Unless my French iswayworse than I thought, I think she’s considering me for the vacancy?
Excuse me?
After I caused chaos for Channel 3, refused to listen to instructions, and walked out mid-show? After I froze twice, called my boss ‘pathetic’, and argued with my colleague live on air for weeks on end?Iwouldn’t even hire me.
I indulge it for a moment and imagine myself back on the circuit. The energy, the pace, the travel. Standing in front of the camera. Working under legendary Celine. Learning about the French viewership. Using my language skills. Being employed by a channel that champions wome?—
I remember the job entails interviewing drivers, and that dream shrivels into a husk.
I’ll draft a reply later; time for a ‘Vampire’ break. It takes a minute (maybe three) to psyche myself up enough to release my phone from my trouser drawer, and I’m definitely not disappointed to have received no messages because I definitely don’t know that a certain someone will be finishing his workout with Georgie now to have an early lunch. I shake my head and play Olivia Rodrigo. Quietly, so Mum doesn’t yell at me. Olivia and I don’t share the same grievance, but I feel like she gets it. She’s wise beyond her years.
‘Minnie!’ booms a voice from down the hall.
Bloody hell, the woman has ears like a bat. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re not listening to Olivia Rodrigo again, are you?’
I turn it down so it’s barely a whisper. Why did I have to lose my headphones in this turbulent time? Haven’t I been through enough?
Footsteps thump towards my room. Here we go.
She appears in the doorway. ‘You need to stop listening to Gen Z heartbreak songs. All this angst isn’t good for you.’
‘I’m rationing it,’ I mumble.
‘Feeling sorry for yourself is unbecoming, and it’s not the Macklin way.’ She makes no effort to hide her judgement of the stains down my jumper, the used tissues by my side, the empty Milky Buttons packets, Maple curled up at my feet, ‘Driver’s Licence’ playing faintly in the background. She sucks in a bracing breath. ‘That’s it, I’m taking action. What’s guaranteed to make you feel better?’
Nothing. ‘Proactivity!’ Ok, I admit the air punch was a bit much.
‘Wrong. What’s universally guaranteed to makeeverywoman feel better?’
Iharrumph. ‘A spray tan.’
‘That’s right.’ She flicks her hair over her shoulder. ‘Because life is better bronzed. Now come on, get dressed. You look like your Great Aunt Matilda.’
When we return, I don’t feel better – I’m not even hopeful I’ll feel better in the next three working weeks, as my timeline dictates – but I do feel like I’ve been invasively scrutinised by a Hungarian lady wielding a tanning nozzle, and that’s better than numb. She said I ‘bruise easily’, and that’s without knowing the half of it.
Mum dumps our shopping on the kitchen table. During the car journey home, for the first time in over a year, I was struck by the overwhelming urge to bake. Actually, I wanted to eat cake, but I’m a fussy moose and I can’t take any more disappointment right now.
We fall into our familiar patterns. Mum turns on the oven; I dig out the Magimix and bowls.
‘Gen Zs don’t know what real heartbreak is,’ she says, connecting her phone to the speaker, ‘but Alanis Morissette does.’
‘You Oughta Know’ booms through the kitchen while we assemble the cupboard ingredients. I wish I could be furious like Alanis but it’s still too raw.
‘Is there a name for what we’re baking?’ Mum yells over the music, measuring gluten-free plain flour.
I shake my head mid-grating pumpkin. ‘No. We’ll make it up as we go.’
I look around for anything else that might fit. Grated carrots. Mashed banana. Desiccated coconut. Tinned pineapple. I don’t think too much about it, relying on muscle memory of which flavours marry well. We chop and zest and fold and stir, adding coconut sugar, honey, eggs and chopped nuts. Mum swipes her finger along the edge of the bowl, tastes the batter, and makes a deep‘mm’sound.
Alanis becomes Joan Jett who becomes No Doubt, and I try to surrender to this unabashed female power, but it just makes me feel like a pathetic idiot for sobbing over a stupid boy. I scrub the tear off my cheek with the back of my hand and furiously resume dumping the mixture into three greased tins.
‘Years ago, your dad was pipped to the post in Kuala Lumpur,’ Mum says, pausing her scooping, her smile hard to read, ‘so to cheer him up, we made a huge Victoria Sponge for him coming home. It was even bigger than this. You were quite little so you probably don’t remember it. Anyway, he never told me he’s allergic to almonds.’
I cover my mouth as she purses her lips.
‘He was so grateful, the stupid mug ate a whole piece despite tasting the almond flour,’ she goes on, ‘and we spent the night in hospital.’
