It’s my turn to stop spooning. ‘Oh my god!’
‘I never thought he was the best dad – he was barely around – but he was a good dad that night. He read to you from his hospital bed even though he was barely comprehensible and looked like a platypus, and made up stories about you opening your own bakery.’
I wipe my moist cheeks with the dishcloth. She’s never told me that story before. I wonder how many other things I’ll learn now she’s trying to hate him less.
I don’t rest when the tins are safely in the oven, retrieving cinnamon, vanilla, cardamom and saffron from the cupboard.
‘What are you doing now?’ Mum asks, looking back from loading the dishwasher.
‘The poached pears, of course.’
‘Why, of course.’
‘We’re going to eat the whole thing,’ I promise, fishing the peeler from the drawer.
‘An inspired idea. But tomorrow, we CrossFit. Your bum’s already losing definition.’
Rude. I rotate so it’s not visible.
While I poach, she starts on the icing: coconut cream, icing sugar and vanilla bean paste. The kitchen’s infused with the irresistible smell of baking batter – familiar and sweet. We’ve exhausted the soundtrack of basically10 Things I Hate About Youwhen the oven timer pings.
‘I got an email from Celine Fournier,’ I say casually, carefully testing one of the sponges to make sure it’s cooked all the way through.
The Magimix attachments clank in the sink behind me. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I think she’s offering me a job at Sportif+.’
‘Minnie Me, that’s huge!’
I shrug. ‘I’m not going to take it.’
‘You should at least speak with her.’
‘I can’t go back. Not this soon.’
‘I think it’s still worth a conversation. She’s a good person to have in your corner. Also, unrelated, she has agorgeoushouse in Antibes. She invited us for Bastille Day once. A kitchen todiefor.’
‘Noted,’ I say flatly, taking the other tins out.
‘At the very least, you should feel heartened by her reaching out. You’re an incredible presenter. You just need the right opportunity.’
‘Which will be when? I’m not getting anywhere.’
‘It’s only been three days. I told you that timeline was a load of twaddle.’
The finished cake sits proudly in the middle of the table, a three-tiered giant glued together with fluffy coconut icing and topped with long curly shavings of orange peel, lemon peel, coconut and edible flowers.
‘It’s almost too divine to eat,’ Mum whispers. I can feel her side-glancing at me, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘Dairy-free, gluten-free, and no refined sugar. Practically the same as eating a carrot!’ The overenthusiasm in her voice is clear. I get it; I’m supposed to be cheered up. ‘Have you missed it?’
It’s difficult to say. I feel lots of things, and most have nothing to do with cake. I’m exhausted – it’s the longest I’ve been standing up since Sunday. I’m proud – it’s absolutely beautiful. But mostly, it’s reaffirmed that I don’t want to do this for a living anymore. Baking and running a business are both so personal, much more than presenting, and I can’t lay myself bare to the public like that for a while. It’s fun doing it for me, though. Interesting that this is the only area of my life where I’ve never needed a plan. It definitely won’t be over a year before I get my Magimix out again. ‘Yes.’
Mum hugs me from the side. ‘Atta-girl. Now, let’s get stuck in.’
The tears come from nowhere. One minute I’m staring at a coconut shaving that should move four millimetres to the left, and the next, Jack’s carrot cake flashes uninvited into my brain and I’m bawling. Great big heaving sobs that rack my whole body.
Mum rubs my back. ‘Let it out, chick.’
I’m sick of feeling like I’m missing a limb. I’m sick of my mind circling back to the same frustrating person. I’m sick of feeling like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. It doesn’t matter how much I schedule or manifest or create or distract, every day it gets a little bit worse.
