And Audrey…Audrey just hung. Like she was buffering. It seemed like a really good time to leave, but also it seemed like a really terrible time to leave. Becausequite the philosopher, aren’t youwas such a fucking condescending line to go out on.
Of course waiting for Jennifer Hallet to apologise for anything was the platonic ideal of a waste of time so…
And then Jennifer Hallet glanced upwards. Just for a second.
It wasn’tsorry. Nothing in her expression saidsorry.
Almost nothing.
But sometimes, almost was enough.
Or maybe it was just that some deep and primal part of Audrey had to follow any story to its conclusion. Even one she’d been written out of. She put her headphones back on.
“Honestly,” Doris was saying to Wilfred Honey, “this might not be my week.”
“You must’ve made a fair bit of gingerbread in your time, though,” he replied, walking the fine line between acknowledging Doris’s seniority and just straight up calling her old. “I’m sure you’ve got a great recipe.”
Watching Doris and Wilfred Honey interact was like watching a competitive grandparent-off. She nodded warmly. “I do, love, I do. But it’s the piping.” She held out a hand, which, from what Audrey could see through the monitors, was still steady as a rock. “Old fingers.”
While Wilfred Honey was making small talk, Marianne Wolvercote was poking at Doris’s ingredients. “Am I right in thinking you’re using a heritage recipe?”
Doris nodded and didn’t elaborate.
“Well that’s lovely,” said Wilfred, who couldn’t hear the wordheritagewithout going into at least a bit of a reverie. “It’s interesting you see, Marianne, how gingerbread has changed through history. Because it used to be a lot more like a cake and a lot less like a biscuit.”
Marianne seemed to find it less lovely. “That’s what I’m concerned about. Isn’t structural integrity going to be an issue?”
“I’m just using it for the floor,” Doris explained. “The walls’ll be something else. It’s the decorating I’m concerned about.”
Wilfred Honey gave an encouraging grin. “I wouldn’t worry, pet, there’s life in us old dogs yet.”
“Less of the us”—Doris grinned back—”you’re young enough to be my son.”
Audrey followed from monitor to monitor as the presenter and judges went about their rounds and Jennifer flipped from camera to camera, keeping track of the whole complex business.
It was remarkable, in a way, how quickly the hours passed. Not as quickly as they would have if she’d still been competing, of course, but quickly none the less. There was something voyeuristically calming about the producer’s-eye view. About being able to watch each contestant attacking the bake in their different ways—Linda staring at her ingredients like they were about to bite her, Reggie measuring twice and cutting once, Joshua very much doing the opposite, and Alanis, after her conversation with Audrey that morning, looking more confident than Audrey had feared she would be.
“You talked her round, then,” said Jennifer, her eyes meeting Audrey’s as they both glanced at Alanis’s monitor.
“We talked. I think she brought herself around, to be honest.”
Jennifer nodded, only half paying attention.
But perhaps half was exactly the right amount. “You could have been nicer, you know.”
“Nicer about what?” asked Jennifer, just distracted enough that it seemed like a sincere question, rather than a burn.
“Kicking me out. I’d have gone anyway. I only needed, like, five minutes.”
Reaching up, Jennifer slipped her headset off again. “Are we having this conversation now?”
“No?” Audrey tried to keep her tone light. “I mean, we don’t have to. I just…I wanted to say it.”
For a moment Jennifer looked like she wasn’t registering a word Audrey said—then she let her head flop back, made a garbled sound of frustration, lifted her mic to her mouth and said, “Colin, tell Grace I’m going to fucking kill her.” Finally she turned back to Audrey. “What did she say to you?”
“She seems to want us to get together,” explained Audrey only slightly sheepishly.
“That talentless interfering hack.”
