The Art of Baking Blind

by Sarah Vaughan

He raises his hands, palms up.

  ‘Mrs Eaden, obstetrics and gynaecology is a tricky business and this procedure is fairly new. But I am confident that with this, enforced bed rest and the other measures we have discussed – weekly progesterone injections and, ahem, the ban on sexual intercourse – we will give any future baby the very best chance of life.’

  23

  If you bake as assiduously as me, you may need to exercise. A slab of cake can be offset by a leisurely walk or a swim at a gentle pace.

  It is a less picturesque night than their earlier meeting. Cloud half obscures the moon and snuffs out the weaker stars though Venus shines bright. The two figures, sleek in running garb, have no idea they are being observed as they set out from the front entrance of Bradley Hall for their ten-K run, just before six thirty. Bouncing lightly on the forecourt before they sprint off, both runners are studies in self-absorption. It would not occur to them that they are being spied on from separate rooms in the house.

  They begin by heading off as before, down the stately drive sweeping away from the mansion, and then around the perimeter of the grounds, running clockwise this time, towards a more substantial wood. The terrain becomes harder, the twigs and bark of a forest floor mingling with rotten leaves, obscuring the odd tree root.

  ‘It’s too uneven to run through this,’ Dan decides, leading them back out again. ‘Let’s head back to the grass.’

  Running over softer ground, there is an automatic spring to their step, though the grass is uneven and tufty, kept down by a flock of sheep and periodically smeared with dried cow pats.

  ‘This feels like proper cross-country.’

  ‘Bet you excelled at that, as a girl.’

  Karen shakes her head, recalling the concrete of her urban school playground, the shards of glass glinting on the tarmac, the fetid litter bins, the graffiti on the walls. A playground where she learned to trade herself for cigarettes, and use the cigarettes to stave off hunger.

  ‘Not that kind of school.’

  Her breathing remains measured. The hour-long runs she has put in at the gym, each day for the last fortnight, are paying off. Her cheeks glow but with exhilaration rather than exertion. To his surprise, Dan begins to trail behind.

  She takes the lead and wonders yet again if she should make a move, or whether she should rely on him to do so. She decides on the latter. Despite her determination to take the upper hand, she feels uncharacteristically vulnerable. She is not used to rejection but she senses that, were he to spurn her, she wouldn’t take it well.

  Karen glances over her shoulder. He is chasing her now. She feels nervous, like a teenage girl flooded with desire yet fearful of what she is about to get into. A sickening, delicious feeling; this feeling of being scared – of being alive.

  I felt like this once with Oliver, she thinks. In that sweaty West End club as I snared my prize, my banker. And later, once I got to know him. Before marriage; before children; before I realised that work was his real passion – the thing that always had to come first.

  Or was that fair? Was he alone to blame for the distance between us? Didn’t I push him away, certainly once we’d had the kids and I wanted to do everything my way, but, in truth, much earlier: almost from the very start?

  A memory crowds her head: the bathroom of their honeymoon suite in Rome, moonlight streaming through the window, and the look of incomprehension on her husband’s face. He had found her again eight months later, while skiing in Val d’Isère, and this time had begged her to see a psychotherapist. He’d even made the appointment. Of course, she hadn’t kept it but had made sure he never again caught her. She became more and more controlled, more distant, more private. Life – children, exercise, meals – were run with rigorous organisation. And passion, warmth, love, humour: all of these ebbed slowly away.

  Dan is closing in now. She maintains her pace, letting her sorrow ease away from her, steadying her breathing.

  ‘Have you been practising?’ he asks as he catches her up.

  ‘My tarte au citron? But of course. Just wait till you taste my tarte tatin.’

  ‘I meant the running.’ He is exasperated. ‘You seem to be getting faster.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Karen ups her speed and runs off. Blood gallops in her head; she is sure her heartbeat is audible. She begins to sprint; pushing her body to its extreme, exhilarated by her power – physical and sexual.

  He is in pursuit now, chasing her down a gentle incline that swiftly becomes far steeper than she anticipated. Her foot catches in a hidden rabbit hole and jolts her. She falls, arms raised to her head as she tumbles, twisting three times before she rolls to a stop.

  In a second, he is by her.

  ‘Are you OK? Are you all right? You haven’t twisted it, have you?’

  Her heart judders but she feels shock at the fall, not pain. How could she have been so stupid? Jake’s jibe rings in her head: You’re fooling no one.

  Dan’s face is masked with panic: does he fear their meeting being exposed or is he just concerned for her? Compassion and shock jostle.

  I look old, she thinks. I’m older than he thought.

  ‘I’m OK. Really. It’s not twisted. I’m just a bit shaken.’

  She tries to put some weight on the ankle, and avoids wincing.

  Her voice becomes more abrasive.

  ‘Help me up, won’t you? I said I was fine.’

  He places firm arms around her back. With some effort, she resists softening into them; she keeps her body ramrod straight; her manner formal.

  ‘Thank you. Now, let’s get back.’

  ‘If you’re sure…’ But she is off, tentative at first but increasing her pace as they hit even ground and she becomes more sure-footed. A mantra pounds through her head: I’m fooling no one; I’m fooling no one; I’m fooling no one; I’m fooling no one.

  I’m fooling no one at all.

  He trails behind as if chastened by her curt tone and fearful of offending her. As they sweep on to the gravel, he calls out: ‘Can I check on you later? I’d like to check you’re OK … I mean, I’d like to see you.’

  She glances at him, unsure of what to make of this admission: is he expressing concern for a woman who has injured herself, or something more ambiguous? She cannot read words shorn of innuendo; freed from the artifice of flirtation.

  Karen feels suddenly weary. She craves a hot bath and then the comfort of being held. The thought shocks her. She is not a cuddly person. She craves sex – not affection.

  She takes in his open face: unexpectedly gentle.

  ‘All right … I’d like that,’ she says.

  24

  A tarte au citron is the most disarming of desserts: in small quantities, sharp and refreshing and yet, at heart, hugely rich. The citrus cuts through a heavy meal but then, suddenly, you are sated. Unable to manage another mouthful. The clever hostess serves only a sliver of it.

  ‘Dan?’

  Harriet’s voice, as she spies him watching Karen jog up the central staircase, is that of a disappointed headmistress.

  ‘Could I have a word if you have a moment?’

  She moves aside from the doorway of the lounge where she has been waiting, gesturing that he should enter, and closes the oak door.

  He stands before her; the Platonic ideal of a desirable man, made concrete. She takes in the dark curls softened by beads of sweat; the glow of his face; his broad chest. He is twenty years younger than her and has a lot to learn about celebrity. She is not sure, though, if he will listen to her.

  ‘It’s a little delicate.’ She pauses to check if he knows what she’s talking about and pats her hair, somewhat nervously. ‘You know me. I’m hardly censorious … but do you think it appropriate to go running with a contestant – someone whose work you judge?’

  He sighs.

  ‘It looks bad, Dan. And as we both know in this game, appearances are everything. Your jaunt may have been entirely innocent but you need to make absolutely sure it l
ooks it – and that it remains that way.’

  ‘We only went for a run,’ he begins.

  ‘Oh, Dan. You must think I was born yesterday.’ She looks at him as if he were a pupil risking expulsion about whom she cannot help caring.

  ‘If this got out, the Daily Mail would have a field day. The brand, and your image, would be tarnished. Eaden’s would drop you like a shot and that would be such a loss. You’ve such a promising career.’

  She smiles and pats her hair again. ‘I’m not being entirely altruistic. We’re a good team; we work well together. You’ve refreshed me. Given this old boot a bit more career longevity.’

  She grimaces at the admission. ‘Please, Dan, just stop whatever it is you’ve started.’

  * * *

  It is not until nearly midnight that Karen accepts he has taken the coward’s way out and will not come to her. In the intervening four hours she has cosseted herself: taking a languorous bath, silky with essential oils; slathering herself with body lotion; tending to her ankle, whose purple bloom is beginning to appear. She has pulled on sleek black underwear under a delicate cashmere hoodie and Pilates bottoms, tweezed her eyebrows and reapplied her make-up. Her feet, she has checked, are exquisite: the nails professionally painted in Chanel’s appropriately named Vamp, and a silver toe ring hinting at a rebellious streak.

  Easy-listening ballads play on her iPod. Tracks she knows are hardly hip but which she cannot help but relax to. David Gray, Katie Melua, Dido, James Blunt. A few soul classics are incongruously interspersed: Marvin Gaye begins to croon about getting it on. She jabs the iPod, pressing the forward arrow, seeking to silence him.

  For the first hour she is busy with preparation; for the next, giddy with anticipation. She flicks through her copy of Vogue, then turns to OK! seeking distraction in inanity but the identikit smiles of the D-list celebrities grate. She wonders how many of the relationships celebrated here in exclusive, eight-page glossy photo shoots will last a year. For a moment, she thinks of Oliver. Balding, cerebral, prosperous but still a man whose good opinion – she no longer expects affection – she craves. Did they ever look at one another with the adoration that perky little actress is feigning? She is pretty sure he once did. Before Rome, before Val d’Isère and, perhaps, for a little while after. As for her, she has never done adoration.

  Infatuation she can do though. An antidote to an absence of love. A heady drug that gives her a rush; confirms her vitality and vibrancy. All-consuming and immediate, it is the reason she books the same Eaden’s delivery slot each week: Ryan, tall, tattooed and barely twenty and hers from 11 a.m. to noon on Wednesdays; the reason she swam when Jamie, a mere twenty-two and still boyishly beautiful, was on his lifeguard shift.

  She had thought she had had it bad then, but with Dan her infatuation has reached a new level: a groin-juddering, heart-thumping obsession that dictates her actions – what she wears; what she bakes; what she says – and dominates her thoughts. It is not just his beauty, not just his charisma. It is the fact that the attraction seems mutual. Apparently reciprocated, her infatuation fuels her. She believes herself to be as beautiful and charismatic as him; she believes herself to be worthy of his desire.

  So where is he? In the third hour, anticipation turns to trepidation. Perhaps he is waiting until the coast is clear; until he is less likely to stumble upon the other contestants; until it is so late that his intentions – turning up at her bedroom in the night – are sufficiently unambiguous. Perhaps he got caught up in a discussion with Harriet and was unable to sneak away. Or perhaps he has had second thoughts.

  In the fourth hour, trepidation turns to despair – and then self-flagellation. How could she have been so stupid as to have thought she was being anything other than played? She looks at her face in the mirror: the exhaustion of a hard day’s work and the shock of her fall perceptible under her eyes despite a generous application of Touche Éclat. You’re fooling no one, Ma. She sees her forty-seven years. How could she have believed he wouldn’t notice them?

  As the fourth hour passes, she knows what she must do. She pulls on ballet pumps and a long cashmere cardigan and leaves the room, walking lightly but purposefully towards the competition kitchen. To her surprise, it is open. A shaft of light filters from the corridor, illuminating her way as she slips into the room and finds her work station. She turns to the nearest fridge and opens the door, bathing her face in the unearthly glow. Quickly, she reaches in and grabs what she was looking for.

  Her tarte au citron has been tested by the judges but is still more than half complete. She plunges a knife in and cuts a sliver; then immediately a second, larger, slice and a third. The triangles sit quivering in the gloaming. The fluorescent yellow filling wobbling; tantalising her. ‘Eat me, eat me.’ She takes a breath, then obliges.

  Crouched on the floor, shielded by work stations, she crams the first slice into her mouth, barely tasting the tart citrus fruit, the buttery pastry. Then comes the second, more substantial piece, closely followed by the third. Her mouth fills with cloying softness cut through with sharpness. Her stomach – empty since a small chicken salad at lunchtime – feels immediately bloated.

  She is tempted to continue cutting, chipping away at the semicircle until there is only a third then a quarter then an eighth left but her self-loathing is already overwhelming. She thrusts the plate back in the fridge; rinses and dries the knife; buries it in the drawer. Then she slips from the room, almost running now in her desire to be rid of her taut belly. She needs to purge herself of the gelatinous mass lining her stomach, or making its way to it, just as she needs to purge herself of her self-disgust.

  Later, this is the only explanation she can give for using the toilets off the kitchen rather than running the two flights up to her room. Immediacy – the fear that she will not be able to rid herself of the food before it hits her stomach – appears more important than privacy. The stalls are empty. She enters one, locks the door, ties back her hair and, toilet paper in hand, lifts the seat.

  With her clean, right hand, she puts her fingers to the back of her throat, finds her gagging reflex and pushes. A spurt of vomit spews into her mouth. She makes herself press again, and unleashes a torrent. She rocks back on her heels then forces herself to push a third time, lurching to the toilet bowl to release the bile. Her throat burns and she is spent. Briefly, she rests her head against the cool of the toilet wall before the dangling toilet roll and sweet stench of urine fill her with repulsion. She wipes her mouth with a piece of paper, flushes, checks the vomit has cleared, and then unlocks the door.

  Claire is waiting by the sinks, her eyes wide as she sees that it is Karen who emerges.

  It is a shock for them both.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Karen is peremptory.

  ‘Uh … I’ve just come in. Bit of a late night in the bar. Stupid really. I just got chatting to Mike for too long. Then I felt hungry so thought I’d sneak to the kitchen.’ She is rambling.

  The question remains unsaid.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Claire ventures.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Karen turns away from her, presses the soap dispenser with the back of her hand, lathers suds under running water.

  ‘You just … you just sounded as if you might be feeling a bit poorly.’ She meets Karen’s gaze in the mirror but there is concern not rancour in the look she gives.

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it, Claire?’ Karen gives a sharp laugh as she dries her hands then turns to face her. ‘To be honest, I think I’ve got a touch of food poisoning. I’ve a really gyppy tummy.’

  She pauses, pained to make a request but realising she needs to. ‘Please don’t mention it to the others, will you? I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to compete, for health and safety reasons, if they knew about this.’

  ‘No, of course not … But are you sure you’re OK to carry on?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s a bit of food poisoning. Nothing contagious. I’m not going to die of it.’ She is brisk
. ‘Nothing I can’t get over by drinking plenty of water and having a good sleep.’

  She brushes past the younger woman but holds open the door, gesturing that they should both leave.

  Claire takes it but watches as Karen walks along the corridor, her head held high though her colour is pale.

  Food poisoning? She must think I’m stupid. Yet the alternative is more incredible. She has a sharp recollection of the toilets at her comprehensive; the stench of disinfectant; the shine of toilet paper; and Hazel Adams, the class fatty, making herself sick.

  Is that what was going on there? She makes her own way to bed, a knot of sorrow pressing in her chest like a granite pebble: her mind trying to process what she has just seen.

  Kathleen

  Still no baby, there is still no baby. As spring bursts into summer and summer melts into autumn, she no longer wants to play this exhausting game.

  At first she had blamed the writing. The day after her loss, she had ripped up the entire section on pies and pastries and stuffed it in the drawing room hearth. The flames had licked the cream sheets of paper then gobbled them up in one greedy whoosh and she had felt nothing but relief.

  George had been somewhat dismayed.

  ‘But all that work … You were two-thirds done.’

  ‘And I’m not going to finish it,’ she had insisted, not minding that she sounded melodramatic. ‘Is that all that matters, George, that I write this book? I couldn’t include those recipes. They feel tainted.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Not to me.’

  The deadline is pushed back indefinitely and George refrains from commenting. Nor does he complain when, three months after her loss, she is still pulling out of store openings. She fears she is not doing her bit for their business. For Eaden’s. And yet, selfishly, she does not care.

  The columns keep coming, delighting the readers of Home Magazine who have no idea of her anguish. She finds she is writing about the most frivolous of puddings: meringues, baked Alaskas, croquembouche, vacherin. Nothing sustaining, as recommended by Mr Caruthers, and nothing to do with pastry.