by Anna Wilson
‘If you are going on The Cake Off, you will have to get used to being filmed,’ said Charlie sulkily.
‘He’s got a point,’ said Mads. ‘Come on, Ellie, let him have a bit of fun. This recipe is so easy, I reckon we can’t go wrong.’
‘I hope this is not going to be a case of “famous last words”,’ I said with a sigh.
Half an hour later, the cakes were in the oven and the kitchen floor was relatively tomato-sauce free.
I was exhausted. I had learned how to weigh out the correct amounts of butter, sugar, eggs, flour and cocoa; I had spent a long time getting a sore arm beating everything together with a wooden spoon, and I was now pretty grumpy.
‘They use mixers on the real Cake Off,’ I pointed out.
‘I love those things,’ Charlie said wistfully. ‘So shiny . . . I would have a red one if I could choose.’
‘You really are weird,’ I said. How many ten-year-old boys go dreamy thinking of mixers? I swung myself up on to the worktop and sat there, waiting for the cakes to cook.
‘It’s always better to do things by hand,’ Mads said. She was still busying around the place, scraping the last of the broken spaghetti into the bin and wiping down the surfaces. Charlie had, unbelievably, offered to help her. (It’s amazing the effect that girl has on my family. I think they would rather have her as a daughter/sister than me.)
Even Kitkat had not got in the way while we were cooking. He had fallen asleep in the now clean and tidy cupboard behind me.
Charlie was waving his camera in our faces again. ‘How are we getting on, bakers?’ he asked.
‘We are not “getting on” at all, Chazz-Face,’ I said, swiping at the camera. ‘You and I will never “get on” at all if you keep filming me.’
‘Don’t call me “Chazz-Face”,’ he retorted. He blew a raspberry at me and ran out of the door. I was about to chase after him but luckily for Charlie, his life was saved by the sound of keys rattling in the front door and a voice shouting, ‘I’m ba-ack!’
Mum came into the kitchen. Her jaw dropped as she noticed the cleaned, open cupboards and empty shelves. ‘Wow. I thought you were baking, not spring cleaning,’ she said.
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ said Mads, blushing. ‘We thought we’d sort through a few things. Once we started, we couldn’t stop.’
Good job Mum hadn’t come home earlier. An hour before it had looked more like a spring bomb-blast than a spring clean.
‘Er, yeah,’ I added. ‘Some of those tins and things were well out of date.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Mum. Then her gaze shifted and she frowned. She was looking at something over my shoulder. ‘OMG! Why has the cat changed colour?’ she asked. She was pointing at Kitkat, who had somehow got from the cupboard to the window ledge and was blinking at us through a face-mask of tomato sauce.
‘Ooooh,’ I groaned. ‘Charlie was supposed to have cleaned him up. And don’t say “OMG”! Why do you only ever do that when Mads is around?’
‘FYI, he’s your kitten, Ellie,’ Mum said pointedly.
As if in answer, there was a retching noise from the sink.
Charlie chose that moment to reappear, and rushed over to remove a very sorry-for-himself Kitkat. ‘Poor kitty. He’s been sick,’ he said. ‘It must have been all that tomato sauce.’
Mum glared at me. ‘I am going upstairs. Ellie – clean up that cat and get it out of my kitchen!’ She had clearly dropped her I’m-such-a-cool-and-friendly-mum act.
‘That is so unfair!’ I shouted after her as she left the room.
Mads shot me a sympathetic look and said, ‘Never mind, at least you’ve made your first batch of highly successful and delicious cupcakes.’
We looked through the glass door of the oven. They did look good: perfectly risen and golden on top.
‘See?’ said Mads, as we got them out to cool. ‘Ellie Haines: Top Baker. I have every faith in you. Charlie, you can help me mix the peppermint icing while Ellie cleans up Kitkat.’
‘Great,’ I muttered, grabbing my squirming kitten from Charlie and storming over to the sink.
Ten extremely irritating (and damp) minutes later, Kitkat was back in his towel, and I was scanning websites on the iPad for cupcake-decorating inspiration.
‘Look at these,’ I said, holding up the iPad. I had found some wicked blue and silver butterfly cakes which I was planning to copy.
Mads was totally right, of course: art is my strong point. Once I’m doing something creative, I forget any stressful or anxious thoughts I have and I just focus on what I am doing. Playing around with all the edible glitter and little sugar butterflies and stuff was exactly the kind of thing I love to do. It was like doing a sculpture, but with cakes instead of modelling clay.
I cut the tops off the un-iced cupcakes and then sliced those tops in two. Next, I took a blob of icing and put that on each flattened cake. The following step was to stick the two remaining pieces of cake into the icing so that they looked like butterfly wings. Then Mads and I painted the icing with streaks of blue food colouring and used the edible silver ‘pearl’ spray and an assortment of the things we had bought at Cakeland to cover the cakey wings in sparkly, glittery loveliness.
I wasn’t sure that the cakes looked edible, but they did look beautiful. We had also managed to keep Kitkat out of the way the whole time by locking him in the utility room with a litter tray, to keep him from making a mess.
‘Amazing!’ said Mads, as we stepped back to admire the results of our creativity. ‘See – I knew you’d be great at this bit.’
‘The ones you did look lovely too!’ I said. Although, in my opinion, Mads’s cupcakes looked a little more chaotic and wonky than mine.
Charlie sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Definitely a case of “Style Over Substance”, if you ask me,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, we didn’t,’ I said.
‘Pete Jollyspoon doesn’t like “Style Over Substance”,’ said Charlie.
‘Well it’s a good job he doesn’t go to our school then, isn’t it?’ I snapped.
‘I think Sam Parkins would say that they look like an explosion in a glitter-ball factory,’ Charlie went on.
I lunged at him, but he escaped and ran out of the kitchen sniggering.
Mads slung her arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t listen to him. I think they look great,’ she said. ‘They’ve got va-va-voom.’ She punched the air and laughed.
‘I’m not sure cakes are supposed to have “va-va-voom”.’ I sighed. ‘Let’s just hope they don’t give anyone indigestion, like Gran’s prune loaf.’
‘Oh, stop it – they’re perfect!’ Mads exclaimed. ‘Our Dream Team cakes will steal the show.’
Even my family had to agree at tea that night. (Mind you, anything would have tasted good after Dad’s toxic toad-in-the-hole.) We let everyone have one cake each and put the rest in a tin in a cupboard to keep them safe for the school contest.
‘Amazing!’ said Mum. ‘I love the chocolate-and-mint combination. Very clever.’
‘They taste like mint-choc-chip ice cream,’ said Charlie.
Dad nodded. ‘I have to admit, Ells, when you told us you were entering The Cake Off with Mads, I worried that it was a half-baked idea . . .’
‘You’ve done that joke already,’ I muttered.
‘But now,’ he went on, ‘I might just have to eat my words.’
‘Da-ad,’ I whined. ‘Please. Just. STOP!’
‘He’s right though, isn’t he, Ellie?’ said Mads. ‘Together, we’re unstoppable.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘I never thought I’d say this, Mads, but I am beginning to enjoy this baking thing.’
Me and my big mouth. Again.
The next day was a Saturday and Mads announced that we deserved a break from baking.
‘The cakes are ready for the contest on Monday,’ she said, ‘and we can do more practice for the real Cake Off after school next week. I think we deserve a treat, actually – to celebrate th
e successful creation of our culinary sensation.’
‘I’m always up for a celebration,’ I said. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Well . . .’ Mads looked shifty and then said, ‘I have booked us both a spray tan in town today.’
‘A what?’ I cried. ‘You are joking me?’
I hate spray tans! Not that I have ever had one, but then why would I? Who actually pays money to look like a newly painted garden shed?
Mads shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘I just thought, you know, it would be nice to look good for when we go on TV . . .’
‘Mads,’ I said. ‘We don’t even know if we’ve got through to The Cake Off yet. And anyway, don’t you have to be over sixteen to get a spray tan?’
Mads raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘So? We tell them we are over sixteen.’
‘There’s no way that anyone is going to believe that I am sixteen!’ I spluttered.
‘OK, OK . . . You can have a manicure instead – how’s that? I want to treat you. Come on!’
I have always wanted nice nails like Mads, and it was a very generous offer, especially as she had already paid for all the baking stuff. But there was something about this whole thing that didn’t ring true.
‘Are you sure you want a spray tan?’ I asked. ‘You’ve never even mentioned anything about tanning before. I just don’t understand why—’
‘Don’t you want to look good for The Cake Off?’ Mads huffed.
I hesitated.
‘Well, I’m going. So – are you coming?’ Mads turned to leave.
‘Hang on a minute . . .’ I said. ‘When you say you want us to “look good for The Cake Off”, you wouldn’t be referring to the school competition, would you?’
Mads blushed furiously. ‘No! Why?’
‘I was just thinking that maybe you wanted to look your best for a certain Year 9 who will be judging it, that’s all,’ I said airily.
‘Honestly! Mads cried, flouncing away. ‘There’s no need to go all MI5 on me. I just thought it would be nice.’
I hurried after her and put my hand on her arm. ‘OK! Don’t get stressy. Let’s do it.’
Mads jabbered the whole way into town on the bus about how great the tan would make her look and how it would ‘be totally awesome against my white jeans’.
‘Those white jeans, you mean?’ I said, glancing down at what Mads was wearing at that very moment.
‘Yeah, why?’ Mads asked, looking suddenly extremely anxious. ‘Does my bum look big in them? I wore them cos I thought this outfit made me look older – you know, more like sixteen?’
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. Mads practically doesn’t have a bum, it is so tiny.
‘Don’t worry, the jeans are gorgeous. I’ll back you up if they ask how old you are – and no, your bum could not look big even if you tried to inflate it with a bicycle pump,’ I said.
‘Rank!’ Mads guffawed.
‘So how much is the tan going to cost?’ I asked, as we got off the bus. It had suddenly occurred to me that I’d heard these things were pretty expensive.
‘Erm . . . twenty-five quid,’ Mads said quickly.
‘Ma-ads!’ I protested. ‘No wonder you have to be sixteen! Who has twenty-five quid to waste on turning themselves the colour of chicken tikka?’
Mads broke into a run, which is always her way of dodging the issue as she knows I can’t run as fast as she can. ‘Here’s the salon!’ she shouted.
The minute we walked in I knew this was going to be a disaster. The place reeked of chemicals and the women at reception were the same colour as the desk. When they smiled, their teeth looked unnaturally white against their deeply tanned faces.
‘Hi, you must be Madeline,’ said one of the desk-coloured women.
‘Yeah.’ Mads avoided my eyes, which were wide with horror. She hasn’t been called Madeline since we were at nursery. She hates her full name. Her family only use it when she is in deep trouble.
‘Can my friend change her booking to a manicure while I have the tan done?’ she said.
‘Actually,’ I said hastily, ‘I think I might just sit and look at the magazines.’ I had just noticed the woman’s huge, fake talons with leopard-print tips. I didn’t fancy my nails ending up that way. For a start, how would I do any baking with nails like that?
‘OK, babes,’ the woman said to me. ‘If you’re sure?’ Then she flashed a glow-in-the-dark smile at Mads and said, ‘Just fill out this form. You are sixteen, right?’
Mads nodded vigorously, although the woman didn’t seem to care.
‘We’ll be done in half an hour, right?’ she said to me. ‘Take your pick.’ I flinched as she pointed an extra-long claw past my nose to where the magazines were.
You could have someone’s eye out with those, I thought. I hoped she knew what she was doing with the tanning stuff.
I went to flick through the magazines and Mads followed the woman out to the back of the salon, saying something about Mads’s jeans. Probably complimenting her on how ace they made her legs look.
So much for ‘our’ treat, I huffed. Still, it had been generous of Mads to offer to pay. She knew how hard I had been saving up for some new clothes.
I checked out the perfect fan of reading matter on the low table.
A headline screamed up at me:
PETE JOLLYSPOON SCORES A BAKER’S DOZEN WITH MUMS!
Flip, I couldn’t even get away from The Cake Off in a beauty salon. I picked up the magazine and saw that it was full of gossip about how ‘mums’ apparently found Pete Jollyspoon extremely attractive.
I shuddered. Can’t say he does it for me, I thought, as I flicked through pictures of him posing with loaves of bread and looking moodily into the camera. If anything he’s downright scary. Those eyes! Then I thought of Mum and realized she probably fancied Pete Jollyspoon.
I threw the magazine down with another shudder and found a different one about TV soaps. I soon got stuck into the gossip and forgot all about The Cake Off. I was deep into an article about how one on-screen couple were actually going out in real life when I heard footsteps from the back of the salon and a voice saying, ‘It’ll be fine, babes. It’ll fade in a couple of hours . . .’
A dark figure followed her out of the back room. The person was vaguely familiar, but I was a bit distracted by the strange blotchy clothes she was wearing. I was wondering if it was some new kind of tie-dye fashion. (Since I am always the last to pick up on a new fashion idea, I am constantly amazed by what true fashionistas will turn up in next.)
I watched as the person paid at the till, then turned to me and hissed, ‘Ells! Get me out of here! NOW!’
‘Mads . . . ?’ I was stunned. She looked . . . terrible! I gawped at her, not knowing what to say.
At last she gave me a shove towards the door and we practically fell out on to the pavement.
‘Don’t say anything, please – I’ll cry and it’ll make everything worse!’ she hissed. She was still pushing me along, desperate, I now realized, to get away from the salon as quickly as possible.
I had still not found my voice. My best mate was the colour of an antique chest of drawers, but, worse than that, I realized now that the blotchiness of her clothes was not an on-trend retro tie-dye look.
‘Your lovely jeans!’ I gasped, finally recovering the power of speech.
They were soaked with dark-brown fake tan.
‘I don’t understand,’ I went on. ‘I thought the tan was meant to go into your skin—’
‘Not now, please!’ Mads said in a shaky voice. She grabbed me by the hand and whisked me down a side alley and behind some large blue bins. As soon as we were hidden she burst into tears, which was unfortunate as it was making white-ish streak marks on her face.
‘Give me your scarf,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m going to have to get these jeans off before they’re ruined.’
The jeans were clearly already ruined. I didn’t really want my scarf ruined either, but my poor friend was not
going to be able to walk to the bus wearing them as they were.
Mads was yanking at her jeans, struggling to get them off.
‘You can’t take your clothes off in the middle of town!’ I cried.
‘I don’t have much choice!’ Mads wailed. She grabbed my scarf and proceeded to wind it around her legs in an attempt to make it into a makeshift skirt. Luckily it was a sunny day and plenty of people were going around in short skirts. Plus, Mads would look good in a bin bag, and the scarf was wide and long, so it did look pretty convincing.
‘We’ll have to get a taxi back to your place,’ she sobbed. ‘Do you have any money? As you weren’t getting your nails done I spent the extra on having the “de luxe” service. What a joke!’
‘But . . .’ I protested, thinking of the new clothes I had almost enough money to buy.
‘I’ll get my dad to pay you back,’ she pleaded. ‘Please! I can’t get the bus looking like this.’
So, as always, Mads got her way.
In the taxi I asked Mads if she wanted me to come back home with her and help her explain the state of her jeans to her mum, who was sure to freak when she saw them.
‘Or I could provide a distraction while you nip in and stick them in the wash,’ I offered. ‘I’m sure if you use some of that white-out stuff they’ll come up as good as new. If it can get grass stains out of Charlie’s clothes when he’s been lying in the mud filming fox dens, then it can get stains out of anything.’
Mads sniffed. ‘No, it’s OK,’ she said. ‘I just want to be on my own. I can handle Mum. See you on Monday. I’ll be in the shower until then, trying to scrub this lot off.’
She held out her streaky arms, and her face crumpled again.
‘Oh, Mads, I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be OK by Monday.’
‘I’d better be!’ she said. She wiped her nose on her wrist. ‘You just look after those cupcakes, all right? As long as they get to school in one piece looking fabulous, we will totally own that contest.’
I smiled. ‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘The old Mads is back!’ I gave her a quick squeeze as the taxi pulled up outside her house. ‘See you at school,’ I said.