The mention of theatre suddenly clicked with Clemmie. She noticed, for the first time, the subtle design of the room. In front of the workstations was a wide open space, where rows of elegant chairs were now arranged for the audience. Above the kitchen area, a series of arched windows let in soft natural light, casting a glow that made the room feel both grand and inviting. The walls, painted a deep royal blue, were decorated with paintings of historical maritime scenes, lending the space a regal charm.
‘During the golden years of the yacht,’ Oliver continued, stepping towards the centre of the room, ‘this very space would have been filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, spiced tarts and caramelising sugar. Guests would sit where the audience is now, sipping champagne and nibbling on horsd’oeuvres while watching the chefs create culinary magic.’ He gestured to a corner where an antique gramophone stood on display. ‘Music would play softly in the background, adding to the ambiance. This was more than cooking; it was performance art.’
Clemmie’s eyes flickered towards the chairs, already imagining the spectators watching when the baking competition began. The quiet murmur of anticipation reminded her of the grandeur Oliver had described. She took another deep breath, steeling herself. If the chefs of the past could thrive under such pressure, so could she.
Oliver’s voice rose again, pulling her back to the present. ‘Now, I trust you all filled out your forms carefully. You’ve told the organisers not just what you’re baking, but the story behind it, how it has been passed down through generations and what tools and ingredients you’ll need to bring your family recipe to life. Everything will be ready for you on the day and waiting at your workstation or on your individual shelf. Every ingredient will be chosen with the utmost care, from flour that holds a royal seal of approval to chocolate that’s been handpicked for its unique flavour. It will all be here, ready for you to work your magic.’
Clemmie’s hands rested on the edge of her station as she glanced at the equipment. The stand mixer, with its sleek metallic finish, seemed to gleam with an almost otherworldly promise. The knives in their holder appeared razor-sharp, their polished blades catching the light in an almost intimidating way. Every detail in the kitchen from the brass fixtures to the immaculate countertops was designed to inspire, but also to remind them of the standards they were expected to uphold.
‘And one last thing,’ Oliver added, his tone suddenly serious. ‘This kitchen is steeped in tradition. While you’re here, I encourage you to think of the chefs who came before you. Theyworked not just for glory, but to honour their craft. Let that inspire you.’
Clemmie couldn’t take her eyes off Oliver as he spoke, his words weaving a tapestry of culinary history that enthralled the room. He was damn good at his job, commanding attention effortlessly.
She thought about the last time she’d seen him in London. In that moment, she felt a pang of recognition. This was a man who loved his work, who lived for it in the same way she lived for her café on Puffin Island. He spoke with a passion that was as undeniable as it was inspiring, and for the first time, she let herself truly see it. Clemmie realised the last day they’d spent together she hadn’t considered how he might be feeling.
She remembered that last night in London vividly, though she’d tried to bury it. The way his eyes had searched hers, filled with hope and something that looked like desperation, when he’d told her he wanted her to come with him on his travels. She hadn’t hesitated when she had said no, unable to even consider leaving behind her life on Puffin Island. Now, standing here, watching him command the room with the same passion that had scared her off, she felt the sting of regret. Not because she had stayed– she still loved her café and her life by the coast– but because she had never really understood the depth of his love for his work. She had seen his request to leave her home as a threat to her happiness, not as an invitation into his.
The thought wouldn’t leave her head, as she stood there, her hands brushing absently over the cool marble of the countertop. She had told herself for years that if he had cared enough, he would have written, called, found her. But had she really given him the chance? She hadn’t called him either. She hadn’t written. She had let those seven days of passion fade into a bittersweet memory, convincing herself it was better that way. But now, watching him, she wondered if she had been wrong.He was so alive in this space, so utterly in his element, and she couldn’t help but admire him. More than that, she envied him, the way he had poured himself into his work, the way he had built a life that reflected who he was. As she stood there, caught in the spell of his voice and the energy that seemed to radiate from him, she couldn’t escape the question that had begun to form in her mind… had she given up something too precious too easily? She was beginning to think about what could have been. She’d buried her feelings deep for the past three years, hidden them under the daily rituals of her life, but they were there all the same. In this moment, they were rising to the surface, undeniable and raw.
Oliver caught her eye, his gaze lingering for just a moment before he turned back to the room. It was as if he could read her thoughts, though he didn’t say a word. Clemmie felt her cheeks flush, her heartbeat quicken. She looked away, focusing on her hands, but the feeling remained. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling– admiration, regret, longing?– but she knew she couldn’t ignore it much longer. Watching him now, she realised that the past wasn’t as far behind her as she had thought.
The oven positioned right in front of her looked like it had been lifted straight from a professional culinary dream. Its digital display blinked invitingly, and the chrome knobs felt sturdy and precise as she gave one an experimental twist. Behind her, a line of tall silver fridges hummed softly, their interiors stocked with ingredients meticulously organised and labelled. Everything about the set-up exuded precision, luxury and the quiet promise of culinary perfection.
Clemmie inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the gravity of where she stood. This was no ordinary kitchen; it was grand, and a little bit intimidating. She had practised tirelessly, but now that she was here, with the competition looming, the reality of it all was a little overwhelming. Clemmie adjusted the standmixer’s bowl, double-checked the oven’s settings, and glanced back at the fridges, mentally mapping out where everything she needed was stored.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Turning to her left, she felt her stomach sink as Fiona Fairweather sauntered into view and positioned herself at the adjacent station. Fiona gave her a slow, deliberate smile, which managed to be smug, sharp and brimming with unspoken superiority.
Damn. Of all the competitors, why did it have to be Fiona on the workstation next to her? Clemmie could feel the pressure mounting as the woman began fiddling with her own equipment like a queen surveying her domain. Fiona’s presence alone was enough to make Clemmie’s nerves skyrocket, and now she knew she’d be stationed beside her on live TV for at least two hours. Fiona glanced her way again, her smile widening as if to say,This will be easy.
Clemmie breathed in, trying to regain her equilibrium. She wasn’t going to let Fiona’s smugness or the looming pressure of the competition ruin this moment. This was her chance to prove herself, to put The Café on the Coast on the map, honour her heritage, and maybe, just maybe, win an invitation to the royal garden party.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Fiona was going to find a way to make this even harder than it already was.
Chapter Eight
Oliver’s voice rang out again, rich and commanding, pulling Clemmie’s attention back to him. ‘In about an hour, there will be a press conference in the royal dining salon, a chance for the media to meet you all. They’ll want to hear about your inspirations, your aspirations and your story– what brought you here. This is an opportunity for each of you to make an impression, not just as contestants but as the culinary stars you’re aspiring to be. So, use this time wisely to gather your thoughts and, of course, enjoy the tour of the Royal Yacht.’ His words carried a note of encouragement, but also a challenge, as if daring them to seize the moment and shine.
Clemmie’s heart sank a little at the mention of the press. Public speaking was not her strength, and the thought of being scrutinised by strangers with cameras and questions in front of the other contestants made her nervous. Puffin Island and her café were her heart, her soul, but how did she articulate that in a way that wouldn’t sound small or provincial compared to the grand ambitions of the others?
Clemmie trailed behind the group of competitors as their guide, a sharply dressed man with a clipboard and an air of quiet authority, led them along the gleaming main deck. Everything about the Royal Yacht radiated luxury, from the velvet ropes cordoning off restricted areas to the polished brass fittings and the discreet staff who moved gracefully in tailored uniforms. The afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows, casting golden light across the plush carpeting, and Clemmie found herself both captivated and feeling slightly out of place amidst the opulence.
‘Everyone keep close, please,’ the guide called, his tone crisp as he waved his clipboard for emphasis.
The film crew followed the tour, filming the competitors as they went from room to room. They first passed through the main salon, a sweeping room with velvet cushions, polished wood floors and rich golden curtains framing the windows and their views of the ocean. The chandeliers overhead sparkled like stars, their soft light casting a glow over the room. The guide pointed out the Royal Family’s favourite seating areas, and Clemmie could imagine them lounging there, the quiet rhythm of the sea as their soundtrack. As they moved on, the dining room loomed ahead, a long table dressed in pristine linen, set with fine china and silverware that gleamed under the soft lighting. The yacht’s history hung in the air, and Clemmie was captivated, but it was Oliver, walking just behind her, that kept drawing her attention. Every few moments, she could feel his gaze on her, making her pulse quicken, aware of the subtle tension that crackled between them both. When they entered the ballroom, Clemmie couldn’t stop stealing sidelong glances at him, noticing the way his eyes seemed to linger on her as well, the weight of his stare both thrilling and unnerving. As they went through to the next room, the guide announced the tour was complete and they had forty-five minutes until the pressconference. As Clemmie went to walk over to the trestle table set out with tea and coffee Oliver quickly grabbed her hand.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Let’s go and take a proper break and pretend we’re royalty for half an hour, before someone misses us.’ He led her away from the group and they slipped down the corridor into another room. Clemmie laughed softly, her nerves easing as she took in the opulent surroundings. The room was smaller than the grand hallways they had just left but no less stunning. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and an intricately carved table stood in the centre, set with crystal glasses and fine china as though awaiting a feast.
‘Royalty, huh?’ she teased, arching an eyebrow. ‘You’ve really leaned into the whole “man of grandeur” thing, haven’t you?’
He stepped closer, his eyes skimming her from head to toe before lingering on her dress. A flicker of something unspoken passed between them, and his voice dropped. ‘That dress, Clemmie. It’s not fair. You know it brings back way too many memories.’
The way he looked at her, intense, playful, and entirely too knowing, made her heart stutter. ‘That week in London is burned into my brain. And seeing you in this now…’ Heshook his head, the grin turning softer, almost nostalgic. ‘Let’s just say it’s a good thing we’re not by ourselves.’
‘But we are,’ she countered, though her voice betrayed her with its slight tremor.
Her eyes didn’t leave his, knowing something deeper was bubbling to the surface.
