They rounded the corner and walked up the street, past the mini-mart, the hairdressers, the butchers. Nothing had really changed in twelve years.
And there it was at the end of the street: the same blue-painted shopfront, though the paint was somewhat fresher. A small chalkboard read:Try our salted caramel shortbread.To Callie’s immense horror, she recognised the handwriting immediately.
The display window gleamed with neat rows of croissants, scones, and cinnamon buns dusted like snowfall. And behind the counter, through the rain-flecked glass, there she was.
Mae Morgan.
Stood with her sleeves rolled up, flour on her forearm, smiling thinly at something a customer said, weight shifted casually to one hip. She looked older now, sharper around the edges. Her eyes were a clear, steady hazel, framed by a scattering of freckles. High cheekbones and a strong jaw gave her face a striking structure, softened by the careless way her hair was tied up, loose strands falling freely.
She looked so completely, painfully herself that Callie felt faint.
‘Hey, why don’t we pop in here?’ Neil asked.
Callie felt like someone had asked her if she wanted to pop her head in a guillotine. ‘What?!’
‘You can greet the locals, grab a cake, that type of thing. Small-town girl made good shot. The audience loves that.’
‘Do we have to?’ Callie said too quickly.
Neil grinned. ‘Won’t take long.’
‘Yeah, OK. But, maybe later?’ Callie asked. What she really meant was, ‘Maybe never?’
‘Thought you’d like the chance to get out of the wet?’ Neil asked.
Callie’s mind scrabbled for escape and found something. ‘You know what? There’s a pub up the road that I think would be better—The Swan. I worked there as my first job. Glass collecting.’
Neil paused and then lit up. ‘God, that sounds perfect!’
Callie tried not to look too relieved.
‘I’ll run up ahead and get permissions sorted, you lot keep filming the high street. Callie, why don’t you try some wistfulness next to that war memorial?’
Callie nodded and began to walk quickly away from the bakery, the crew hot on her heels.
With any luck, she hadn’t been spotted. But the real miracle would be getting through this without Mae realising she was here. Callie knew it was probably ridiculous. She prayed anyway, despite not believing in a thing.
And then her atheism was vindicated. An old lady inside the bakery called out, ‘Ooh! What are they filming?’
And Callie, almost past the building, couldn’t help but look.
Mae was staring at her. Slightly agape, her brow creased.
Callie turned away and moved as quickly as she could, ignoring the sweat breaking out on her back. ‘Come on!’ she commanded the crew. ‘We’re on the clock, and I’ve got to be wistful!’
They had to jog to keep up with her.
Three
The kitchen table had been stripped bare for the lighting rig, the good cups exiled to a cupboard in favour of pastel mugs that wouldn’t glare under the LEDs. Neil had even rearranged the fruit bowl, muttering about a ‘pop of colour’.
Callie sat at the table with her mic wire coiled uncomfortably under her top. But it was nothing compared to the discomfort of sitting in this kitchen for the first time in twelve years.
Eleven-year-old Hannah sat beside her, hair ironed flat by their mother. Opposite them, Brian kept smoothing his tidy beard while his wife, Callie’s mother, Christine, sat bolt straight, wearing the look of someone getting their passport photo taken.
The boom hovered overhead, waiting to soak up the dysfunction that was, frankly, inevitable.
‘Alright, team,’ Neil said, clapping lightly. ‘A few warm-ups. Just chat normally. Don’t look at the camera.’
