‘That coffee will be cold by now, and you’re distracting.’
‘Distracting? Me?’ He placed a hand on his chest in mock offence. ‘I’m just standing here, watching you at work.’
‘This kitchen’s got a strict “no spectators” policy, especially when I’m practising for the competition.’
Oliver didn’t budge. Instead, he picked up a stray spoon and examined it as if it held the secrets of the universe. ‘You know, if you need a taste-tester, I’m available.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Clemmie said, grabbing the spoon out of his hand. ‘This is serious business.’
‘Serious business covered in flour,’ he said, brushing a speck off her cheek. The gesture was so unexpected that Clemmie froze, her breath catching for a split second before she turned away, pretending to focus on melting the chocolate.
But even the chocolate wouldn’t cooperate. The double boiler she’d set up started emitting a suspiciously pungent smell.
‘No, no, no!’ she said, yanking the pot off the heat. A plume of smoke rose, and the once luxurious chocolate had transformed into a burnt, lumpy mess.
‘I don’t mind burnt chocolate and it’s a shame to let it go to waste,’ Oliver said as he delved in with the spoon.
‘I’ve got flour everywhere, burnt chocolate, and you’re just standing there like it’s comedy hour. You have to leave so I can concentrate.’
‘I love it when you get cross, you get this little dimple right here.’ His hand touched her cheeks as their eyes met.
He was inches away from her and suddenly every bit of her wanted to grab him and kiss him, to fall back in his arms just like before. But, thankfully, her head overruled her heart and she remained composed.
‘But you’re right. I’m not sure burnt chocolate torte would win the competition.’
‘You don’t say,’ she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. ‘If you think you can do better, be my guest.’
Oliver’s grin widened. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with greatness. Besides, watching you is much more fun.’
‘You’re impossible, you know that?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
For a little while they fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the radio and the occasional clatter of utensils. Still leaning against the counter, Oliver watched Clemmie closely.
‘How much does this competition mean to you?’ he asked.
‘What sort of question is that?’
‘How much do you want to win?’ Oliver pressed.
Clemmie considered his question for a moment before answering. ‘I’m not really a competitive person, not like some I can imagine in the competition. I just focus on doing my bestand hope that’s enough.’ She smiled softly. ‘But if I could have a cookbook with my name on the front, filled with the delicious recipes that have long been baked here at the café, that would be a dream. I’d especially love to showcase some of the recipes my great-great-grandmother created just after the war, when this place was first up and running.’ She paused, glancing around the kitchen. ‘We’re not about fancy frills here, or celebrities. We’re about community… about bringing people together. If I could put the café on the map and honour everything she did by letting the food do the talking, it would mean the world to me. And…’ She hesitated. ‘I love royalty. I’ve dreamed of receiving an invitation to a royal garden party since I was a little girl.’
Clemmie had always been obsessed with the royals. Her fascination started as a child, and she could remember sitting cross-legged in front of the television with her granny watching grand royal events unfold. Weddings, jubilees, christenings, she devoured them all, her young mind spinning elaborate fairytales about what it must be like to live in such splendour. She followed the royals on social media now. She loved the way they dressed, always so elegant yet contemporary. Even her baking had been inspired by them, and she’d once attempted a miniature version of the towering cake from a royal wedding, though it ended up leaning so precariously that Granny had dubbed it The Pisa Disaster.
Growing up, she’d imagined the palace gardens like something out of one of her storybooks, sprawling lawns with neat rows of hedges, fountains and bursts of colour from flowerbeds that stretched as far as the eye could see. She pictured herself wandering those gardens in a beautiful dress, nibbling cucumber sandwiches and sipping tea from a dainty china cup and hoping she didn’t trip over a corgi. It had seemed like the height of sophistication, a world so far removed from the quaint life of Puffin Island.
And now, here she was, with the chance to actually go there. The royal garden party wasn’t just a prize to her, it was the dream she’d carried with her for years. Winning The Royal Baking Competition with her great-great-grandmother’s recipe wouldn’t just be a victory for the café, it would be a personal triumph, a validation of all the hours she’d spent whisking, kneading and tweaking recipes until they were just right. She could already imagine it, stepping onto the perfectly manicured lawns in a dress she’d agonised over for weeks, standing among dignitaries and celebrities, with a sense of pride that she had earned her place there.
‘My granny has this old shawl and a brooch that belonged to Beatrice, the founder of the café. We always pretended the brooch was made of real diamonds,’ Clemmie said with a fond smile. ‘As a child, I’d drape the shawl around my shoulders, clip on the brooch and pair them with Beatrice’s tiara. Goodness knows why she even had one, but I adored it. I’d prance up and down the kitchen wearing my regalia and Granny’s heels, feeling like a queen.’ Her voice softened, the memory vivid in her mind. ‘She’d just chuckle and keep baking, right here, whilst I ruled my imaginary kingdom in a kitchen full of love and laughter.’ Clemmie paused, her hands stilling over the mixing bowl. ‘It’s not just about the torte or the prize. It’s about proving I can do it. That I’m good enough.’
‘You’ve got nothing to prove,’ Oliver said quietly. ‘It sounds like this kitchen has a lot of wonderful history.’
‘It does, good family memories that I want to pass on to my children.’
Their eyes locked.
‘It must be good to have your life worked out and know what you want. I always admired that about you.’
