‘I wish it were… different,’ she said quietly. ‘All of this. Her. Me. I don’t….’ She sighed and stopped talking.
Isabella’s voice, when it came, had lost its usual edge. ‘You can’t fix whatever happened in a few minutes in front of a camera. AndNeil,’ Isabella muttered.
‘I don’t expect to.’
‘But you hoped to.’
‘Shutup.’
Back in the kitchen, Mae turned towards the door for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron. Even at this distance, Callie could read the set of her shoulders. Mae Morgan was closed.
‘Have you tried apologising?’ Isabella asked idly.
Callie huffed. ‘For what?’
‘You tell me.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Your call, babe.’
Neil’s phone rang. He pounced on it like a starving man and jabbed the screen.
‘Any update on Sam?’ he asked.
A voice burst out of the loudspeaker. ‘Just heard from his people. He’s not coming.’
Neil closed his eyes briefly.
‘There’s been an incident,’ the voice went on.
‘What incident?’
A long, embarrassed pause. ‘Sam’s spray tan came out wrong.’
Neil was agog. ‘Wrong?’
‘Yes. He says he looks “bronze”.’
Neil inhaled slowly through his nose. ‘And this prevents him from getting here, why?’
‘Because,’ the voice said, pained, ‘his preferred shade isfawn. He’s currently at the salon having it lightened. But it’s a process.’
Neil stared into the middle distance. ‘A process.’
‘Exfoliation, buffing. I’m just repeating what I was told.’
‘Unbelievable.’ Neil let out a quiet, humourless laugh. ‘So he’s off-duty until his complexion stabilises.’
‘That’s the situation, yes.’
Neil ended the call and turned, scanning the bakery like it was a chessboard.
‘Right,’ he said, clapping his hands again. ‘I’m not wasting the last of my shoot time. Callie?’
‘Yes,’ Callie replied, dread in her heart.
‘You’re doing some kitchen stuff solo.’
