“But I kind of got out the habit.”
“What happened? Did you move to London and decide you’d rather be snorting cocaine off an art student’s taint with some prick who works for Morgan Stanley?”
Audrey boggled and goggled at the contortions required to do any of those things. “How would you even do that? Like, logistically?”
“It’s easy.” Jennifer shrugged. “London’s full of investment bankers.”
“Well, no.” Probably best to leave the taints and bankers in the city where they belonged. “None of that really. I mean, I did cocaine once because it seemed rude not to. But just off, you know, a table?”
“Audrey Lane, are you really telling me you did a Class A drug out of politeness?”
“I think politeness and wanting to fit in?”
Jennifer was laughing. “Oh my God, you got peer pressured like you’re a needlessly didactic subplot inGrange Hill.”
“Shut up. I’m sorry my cocaine use wasn’t cool enough for you.”
“And that’s why you stopped baking for people?”
“What?” Audrey’s head was spinning slightly. Too much sex and too much Jennifer. “Because I did cocaine once?”
“Wanting to fit in.”
“Mmm…a little bit. But more…” It was surprisingly difficult to talk about. Maybe because Audrey hadn’t realised there was somethingtotalk about. She hugged her knees. “My girlfriend wasn’t into it.”
“And she made you stop?”
“She didn’tmakeme. We were just very busy. And it didn’t feel very productive. And it wasn’t worth the—the…” Audrey ran aground, trying to describe the quiet wasteland that was Natalie’s disapproval. “The hassle?”
There was a long silence. Jennifer looked typically glowery but atypically solemn. And, for once, she seemed to be glowering at something that wasn’t Audrey. “So you stopped baking because of your ex. And then you decided the best way to get back into baking was to go on the nation’s biggest, most successful, and most competitive amateur baking programme?”
Put like that, it sounded bonkers. “I mean Iwasdrunk when I applied.”
There was another long silence. Then Jennifer crossed the room in two long steps, dropped to her knees on the cushions, and kissed Audrey’s very surprised mouth. “You are a bizarrely impressive woman, Audrey Lane.”
“Thanks?” said Audrey.
“Anyway,” continued Jennifer, setting some kind of kissing to dismissing speed record. “I should be off.”
“You could…not,” suggested Audrey.
“Aye. But I’m going to.” Jennifer was already stuffing her thoroughly scattered and somewhat rolled on papers back into her bag. “And we should really stop doing this.”
“We won’t though, will we?”
“No. Probably not.” Throwing her satchel over her shoulder, Jennifer retrieved her shoes and snatched one last cake from the kitchen. “See you around, Lane.”
Then she vanished into the night like hot, sweary mist.
Friday
In theory, the most important thing Audrey had to do that Friday, apart from distributing what remained of her lemon and blueberry cupcakes to a gratifyingly enthusiastic office, was write a short piece about a product recall on lasagne sauce at a local supermarket.
In practice, she had to do that, decide how much deeper she wanted to dive into Emily Branningham, and work out what the fuck it meant that Jennifer Hallet showing up at her flat for sex was just a thing that could happen now.
Half-past-ten-Audrey was pretty delighted about it. Because having cool no-strings hookups with an awesome sexy TV lady who said nice things about you made you a cool and awesome person.
Quarter-to-twelve-Audrey hated herself. Because while she was very much in favour of people’s right to have casual sex if they wanted to, being in the particular kind of casual sex relationship where it all happened on somebody else’s terms was not something she wanted to be okay with.
