‘And from right here on Puffin Island, we have Clemmie Rose, co-owner of the beloved Café on the Coast,’ he said, his voice steadying her. ‘Clemmie, why don’t you tell us a little about what you’ll be baking today and the story behind it?’
Clemmie cleared her throat, her nerves evident but not overwhelming as she stepped forward. She glanced at the audience, her granny’s proud face beaming back at her.
‘Thank you, Oliver,’ she began. ‘Today, I’ll be baking a torte that’s very close to my heart. It’s a family recipe, passed down from my great-great-grandmother, Beatrice, who was the founder of The Café on the Coast. She started baking this torte around 1917 and it’s been a favourite of the locals ever since. What makes this torte special isn’t just therecipe itself, it’s the story behind it. Beatrice’s home was bombed in the war and both her parents perished in the blast, but she found solace in opening up the café and creating a place where people could come together, whether it was for celebrations, comfort or simply to share a moment. This torte represents that spirit of connection, community, friends and love.’
She paused, glancing down at her apron before looking back up. ‘Wearing my great-great-grandmother’s apron today feels like having a piece of her here with me, guiding me through this moment. I hope I can do her proud.’
The judges murmured appreciatively, and Oliver’s smile deepened as he nodded. ‘Well, Clemmie, I think I speak for everyone here when I say we can’t wait to see your creation.’
The cameras panned the audience before swivelling back towards Oliver. ‘Before the competition begins the judges have a few pearls of wisdom to share.’ Oliver stepped aside to allow the judges to address the contestants. Sir Gregory Whitcomb was the first to rise, his presence commanding yet kind. He folded his hands neatly in front of him and offered a grandfatherly smile.
‘Baking,’ he began, his voice deep, ‘is as much about heart as it is about technique. Each of you has earned your place here today, and now is the time to trust your instincts and let your passion guide you. Remember, a truly memorable bake tells a story… your story.’
Next, Margot Hastings stood, her elegant poise radiating sophistication. ‘Presentation is important,’ she said, her crisp accent making each word sound deliberate. ‘But it’s only one layer. Texture, flavour and creativity are what elevate a bake from good to extraordinary. Show us who you are in every bite.’
Finally, Dominic Hargrove rose from his chair, leaning casually against the table as if he were chatting with old friends. ‘Don’t overthink it,’ he said, his grin disarming. ‘You’ve got all the skills you need. Now’s the time to enjoy the process. Have fun, take risks and give us something we’ll never forget. Oh, and one more thing… don’t forget to switch your oven on. It makes all the difference.’
Everyone laughed.
Oliver stepped forward, the room falling silent as he raised his microphone. Behind him, a grand clock mounted on the wall displayed the countdown timer, its gilded hands ready to tick away the precious minutes. ‘Bakers, the moment has arrived,’ he announced, his voice steady but filled with excitement. ‘Youhave two hours to create something extraordinary. This is your time to shine, to pour your hearts and skills into your bakes. On my count… three… two… one… Let’s get baking!’
The room erupted into applause as the contestants reached for their bowls, measuring cups and ingredients. Clemmie took a deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened her great-great-grandmother’s cherished torte recipe. Of course, she knew the recipe off by heart, but Clemmie wasn’t leaving anything to chance. The handwritten words on the page seemed to whisper encouragement, reminding her of the countless times Betty had told her,Add a touch of yourself to every recipe, that’s what makes it special.
Clemmie dared to glance in Fiona’s direction, only to find the other woman smirking, her expression practically dripping with condescension. Clemmie briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself.Focus. For the next two hours, it’s just me and the recipe.After making the sponge, Clemmie placed a pan on the stove, carefully adding double cream, sugar and a tiny pinch of sea salt. As the mixture began to warm, she picked up a bright, fragrant clementine and started zesting it. Fine ribbons of citrus peel curled into the cream, releasing a fresh, tangy aroma that instantly made her think of summer afternoons in the kitchen in The Café on the Coast. Clemmie worked methodically, her focus sharp, but she remained aware of her surroundings. Fiona hovered nearby, too close to be accidental, her presence a prickle at the edge of Clemmie’s awareness.
‘You’re so precise,’ Fiona remarked lightly, watching as Clemmie measured out sugar. She laughed, a touch too airily for it to feel natural, before shifting just enough for her elbow to nudge Clemmie’s sugar bowl. It didn’t tip dramatically, just rocked on its base, but it sent a fine dusting of sugar onto the counter.
‘Oops! My fault,’ Fiona said quickly, swiping a hand across the surface as if to help, except her ‘help’ only sent more sugar cascading onto the floor.
Clemmie pressed her lips together. It was nothing catastrophic, but enough to be irritating. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she murmured, brushing the excess away and swiftly remeasuring the sugar.
She returned her attention to her chocolate mixture, stirring in cubes of butter as the scent of rich cocoa bloomed through the air. The smooth, velvety sheen told her she was on track. Picking up a clementine, she sliced it open and squeezed, the citrus adding a fresh depth of flavour to the chocolate.
Next, Clemmie heard Fiona sigh theatrically. ‘Oh dear,’ she muttered. Clemmie glanced up in time to see her fumble with a piping bag, a sudden squeeze sending its contents splattering across Clemmie’s workstation. Fiona let out a small, flustered laugh. ‘I’m so sorry, it seems to have a mind of its own.’
Clemmie wasn’t fooled. She ducked her head, choosing not to engage, but the commotion had drawn the attention of the floor manager and even one of the judges. Fiona flashed them an apologetic smile before returning to her own work.
Shaking off the interruption, Clemmie whisked in the cold milk, the mixture turning perfectly smooth and glossy. Almost there. She checked the sponge in the oven, expecting to see it rising, but instead, a jolt of unease shot through her. The oven light was off. Her heart stuttered. The dial, which she was certain had been correctly set, had been turned just slightly. Not off completely, but low enough that the temperature had dropped dangerously.
‘Something wrong?’ Fiona asked, her voice light, innocent.
Clemmie inhaled. ‘No, it’s fine.’
She adjusted the oven quickly, knowing she had no choice but to push forward. If Fiona thought she could rattle her, she had another think coming.
With twenty minutes to spare Clemmie’s hands were shaking lightly as she piped delicate swirls of cream around the edges of the torte. She garnished it with thin slices of candied clementine peel, which shimmered like tiny jewels, and the finishing touch, an elegant gold leaf.
As she stepped back to survey her work, Clemmie felt a surge of pride. Despite Fiona’s discreet sabotage attempts, she had pulled it off. The torte was exactly as her great-great-grandmother had described; smooth, rich and ready to cut like butter.
With five minutes left until the final countdown, Clemmie stood tall, ready to present her creation. The competition wasn’t over yet, but Clemmie knew one thing for certain: she wouldn’t let anyone, or any sabotage, dim her light.
Chapter Thirteen
When the buzzer sounded, signalling the end of the competition, Clemmie wiped her brow and stepped back from her station. Exhaustion warred with triumph as she admired her chocolate and clementine torte. Beside her, Fiona’s eight-layer Pearlescent Pistachio Opera Cake teetered precariously, the pistachio-green layers glinting like gemstones.
Next, each of the ten bakes was plated and carefully carried to a long table near the judges. Each had a name card beside it, ensuring no confusion when the judging began.
Then came the clean-up. A fifteen-minute countdown appeared on the screen above the galley, and with practised efficiency the bakers sprang into action. Mixing bowls were put away, stray smears of ganache were wiped from countertops, piping bags were tossed into bins. The scent of caramelised sugar and toasted nuts still lingered in the air as cloths swiped over stainless steel, leaving everything gleaming as though the chaos of the past two hours had never happened.
