Glitter Gets Everywhere

by Yvette Clark

  Chapter Eight

  The Great British Baker

  Filming for The Great British Bake Off starts this weekend, and Mrs. Allison is going to an enormous country house called Welford Park in Berkshire where they make the show. I’m in charge of Sir Lancelot while she’s away.

  “It’s the first time we’ve ever been apart,” Mrs. Allison sniffs, burying her face in Sir Lancelot’s chubby neck folds as the taxi driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “I tried to explain to him that I’ll be back on Sunday evening, but I’m not sure he completely understands.”

  The taxi driver muffles a snort of laughter, and Dad tries to edge Mrs. Allison toward the cab.

  “Kitty, I pinned Sir Lancelot’s routine up next to the fridge. There’s a list of the shops that give him dog treats, so he won’t let you get past them without stopping.”

  “Come on, Mrs. A., you don’t want to be late,” Dad says as we usher her into the car and wave her off.

  “Sir Lancelot says good luck,” I shout after the cab as it turns the corner.

  “Right, off we go, Kitty,” says Gran. “You can bring Sir Lancelot on our fundraising trip. He might even come in useful to encourage dog people to make a donation.”

  “Let’s pin a daffodil on him,” I say and take one of the little yellow flower brooches out of Gran’s bag and carefully attach it to Sir Lancelot’s red collar, making sure he’s not going to get the pin stuck in him.

  Gran is raising funds for the Marie Curie Hospice, and the daffodil is their symbol. People wear them like poppies to show their support for the charity. Sir Lancelot takes a bit of persuading to get up the hill, and as Mrs. Allison had said, we have to stop at the butcher, the bakery, and the wine shop, where he gets a treat. Gran raises her eyebrows at the wine shop, and I’m surprised the grumpy baker gives out dog treats, but it turns out he also has a French bulldog.

  “A bit late for Saint David’s Day, aren’t you, love? Isn’t that in March?” asks a man after Gran waves a daffodil vigorously in his face.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m selling these daffodils to raise money for the Marie Curie hospice around the corner,” Gran tells him, giving him a Medusa-like look that could turn a mere mortal to stone. “My daughter Laura, Kitty’s mother, died there earlier this year. I’m not standing on Hampstead High Street to celebrate the patron saint of Wales. I’ve never even been to Wales, and yes, Saint David’s Day is in March.”

  She stops talking and waits while the man, who looked more and more uncomfortable with every word, reaches into his wallet and produces a twenty-pound note, which he stuffs into the collection box.

  “Many thanks,” Gran says cheerfully as he disappears up the hill at a rapid pace.

  “Gran! You made that poor man feel awful.”

  “Well, he gave us twenty pounds. If guilt encourages people to be more generous, then I’m not above taking advantage of that for a good cause. Saint David’s Day indeed, what an idiotic comment!”

  Her next victims are an unsuspecting Italian family. They raise their hands apologetically explaining they only have Euros.

  “I accept all currencies,” says Gran and stands there until the father drops a ten-euro note into her tin. She really is shameless, which she says is the main reason she’s the hospice’s top fundraiser.

  “I think I’ll get one of those mobile card swipers,” she says after the fifth person tells us they don’t have any cash on them. “Fewer and fewer people seem to carry cash these days. Remind me to have a look online when we get back to the house.”

  We walk down the hill toward home. Sir Lancelot, who is panting alongside us, doesn’t seem to be missing his owner too much. In fact, he looks almost cheerful in the fading light. Perhaps he’s relieved to be out of the kitchen, or maybe he knows it’s suppertime.

  “It seems like just yesterday that Laura was your age,” says Gran, smiling down at me. “You remind me of her so much. Imogen looks more like her, but your personality is so similar to your mum’s. You have her sense of humor and her sense of fairness. You’re a wonderful listener, just like your mother. I’ll never stop missing Laura, but at least I get to see glimpses of her every day in you and your sister.”

  I squeeze Gran’s hand, not sure how to respond. That’s why people think I’m a good listener, not because I am but because I often don’t know what to say.

  “Someone at the hospice told me that grief is like glitter,” Gran says. “If you throw a handful of glitter in the air, even if you try your very best to clean it up, you’ll never get it all. I think that’s true. I keep finding glitter tucked into unexpected corners. I suppose it will always be there.”

  I lie in bed that night pondering Gran’s grief glitter. It’s true. There are little piles of it waiting to be found everywhere.

  Mrs. Allison arrives back from filming the first episode, bursting to tell us about her weekend. She’s signed something called a nondisclosure agreement, so she’s supposed to keep most of what happened a secret. Gran snorts when she hears that.

  “It’s hardly the MI5, is it? Her Majesty’s secret baking service!”

  Mrs. Allison ignores Gran and tells us that her Saint Clement’s orange and lemon drizzle cake was a big hit, the technical challenge, where you don’t get to know what you’ll be baking beforehand, was a bit of a nightmare, but her signature bake of a trio of chocolate sponges was a triumph.

  “That’s probably more detail than I should have told you,” she says, looking nervously around the kitchen as if a team of lawyers might leap out from a cupboard.

  We sit down together the following week to watch the first episode. Mrs. Allison’s Zumba friends are having a viewing party, complete with cakes, streamers, and life-size cutouts of the judges, but it turns out that the Zumba teacher has a dog phobia, so Sir Lancelot couldn’t have attended.

  “Imagine someone being scared of my little boo-boo,” she says, scratching his forehead.

  “It is hard to imagine,” says Gran, examining Sir Lancelot’s flat little face. “He hardly looks as if he’s going to spring at someone, does he?”

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Allison continues, ignoring Gran, “the Zumba crew is together at Maude’s place, and I’m here with all of you and Sir Lancelot, which is much nicer.”

  We settle down around the television with a pot of tea and a range of baked goods. It’s Pie Week filming next weekend, so the coffee table is laden with Mrs. Allison’s planned signature bake of two pies, one sweet and one savory. Imogen and I both refuse to taste the savory pie because it has gross things in it like rabbit, pheasant, and venison.

  “I wonder if dog pie is a thing,” I say.

  “Kitty, don’t say that in front of Sir Lancelot!” Mrs. Allison squeals, putting her arms around him to protect him from potential dog bakers.

  “You could make a few pies out of him,” says Dad, placing another forkful of venison pie in his mouth. Mrs. Allison glares at him.

  “Sorry,” he mutters through the crumbs.

  Deeply regretting my dog comment, I pat Mrs. Allison on the shoulder.

  “I think this apple and plum pie is one of your best,” I tell her, which must placate her because she cuts me another large slice.

  “Of course, the biggest challenge in Pie Week is Paul’s constant checking for a soggy bottom. Having a soggy bottom could get you sent home like that!” Mrs. Allison snaps her fingers dramatically in Dad’s face, and he spills his tea.

  “A soggy what?” he asks, mopping his tea-soaked trousers with a napkin.

  “A soggy bottom. The base of the pie has to be dry and crisp. There can’t be any leakage. Don’t you remember that poor woman last year whose filling came out?”

  Dad looks alarmed and peeks under his slice of game pie.

  “Dry as a bone,” he says.

  I check underneath my pie. It is a bit soggy. Well, maybe damp rather than soggy. I decide not to mention it, since I don’t want to upset Mrs. Allison again after my dog pie comment.


  The contestants are introduced one by one, and suddenly Mrs. Allison appears on the screen, larger than life and resplendent in her lime-green M&S blouse and a pristine white apron. She’s whisking her cake mixture vigorously while talking to the two judges.

  “This is one of my favorite cakes to bake,” she says, “and the little girls who live next door to me absolutely love it.”

  We whoop in delight at getting a mention, even though she did describe us as little girls.

  “Well, they’re not the judges today, so let’s see what we think of it, shall we Lizzie?” asks Paul ominously as he moves on to the next contestant. “Good luck.”

  “Do we like that man?” asks Gran, eyeing him suspiciously. “Obviously we’re fond of Prue, but I’m not sure about him. What kind of last name is Hollywood anyway? Presumably it’s a stage name. What are his credentials?”

  “It’s his real name,” says Mrs. Allison, “I asked him. He was head baker at some fancy London hotel, and bread is his specialty. The crew makes lots of jokes about him looking like a silverback gorilla, which he has quite a good sense of humor about, considering.”

  “A bit too close to home, I would think,” says Gran. “You know, this is really rather a good show. I think I’ll keep on watching even after you get eliminated.”

  Imogen pokes Gran to indicate this wasn’t the most tactful comment, and we all go back to watching television and munching pie. Sir Lancelot has managed to snaffle some game pie and has hidden under the table with it. He apparently doesn’t mind eating Bambi. The episode concludes with a retired Welsh accountant named Rhys being sent home for his runny chocolate soufflé.

  “Nice chap,” says Mrs. Allison, “awful to be the first one sent home. He was terribly upset.”

  “He looked relieved to me,” Dad says. “It seems like hard work, this baking business. Now he can relax at home watching you lot sweating your socks off in that tent, while he has a cold beer and a store-bought pork pie sitting on his sofa. He’s not going to need to worry about having a soggy bottom!”

  Well, Rhys may be able to relax now, but I can’t. Not until Mrs. Allison is crowned the greatest British baker. I can’t wait to see the trophy.

  Chapter Nine

  Baking Bites Back

  Mrs. Allison continues to triumph in episode after episode of The Great British Bake Off, but when things go wrong five weeks later, they go badly wrong. We gather in the living room to watch the semifinals. Although Mrs. Allison isn’t allowed to tell us what happened at filming, her gloomy face and red eyes when she arrived home late last Sunday evening said it all. For once, there are no cakes or pies on the coffee table. Our next-door neighbor hasn’t baked all week and sits next to me looking glum and nursing a glass of brandy. Still, here we all are, staring at the television, hoping for a different outcome than the one we suspect. My fingers are crossed underneath the stretched-out sleeves of my sweatshirt, which Gran keeps telling me to pull up. Even Cleo joins us, sitting on the bookshelf so that she can keep a disdainful eye on Sir Lancelot.

  Today we have a new member of the viewing party, Josh, Imogen’s boyfriend. He’s always here these days, hanging out in the kitchen or living room, gangly legs flung over chair arms, and ridiculously large shoes kicked off in the hallway. Josh’s blond hair flops annoyingly over his left eye, and he’s constantly restyling it. He wears jeans that hang down, revealing white boxer shorts. Mrs. Allison says that at least they look clean. Josh doesn’t work well as Ponytail Girl’s love interest, who, in my mind, should have brooding, midnight eyes, and jet-black hair, in contrast to her golden beauty. He could be called Raven Boy. Nobody would ever invent a superhero called Floppy Hair Boy. Imogen thinks Josh is fantastic, though. Gran and Dad have had several heated discussions about the suitability of Imogen having a boyfriend at her age, which I listened in on.

  “She is thirteen, Eleanor, and he seems like a nice enough boy. They meet at Starbucks after school to hang out.”

  “Well, we didn’t let Laura have a boyfriend until she was sixteen,” says Gran.

  “You may not have let her, but I distinctly remember her telling me that she had her first kiss when she was fourteen with the brother of her French pen pal. What was his name? François? Sébastien? Anyway, it put her off French men for life, which was lucky for me.”

  “I told her father she was too young for that trip. The French girl who came to stay with us chain-smoked Marlboro Lights, with her parents’ permission. Imagine that! Of course, we made her smoke out in the garden, which she complained about to her mum and dad on the phone. I don’t think she realized I speak fluent French, considering some of the language she used to describe me.”

  On the television, Mrs. Allison lights up the screen in her aqua and lilac blouse, her dazzling TV smile in stark contrast to her gloomy face next to me.

  “I should never have worn that shirt,” she says. “I was going to save it for the final. I jinxed myself.”

  We watch as Mrs. Allison sails through the first two challenges of the semifinal. It’s hard to imagine what could possibly go wrong, but as the showstopper round starts, things begin to unravel, and the mood darkens. It’s awful to watch someone you care about struggling, and in front of the whole country, which makes it even worse. The television seems to be growing, and as Mrs. Allison’s face gets bigger and bigger on the screen, she seems to be getting smaller and smaller on the sofa. On TV, an ugly flush of redness creeps up her chest and neck, clashing with her lilac and aqua shirt as she begins to lose the battle with the cake. Sir Lancelot whines, turns his back on the baking show, and rests his triple chin on his owner’s lap.

  “I can’t watch,” she says, hiding behind a cushion. “That gateau Saint Honoré was a triumph when I made it for you, Kitty, wasn’t it? A triumph.” She sounds as if she’s going to cry.

  “It was perfect,” I say, uncrossing my fingers and giving her hand a little squeeze.

  “And Saint Honoré is the patron saint of baking,” she wails.

  “Have another drink, Elizabeth,” says Gran, pouring all the grown-ups a generous slug of brandy.

  The judging begins, and when it’s Mrs. Allison’s turn to carry her cake up to the judging table, we all hold our breath.

  “Well, Lizzie,” says Paul. “What happened here?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “The puff pastry wasn’t right, and everything went downhill from there. I’m sorry. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever made!” Mrs. Allison is clearly on the verge of tears.

  Sir Lancelot turns his head and growls at Paul Hollywood, before settling his chins back down on Mrs. Allison’s knee. I know how he feels.

  “Don’t upset yourself, dear,” says Prue. “It does look lovely, although, as you say, the pastry is all wrong. I must say we have come to expect more from you, Elizabeth. This is quite a disappointment.”

  “I’ve always found someone saying something is a disappointment to be unspeakably patronizing,” says Gran, refilling Mrs. Allison’s glass. “Girls, doesn’t she remind you of your headmistress?”

  “Oh my God, yes!” says Imogen. “That is so Mrs. Brooks. ‘Imogen, dear, not only have you let yourself down by wearing lip gloss, you have let down the whole community here at Haverstock Girls’ School. I’m not angry, I’m disappointed.’”

  “Shhhh,” I hiss. “I’m trying to watch.”

  As the judges deliberate, it becomes clear that Mrs. Allison is at risk. The only other contestant who had a bad round is a smug gray-haired man called Graham, who is sporting a red and white polka-dot bow tie. According to the judges, his puff pastry was flakier.

  “However impressive Lizzie’s baking has been this season, we can’t put someone through to the final who hasn’t mastered a full puff pastry,” says Paul into the camera.

  Mrs. Allison tries and fails to hide a sob.

  “I made choux pastry and puff. None of the other contestants had two types of pastry.”

  “Let’s switch it off,”
says Gran, briskly picking up the remote control. “I don’t care who wins if Elizabeth isn’t part of the show.”

  “Graham wins,” Mrs. Allison says sadly.

  “Well, there you go then, I never did meet a Graham I liked,” says Gran and clinks her glass with Mrs. Allison’s.

  And so ends Mrs. Allison’s baking dream and the fifty or so minutes each week when we sat down together and almost felt like a real family again. Now, what are we going to do?

  Chapter Ten

  The Big Apple

  “Girls, I have something I want to discuss with you,” Dad calls up the stairs. In my experience when a parent has something they would like to discuss with you, it almost certainly means they are about to tell you something that a) you are not going to like, and b) they have already decided, so instead of saying “something to discuss with you,” they should say “something to tell you.”

  “What’s up?” says Imogen. “I’m in the middle of getting ready to see Josh.”

  I study my sister’s face, and she is not kidding when she says she’s halfway through her beauty routine. She has one perfectly smoky eye carefully shaded from Elephant’s Breath—color 229—to Dove Tale—number 267—and ending in Down Pipe—color number 26. The result is an exquisite black eye, which looks as if she has been hit in the face by a volleyball, and the bruising created this stunning result that a Hollywood actress would pay a fortune for. The other eye is unadorned. I like her makeup-free eye the best. Imogen is one of those people who wakes up looking like the Teen Vogue model for the “barely there” makeup feature. When I wake up with my hair sticking out on one side, my cheek creased with an angry line of red from the edge of my pillow and half-closed puffy eyes, I look like the “barely cares” feature.

  I drag my gaze away from Imogen’s mismatched eyes and study Dad. He is rocking from foot to foot, managing to look excited and nervous at the same time. I have a feeling that what he is about to say is not going to be good—not good at all.