The challenge for their third baketacular was—yet again—a simple one. Of course, that simplicity didn’t make Grace Forsythe any less loquacious.
“…two pies,” she was saying, “that would sate the appetites of the most gluttonous gourmand, one hearty and wholesome as a hug from an aggressive grandmother, the other as sweet and luxurious as a jacuzzi full of marshmallows. You have four hours, starting on three.Three, darlings.”
Right. Time to focus. No more obsessing about postwar lesbians. No more obsessing about Jennifer Hallet. It was week three. And just because Audrey was a filler contestant, that didn’t mean she had to act like one. A single really good bake was all it would take for her to go down in history as…Y’know, thingy, from season eight, the one that did that really good pie.Instead ofOh yeah, she was in it, too. It wasn’t the loftiest ambition, sure. But it was hers, she was owning it, and she was up for it. Not in a sex way. Up for the challenge.
When Audrey had first received the brief, she’d seen immediately that the trap was making two pies with the same type of crust. It was the sort of choice that would result in Marianne Wolvercote saying, “I just think you could have pushed yourself a little more.” Which was code for “You half-arsed this.”
At the same time, it had also occurred to Audrey that theothertrap was doing two different kinds of pastry, meaning you had to work at two different oven temperatures, and therefore make things too complicated for yourself. That was the sort of choice that would result in Wilfred Honey saying, “I like what you’ve tried to do here, but I don’t think it’s worked.”
Audrey had gone for trap number two.
She started on the sweet pastry for her blackberry and gingerpie first, because that would need to chill for a good couple of hours before it was actually usable whereas the hot water crust, for her savoury, would just need to stand for a while.
As she mixed sugar and salt, butter and flour, she tried to stay true to the promise she’d made herself all of eighteen seconds earlier. To be in the moment instead of somewhere that wasn’t the moment or was someone else’s moment. The only thing she had to do now was bake. And, ideally, bake well.
Except that never worked. While here-and-now-Audrey was trying to mix vinegar-water into her dough, five-years-ago-Audrey was standing in a kitchenette in silence while Natalie glared her disapproval, and last-night-Audrey was listening to an old woman spin a story about a girl she’d loved more than seventy years earlier.
For a moment, Audrey shut her eyes and it was 1947. It was right now. It was yesterday. It was five years ago.
“So what have you got for us, pet?” asked Wilfred Honey, who had appeared with Marianne Wolvercote and Grace Forsythe beside him while Audrey had been distracted with the decades tangling into each other.
“Oh”—Audrey shook the history out of her head and looked at what was in front of her—“well I’m making a traditional cheese and potato pie with a hot water crust pastry for my savoury option. And for the sweet I’m making blackberry and ginger.”
Marianne Wolvercote was looking at the potatoes with an air that hovered between worry and disdain. “Are you not concerned that a potato pie might be a littletootraditional? Youaresupposed to be demonstrating what you’re capable of.”
This was another two traps issue: Wilfred liked simple and homey, Marianne liked basil on strawberries. “I’m hoping the flavours will come through,” said Audrey, which she was well awaremeant nothing but gave her time to make a prepared answer sound spontaneous. “I know it’s not exactly flashy, but we’d have this on picnics when I was younger.” Time to let twenty-years-ago-Audrey take the reins. “I remember my mum and dad used to take me to the gardens by the priory, and we’d bring a hamper, and we’d have a cheese and potato pie and, well, I suppose it always tasted like summer to me.”
“And to me too, lass.” Wilfred Honey gave his trademark approving nod. “There’s nowt wrong wi’ traditional, Marianne.”
“No, but a potato pie will need to be very specialindeedto be of the quality we expect in this competition.”
With an avuncular expression, Grace Forsythe leaned forwards. “You’ll forgive Marianne, I’m afraid she’s being especially mean today.”
And yesterday-Audrey, in the middle of getting her apology rejected, who’d been tempted to say whatever it took to get a rise out of Jennifer Hallet, replied, “Did somebody jizz in her cornflakes?”
Grace Forsythe burst out laughing, Marianne Wolvercote raised a devastating eyebrow, and Wilfred Honey actually covered his mouth with his hands and said, “Ooh, I say.” From the other side of the ballroom, Colin Thrimp’s profanitidar pinged and he bounded over waving his hands. “No,” he squeaked. “No, no, no. No jizz cornflakes. Unusable. For, I hope, very obvious reasons.”
“Yes,” agreed Grace Forsythe. “I’m sure it’d curdle the milk.”
Wilfred Honey looked as serious as Audrey had ever seen him. “Oh no, that’s not right at all. You see Grace, milk curdles when it becomes acidic enough that the proteins start clumping together. But semen is neutral, or slightly alkaline, so it’d have the opposite effect.”
“Could you please,” pleaded Colin Thrimp, “stop talking about semen, euphemistically or otherwise.”
Marianne Wolvercote gave the tiniest of smiles. “Yes that’s probably for the best. You know, Audrey, you should be careful. Jennifer’s clearly been a bad influence on you.”
Yesterday-Audrey was unrepentant. Today-Audrey was deeply embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened. It just slipped out.”
“I understand jizz will do that on occasion,” offered Grace Forsythe, apparently in no mood to take instructions from Colin or to stop talking about bodily fluids. “Tell you what, how about we wrap this bit up from Marianne’s last comment?”
Marianne Wolvercote cocked her head to one side. “About Jennifer being a bad influence?”
“About a potato pie not being special something, something.” Grace Forsythe was making a rolling-things-back gesture with her hands. “They’ll want it for continuity.”
“A potato pie,” Marianne Wolvercote repeated, any trace of mirth gone from her voice, “will need to be very well-executed indeed if it’s going to reach the quality we expect from this competition.”
And yet again, Grace Forsythe leaned forwards supportively. “Don’t worry about Marianne dear,” she said. And then, with a grin, added, “Somebody poured salt on her cornflakes.”
* * *
