And now here she was, doing this show, humiliating herself, in front of Mae. This was her ironic punishment for being who she was. A selfish piece of shit who had never deserved the love of the girl who worked in the bakery.
Thirty-Three
Now
‘Mae!’ Callie yelled, jerking a thumb at the enormous camera that had somehow stopped existing in Mae’s peripheral vision for the last minute.
Mae turned and looked right down the barrel, realising what she’d said. The thing she had been trying not to say since Callie had come back.
You broke me.
Mae ran. She fled to the tiny staff toilet and sat on the loo, trying to calm her breathing and her pulse. But the memories, sat on for so long, were suddenly box-fresh.
Callie on the steps, bag already on her shoulder.We planned this. Together.Mae saying,I can’t choose you over him.
Callie’s face hard.And what am I?
Mae sayingI love you, like it might still matter.
Callie stepping back. Turning away.Not enough.
Somehow, time hadn’t softened any of it. But perhaps it shouldn’t. Her first and greatest love—and more than that, her best friend in the world—leaving her after she’d told her that her dad was dying. Questioning it, even. As if her dad would invent tumours to keep her in the village. As if he hadn’t doneeverything in his power to give her something better than he’d had.
But then he’d died. At home, because he’d insisted on it. Mae had run the bakery and the house and the morphine, and every day she’d watched the door, half-expecting Callie to appear in it.
She didn’t really accept that she was never coming back until the funeral. After which, Mae had gone to the ash tree and spat on it. As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t the first to do it.
And now she’d cracked the lid on all of that on camera.
Someone knocked lightly on the door.
‘Mae?’ It was Isabella, from the sound of it. Dry, but not unkind. ‘You all right?’
Mae closed her eyes for a second and then pushed herself upright.
‘Fine,’ she called back. ‘Coming.’
Whatever mess she and Callie had made between them, the ovens were still on, the dough was still waiting, and the cameras were still hungry.
But Mae had already given them more than enough to eat.
When Mae stepped back into the corridor, the crew were taking the opportunity to chat, murmuring to each other quietly. Mae didn’t know what about, but she could hazard a guess.
But this was still her building. Her name over the door. Her dad’s ghost in every cloud of flour.
She walked into the kitchen.
They were reset. Camera repositioned. Light nudged an inch to the left. Callie and Sam were back at the workspace, bowls straightened in front of them as if nothing had happened. Only the tension in Callie’s shoulders gave anything away.
Conversation dipped when Mae appeared. Every head turned.
‘There she is,’ Neil said, too bright. ‘Feeling better?’
She looked at the camera. The stupid red light was off for now, but the thing still felt like an eye.
‘I don’t want you to use that last bit,’ she said flatly.
Neil blinked. ‘Sorry?’
