Clemmie had made countless versions of the cake, adjusting every detail until it was just right. Now, as she carefully boxed up the latest version of her torte, a wave of satisfaction swept through her. For the first time, she felt confident, knowing that this cake might actually stand a chance in the competition.
As she closed the cake box, she felt pride.
‘Are you ready?’ Betty’s voice broke through Clemmie’s thoughts, and she turned to see her grandmother standing in the doorway. Betty’s smile was encouraging. ‘Is that it, the latest torte?’ She pointed to the box.
Clemmie nodded. ‘Taste it. Be honest, tell me what you think.’ She pushed the box towards her.
Betty opened it, her eyes twinkling with delight as she took in the sight of the torte. Her gaze lingered on the glossy layers, the subtle sheen of the ganache, and the delicate finish of the gold leaf that adorned the top along with the slice of clementine. ‘This looks outstanding,’ she said, her voice full of admiration. She carefully leaned closer, inhaling the rich aroma of the torte. Taking a knife, she cut off a slice and tasted.
There was silence. Clemmie’s heart raced as she waited for her granny to speak. She was relieved when a smile broke on Betty’s face.
‘The balance of the flavours is absolutely perfect. You’ve captured the essence of the recipe, but with a touch of modern elegance.’ She pointed to the gold leaf. ‘It’s like a work of art and a slice of history all rolled into one. It’s made with pure love.’
Clemmie exhaled a breath, ‘You think so?’ she asked. Her granny’s approval meant everything, and the pressure of the upcoming competition was starting to feel almost overwhelming.
Betty smiled. ‘Oh, my dear, Iknowso. It has winner written all over it,’ she said, her confidence bubbling up with every word. She glanced at Clemmie, her eyes radiating that unmistakable sparkle of belief. ‘And I’m not just saying that because I’m your granny. You’ve nailed it, Clemmie. This is no ordinary cake. It’s got that special something, a real wow factor. I’ve been baking for years, but there’s something about this one… it has a real chance to stand out, to make a statement. Honestly, if I were a judge, you’d have my vote already.’
Clemmie exhaled. ‘That’s the only vote I need.’
‘But I suggest…’ She looked at the clock. ‘You go and get yourself ready. You have to be at the bay in forty minutes. I can’t even begin to tell you how jealous I am that you get a tour of the yacht ahead of the competition.’
Twenty minutes later, Clemmie stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy towel as steam swirled around the bathroom. Her skin was flushed from the hot water, and her stomach was churning with nerves. Towelling her hair dry, she padded to her bedroom and opened her wardrobe, surveying her options. She needed something that struck the right balance– professional yet approachable, polished but still her.
As her fingers skimmed over the hangers, she paused, her breath catching. Then, she smiled. There it was, the perfect outfit. A soft cornflower-blue dress she had worn on her very first date with Oliver. A simple yet elegant piece, it was fitted at the waist with a flared skirt that grazed her knees, the fabric delicate and light. The neckline, just modest enough, was accented by tiny embroidered flowers that caught the light. Would he notice? Would he remember? She traced theembroidery with her finger. Maybe this was foolish. She wasn’t looking for a way back to him– she couldn’t, not after everything that had happened. She had spent too long trying to block thoughts of him from her memory, to accept that some things were better left in the past. But still… there was a niggle in the back of her mind. Had it meant as much to him as it had to her? If he remembered, if his gaze lingered on the dress even for a second, then she would have her answer. Not one that would change anything– not one she could afford to let change anything– but proof that, once, it had been real. That she hadn’t imagined it. That she hadn’t been the only one who had fallen, who had believed, who had hoped. It wasn’t about rekindling anything. It was merely about knowing it had mattered. She exhaled, smoothing a hand over the fabric. It was just a dress. Just a memory. Maybe this was foolish, but she needed to remind him of what they had, of what he chose to walk away from, what he was missing.
She stepped into the dress, pairing it with pearl drop earrings that had once belonged to her great-great-grandmother before being passed down through the women in the family. They felt like a little token of luck. Her hair, naturally wavy, was pinned back on one side with a silver clip, leaving the rest to tumble over her shoulders in soft waves. As she buttoned the tiny button on the back of the dress, she wondered how Oliver might react. The first time he’d seen her in it he’d complimented the dress, made her twirl to show it off, then kissed her neck.
The memory of that night in London came flooding back. Oliver had taken her to L’Étoile Privée, a swanky members-only restaurant tucked away in Mayfair where the mere sight of its frosted-glass doors whispered wealth and exclusivity. No reservations were needed because the guest list was handpicked, and you didn’t just walk in, you glided. Inside, it was all polished marble, gleaming chandeliers and waiters who could probablycommand more respect than CEOs. Clemmie had nearly tripped over her own feet on the plush carpet, glancing at Oliver like he’d dragged her into a movie set.
‘Don’t look so scared,’ he’d whispered. His hand was reassuring in the small of her back. ‘Just act like you belong.’
‘Easier said than done,’ she’d mouthed, before staring at the menu. The cheapest bottle of wine was £200, and that was a vintage she didn’t even recognise. ‘This is absurd! It’s way out of my price range.’
‘You deserve to be spoiled.’
After the waiter poured the wine, there were the oysters. Clemmie had never tried them before, and when they arrived, glossy, raw and perched delicately on a bed of crushed ice, she’d eyed them suspiciously.
‘They’re an acquired taste but I can’t believe you’ve never even tried one, living where you do, by the sea,’ Oliver had said, his grin wicked as he demonstrated how to eat one with maddening elegance.
‘I don’t mean to appear rude, but they do look like something the cat coughed up.’ She’d thought she’d whispered but as a passing waiter stifled his laugher Clemmie knew she hadn’t been as quiet as she’d intended.
Trying to mimic Oliver’s confidence she’d picked up the oyster and slid it into her mouth. The briny explosion was unlike anything she’d tasted before and she’d gagged, not dramatically, but enough for Oliver to chuckle.
‘Swallow, Clemmie,’ he’d teased, his eyes alight with amusement.
She’d managed it, coughing delicately into her napkin before fixing him with a mock glare. ‘If I die from food poisoning, you’re footing the funeral bill.’
By the time they’d finished their decadent meal, including a dessert so intricate it looked like it belonged in an art gallery,Clemmie had been giddy… though whether that was from the wine or Oliver’s presence, she wasn’t sure. But when they’d got back to his sleek London apartment, the tension simmering between them all evening had boiled over. Her blue dress had barely made it past the door before it was unceremoniously discarded on the hallway floor.
Now, as she adjusted the same dress and tried to tamp down the flicker of old feelings, she couldn’t help but wonder: had it meant as much to him as it had to her?
Forty minutes later, Clemmie stepped out of the café to an eruption of cheers that caught her completely off guard. Her eyes widened as she looked around, stunned to see all her friends gathered at the gate, waving and clapping like she’d already won the competition.
‘What are you lot doing here?’ Clemmie called out. ‘I’m only going for a tour of the yacht! You do know I haven’t won yet, don’t you?’
‘Youwill,’ declared Amelia with a grin, linking her arm through Clemmie’s as the group set off down the lane towards Blue Water Bay. ‘The bay’s already packed. Everyone’s turned out to see the contestants walk onto the yacht. Even the press is there!’
‘The bay isactuallypacked?’ Clemmie asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
