shop, taking her latest creation out of the oven. She inhaled the sweet, nutty scent of the pistachio layer. If this new recipe worked like she hoped it would, the chocolate, hazelnut and pistachio yule log was going to taste divine. She placed it carefully on a rack.
When the layer had cooled, she started to roll it up, adding chocolate filling as she went. To her horror, the pistachio section began to crack. Thick, ugly crevices– some parts were even breaking away. Her heart fluttered as she hurriedly double-checked the recipe.
Oh – Oh no
. She was supposed to roll the layer warm, not cool. She felt the stirrings of panic.
Joe Carmichael would be there tomorrow.
Joe Carmichael.
Katie saw him more often on her TV than she saw any man in real life. Not only was he devastatingly attractive, he was also one of the best bakers in the business, and well-known for seeking out and promoting new baking talent. Rumour had it that he liked to scout at events like their village bake off – that was why he squeezed them into his busy schedule. Katie had been thinking about this event for months; it was her big opportunity to be spotted. If Joe liked her cake, who knew what doors might open for her? The yule log she’d envisioned was show-stopping, but the one in front of her was falling apart. She checked the time – she had to be realistic, there wasn’t time to start again. She would do the best with what she had.
She returned to the pistachio layer and continued rolling it, adding plenty of filling as she went, then turned the cooling rack around and looked at the edible log from a different angle. It didn’t look
that
bad, she realised with a wave of relief, and once it was covered in chocolate, you’d hardly notice the uneven bits. She took a sharp knife and cut off a thin sliver of the cake to taste.
The harmonious flavours danced on her tongue, and the crunch of tiny nut pieces gave it an addictive texture. Now, she thought, feeling a surge of fresh hope – that’s really not bad
at all
.
Friday, 22 December, 11 p.m.
‘Everyone’s in bed, which helps,’ Rachel said to Bea on the kitchen phone. ‘You know how hard it is to get anything done with the kids around. Anyway, sleep well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Once Bea had said goodbye, she hung up the receiver.
‘Mum, are you still baking?’ Milly asked, as she crept into the kitchen.
‘I’ve nearly finished,’ Rachel replied with smile, turning to face her daughter. In a purple dressing gown with bear-paw slippers, Milly looked younger than her fourteen years. ‘I was checking something with Grandma about the recipe. Anyway, I thought you were fast asleep up there.’
‘Not a chance,’ Milly replied huffily. She crossed the tiled kitchen floor to stand next to her mother. ‘Dad’s snoring really loudly.’
‘Oh dear, again?’ Rachel said, absent-mindedly tidying away some of the cooking implements she’d been using.
‘Yes. You’ve got flour in your hair, you know,’ Milly said, dusting the white powder from Rachel’s unruly blonde mop. As she did, Rachel took in her daughter’s face – Milly was beginning to look even more like Aiden as she grew into her teens. Her hair was dyed red now, but she had her father’s dark, brooding looks and hazel eyes.
‘Thanks,’ Rachel said, shaking out the last floury strands.
‘So, show me then,’ Milly said, motioning for her mum to move out of the way.
‘It’s not quite finished yet.’ Rachel reluctantly moved aside so that her daughter could see the gingerbread house on the counter.
‘Mum,’ Milly said with a smile, inspecting the cake. ‘Wow. You’ve put a lot of sweets on there.’
‘Do you think I’ve overdone it?’ Rachel said. ‘I just wanted to make it special. There’s going to be some strong competition, after all.’
‘Are you thinking of the cake Katie made last year?’
Rachel wrinkled her nose, and nodded. Last year Katie’s winning entry was a Christmassy
When the layer had cooled, she started to roll it up, adding chocolate filling as she went. To her horror, the pistachio section began to crack. Thick, ugly crevices– some parts were even breaking away. Her heart fluttered as she hurriedly double-checked the recipe.
Oh – Oh no
. She was supposed to roll the layer warm, not cool. She felt the stirrings of panic.
Joe Carmichael would be there tomorrow.
Joe Carmichael.
Katie saw him more often on her TV than she saw any man in real life. Not only was he devastatingly attractive, he was also one of the best bakers in the business, and well-known for seeking out and promoting new baking talent. Rumour had it that he liked to scout at events like their village bake off – that was why he squeezed them into his busy schedule. Katie had been thinking about this event for months; it was her big opportunity to be spotted. If Joe liked her cake, who knew what doors might open for her? The yule log she’d envisioned was show-stopping, but the one in front of her was falling apart. She checked the time – she had to be realistic, there wasn’t time to start again. She would do the best with what she had.
She returned to the pistachio layer and continued rolling it, adding plenty of filling as she went, then turned the cooling rack around and looked at the edible log from a different angle. It didn’t look
that
bad, she realised with a wave of relief, and once it was covered in chocolate, you’d hardly notice the uneven bits. She took a sharp knife and cut off a thin sliver of the cake to taste.
The harmonious flavours danced on her tongue, and the crunch of tiny nut pieces gave it an addictive texture. Now, she thought, feeling a surge of fresh hope – that’s really not bad
at all
.
Friday, 22 December, 11 p.m.
‘Everyone’s in bed, which helps,’ Rachel said to Bea on the kitchen phone. ‘You know how hard it is to get anything done with the kids around. Anyway, sleep well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Once Bea had said goodbye, she hung up the receiver.
‘Mum, are you still baking?’ Milly asked, as she crept into the kitchen.
‘I’ve nearly finished,’ Rachel replied with smile, turning to face her daughter. In a purple dressing gown with bear-paw slippers, Milly looked younger than her fourteen years. ‘I was checking something with Grandma about the recipe. Anyway, I thought you were fast asleep up there.’
‘Not a chance,’ Milly replied huffily. She crossed the tiled kitchen floor to stand next to her mother. ‘Dad’s snoring really loudly.’
‘Oh dear, again?’ Rachel said, absent-mindedly tidying away some of the cooking implements she’d been using.
‘Yes. You’ve got flour in your hair, you know,’ Milly said, dusting the white powder from Rachel’s unruly blonde mop. As she did, Rachel took in her daughter’s face – Milly was beginning to look even more like Aiden as she grew into her teens. Her hair was dyed red now, but she had her father’s dark, brooding looks and hazel eyes.
‘Thanks,’ Rachel said, shaking out the last floury strands.
‘So, show me then,’ Milly said, motioning for her mum to move out of the way.
‘It’s not quite finished yet.’ Rachel reluctantly moved aside so that her daughter could see the gingerbread house on the counter.
‘Mum,’ Milly said with a smile, inspecting the cake. ‘Wow. You’ve put a lot of sweets on there.’
‘Do you think I’ve overdone it?’ Rachel said. ‘I just wanted to make it special. There’s going to be some strong competition, after all.’
‘Are you thinking of the cake Katie made last year?’
Rachel wrinkled her nose, and nodded. Last year Katie’s winning entry was a Christmassy
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