It was impossible not to flail her arms like she’d done with her mum in their kitchen, snappy fingers and swingy hips and laughing like a crazy person.
‘You’re a natural!’ she shouted into his ear as his neck bobbled in time to his flapping arms.
‘It’s because I’ve got rhythm in my bones,’ he said. ‘I know you’re impressed.’
She was even more impressed when he head-bobbed seamlessly into ‘Karma Chameleon’, singing the words like he was Boy George’s backup singer.
‘This is the best music ever!’ she nearly screamed in his ear as ‘Flashdance’ came on and her feet started pounding the floor along with everyone else’s.
The music flowed over them and it felt so good to let herself go that she didn’t want to stop.
Later, her throat hitched when Agnetha and Anni-Frid’s voices floated over them. ‘Super Trouper’ was another of Mum’s favourites. So maybe he noted her change in mood. Maybe it was just appropriate for a slower song. Either way, it felt nice to be in his arms for the few moments until the song sped up. Then they broke apart and shouted lyrics at each other. She was pretty sure she had the wrong words but it didn’t matter.
It was nearly four a.m. by the time she staggered home and fell into bed with her clothes still on. She still had ABBA buzzing in her ears.
Of course, the house was silent when her alarm went off a few hours later. Catherine and Rachel wouldn’t leave their beds at sunrise unless their mattresses were on fire.
With just four hours to bake her morning muffins and the savoury rosemary and sea salt focaccia, then quickly shower and get to the audition, she may as well be on the show already. Ready, steady, bake!
She quickly made the focaccia dough so that it had time to rise before she put it in the oven. She could make focaccia in her sleep, which was handy given how she felt.
Then she pulled out all the muffin ingredients and started preparing them. Carefully she buttered the tins and grated the carrots. She’d found them especially for the recipe, sampling so many from the local markets that she could probably see better in the dark.
She never wanted to think about morning muffins again, but at least she was finally happy with the recipe. And most importantly, so was Sissy.
She needed to double the batch to make sure she’d end up with a dozen perfect little treats. She worked quickly, creaming the butter, adding sugar, then eggs and all the other ingredients.
But there was definitely no time to shower and still get everything properly baked. A fully risen focaccia was more important than clean hair. Besides, the aroma of baked goods should cancel out any lingering eau de dance floor.
It was harsh to have auditions so early in the day, she thought as she carried her still-warm offerings to the Tube station. No one wanted to turn up with a day-old cake, so they’d all have to get up early to make a start. And since people were coming from all over the UK, at least they’d be as sleep-deprived as she was.
Although she might have underestimated her competition’s hygiene habits. She looked around the room in the community hall where the auditions were being held. No one else seemed to be wearing last night’s make-up and everyone’s hair looked cleaner than hers. She should have remembered that they were being judged on their ability to bake for telly. Self-consciously she ran her fingers through her tangles. At least day-old make-up was better than none at all.
Talk about intimidating. Most of the others had gone for complicated bakes. One grandma-type had a clear box filled with choux pastry swans.
Well, let them have their cream-filled birds. She was confident in her bread and muffins. They were down-to-earth, honest offerings, and exactly how she liked to bake.
But as she found a spot on a row of folding chairs with the other contestants she started to wonder how honest she was really being. She had a bit of mascara in one eye that kept making her wink. Her tummy churned from the vodka and Red Bulls she’d drunk at the club and her feet hurt from dancing in heels.
Vodka and Red Bull? A few months ago the only time she had vodka was if a fancy chef spooned it in a cream sauce over penne pasta. And sore feet used to be a sign that she needed to buy new running shoes.
Lately she hardly recognised herself. It was taking a lot of effort to have fun. Was it all worth it?
A woman with a three-ring binder who’d been calling the contestants forward finally came for her. ‘Thanks for waiting, Sarah. This way, please, the judges are ready for you.’
Her nerves swooped down as she made her way to the long table where the judges waited. ‘We’re being filmed?’ she asked, staring at the two cameras aimed at the table.
‘It’s just so we can see how you’d look on air. Don’t pay them any attention.’
Yeah, right.
When the judges introduced themselves – Mark and Margaret – Sarah barely squeaked out her own name. They were in their late fifties or sixties and actually weren’t scary at all as they asked her questions about why she liked baking. Then Margaret cut one of her muffins in quarters and started to pinch and poke it.
‘Nice bake on the bottom,’ she said.
‘And a good rise,’ Mark added.
Margaret was the first to take a bite. Sarah knew instantly that something was wrong. Instead of blissful excitement, her eyebrows knitted together.
‘I think something went wrong with the sugar,’ Margaret said. ‘How much did you use?’
‘A hundred and seventy-five grams. No, three fifty. I doubled the recipe.’ She kept her eyes on Margaret but she could feel the cameras trained on her.
‘Are you sure?’ Mark asked gently. ‘It’s got a more savoury flavour. Here, have a taste.’
‘I’m sure I …’ But was she sure? She was so tired this morning. She remembered cracking four eggs into the bowl, and shredding three big carrots. But had she doubled the sugar?
Obviously not, judging by their faces.
She took a bite. If they had to eat it, she did too. It reminded her of those non-fat muffins that people sometimes pretended were as good as the real thing. She tried not to grimace.
‘Let’s move on to the focaccia,’ Mark said. ‘Rosemary and sea salt?’
‘That’s right,’ Sarah said, feeling ill now. She’d made such an amateur mistake. And of all the times to mess up. Why couldn’t it have been something unimportant like her birthday cake? But no, everyone had been dead chuffed with that.
Again they pinched and prodded at the spongy bread. ‘Is the sea salt in the bread itself?’ Margaret asked.
‘No it’s on the …’
But it clearly wasn’t on the top. She’d forgotten to add the sea salt before putting it in the oven. She could visualise the box right there on the table too. Fat lot of good it was doing in her imagination. ‘I forgot the sea salt. Should I just go now?’
Margaret smiled at her. ‘No, no. Let’s taste the bread first. It’s another very good bake, Sarah, and I’m sure it’s delicious.’ She took a bite and practically made yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy hand gestures. She was probably just exaggerating to make Sarah feel better, but it did help take the sting off.
She knew it was all over. She took her mediocre baked goods, apologised to the judges for wasting their time, and slunk from the auditorium.
She leaked angry tears all the way home. The judges’ kindness only made her feel worse. No matter how many times they claimed she’d made simple mistakes, she knew she wouldn’t have made them if she hadn’t been out all night pretending to be the party girl of the century.
It wasn’t till she got home that she caught sight of herself. Her mascara had run under her eyes and last night’s hair was that morning’s rat’s nest. She hardly recognised herself. She scrubbed off the make-up, brushed out her hair and crawled under her duvet.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Catherine
Paul wanted to talk in person and Catherine had the sinking feeling that she knew what it was about.
He kissed her chee
k when they met at the office door. Were those lips lingering?
‘I’ve just made a tea for myself. Would you like something to drink?’ she asked as they moved towards the little round table in the corner of her office.
‘Maybe later, thanks.’
‘So.’
‘So,’ he said.
‘You wanted to talk?’
Paul squirmed like he’d been sent to the schoolmaster for having dirty magazines in his desk. ‘I had a nice time at the wedding.’
‘Me …’ She was about to say ‘me too’ but that would have been a total lie. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Why don’t you let me get you a drink? Coffee, no sugar, right? I’ll be right back.’
She fled to the kitchen with the memory of the weekend hanging tightly around her neck.
* * *
She hadn’t expected the wedding to be easy, so she wasn’t surprised to be right. Just not for the reasons she’d thought. She’d so convinced herself that she didn’t want Richard marrying the wrong woman that it never occurred to her how she’d feel if he ended up marrying the right one. As it turned out, not nearly as gracious as she’d assumed.
She’d managed to avoid any more of the groom’s side, although it meant spending more time in the loo than someone with a urinary tract infection.
When she came out just in time to hear Richard start his speech she was tempted to return to the cubicle, but her former mother-in-law spotted her, so she couldn’t turn back.
She wove her way between the tables to find her seat. At least she knew what Richard was going to say. He wasn’t one to reinvent the wheel.
Sure enough, he started by thanking his parents and Magda’s. He told her bridesmaids how gorgeous they were, as he was contractually obliged to do. He made a crack about the stag do and his best man pretended it was a new joke. Then he spoke to Magda.
‘When I met you,’ he’d said, ‘I didn’t believe you were really interested in me.’
Catherine suppressed a snort. It wasn’t the time for heckling.
‘I mean, look at you! You’re so gorgeous, and as I got to know you I realised that you’re also smart and fun and warm … and you’re rich.’
The room erupted in a mixture of hoots and gasps. Richard held up his hands.
‘Calm down, dears. Which means, Magda, that you’re not with me for the wrong reasons.’ He turned to his bride, who had stood to look him in the eye. ‘Magda, I am in love with you. Madly, passionately, deeply in love. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life showing you that.’
Magda threw herself into his arms. His microphone was still on to broadcast her next words. ‘I love you more than anything in the world,’ she said.
Catherine took it all in as the whole room chorused their ahhs. Of course there was nothing unusual about newlyweds professing their love on the big day.
Only, this was Richard. And he hadn’t done it the first time around. That’s what felt like a kick in the teeth.
She returned to her office with Paul’s coffee. ‘So, what did you want to talk about?’
‘Well, you and me, actually,’ he said.
That’s what she was afraid of. ‘Let me stop you there, Paul. I feel like I may have given you the wrong impression when I asked you to come to the wedding. I truly did think it would be instructional.’
He laughed. ‘Aw, that’s bullshit, Catherine. Come on, it was a flimsy excuse and you know it.’
Busted. ‘Well, okay. I admit I might have had a tiny ulterior motive.’ So she didn’t want to go to her ex-husband’s wedding alone. Anyone claiming it would be an easy day was either deluded or on some serious medication.
‘It’s just not very professional,’ he continued.
That stung, but he had a point. She had no right to use someone as a Rent-a-Date just because her business had a database full of single men. ‘I’m so sorry, Paul. It wasn’t appropriate.’ Where did she get off using one of her clients like that? She could be struck off the register (if matchmakers had such a thing). They’d take away her little black book.
‘Now, I’m happy to stay with the agency,’ he continued, ‘because I still want to meet someone. And you’re great, Catherine, but I just don’t feel like that about you.’
‘You don’t …’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
She couldn’t decide if it was worse for him to think she liked him, or to know that she’d been turning him into her ex-husband.
The second one, she decided. At least he hadn’t noticed that.
She made a regretful face. ‘Well, I understand. Thanks for being so honest with me, Paul.’
‘I hope you’re not too disappointed.’
She kept a straight face. ‘Not at all.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Catherine. Casual dating is fine as long as both people want it. But if one is really looking for more, ultimately it’s a goner. It might be okay for a while, but only because the person isn’t being honest with himself … Or herself,’ he quickly added.
She stared at Paul. He had no idea how right he was. Not about him and her. About her and Richard.
It took Paul one day to realise what Catherine hadn’t really admitted to herself until now.
If she hadn’t been so bloody-minded about being with Richard back when they were in school, maybe she’d have seen how little he’d really wanted a relationship with her.
But nooo, she couldn’t admit that after working so hard for so long. She had to excuse his protests about wanting to be casual, and put any lack of commitment down to his relaxed personality. That was just him taking things slowly, she told herself. Plus, there was plenty of time to settle down.
And if those things weren’t true, then that meant Catherine was just trying to convince a man to love her. That would be foolish. Nobody likes to admit they’re a fool.
But she had been a fool. Well-intentioned maybe, and hopeful, but still a fool to think that effort could equate to love. Neither of them should have settled. Richard realised that when he met Magda. It was about time it got to be her turn.
‘Thank you, Paul. You’re absolutely right, and I appreciate your honesty. I’ll get working on some more dates for you. We’ll find your Ms Right, not just Ms Right-For-Now.’
‘Glad you understand, Catherine. And thanks for being cool about it.’
She smiled. Finally she felt like she did understand. ‘No problem.’
Magda was waiting outside the door when she opened it to let Paul out. Since the wedding she’d been at a bit of a loss in the office without any planning to do. ‘Did you tell him about Georgina?’ she asked when he’d left.
‘No, Magda, I told you, you need to talk to her first to see if she wants to meet him.’
‘Fine. I will do that now.’
‘Fine, you do that.’
Catherine was counting the days until Magda went on maternity leave. Hopefully by the time she popped out the sprog she’d have tired of playing matchmaker.
She was back an hour later. ‘She will meet him.’
‘Really?’
‘Why?’ Magda asked sharply. ‘Is there something wrong with him that I should know about?’
She asked this like she owned the place.
Oh right.
‘No, nothing at all,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m just surprised that Georgina agreed. She’s usually very picky. Australians aren’t high on her list.’
Magda shrugged. ‘We have a good relationship, and I know how to talk to her.’
Implying that Catherine didn’t.
‘But first she wants to meet your hairy biker. Alis. So please arrange it.’
Something shifted in Catherine’s chest. ‘Why would she want to meet Alis?’
Magda smiled. ‘Because I have a plan. I told her all about Alis. She has even seen his photo.’
‘But facial hair is non-negotiable,’ Catherine murmured.
‘It is negotiable if he changes it. So she will meet Alis and then she will think Paul is
perfect.’
‘You can’t lie to clients, Magda. It’s immoral.’
‘I have not lied. Your notes say that you have talked to Alis about the beard and he would trim it.’
‘Yes, but Georgina doesn’t like any facial hair. There’s a big difference between giving Gandalf a trim and shaving him clean.’
Then something occurred to her. This might just be a way to hurry Magda into early retirement from the business. ‘You know what? Never mind. You go ahead and introduce them.’
Georgina would be absolutely livid with Magda for wasting her time like that. She threw a fit when a date put milk in his coffee. Catherine could only imagine what she’d do when she was really angry. In this case, she thought, it would be worth pissing off a client. And since that client was Magda’s responsibility, she’d be the one to get it in the neck.
‘I’ll tell Paul and Alis the good news,’ she said.
She rang Paul first. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Can I send you her details?’
‘Are you trying to suck up to me?’
She laughed. ‘Absolutely. I’ll email you now.’
Then she phoned Alis. As it rang, her heart began to race. She didn’t want to do Magda’s dirty work. Though it was, she told herself, all for a good cause.
‘Hello?’ Alis whispered.
‘Alis?’ Catherine found herself whispering back. ‘Is this a good time?’
She heard chimes sounding in the background.
‘My friend has come to feng shui my kitchen,’ he said.
‘Oh. Do you want to ring me back?’
‘No, that’s okay. He’s doing all the work.’
She imagined Alis’s friend sweeping bad chi and breadcrumbs from under his cabinets.
‘Actually,’ he said, still whispering. ‘I don’t need my kitchen feng shuied, but he’s just learning so he needs the practice.’
‘It’s nice of you to let him practise in your house.’ She wondered if a space could be un-feng shuied, in case he got it wrong.
‘He was trying to do it in public car parks. I felt sorry for him.’
‘Right. Anyway, I’m ringing to talk about another potential date.’
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