Callie watched the ripples spread and disappear. She felt oddly lighter. She turned and walked away before Neil could say anything else.
Thirty-Seven
Perched on the edge of her sofa, knees drawn tight, Mae toyed with the idea of never watching the homecoming episode ofKey to my Heartthat was shortly to air. But that was worse than watching it.
She had to know, to measure the damage. Gauge how mortified she should feel for losing her temper on camera and spilling her secrets to the world.
As the opening credits rolled, horribly bright and cheerful, her stomach was churning. And then she had to sit through some other woman’s home visit first, a woman called Cara from Chesire who brought Sam to a huge country house to meet her new-money parents, sweating through too much tweed while Sam talked about how Cara captured his eye with her enormous heart. He kept looking at the place where she kept that heart, which was conveniently placed under enormous tits.
Though it had all been shot weeks ago, it was going out live-to-tape on TV, so Mae couldn’t even fast-forward. She had to actually watch the sodding thing.
But then it cut to Callie. With her family, walking around Westerleigh, bullshit, bullshit. Callie looked good, though, sexy despite the heavy makeup rather than because of it. Mae would allow herself to admit that, as a treat for being brave enough to face the episode head-on.
Then the camera cut to the outside of the bakery. The Morgan’s Bakery frontage flashed across the screen. Mae’s pulse jumped. Then there was some stuff inside with Callie’s mother talking about Sam in a tone that suggested she needed the toilet.
And here it came. Callie and Sam were bustling about a kitchen, chatting, flirting.
‘Uggh,’ Mae muttered involuntarily as Callie placed a hand on his arm.
She awaited her own arrival, not to mention her downfall.
But then she realised something. Something felt… off. She spotted a flour bin, and it looked… Why did it look odd?
And then a voice said, ‘That’s a good speed,’ and a baker appeared.
It wasn’t Mae.
It was some older woman, TV quaffed and smiling as though she slept with a coat hanger in her mouth.
Mae wondered if she’d fallen and hit her head and imagined a beautiful dream where she’d never agreed to the shoot.
But it was real. This was real. She wasn’t in the show.
Mae pressed pause, fingers shaking slightly, her heart racing. She replayed it. Again. And again. A different baker, a different kitchen. Mae’s presence simply erased.
She had three questions. Why? How?Why?
Why the hell would they go to the trouble and expense of reshooting something Neil had been salivating to show on TV? Callie had said she’d try to sort it, but Mae hadn’t believed her for a nanosecond. Did Callie have some sort of influence after all?
None of it made sense. And she had no one to ask for answers. She and Callie hadn’t exactly swapped numbers, despite the closure they’d managed to achieve with each other.
Hold on. There was someone five minutes away who might be able to answer questions. Callie’s mother. She might know something, mightn’t she? She wouldn’t sugarcoat it either.
But did Mae really want to ask? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? Wasn’t it easier to just take the win and get on with her life?
Somehow, no. It wasn’t.
Mae slid off the sofa and took a deep breath. Grabbing her coat and keys, she stepped into the night. Weeks of anxiety, embarrassment, and confusion had been replaced by a need to know what the hell Callie had done.
***
The door swung open before she could knock. Callie’s mother, Christine, was there, arms crossed, eyes cold and rageful.
‘You.’
‘Hi,' Mae said quietly. 'How’s it going, Mrs… Er, what is now? Did you change it from Price?’
No answer.
