‘Nervous, excited,’ Clemmie admitted, noticing the other contestants lining up at the side of the stage. ‘What if I get seasick?’
Dilly laughed. ‘The yacht isn’t sailing the high seas! You’re overthinking it.’ She nodded in the direction of the path. ‘And there he is, the man himself. Oh, and he’s searching the crowd for… you.’
Clemmie’s gaze followed Dilly’s nod, and the moment her eyes met Oliver’s, her heart annoyingly skipped a beat. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a subtle paisley tie, he looked every inch the polished host of a royal event. The suit hugged his broad shoulders, the kind of fit that spoke of custom tailoring and attention to detail. He looked utterly gorgeous.
As soon as he spotted her, a smile spread across his face, warm and genuine, as though she were the only person on the crowded beach. He raised a hand in a casual wave before gesturing for her to join the other contestants. Clemmie’s cheeks flushed, and she barely heard Dilly’s teasing remarks as her feet carried her forward.
As she approached, the scent of his aftershave reached her, that sophisticated blend of cedarwood and citrus, fresh and grounding all at once. She couldn’t help but notice the way hiseyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he smiled at her, or how the sunlight caught the faint stubble on his jawline, giving him a rugged yet refined look.
‘Clemmie,’ he greeted her.
For a moment, Clemmie was acutely aware of how close he was as they stood side by side. Her pulse quickened, and she prayed it wasn’t outwardly obvious. ‘Hi,’ she managed, her voice sounding steadier than she felt.
‘You need to join the others.’ He gestured towards the group gathered near the stage, his hand lightly brushing her arm as he guided her. The touch was fleeting but sent a spark racing through her, leaving her momentarily flustered.
As they walked, the din of the crowd seemed to fade into the background. Clemmie could feel her nerves ebbing, replaced by a flicker of something else– excitement, anticipation and maybe just a hint of hope. This was it, her chance not just to win but to represent her café, her family and her little island in front of the world.
A voice crackled to life over the yacht’s Tannoy system, cutting through the chatter of the assembled crowd. ‘Will all competitors please gather next to Mr Oliver Lockwood, who is now standing on the jetty?’
A collective cheer erupted from the beach.
Taking a deep breath Clemmie looked around at the crowd gathered along the beach. Familiar faces beamed back at her. Sam waved flags from The Sea Glass Restaurant. Becca from the Cosy Kettle shouted, ‘Go Clemmie!’ Ralph from the boat house was waving and Cora and Dan from The Olde Ship Inn had brought out all the staff with them. The support of her community wrapped around her like an invisible shield as she gave them a thumbs-up and followed the other contestants towards the jetty, where a gangplank stretched between theluxury yacht and the shore. It swayed gently with the movement of the water.
Oliver had moved towards the end of the gangplank and as Clemmie approached, he looked up, his gaze locking onto hers. He smiled, not the polished smile he wore for the cameras, but a softer, more familiar one as he leaned in towards her and whispered, ‘I recognise that dress.’
Clemmie felt a strange mix of triumph and uncertainty. Had she achieved what she’d intended, forcing him to see exactly what he had walked away from? The dress had been a deliberate choice, a nod to the past, a reminder of everything they had been, everything they could have been. But now, standing before him, with his eyes tracing the fabric, she wasn’t sure if she had won or if she had just opened an old wound in herself.
Did he regret it? Did he miss her?
She saw Fiona watching him carefully and for a moment Clemmie thought she saw a fleeting look of jealousy as Fiona narrowed her eyes at them both and moved towards Oliver, planting a kiss on his cheek. Her hand lingered on his chest as though she was marking her territory. ‘You did right nominating me for this competition,’ she murmured. ‘Kensington will well and truly be put on the map.’
Clemmie was sure the words were for her benefit, a means of reinforcing Fiona and Oliver’s shared history, but right in this moment, when she was here flying the flag for Puffin Island, it didn’t matter. She was just thankful to be here.
As the competitors filed onto the yacht in a single line, there was a nervous energy in the air, making Clemmie feel like she was a soldier heading off to battle. The crowd lining the beach waved enthusiastically, cheering and shouting words of encouragement like family sending off loved ones with hope and pride. Clemmie smiled at the absurdity of it all, going to culinary war armed with piping bags and spatulas.
The gangplank creaked gently under her feet as she stepped onto the Royal Yacht, and she gasped as the stateliness of the vessel unfolded before her. Polished teak decking shone underfoot, and white railings gleamed in the sunlight. Polished brass fixtures, perfectly coiled ropes and staff dressed in immaculate navy uniforms spoke of a timeless elegance that felt almost surreal.
Inside, the yacht was even more breathtaking. The main reception area boasted a sweeping staircase with a polished mahogany banister, leading up to a glittering chandelier that cast delicate patterns across the plush carpeting. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and golden-framed paintings of historic royal events hung between ornate sconces. Clemmie’s eyes widened as they passed a grand dining hall with a table set for around twenty, complete with crystal glassware and embroidered napkins folded into elaborate shapes.
The tour led them down into the kitchens, which were nothing short of culinary heaven. Stainless steel counters stretched endlessly, lined with every piece of equipment a baker or chef could dream of. Gleaming ovens, rows of copper pots hanging from hooks, and state-of-the-art mixers made Clemmie’s heart skip a beat. She ran her fingers over the edge of a prep table, marvelling at how pristine it all was.
The TV crew were filming as Oliver spoke. ‘Welcome to one of the kitchens on Her Majesty’s Royal Yacht. This is where the competition will take place.’ Oliver gestured around the room, his voice carrying a note of reverence. ‘This kitchen isn’t just a space for cooking; it’s a piece of history. The Royal Yacht has played host to countless dignitaries, heads of state and even royalty from across the globe. This kitchen has witnessed culinary feats that have left their mark in gastronomic history. Now, it’s your turn to leave yours.’ Clemmie’s eyes roved over the room, taking in every detail. Each workstation was a marvel ofmodern design, seamlessly blending the heritage of the past with the innovations of the present.
Oliver continued, walking slowly between the stations as the film crew panned their cameras to capture the room’s splendour. ‘This Royal Kitchen on the yacht is one of several strategically placed on board. The yacht is not just a royal vessel, it is a floating palace designed for grand state affairs and high-profile events. As such, multiple kitchens are necessary to accommodate the enormous scale of royal dinners, which often involve several courses served at precise times across multiple dining rooms. Some kitchens specialise in preparing delicate desserts, others in cooking fine meats or seafood, while a few are dedicated to catering to dietary restrictions or creating bespoke menus for each guest.
‘These separate kitchens make for an efficient operation, with chefs working in tandem but never overcrowding one area. The meals prepared aboard are designed to dazzle and impress– meticulously crafted to reflect not only culinary excellence but the importance of the occasion, every dish a work of art, a statement of diplomacy on a plate.’
Clemmie could imagine the scene he described. The chefs, clad in pristine white uniforms, sweating under the pressure of serving perfection to the most powerful people in the world. She pictured a head chef, an imposing figure with a sharp eye and sharper tongue, orchestrating the team like a maestro conducting an orchestra.
Oliver moved through the group and paused by Clemmie, catching her gaze. ‘Clemmie, you’re standing where the patissier would stand.’ He pointed to the workstation’s pristine marble surface. ‘This slab here? Imported Carrara marble, chosen specifically for its cool surface, perfect for working with delicate pastries and tempering chocolate. Some of the finest dessertsever served on this yacht were made right here. Can you imagine the pressure?’
Clemmie smiled nervously, her fingers brushing the cool, smooth marble. She could indeed imagine it… all too vividly.
‘But this kitchen isn’t just functional,’ Oliver added. ‘It was designed to impress. Notice the intricate woodwork along the cabinets?’ He pointed towards a row of custom-built cabinets with gilded edges. ‘That’s hand-carved mahogany, and it’s been polished to perfection for decades. Even the taps over the sinks are gold-plated, a testament to the craftsmanship of the time.’
A ripple of awe swept through the contestants as they absorbed the opulence around them. One of them, a young man named Jacob, raised his hand tentatively. ‘Is it just competitions, or do they host other kinds of culinary events here, too?’
Oliver smiled. ‘Sometimes the Royal Family want to entertain their guests with more than conversation, and this room transforms into a theatre of gastronomy, with chefs preparing dishes in front of an audience of enraptured guests.’
