Which didn’t take long. Because Emily drove very, very fast, the afternoon sun catching upon the car like a starburst.
Since Leaving the Competition
Geraldhas, in his own words, been up to “Oh, you know, all sorts of things, this and that, can’t keep it straight.”
Johnis still teaching his sons to bake; one of them is enjoying it. One of them isn’t.
Audreyhas left her job at Shropshire’s second largest regional newspaper and is now pursuing other projects.
Jimis still making buns for the lads on his building site…but now they’ve stopped laughing at him about it.
Lindatook six weeks off baking after filming, but is back on the horse now. She still avoids macarons, though.
Reggiehas started a course in molecular gastronomy, and if it goes well, he hopes to see us onBake Expectations: The Professionals.
Joshuahas gone back to university, where his cupcakes are in extremely high demand, especially from his girlfriend.
Alanishas now finished her GCSEs. Between choosing her A-levels and cooking with her grandmother every Sunday, she’s also writing a column for BBC Food. She says her schedule is “pretty intense.”
Dorishas sent us a postcard from St. Moritz. She is having a lovely time.
Meerahas been inundated with requests for her cakes that don’t look like cakes. So many, in fact, that a book of them will be out next year.
Epilogue
Episode One
Tuesday
“Welcome,” Grace Forsythe was saying as she strode across the grounds of Patchley House, heading downhill now, towards the Lodge, “to my brand-spanking-new documentary series—”
“Can you emphasisespankingless?” asked Audrey from the sidelines.
Grace Forsythe stopped and gave her a hangdog look. “It’s mystyle,Audrey. Myinimitable style. Really, you’re getting as bad as Jennifer.”
“She is fucking not,” Jennifer Hallet told her. “She’s not threatened to fire you once.”
“Although,” added Audrey, “I’m beginning to see why you did.”
Leaning her head back, Grace Forsythe pleaded with the heavens for mercy. “My God, I miss Colin. I knew where I was with Colin.”
Jennifer Hallet gave half a shrug. “You could always go back toExpectations. It’s his show now.”
“After it went to commercial television?” Grace Forsythe gave a theatrical shudder. “No. No, I won’t hear it. I have never beeninterrupted by advertisements and I never will be.”
Aware that they were losing light, Audrey made an effort to get things back on track. “From the top?”
Grace Forsythe went begrudgingly back to her mark. “Welcome to my brand-spanking—sufficiently little spanking? Good—new documentaryWe Are Britain. Each week we will be travelling to a different part of the country and speaking to people about the parts of our little island story that maybe aren’t told quite as often as they should be. And our first episode starts here”—she stopped and indicated the ground where she stood—“on a site eagle-eyed viewers might recognise from a show that BBC advertising regulations forbid me from naming. Patchley House, in fairest Surrey.”
“She’s fucking good, isn’t she?” said Audrey to Jennifer, as quietly as she could manage.
“Infuriatingly,” Jennifer agreed.
Grace Forsythe went on with her introductory spiel, explaining a little of the history of the house, of its part in the blitz, and evacuation, and the history of the family that had owned it and had sold it. And the unlikely love story that took place there.
“Is…” Audrey began, tentatively. “Is anybody going to watch this?”
Sliding an arm around Audrey’s waist, Jennifer pulled her close. “They might. And if they don’t, fuck ’em.”
It was a sentiment that present-day-Audrey was getting used to. That two-years-ago-Audrey and ten-years-ago-Audrey were learning to live with, that fifteen-years-ago-Audrey might have understood all along.
“Yeah,” she said, leaning against her hot, angry, TV-producing, definitely girlfriend. “Fuck ’em.”
