The audience let out a collective gasp, and Clemmie offered a small, wry smile.
‘Those words hit me hard. I was devastated. I remember sitting in the kitchen that night, reading that review over and over, thinking, “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’ll never be a good baker like my great-great-granny or my granny.” For weeks, even months, I doubted myself. I doubted everything. I wanted to give up.’
Clemmie paused as her voice faltered. ‘But then Granny sat me down. She reminded me that success isn’t about being perfect or comparing yourself to others. It’s about loving what you do, learning from your mistakes and finding joy in the process. She often says, “The secret ingredient in any recipe is the care you put into it”, and it’s true.’
She smiled softly, her gaze drifting to the Golden Whisk Trophy for a moment before returning to the audience. ‘WhatI’ve learned since then is that believing in yourself, truly believing, is half the battle. That review could have crushed me, but it didn’t, because I had the best mentor. My granny taught me to bake with my heart and showed me the meaning of resilience, and the people who supported me reminded me of my worth.’
Clemmie’s voice grew stronger, more confident. ‘Standing here today, holding this incredible trophy, I realise something: self-worth isn’t about never failing. It’s about knowing you’re enough, even when you stumble. It’s about having the courage to keep going, to keep learning, to keep dreaming. And it’s about surrounding yourself with people who believe in you, even when you can’t believe in yourself.’
The audience was utterly silent, hanging on her every word. ‘To anyone out there doubting themselves,’ Clemmie continued, her eyes shining with unshed tears, ‘don’t give up. Find your passion, work hard and don’t be afraid to lean on those who love you. Because one day, you might surprise yourself. I know I did.’
A tear rolled down her cheek as the crowd erupted into applause once more, louder than ever. Clemmie stepped back from the microphone, holding the Golden Whisk Trophy high, her heart brimming with gratitude. In that moment, she felt her granny’s love and lessons resonating within her. This was not just a victory, it was a testament to perseverance, passion and the power of believing in herself.
Chapter Fourteen
The royal crest gleamed magnificently against the opulent navy and gold backdrop of the photo room, the regal setting perfectly befitting the moment. Clemmie stood at the centre, the Golden Whisk Trophy clutched in her hands. Sir Gregory Whitcomb, Margot Hastings and Dominic Hargrove flanked her, their faces lit with pride and satisfaction as they celebrated her remarkable win. Oliver stood nearby, smiling, looking just as mesmerised by Clemmie as everyone else.
The photographer directed them to adjust their poses. ‘Let’s have one with the judges and the winner,’ he called, positioning them with expert precision.
After the photograph, Dominic opened a bottle of champagne with a celebratorypop!and poured generous glasses for everyone. ‘No royal occasion is complete without a toast,’ he declared. Sir Gregory raised his flute and said, ‘Here’s to Clemmie’s triumph and a torte truly worthy of the palace!’ Clemmie laughed, happiness blooming in her chest as they toasted her win.
Margot joined in, raising her glass of champagne. ‘To Clemmie Rose, whose torte is fit for royalty!’ she declared, and the room echoed with cheers.
Each judge offered a few words of praise, and then it was Oliver’s turn to step into the frame with Clemmie. ‘Let’s have the host and the champion together,’ the photographer prompted, motioning to them to stand closer. Oliver moved to Clemmie’s side, his hand brushing lightly against her waist in an easy, familiar gesture. The unexpected contact made her suddenly aware of the nearness of him, the quiet strength in his stance, the faint trace of his cologne, the way he fitted into her space. She hesitated for half a breath before tilting her head slightly towards him, her cheeks flushing just as the camera clicked.
As the photographer declared, ‘Perfect! That’s the shot,’ Clemmie stepped back, trying to compose herself. Her gaze flicked to Oliver, who offered her an encouraging smile that seemed to hold more than just admiration for her baking skills. Before she could over-analyse the moment, the judges beckoned her back to their side.
Amid the laughter and camaraderie, slices of Clemmie’s torte were brought in, presented on fine china. The judges each took a plate then a bite, their delighted expressions reaffirming her success. ‘This is even better than I remembered,’ Margot said with a satisfied sigh. ‘You’ve truly outdone yourself, Clemmie.’
‘Thank you, it all feels so…’ Clemmie hesitated when she caught a movement near the door. Fiona and Oliver were deep in conversation. Fiona had that unmistakable sore loser vibe– like she was trying a little too hard to act unbothered.
Clemmie watched from the corner of her eye. What happened next sent a jolt of unease through Clemmie. Fiona’s gestures were sharp, while Oliver’s usually relaxed demeanour was replaced with one of visible tension. Clemmie noticed hisbody bristle, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze flicked back towards her, his expression stricken.
Clemmie’s stomach twisted as she watched the exchange unfold. Fiona took a step forward, her posture suggesting she was about to head in Clemmie’s direction, but Oliver placed a firm hand on her arm and steered her out of sight. Clemmie caught a fragment of their heated conversation as they left: something about ‘I’m going to tell her the truth’.
Moments later, Oliver returned without Fiona.
‘Is everything okay?’ asked Clemmie ‘What was that all about?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
‘Disappointment she didn’t win. Let’s just leave it at that.’
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the heated conversation between them. Oliver’s earlier expression of anguish flashed through her mind and she wondered what he wasn’t telling her. Before she could press further, Oliver gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we? There’s a crowd on the beach waiting for their champion.’
Clemmie smiled, the thought of the waiting residents of Puffin Island momentarily pushing her concerns aside. As they stepped outside the Royal Yacht and descended the gangway together, the sound of the crowd hit her like a wave. Cheering, clapping and jubilant shouts filled the air as the islanders celebrated her victory. Clemmie felt a swell of pride and gratitude as she walked hand in hand with Oliver, the Golden Whisk Trophy gleaming in the sunlight. For a moment, she truly felt like royalty.
Dilly was the first to reach her, throwing her arms around Clemmie in a fierce hug. ‘You did it!’ she squealed, with excitement. Amelia wasn’t far behind, pressing a paper crown onto Clemmie’s head. ‘Every champion needs a coronation,’ she teased.
Betty was next, throwing her arms around her granddaughter, the happy tears free-falling down her face as she whispered, ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, Granny.’ The entire island had turned the moment into a party, and Clemmie found herself swept up in the handshakes and pats on the back. A glass of fizz was pressed into her hand.
Sam appeared beside her, grinning. ‘This is something Puffin Island will never forget. You were brilliant!’
Max appeared with the twins. ‘Clemmie, congratulations!’
For a few minutes Clemmie mingled with the crowd and hugged her friends, who each took the opportunity to hold the trophy. Then Betty appeared at her side. ‘I’ve organised a little party at the café,’ she said, her voice quivering with excitement. ‘Just a small gathering to celebrate your win. And, of course, you’re invited too, Oliver.’
Clemmie turned to gauge Oliver’s reaction. He hesitated, his eyes darting back towards the yacht, and Clemmie wondered if he was considering Fiona before he answered. For a moment, it seemed as though he might decline, but then he turned back to Betty with a wide smile. ‘How could I say no? That would be lovely, count me in. I’ll catch you up.’
