As the last few crumbs were brushed away, the show cut to a commercial break. Clemmie exhaled deeply, shoulders back asshe glanced towards the audience. Her granny and friends sat in the front row, beaming at her with their fingers crossed in encouragement. A swell of pleasure filled her chest; no matter the outcome, she wasn’t alone in this. Her thoughts turned to all her friends who were sitting outside on the beach watching it on the big screen. She hoped she’d done everyone proud.
The stage lights flickered back to full brightness and the murmur of the crowd died down as a hush of anticipation settled over the room.
The ten contestants now stood by their creations. The audience leaned forward in their seats and the cameras zoomed in on each baker’s masterpiece. Clemmie stole a glance down the line. Fiona, as always, wore an air of smug confidence, her smirk as sharp as the knife she’d used to trim her cake layers earlier. Clemmie’s gaze snapped back to her own torte. She had done her best; now it was up to the judges.
Oliver stepped forward, his usual charm amplified by the dazzling lights. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, his voice resonating through the room, ‘the competition is over and the time has come. Our esteemed judges will now begin their tasting journey. Let’s see how our bakers have risen to the occasion!’
The crowd burst into polite applause as the three judges stood. Oliver escorted the judges to the first station, and the tension in the room thickened. Each contestant introduced their creation with a mix of pride and trepidation and then the judges tasted, murmured, jotted notes and occasionally exchanged pointed looks that sent ripples of anxiety down the line.
When they reached Clemmie, her pulse quickened. Oliver’s encouraging smile was a lifeline as he introduced her. ‘And here we have Clemmie Rose, who’s drawn on family tradition to create a chocolate and clementine torte. Clemmie, tell us more.’ Clemmie clasped her hands to steady them, knowing this was her one chance to connect with the judges. She took a breath.‘I’ve baked so many things over the years, but I chose this chocolate and clementine torte because it represents everything I love about baking. The richness of the dark chocolate, the brightness of the clementines… it’s a balance of bold flavours that somehow still feels comforting. It’s the first recipe I truly mastered as a child, standing on a stool beside my granny, zesting clementines and sneaking spoonfuls of melted chocolate when she wasn’t looking. I still remember the first time she told me I’d got it just right. Ever since, it’s been the bake I turn to when I want to make something special. It’s indulgence, nostalgia and tradition all in one.’
Margot leaned in, inspecting the torte with her piercing gaze. ‘Clementines, you say? Intriguing. Citrus can be a delicate balance against chocolate. Let’s see how you’ve fared.’
Each judge took a forkful and the room fell silent, the audience holding their collective breath.
Sir Gregory nodded thoughtfully. ‘The citrus is subtle yet distinct. It brightens the richness of the chocolate without overwhelming it. A very thoughtful pairing.’
Dominic smiled. ‘The pastry is immaculate– crisp and buttery, the perfect foil to the smooth ganache. And the clementine zest on top is a delightful touch.’
Margot set her fork down deliberately. ‘I’ll admit, I was sceptical… but you’ve balanced the chocolate and clementines beautifully. Well done.’
Clemmie exhaled, relief washing over her. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, her voice trembling with relief.
Oliver, ever the charmer, leaned in. ‘Clemmie, it looks like you’ve impressed our judges. How do you feel?’
‘Grateful it’s over,’ she replied with a nervous laugh, drawing friendly laughter from the audience.
As the judges moved on, Clemmie allowed herself a small smile.
It was Fiona’s turn next and the atmosphere shifted. She introduced her creation with dramatic flair. ‘I present my signature Pearlescent Pistachio Opera Cake,’ she declared, gesturing to the precariously stacked layers. ‘It’s an eight-layer masterpiece of pistachio sponge, silky buttercream and a mirror glaze, finished with edible pearls.’
Margot arched a sceptical brow. ‘Eight layers, you say? Quite ambitious.’
The judges sampled her cake, their reactions more reserved. Sir Gregory commented on the clever use of pistachio, but Margot noted that the layers seemed uneven. Dominic praised the buttercream but remarked that the overall balance was lacking.
Fiona’s expression tightened, her smile forced. ‘Well,’ she said, her tone strained, ‘it’s a bold creation. Perhaps too bold for some palates.’
After the judges finished their tasting, the contestants were asked to stay by their workstations whilst the judges disappeared into another room to deliberate.
As soon as they went to the commercial break, a commotion broke out near the open window behind Fiona’s station. Clemmie turned just in time to see a puffin… a real, live puffin… flap awkwardly into the room. It swooped low, its trajectory erratic, and nose-dived directly into Fiona’s towering opera cake. The audience erupted intohysterical laughter as the puffin’s impact sent the precarious layers collapsing in a cascade of buttercream and edible pearls.
Fiona let out a shriek. ‘My cake!’ she cried, her voice echoing in the kitchen. Her hands flew to her head as she stared at the ruined remains of her once proud creation. Buttercream dripped onto the table in sticky globs, and one of the edible pearls had rolled all the way to the edge of the stage.
The puffin, seemingly unfazed by the chaos, waddled out of the wreckage and perched proudly on the edge of Fiona’s station.
‘This is sabotage!’ Fiona yelled, spinning to face Clemmie. ‘You did this! You’ve been jealous of my cake from the start!’
Clemmie blinked, startled by the accusation. ‘Me? Fiona, I didn’t summon a puffin to crash through the window and dive-bomb your cake. I wouldn’t even know how to do that!’
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. ‘Convenient, isn’t it? A puffin justhappensto ruin my cake while your torte remains perfectly intact!’
Clemmie raised an eyebrow and pointed to the puffin, who was now fluffing its feathers as if preparing for its next performance. ‘If you’re looking for someone to blame, you might want to start with our little friend over there.’
Oliver had wandered over to join them and he bit down a smile before contributing, ‘A puffin… on Puffin Island? Honestly, you can’t make this stuff up.’ He leaned in closer to Clemmie, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I bet that’s the same puffin from the rock earlier. Looks like it’s got a taste for drama.’
Clemmie suppressed her smile, ‘Well, at least it’s consistent,’ she whispered back.
But Fiona wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘My opera cake was a masterpiece, and now it’s ruined! This has to be taken into account during the judges’ deliberations!’
