve got a whole crowd, desperate to meet you.’ He slings an arm around her shoulders, friendly but proprietorial.
‘Oh … I thought it was just going to be us.’ She falters then blushes. ‘I wondered if you wanted a walk on the beach?’
‘Thinking of the old times? You dirty girl!’ He whispers his delight in her ear. ‘You’ll have to wait till later.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ She blushes, furious at herself and at him. ‘I meant I thought we were going to talk about you seeing Chloe.’
‘Of course we are. Of course we are.’ He is all sincerity. ‘But first I want to introduce you to the lads. Show them how fantastic you are!’
His hand drops to the small of her back as if to guide her to them.
They have reached the bar: nondescript, modern and heaving with a young clientele propped against the bar or clustered around long, wooden tables. He opens the door and they push through a fug of lager and sweet white wine.
‘Here she is!’ he calls to a table at the window, where five young men – three of whom she recognises from their teenage years – are clustered. ‘The New Mrs Eaden!’
‘I am not,’ she hisses in embarrassment.
‘Well, all right, not yet. But she will be. And the next celebrity cook. That fit Chinese one had better watch out.’
‘Can you stop it!’ She is furious.
‘Sorry, sorry. Everyone – remember Claire? Mother of my child, light of my life, the new star of YouTube?’
‘I am NOT.’
‘You are!’
Sean, Ethan and Jason – the lads she remembers from college – grin into their lagers.
One of the others, Rob she thinks – tanned, laid-back, good-looking – hands over his smartphone. ‘I’d say you were. Here, take a look for yourself.’
The clip of her making Chelsea buns shows 16,760 hits – over a thousand more than an hour earlier.
‘And look at that gingerbread beach hut.’ Fingers stroke the screen: 31,462 hits. They flick back to the Chelsea bun film: 16,781.
Someone hands her a vodka and tonic, and she finds herself relaxing into the seat as she scrolls through the phone, checking the hits for her film against those of Jenny and Karen.
‘Look at the comments on the Eaden’s website.’ Jay puts an arm around her lower back, draws her to him.
‘Yeah – not Jay’s usual sort of site – but now his favourite,’ Jason teases.
‘Yes, well. I didn’t know a culinary goddess before now.’ He drops a kiss on her head and she tells herself he is just being friendly; just proud of her; almost like a big brother.
‘Hey, enough of that. Look at this.’ Ethan hands over another phone showing the Eaden’s website.
She squirms as a photo of herself holding a dish of Chelsea buns comes up then begins to smile at the stream of comments from Eaden’s customers: ‘The most likeable of the contestants: we want you to win’; ‘Fantastic baking. Those look delicious’; and, predictably – though she doubts he is a regular Eaden’s shopper: ‘Claire, love. You can handle my buns any time!’
‘Do you believe what a sensation you are now?’ Jay is looking at her intently.
‘Hardly a sensation,’ she says, though her cheeks are flushed with pleasure.
‘Well, I don’t know what else you’d call it? None of the others are getting the hits you are – apart from that Karen woman. And I don’t think they’re interested in her cooking. Bet they love you at work?’
‘Well, yes – I guess I’m good publicity.’ She is still getting used to the idea. She can feel herself blushing with the attention. Just enjoy it, you deserve it, she tells herself.
Jay smiles; runs his hand up her back; gives her a quick squeeze that makes her insides flutter.
‘You, Claire Trelawney, are a complete star.’
* * *
‘So, obviously, when she’s brought out her book in time for Christmas and started her second series, we may want to speak to you – but, frankly, we’ll probably be holidaying in some foodie mecca like Rome, Paris – or maybe Dubai …
‘As her manager, I will, of course, have to accompany her on all her filming commitments – particularly those in hot countries. And Chloe and I will get first choice on the tastings. Forget this six pack’ – and here Jay raises his T-shirt slowly to wolf whistles. He blows Claire a kiss. ‘I am going to get well FAAAT!’
There is a drum roll of hands on the table and he downs his bottle in one, then leans over and gives her a jokey smack on the lips. She wipes away the lager, stung by the sensation and a flood of memories.
He is on a roll, and she has to admit he is funny. Fuelled by his friends and numerous bottles of lager, he has launched into a comic fantasy about how she will win and he, as her self-appointed manager, will lead a life of luxury. At least she hopes he knows it is a fantasy.
He is being Jay at his best: gregarious, charming, attentive. And she has missed this: this camaraderie a
nd good-humoured banter; this sense of feeling protected, for once, and flattered. And the suggestion, that, if she decides she wants to, she could have him – for one night, at least.
So why can’t she relax entirely and lap up the attention? Perhaps because he hasn’t focused on their daughter, or asked her even once about her day-to-day life as a mum.
In fact, she realises as she takes another sip of her vodka and tonic, for most of the evening they have talked exclusively about her success in the competition. And much of the conversation has been about Jay and his comic fantasies – and not about her at all.
* * *
‘That was a laugh, wasn’t it?’ he had said later, when they finally escaped the bar and she got to walk along the seafront. The sea was a millpond, the tide stroking the shore.
The air was chill though, no duvets of cloud cushioning the air, and she had thrust her hands deep into her pockets. Her shoulders hunched around her ears as she shivered in her thin jacket.
‘Here.’ He had put his arm around her, and, self-consciously, she had slung one around him, resting it on the taut skin beneath his jacket. Force of habit, she told herself. And a good way to keep warm.
‘You were fantastic in there. You are fantastic.’ He had smiled down at her, his eyes, green flecked with gold, full of amusement. And he had squeezed her close.
But something had bugged her. ‘I’m not just about this competition, you know. There’s a lot more to me than that.’
She had dropped her arm; scuffed her feet like a truculent toddler.
‘Hey. Easy … I know that. I know everything you’ve done for Chloe. How hard everything’s been for you with me being so hands-off.’
‘You mean absent.’
‘OK. Absent.’ He had shrugged off the criticism as if the word were unimportant. ‘But you should enjoy how excited everyone is for you. You should be thrilled you’re doing so well.’
The Art of Baking Blind Page 15