Sarah felt like she could sleep for a week. How did celebs go out until the wee hours every night and not look like death warmed up? Forget the herbal tea. She was drinking so much caffeine that her blood type was probably Dark Roast Positive.
She slathered on another layer of under-eye concealer. Now it looked like Nate had trowelled on the bathroom grout. Sighing, she rubbed it off and downed the last of her cold coffee, and went downstairs.
Rachel was reading on the sofa. ‘You’re off?’
‘Yeah. See you later?’
Rachel stared at her. ‘Or in the morning.’
If only Rachel would say something. Then at least everything would be out in the open one way or the other.
On the other hand, whenever she imagined that conversation she felt a bit sick. What a coward she was.
But, she promised herself as she bolted the door behind her, if Rachel said one word about it she’d stop the whole charade. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her friend over a guy.
She probably shouldn’t be going out anyway. Not with the Bake Off audition in the morning. But every time she started a text to cancel, the boring old sofa-bound Sarah threatened to re-emerge. She didn’t want that to happen.
Which was why she found herself later at another trendy restaurant past her bedtime, stifling yawns as she explained her newest card idea.
‘So it’s for Trekkies,’ she said. ‘Live long and prosper together.’ She gave him the Vulcan salute.
He laughed. ‘And you’re constantly having to come up with new ideas like this?’
‘Yeah, but they’re almost always shot down in flames. It gets depressing. Even more depressing is when they take the idea and ruin it. Like my personalised cards. I wanted names. They just put out a bunch of cards with common initials. That’s not very personalised.’
‘I guess it’s better than nothing. And I’d prefer my initial to my name, actually. It’s so middle-England boring.’ He pulled a face.
‘Really? I quite like it.’
‘I think I like J better.’
‘Well, then I guess I can call you J, though I’m not a big fan of nicknames. I prefer Sarah.’ Just so they were clear, she didn’t find anything charming about being called Sair or, worse, S.
‘What about your sister?’
‘Sissy?’
‘Yeah. That sounds like a nickname?’
Sarah nodded, smiling. ‘And that was my fault too. Her name is Sophie but she had a lisp when she was small. She sounded so cute when she called herself Thofie that I started calling her Sissy so to get her to say Thithy.’
‘Nice sister.’
‘I know, it sounds cruel now but I swear I love her more than anything in the world. Sissy stuck. She’s had a lot of speech therapy since then, by the way.’
‘And what about the rest of her care? I guess it must be hard sometimes to look after her. I don’t have anything to compare it with but I can imagine you have to deal with the council a lot.’
‘A lot, yeah. It’s a pain sometimes. There’s so much bureaucracy and hoops to jump through but it’s got to be done to get residential care for her. Otherwise she’d have no place to live and she’s only sixteen. She’s not old enough to be on her own. Maybe she can be in sheltered accommodation one day. I’d like that for her, though she’s got lots of friends where she is. I’d hate for her to be isolated. I’m not able to see her every day.’
He was probably wondering if that would be an issue. She couldn’t blame him. It was a lot to ask for someone to understand. She shook herself. She wasn’t exactly being the life of the party. ‘Anyway, enough about Thithy and me. Thanks for tonight. This has been fun.’
‘It doesn’t have to be over yet. Would you like to check out an eighties night? I’ve heard it’s great. Just to prove that my Oyster card does work outside Zone 1, it’s out in East London behind an old gasworks.’
‘Oh?’ They’d never ventured further east than Soho before and even that was a stretch. He claimed that travelling outside a ‘W’ postcode gave him a rash.
But being so close to her house wasn’t part of the plan. She didn’t want him inviting himself over. That would be hard to explain. Besides, tonight was definitely not a sleepover night. Her conscience twanged again. ‘I’ve got the Bake Off audition tomorrow. I probably shouldn’t.’
‘We could just swing by though. It’s still early. If you go home now you’ll probably only stay awake worrying about tomorrow. Besides, it’s practically on your street. You’re going in that direction anyway. Tell me when I’ve given you enough reasons.’
‘You’re very persuasive.’
‘I don’t want to make you do anything you’d rather not.’
‘Oh but I’d rather! And I can always just have one drink. The espresso’s kicked in anyway.’
It was a quick Tube ride and a pleasant walk to the huge warehouse. Loads of people stood at the door in leg warmers and Day-Glo. Sarah could feel the now-familiar excitement building with the music. Her tummy was even buzzier than usual because she knew all the songs, thanks to her mum’s complete love affair with the eighties. ‘I’m going to marry that George Michael,’ she used to say. Sarah sometimes fantasised about how she’d casually introduce him to her classmates. ‘Oh, this is my stepdad, Mr Michael. We just call him George though.’
As if she’d conjured him with the memory, just as they got through the door she heard it.
What’s that? Jitterbug, you say?
‘Ooh, “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go”, I love this song!’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’
It was impossible not to flail her arms like she’d done with her mum in their kitchen, snappy fingers and swingy hips and laughing like a crazy person.
‘You’re a natural!’ she shouted into his ear as his neck bobbled in time to his flapping arms.
‘It’s because I’ve got rhythm in my bones,’ he said. ‘I know you’re impressed.’
She was even more impressed when he head-bobbed seamlessly into ‘Karma Chameleon’, singing the words like he was Boy George’s backup singer.
‘This is the best music ever!’ she nearly screamed in his ear as ‘Flashdance’ came on and her feet started pounding the floor along with everyone else’s.
The music flowed over them and it felt so good to let herself go that she didn’t want to stop.
Later, her throat hitched when Agnetha and Anni-Frid’s voices floated over them. ‘Super Trouper’ was another of Mum’s favourites. So maybe he noted her change in mood. Maybe it was just appropriate for a slower song. Either way, it felt nice to be in his arms for the few moments until the song sped up. Then they broke apart and shouted lyrics at each other. She was pretty sure she had the wrong words but it didn’t matter.
It was nearly four a.m. by the time she staggered home and fell into bed with her clothes still on. She still had ABBA buzzing in her ears.
Of course, the house was silent when her alarm went off a few hours later. Catherine and Rachel wouldn’t leave their beds at sunrise unless their mattresses were on fire.
With just four hours to bake her morning muffins and the savoury rosemary and sea salt focaccia, then quickly shower and get to the audition, she may as well be on the show already. Ready, steady, bake!
She quickly made the focaccia dough so that it had time to rise before she put it in the oven. She could make focaccia in her sleep, which was handy given how she felt.
Then she pulled out all the muffin ingredients and started preparing them. Carefully she buttered the tins and grated the carrots. She’d found them especially for the recipe, sampling so many from the local markets that she could probably see better in the dark.
She never wanted to think about morning muffins again, but at least she was finally happy with the recipe. And most importantly, so was Sissy.
She needed to double the batch to make sure she’d end up with a dozen perfect little treats. She worked quickly, creaming the butter, adding sugar, then eggs and all the other ingredients.
But there was definitely no time to shower and still get everything properly baked. A fully risen focaccia was more important than clean hair. Besides, the aroma of baked goods should cancel out any lingering eau de dance floor.
It was harsh to have auditions so early in the day, she thought as she carried her still-warm offerings to the Tube station. No one wanted to turn up with a day-old cake, so they’d all have to get up early to make a start. And since people were coming from all over the UK, at least they’d be as sleep-deprived as she was.
Although she might have underestimated her competition’s hygiene habits. She looked around the room in the community hall where the auditions were being held. No one else seemed to be wearing last night’s make-up and everyone’s hair looked cleaner than hers. She should have remembered that they were being judged on their ability to bake for telly. Self-consciously she ran her fingers through her tangles. At least day-old make-up was better than none at all.
Talk about intimidating. Most of the others had gone for complicated bakes. One grandma-type had a clear box filled with choux pastry swans.
Well, let them have their cream-filled birds. She was confident in her bread and muffins. They were down-to-earth, honest offerings, and exactly how she liked to bake.
But as she found a spot on a row of folding chairs with the other contestants she started to wonder how honest she was really being. She had a bit of mascara in one eye that kept making her wink. Her tummy churned from the vodka and Red Bulls she’d drunk at the club and her feet hurt from dancing in heels.
Vodka and Red Bull? A few months ago the only time she had vodka was if a fancy chef spooned it in a cream sauce over penne pasta. And sore feet used to be a sign that she needed to buy new running shoes.
Lately she hardly recognised herself. It was taking a lot of effort to have fun. Was it all worth it?
A woman with a three-ring binder who’d been calling the contestants forward finally came for her. ‘Thanks for waiting, Sarah. This way, please, the judges are ready for you.’
Her nerves swooped down as she made her way to the long table where the judges waited. ‘We’re being filmed?’ she asked, staring at the two cameras aimed at the table.
‘It’s just so we can see how you’d look on air. Don’t pay them any attention.’
Yeah, right.
When the judges introduced themselves – Mark and Margaret – Sarah barely squeaked out her own name. They were in their late fifties or sixties and actually weren’t scary at all as they asked her questions about why she liked baking. Then Margaret cut one of her muffins in quarters and started to pinch and poke it.
‘Nice bake on the bottom,’ she said.
‘And a good rise,’ Mark added.
Margaret was the first to take a bite. Sarah knew instantly that something was wrong. Instead of blissful excitement, her eyebrows knitted together.
‘I think something went wrong with the sugar,’ Margaret said. ‘How much did you use?’
‘A hundred and seventy-five grams. No, three fifty. I doubled the recipe.’ She kept her eyes on Margaret but she could feel the cameras trained on her.
‘Are you sure?’ Mark asked gently. ‘It’s got a more savoury flavour. Here, have a taste.’
‘I’m sure I …’ But was she sure? She was so tired this morning. She remembered cracking four eggs into the bowl, and shredding three big carrots. But had she doubled the sugar?
Obviously not, judging by their faces.
She took a bite. If they had to eat it, she did too. It reminded her of those non-fat muffins that people sometimes pretended were as good as the real thing. She tried not to grimace.
‘Let’s move on to the focaccia,’ Mark said. ‘Rosemary and sea salt?’
‘That’s right,’ Sarah said, feeling ill now. She’d made such an amateur mistake. And of all the times to mess up. Why couldn’t it have been something unimportant like her birthday cake? But no, everyone had been dead chuffed with that.
Again they pinched and prodded at the spongy bread. ‘Is the sea salt in the bread itself?’ Margaret asked.
‘No it’s on the …’
But it clearly wasn’t on the top. She’d forgotten to add the sea salt before putting it in the oven. She could visualise the box right there on the table too. Fat lot of good it was doing in her imagination. ‘I forgot the sea salt. Should I just go now?’
Margaret smiled at her. ‘No, no. Let’s taste the bread first. It’s another very good bake, Sarah, and I’m sure it’s delicious.’ She took a bite and practically made yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy hand gestures. She was probably just exaggerating to make Sarah feel better, but it did help take the sting off.
She knew it was all over. She took her mediocre baked goods, apologised to the judges for wasting their time, and slunk from the auditorium.
She leaked angry tears all the way home. The judges’ kindness only made her feel worse. No matter how many times they claimed she’d made simple mistakes, she knew she wouldn’t have made them if she hadn’t been out all night pretending to be the party girl of the century.
It wasn’t till she got home that she caught sight of herself. Her mascara had run under her eyes and last night’s hair was that morning’s rat’s nest. She hardly recognised herself. She scrubbed off the make-up, brushed out her hair and crawled under her duvet.