Clemmie turned and her heart sank. There, perched on the windowsill, was the puffin, its beady eyes fixed on the cake.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Clemmie shouted, grabbing a rolling pin and racing towards the window.
The puffin squawked indignantly and flapped away, leaving a single feather behind.
Betty laughed. ‘You’ve got a nemesis now, Clemmie! The Puffin of Doom!’
Clemmie groaned, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘If that bird shows up at the competition, I’m quitting baking for ever.’
But as she looked at the cake– the product of her determination and her love for her craft– she knew she wouldn’t quit. Not for a puffin, Fiona Fairweather or anything else.
‘Bring it on,’ she muttered, squaring her shoulders.
Chapter Two
Clemmie had been curled up on the garden chair all evening. She loved this time of year, the lighter nights, the soft rustle of flowers swaying in the breeze and the soothing sound of the sea murmuring in the distance. On her lap lay the handwritten recipe book from her great-great-grandmother– open at the page of the famous torte– the book’s well-worn edges a testament to its history. In her hand, she held her iPad. For the past ten minutes she had been scrolling through Fiona Fairweather’s TikTok account. Clemmie had never seen anything quite like it. Fiona was a master of promotion, each reel dripping with glamour and carefully curated, a far cry from the quiet, messy charm ofClemmie’s Café on the Coast. The stark contrast made Clemmie’s stomach twist with nervous energy.
As Fiona’s latest video began to play, the screen filled with her poised smile before her voice purred, ‘For The Royal Baking Competition I’ll be presenting my family’s signature Pearlescent Pistachio Opera Cake, an eight-layer masterpiece that’s not only technically flawless but also artistic enough to belong ina museum. Can any of the other competitors in the baking competition say that about their sponge?’
Clemmie wondered how easy it would even be to serve an eight-layer cake at the royal garden party. She felt a wave of self-doubt wash over her, but she couldn’t stop watching. Fiona continued, answering a question from an unseen interviewer. ‘The key to winning is not just baking, it’s branding. People eat with their eyes first. My cakes don’t just taste divine; they make people feel important for eating them. It’s a skill, and not everyone has it.’
The final clip was the most cutting. With a dazzling smile, Fiona offered her competitors a parting comment. ‘Practice makes perfect, but in my case, perfection is innate. Good luck to the rest of the competitors in The Royal Baking Competition. I do hope someone manages to bake a cake that doesn’t look like it came out of a children’s birthday party. I’d hate to win by too large a margin; it would feel unsporting.’
Clemmie stared at the screen, her mind racing. The self-assured confidence and sharp jabs from Fiona Fairweather were intimidating. Could she compete with someone like that?
The next morning, Clemmie woke with a start, her heart racing and her thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic whirl. The early-morning light filtered through her bedroom curtains, but instead of feeling the usual calm that accompanied the golden glow, she felt worried. The memories of Fiona Fairweather’s TikTok from the night before looped in her mind like an unwanted reel, each dismissive comment and smug smile chipping away at her confidence.
‘An eight-layer masterpiece that belongs in a museum,’Fiona’s voice echoed.‘Can any of the other competitors in the baking competition say that about their sponge?’
Feeling disheartened, Clemmie started to spiral. What was she thinking, accepting her invitation to compete in a competition like this? She wasn’t some celebrity baker with a high-profile following or a line-up of glamorous cakes on display in a Kensington patisserie. She was just Clemmie, with a cosy café by the coast.
This was a high-stakes competition so she needed to put her best foot forward. To that end, Clemmie had been thinking about what her granny had said. She agreed with her that the torte was the best option; a recipe close to her heart and one that was a firm favourite with the café’s customers.
She threw on her dressing gown and padded downstairs into the kitchen, where Betty was already bustling around, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, but even that comforting aroma couldn’t soothe Clemmie’s nerves.
‘What’s the matter with you? You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ Betty asked, turning to face her with a raised eyebrow.
Clemmie slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, clutching her mug of coffee like it was a lifeline. ‘Granny, I don’t think I’m good enough.’
‘Good enough for what?’ asked Betty.
‘The Royal Baking Competition.’
‘Don’t be daft, they selected you. Why the sudden doubt?’
Clemmie sighed. ‘Fiona Fairweather’s presenting a cake witheightlayers. Eight! And the way she talks, it’s like she’s already won. I don’t stand a chance against someone like that.’
Betty swiped the flour from her hands, her expression both firm and kind. ‘Now you listen to me. Someone who has to shoutabout their achievements from the rooftops is not a winner. A winner is someone who quietly does the work, puts their heart into it and lets their results speak for themselves.’
‘But she’s so polished, so confident,’ Clemmie protested.
Betty shook her head. ‘Confidence isn’t about showing off. It’s about believing in what you do and why you’re doing it. You think your great-great-grandmother had time to boast about her torte when she was baking it for the people who helped rebuild this island after the war? No, she simply baked it quietly with love and gratitude. That’s what made it special and it’s why people still talk about it today.’
Clemmie bit her lip, her granny’s words tugging at her heart.
‘Fiona might have fancy cakes and a silver tongue,’ Betty continued, ‘but you have something she’ll never have: roots. You’ve got a recipe with a story, a café with history, and a community standing behind you. Let her talk all she wants. You focus on baking from the heart, and trust me, that’ll be enough.’
Clemmie looked up at her granny, the flicker of doubt in her chest slowly giving way to a small, tentative spark of determination. ‘You really think so?’
