I’m not going to be just an option for Oliver Lockwood.If he wanted her… truly wanted her… he’d have to prove it. The days of her waiting around, hoping someone would choose her, were long gone. She had built a life she loved, a business she was proud of, and a sense of independence she cherished.
As the competitors stood chatting Clemmie plastered on a polite smile, determined to focus on anything but Oliver. But deep down, her heart burned with the awareness of the spark between them… one she wasn’t ready to extinguish just yet.
Chapter Nine
The grand ballroom of the Royal Yacht hummed with excitement. The ten bakers, including Clemmie, sat behind a long polished table at the front of the room, the perfect picture of professionalism despite Clemmie’s pounding heart and fluttering nerves. Velvet drapes adorned the windows, their rich colours adding a regal flair to the already opulent space. Journalists and photographers lingered to capture the moment and scribble in their notepads.
Oliver stepped up to the podium, commanding the room with his natural confidence and charm. The TV crew started filming and the soft camera lighting seemed to settle on him like a spotlight, emphasising his crisp suit and easy smile.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Oliver began, ‘welcome to the press conference for the annual Royal Baking Competition, held on Her Majesty’s Royal Yacht, this year moored at the beautiful Puffin Island.’ He paused. Clemmie noticed some journalists recording from their phones whilst others stood at the side of the room, their cameras clicking softly in the background. ‘What began as a private contest among the talented chefs ofthe royal household has grown into one of the most prestigious and anticipated baking events in the country. It’s a celebration of skill, creativity and tradition. For those of you wondering how these ten extraordinary bakers came to be seated here, let me explain.’ He gestured towards the contestants seated behind him. ‘The process is both rigorous and remarkable. The road to the competition began with a nomination, the contestant put forward by someone who believed in their talent– a friend, a mentor, a former teacher, a customer, someone who had witnessed their skill first hand. The application form, completed by the nominator, details why they think the baker deserves to be considered. Was it their natural flair for pastry, an innovative approach to flavours, or a family recipe that told a story, generations in the making?
‘Once submitted, each nomination was reviewed by a panel of esteemed culinary experts– renowned pastry chefs, food writers and industry professionals– who carefully deliberated over which bakers had the passion, technique and creativity to take on the challenge. Only those with the most compelling stories and undeniable talent secured a coveted place in the competition, where precision scales, blowtorches and the finest ingredients awaited their arrival.’
He continued, ‘This competition isn’t just about baking. It’s about telling a story… your story. Through every whisk, every fold and every bake, these ten individuals bring something deeply personal to the table. And that’s what makes this event so unique. Each creation is a blend of history, passion and the kind of creativity that can only come from the heart.’
Clemmie found herself holding her breath. The thought of her great-great-grandmother’s recipe, the torte she had chosen to bake, filled her mind. It was more than a dessert, it was a piece of her family’s legacy.
‘But that’s not all,’ Oliver said, his tone shifting, ‘Puffin Island has welcomed us with open arms, and we felt it only right to extend that same hospitality. So, for the first time, we’ve invited some of the residents of Puffin Island to join us here today, to have their own tour of the yacht and sit in on the press conference. I can confirm they have just finished their tour and here they are.’
Clemmie’s head shot up. Sure enough, the double doors at the back of the room opened, and a wave of familiar faces began to pour in, Amelia, Dilly and Betty leading the way, each holding a cup of tea. Excitement was written all over their faces. Clemmie beamed at them. She knew her granny would be beside herself to have a tour of the yacht, and for them to be able to share this incredible moment with her made her heart swell with happiness. Betty caught her eye and gave a small, proud wave. Amelia and Dilly were whispering animatedly to each other. Clemmie felt a lump rise in her throat. She hadn’t expected this. The sight of them, their unwavering support, was overwhelming.
A wave of applause swept through the room, and Clemmie caught her grandmother’s eye again, now brimming with emotional tears. She knew exactly what she was thinking:if only your great-great-grandmother could see you now.
The press conference kicked into full swing and Oliver fielded questions with ease, standing confidently at the podium. The reporters then turned their attention to the bakers and a journalist near the front stood and addressed Fiona, seated primly at the far end of the table.
‘Ms Fairweather,’ the reporter began, ‘you’ve been very vocal about your confidence in winning this competition. Could you elaborate on what gives you such an edge?’
Fiona’s perfectly rehearsed smile spread across her face, as if she had been waiting for this exact question. She straightened her shoulders and delivered her answer withtheatrical precision, her voice dripping with practised charm. ‘Of course,’ she said, flicking a loose curl over her shoulder. ‘It all comes down to preparation and passion. You see, I’ve spent years honing my craft, ensuring that every bake I create is nothing short of perfection. My bakery, Fairweather Fancies, is frequented by some of the most discerning customers in the world.’
Clemmie could almost feel the collective eyeroll of her friends watching from the floor as Fiona paused, letting the weight of her words settle, before adding with a coy smile, ‘And while I’m not at liberty to name names, let’s just say royalty has been known to indulge in a Fairweather Fancy or two.’
A murmur ran through the audience, a few journalists scribbling furiously, and Clemmie locked eyes with her granny, who wore a look of thinly veiled amusement, shaking her head slightly at Fiona’s audacity.
Oblivious to the scepticism, Fiona pressed on. ‘I’ve put my heart and soul into this competition. My bake will be something truly special. In fact,’ she said, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, ‘I’ve already prepared the recipes for the winning cookbook. They’re ready to go to print the moment I’m announced as the winner. That’s how confident I am in my abilities.’
Clemmie struggled to keep her expression neutral, though inwardly she was rolling her eyes. Fiona spoke with such certainty, such arrogance, as though the contest was a mere formality before her inevitable crowning. It was hard to take her seriously, though the reporters seemed captivated by her bravado.
‘I’m not just here to compete,’ Fiona continued, glancing briefly at her fellow bakers with an air of superiority. ‘I’m here to set a standard. This competition deserves nothing less than the very best, and I intend to deliver exactly that.’
The journalist nodded, jotting down her remarks, and Clemmie could feel the subtle tension in the room, the other bakers exchanging quiet glances that ranged from amused to mildly irritated.
Then, it was her turn. ‘Ms Rose,’ a reporter called from near the back of the room, his voice crisp and inquisitive.
Clemmie’s heart skipped a beat as she felt all eyes fall on her.
‘Tell us, Clemmie, what will be inspiring your bake for this year’s competition?’
‘It’s an original family recipe,’ she began, her voice gaining strength as she spoke, ‘belonging to my great-great-grandmother Beatrice. She first recorded this recipe in 1917, in her notebook, and it’s been a favourite in The Café on the Coast ever since. Entering it into this competition allows me to honour her legacy.’
A soft murmur of approval rippled through the room, and Clemmie could see Oliver’s smile looked more genuine than it had been moments earlier.
‘A family recipe with a story,’ he commented, his gaze flickering towards her in a way that made Clemmie’s heart skip. ‘I like that.’
The reporters moved on to the next baker and in what felt like no time at all the press conference was wrapped up with Oliver’s smooth, polished closing remarks. He spoke about the upcoming challenges, the high expectations for the contestants and the honour of having the winner’s creation showcased at the royal garden party. ‘The winner’smasterpiece will not only be served to every guest,’ he reminded the assembled press, ‘but will also grace the pages of the winner’s own cookbook, released shortly after the competition.’
As the bakers began to disperse, Amelia and Dilly were the first to rush over to Clemmie.
‘This is so exciting!’ Amelia exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. ‘You were incredible, Clemmie! Absolutely incredible and I can’t believe we got to see inside the Royal Yacht!’
