‘Callie. Do you know Callie?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We need to get some stuff with her and her family. We’d only need the front for an hour or two. You could stay in the back if you prefer to stay off camera. We’ll feature your business name prominently.’
Mae stared at him. She could practically hear her bank balance whispering,Do it. Her bakery name flashed on screen in some glossy TV montage… It couldn’t hurt.
But the idea ofCalliehere, of her voice floating through the shop again…
Free press? At the cost of her dignity? Which was worth more? If she was honest with herself, it was barely a question.
‘Fine,’ she said at last, grabbing a cloth just to have something to do with her hands. ‘You can film. But I’ll be in the kitchen.’
‘Deal,’ Neil said brightly.
When he left, Mae leaned against the counter, exhaled through her nose, and whispered to herself, ‘It’s fine. It’s fine. You’refine…’
Six
The makeup artist, Isabella, was working fast in the back of the van, brushstrokes soft and practised. Callie sat still, hands in her lap, watching herself take shape in the mirror in the tiny space. Foundation, a sweep of blush, a mist of setting spray. A version of herself that looked perfect.
She felt anything but.
Outside, voices rose. The crew wrangling equipment, Neil barking orders in that relentlessly upbeat tone that made her eye twitch.
‘You okay?’ Isabella asked absently, dabbing at Callie’s jawline.
‘Tip-top,’ she said between clenched teeth.
‘You’re in the end run of this thing, so I know it’s not nervousness. What’s up?’ Isabella asked.
Callie met her own eyes in the mirror.What’s upwas now metres away.
But she couldn’t say that. Instead, she smiled her best TV smile and said, ‘Nothing important.’
Isabella smirked. ‘If you say so, babe.’
Neil appeared at the van door, phone in one hand, another phone in the other. ‘Team’s nearly ready! Keep it warm but with sparkle. That’s your sweet spot, Callie.’
She nodded. Sparkle. No problem. Can do.
‘Just doing some B-roll now. We’ll do organic customer stuff before we bring in the fam later.’
Callie nearly laughed. There was nothing organic about Neil’s version of television; everything was staged, the ‘relatable’ bits polished until they gleamed like a botoxed face.
But fine. She could do this. Walk in, smile, say hello, pretend she hadn’t once known the temperature of the bakery ovens or the taste of the woman who ran them.
The makeup artist gave her shoulder a light pat. ‘All set. Knock ’em dead.’
Callie forced a grin. ‘Yeah, OK.’
Outside, the air was cool, which was great because Callie’s body felt like it had caught on fire.
She pictured Mae beyond the door. Head bent over a tray, hair tied back, that little furrow of concentration between her brows. The image was so clear she almost turned to leave.
‘Places, everyone!’ Neil clapped his hands. ‘We’ll roll on Callie entering.’
Callie inhaled, then stepped forward as the bell over the door gave its soft, familiar chime.
But the person behind the counter wasn’t Mae.
It was just a kid, maybe nineteen, awkward and earnest, wiping his hands on his apron. He blinked at her and smiled like he’d forgotten how to operate his teeth.
