Callie’s best TV smile came automatically. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello. Am I supposed to do anything special?’
‘No, it’s OK. Just serve me,’ Callie told him warmly.
‘OK,’ he said and looked right into the camera. ‘This is a bakery. I am working at the bakery,’ he declared.
‘Cut!’ Neil yelled.
The boy looked at Neil, terrified. ‘Sorry. Was that not right?’
‘You’ve been filled in about the filming today?’ Neil asked.
‘Sure. Mae said you’d be coming.’
Maesaid. So maybe she was here. Somewhere. In the back, maybe. Listening.
Callie’s chest tightened. She’d spent the entire morning terrified of seeing Mae’s face again. And now, suddenly, the thought that shewouldn’tmade her stomach sink.
Neil approached the boy for a quiet chat about how not to look like a robot, while Callie looked behind him, at the door to the kitchen.
‘You got it, buddy?’ Neil checked.
The boy nodded. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ Neil said with an insincere smile. He tossed a look to Callie. ‘Callie, grab a croissant or something, yeah? Smile at the lad, bit of banter. He just has to smile and nod. He’s not going to speak again.’
She nodded, moving through the motions, being as charming as she could muster while the kid nodded along and tried not to look terrified.
But Callie could barely keep her focus. She kept glancing at the door to the back room.
It stayed closed.
She found herself staring at it between takes, waiting for the handle to turn. It didn’t.
She told herself it was good. That it was easier this way. That she’d dodged something messy.
But by the time Neil yelled at them to ‘bring in the family’, Callie was struggling to buy her own bullshit. It was impossible not to name the feeling that sat inside her.
Disappointment.
Seven
Mae kept her eyes on the worktop, on flour and butter and dough. Noises drifted in and out—bursts of laughter, Neil’s instructions, the occasional scrape of something being moved.
Mae put on headphones and turned up the music.
Now and then, though, a sound pierced through. A voice that didn’t belong to any of her regulars. Not these days anyway.
Don’t start,she told herself, pressing her thumb into the dough.She’s just a person doing her job. You’re a person doing yours. Different worlds now. You don’t know her anymore. The Callie outside now is notyourCallie.
Still, she couldn’t find any ease. It was ridiculous. It had beenyears.
Mae moved an earphone off to check what stage they were at, hoping they might have already gone. She heard something clatter in the front—maybe a tray, maybe the till—and that Neil guy shouting, ‘Perfect! That’s the shot, everyone! Love it, love it, love it!’
Mae put the headphone back over her ear. Nearly over.
She turned back to the dough, trying to remember what she’d been making. The shape of the rolls had gone wrong; she’d overworked the lot. It didn’t matter. She’d start again.
