‘No, but there’s a bed in there. Under my Avon.’
Callie grimaced. ‘You know I could always stay somewhere else. The production does budget for, like, atleasta Travelodge.’
Christine looked more than amenable. ‘Well, if…’
‘We won’t hear of it,’ Brian said. ‘This is still your home.’
Christine quickly changed lanes. ‘Yes, of course it is. My Avon can be shifted to slot you in.’
Callie sighed. She was stuck in this house. Again.
***
Later, in the small room that had once been hers, she sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by a small wall of cosmetics boxes and listened to the murmur of voices downstairs, the news playing low. The wallpaper was still the same—lilac with tiny white flowers. Her stuff, the things she’d left behind, were gone. No doubt binned within days of Callie’s escape.
The streetlight outside flickered against the curtains. Somewhere in town, ovens would be cooling, lights switching off one by one.
She told herself she’d face it, that she’d walk into that bakery tomorrow and it would be fine. Polite. Professional. She’d smile for the cameras and do what she was told, and Mae might not even be there.
She didn’t believe a word of it.
Five
Mae Morgan swore under her breath, staring at the latte remnants spreading across the floor. This was what happened when you pretended not to hear the two customers loudly dissecting someone from your past over Bakewell tarts. Fuckups.
‘Apparently, she’s a finalist. That’s why she’s here, for the home bit, you know,’ said the elderly lady.
‘I don’t watch that show,’ said her friend.
‘What a load of rubbish, June. Your daughter told me you’ve been watching.’
‘Only for Callie,’ June said quickly, cheeks pink. ‘I mean, no one from here has been famous since that man in the sixties murdered all those horses.’
Mae wiped coffee off the floor, rolling her eyes. Famous? That was rich. It was Mae’s understanding that all Callie did was flirt for a living.
But unlike June, Maereallyhadn’t watched the show they were on about. Or any of them. Not properly. She didn’t need to see Callie laughing her way through perfectly lit dates, probably saying all the right things and being the charming woman who’d once been a charming girl in this very bakery.
Still, the customers wouldn’t stop bringing it up. They’d chat about the programme as if Mae couldn’t hear them, sneaking looks to see if her expression cracked. She’d become the unofficial local exhibit.Callie’s former best friend and whatever else we suspect, right here in the wild.
Mae straightened the display case, adjusting trays that didn’t need adjusting, trying to calm herself. If one more person said, ‘She looks so fancy now,’ she might start launching muffins.
The bell over the door tinkled, and a man in a navy coat worth more than her oven walked in, grinning like he’d stepped straight out of an advert for smugness.
He approached the counter with purpose. ‘Hi. Do you manage this place?’
‘Depends who’s asking,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Neil Peterson. Producer onKey to My Heart UK. Mind if I talk to you for a minute?’
Her heart jumped into her throat. Of course. The universe wasn’t content just to torture her by rumour; it had to send a messenger.
‘You cantalk,’ she said.
He chuckled like she’d made a joke. People always thought she was joking when she was trying to be rude. It was annoying. People simply would not allow her to offend them.
‘We’re filming locally for the next episode,’ he said, gesturing around the shop. ‘We thought it’d be lovely to get a bit of local flavour, and your bakery is exactly the sort of charming, authentic spot we like to highlight. Free advertising. Win–win.’
‘To filmwhat?’ The question slipped out before she could bite it back.
