‘You had them all eating out of the palm of your hand!’ Dilly added with a grin.
Clemmie smiled. ‘Thanks, you two. I was so nervous up there.’
‘Well, you didn’t show it,’ Betty said, joining them. Her tone was full of pride, though her expression shifted as she nodded discreetly towards the far end of the room. ‘Unlike some.’
Clemmie followed Betty’s gaze and spotted Fiona near the door, her expression thunderous. She had cornered Oliver and they appeared to be deep in a heated discussion. Even from a distance, Clemmie could see the flush on her face and the sharp tilt of her chin.
Intrigued, Clemmie tried not to stare, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Fiona looked positively fuming, her perfectly composed facade slipping as she gestured wildly. Oliver, on the other hand, was shaking his head, his stance defensive. He crossed his arms, then ran a hand through his hair in frustration. At one point, he threw his arms up in the air, his exasperation clear.
‘What do you think they’re talking about?’ Amelia whispered, leaning closer to Clemmie.
‘No idea,’ Clemmie replied. ‘But it doesn’t look like a friendly conversation.’
Fiona stepped closer to Oliver, her voice rising just enough for snippets to carry through the door. Clemmie caught phrases like ‘unfair advantage’ and ‘undermining my reputation’, though the context was unclear. Oliver’s reply was too quiet to hear, but his expression was firm.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the argument ended. Oliver shook his head one last time and turned away, leavingFiona standing there with her mouth agape. By the time he re-entered the room, his expression had transformed into an easy, friendly smile. He strode towards a group of journalists, shaking hands and making polite conversation as though nothing had happened.
Fiona, however, didn’t recover as quickly. She remained by the door for a moment, her face dark with frustration. Clemmie watched as Fiona smoothed her hair and plastered a brittle smile on her face before heading in the opposite direction.
‘What on earth was that about?’ Dilly murmured, her brows raised.
‘Whatever it was, she didn’t win,’ Betty said with a chuckle. ‘Oliver walked away, and she’s still fuming.’
Clemmie felt a flicker of satisfaction. Fiona’s confidence had been unshakeable all day, and seeing her composure crack was oddly reassuring. Still, she was curious what they had been arguing at. Was it related to the competition, or was there something more personal at play?
‘Do you think it has to do with the competition?’ Amelia asked, as though reading Clemmie’s thoughts.
‘Maybe,’ Clemmie said, keeping her voice low.
‘Well, whatever it is,’ Betty said firmly, ‘you’ve got more important things to focus on. You’ve got a competition to win.’
‘Clemmie!’ They were interrupted by a reporter. ‘I’d love to know more about the history of The Café on the Coast. Would you like to take part in an interview and discuss what’s it like living on such a wonderful island?’
‘Of course, and let me introduce you to my granny…’ Clemmie and Betty began to chat to the reporter.
Sensing Fiona was watching them closely, Clemmie’s mind lingered on the argument she had just witnessed. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it’d had something to do with her. A knot of unease settled in her stomach. She knew she’d have to treadcarefully. Fiona gave off the distinct vibe of someone who would do whatever it took to come out on top, no matter who got in her way.
Chapter Ten
Clemmie sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. The aroma of the freshly brewed tea mingled with the faint remnants of baking spices, and the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room. On the table in front of her lay her great-great-grandmother’s recipe book and a folded sheet of paper, yellowed at the edges.
To Clemmie, it wasn’t just a collection of recipes, it was a journal of love, care and tradition. Beatrice Rose’s graceful, looping handwriting filled every page, accompanied by delicate sketches of ingredients, flour sacks, sprigs of rosemary, clusters of berries, and dainty teacups. Clemmie smiled as she turned the pages carefully, her eyes settling on the recipe for Beatrice’s signature torte.
But then her gaze shifted to the folded sheet of paper beside the book, and her smile faded. The edges were frayed from being handled too many times, and the ink had bled slightly in places, though the words were still clear. Itwas a printed copy of a scathing review that had been published inThe EpicureanChronicle, a well-regarded food journal, shortly after Clemmie had gone into partnership with her grandmother.
The headline alone had been enough to send her stomach plummeting:
The Café on the Coast: Coastal Charm, ButLittleSubstance
Clemmie hesitated, but she unfolded the paper anyway. The words hit just as hard now as they had all those years ago.
The Café on the Coast, nestled on the charming seaside of Puffin Island, promises much but delivers little. While the setting is idyllic, the food lacks the finesse one would expect from a café with such a storied history. The lemon drizzle cake, a supposed favourite, was dense and cloyingly sweet, a far cry from the light, airy confections its reputation suggests. The savoury menu fares no better, with over-seasoned soups and limp salads, and scones that could double as paperweights leave much to be desired. It’s clear that nostalgia, rather than culinary merit, is the café’s strongest selling point. One can only hope that this establishment can either step up its game or gracefully step aside for more capable contenders.
The review had crushed her. Clemmie could still remember the sinking feeling in her chest when she first read it, sitting at the counter with her granny. Her throat had tightened, and tears had stung her eyes as she whispered, ‘I’ve ruined everything.’
Her granny had immediately reached for her hand. ‘Don’t you dare believe a word of that,’ she had said firmly. ‘It’s one person’s opinion and it’s not even true. They haven’t even had the decency to put their name to it.’
But Clemmie hadn’t been able to shake the shame. She had spent weeks obsessing over the review, rereading it late at night, picking apart every line. She’d worried not just about the café’s reputation but also about what it said about her. Was she truly not good enough? Had she let her grandmother down? Worse still, had she tarnished her great-great-grandmother’s legacy?
