Chapter Thirty

As everything in the shops, restaurants and the very London air turns Christmassy at the start of December, our brilliant little baking class has also got the festive feeling.

‘Noel!’ booms Mr Berry, rubbing his hands together. ‘Mince pies, Christmas cake, spiced biscuits on the trees. A truly fruitful season for the baker!’ He’s not quite lost his ‘TV performance face’ from when the film crew came into the class and so beams at us all as if we’re casting directors for Cake! The Musical. I think he’s trying to make his eyes as twinkly as Paul Hollywood’s but the result is more like he’s just got cinnamon in them and he’s wincing from the pain. But that just reminds me of actual Paul Hollywood and my baby-near-miss and I feel a stomach roll of shame. God, I hope this doesn’t ruin The Great British Bake Off for me next year.

Mr Berry is splitting us into groups to try one of the three Christmassy recipes he’s put together. I’ve got mince pies down, I have to say (Pete polished off three in The Eye, so I think that is categorical proof), and I’ve already got my dried fruit sitting in its booze bath for my Christmas cake, so spiced biscuits it is. I quite like the idea of some cute, Nordic-looking biscuits on red ribbons prettying up the tree. And any excuse to muck about with those little tubes of coloured icing and silver balls is definitely fine by me. Nothing says Christmas like crunchy, tasteless, teeth-breaking silver balls. Hannah’s gone for mince pies, as she thinks it might gain her maybe just an extra half a brownie point from her in-laws this Christmas (their issues about her relationship now making much more sense since she and Laurie came to dinner and Laurie said she’s been raised in a very Catholic household). Joe is going to tackle biscuits with me, because he ‘feels as rough as a dog’s tongue.’ He had an early Christmas do at his office and went at the free booze like I would go at a pile of free whoopee pies. And booze too, if I’m honest.

As we’re rolling out our biscuit dough, catching a whiff of lovely, warming ginger and cinnamon each time we turn it, Joe leans into me. He doesn’t smell bad, just a bit musty. Like he maybe slept in those clothes. And from all I’m learning about Joe, maybe he did.

‘I got a weird email the other day.’

‘Don’t send them any money. He’s not really a prince. He’s not even most likely Nigerian.’

‘Ha ha. No, I had this email from the BBC, about a cookery show. I signed up for it at that food thing they gave us tickets for. It’s called Best Dishes and it’s about everyday cooks, something like that. The same guys that do The Great British Bake Off are making it. Anyway, they want me to come and audition, cook a recipe for them. I wouldn’t usually go in for this kind of thing, but there’s a cash prize which I wouldn’t mind having a go at.’ He dips his head and smiles shyly.

‘Wow! That’s amazing, Joe! Well done you.’ We’re not quite at a hugging place in our friendship, so I plump for an ambiguous arm-punch of matey-ness. ‘A TV star in our humble little class, wow. So, what are you going to cook? ‘

‘Yeah, that’s the thing,’ he pulls at his earlobe. ‘I might have been a little overconfident in applying and now I don’t know what to do. And if I do make something on the telly, I don’t want everyone I know to see me making jam tarts, you know? It’s got to be just a bit manly.’ He presses a snowman-shaped cutter into his thinly rolled, delicate biscuit dough.

‘Hmm.’ I inspect the robin cutter versus the reindeer. Not feeling all that sure that a baked Rudolph would come out with any legs intact, robins it is. Plus, I like the idea of icing big red breasts. So to speak. ‘What about bread, then? You could build on the rolls we did in class, try something bigger. And with a bit of flavour. Ooh! Beer bread. There are loads of recipes for those, pretty manly I would say.’

‘Thanks, Ellie,’ Joe nudges my shoulder with his own, ‘that is a perfect idea. Mmmm, maybe stout and walnut, something like that. I’d better do my homework – the auditions are in a few weeks. Better buy me a six-pack.’

Without meaning to, I sneak a look at Joe’s stomach, under his tight, thin knit jumper. Six-packs were not a problem here.

‘Maybe you could try some for me, test it out? I could whip up a batch one weekend, get some really good cheese to go with it, crack open—’

‘Santa’s little helpers!’ Hannah scoots over from her bench. ‘My mince pies are in the oven and I am feeling festive. I think we should all go and get a mulled wine after this, who’s in?’

‘Sounds great!’ I trill, wiping the back of my arm across my forehead, floury hands gripping my rolling pin. ‘Just a quick one. School night and all that. We can’t all be ragers like you, Joe. Hey, tell Hannah about your big TV break!’ And with that, I pick up my well-breasted robins and flee to the ovens.

The drink after class was really fun – swapping terrible Christmas present tales (Hannah’s worst: a Chippendales calendar, after she’d told her dad she was gay. He was just testing. Joe’s was one of those electronic hamsters that sang and danced, the ones everyone seemed to go nuts about five years ago. Mine was from my university boyfriend, Ralph. Pink quartz earrings – pure Elizabeth Duke. Nice for someone, just not me. Nice for my Nan, in fact – I’m never above regifting.). But I made my excuses and didn’t stay too late. There are so many stages of Be Nice to Pete left to complete, not to mention Sort Your Head Out, Eleanor.

Saucy underwear shops are just the biggest rip-off merchants going. Worse than those people trying to sell cake pops for a fiver a go. Hello? I know it’s just mushed up cake mixed with frosting, whacked on a lollipop stick. But the string knicker merchants go even further. It’s not just the fact that they are selling you so little nylon for such a huge wad of cash, but it’s the myth they’re peddling. Ladies of the world, and gay dudes: it doesn’t matter whether it’s a pink see-through babydoll, it doesn’t matter if it’s a leather corset with laces up the wazoo, it doesn’t matter if it’s the tightest pair of Calvins ever made (for you gay dudes): all that matters is that it’s really small and comes off after 0.7 seconds. That’s it. I’ve tested this theory on a wide sample of the male population (OK, five, but that’s a espectable magic number) and whether it’s the most expensive French lace thong or my oldest pair of M&S drawers that just happened to get shrunk in the wash, the men in question had exactly the same reaction: get your knickers off. And so I resent that somehow the fashion industry has convinced us that forty pounds is OK for a pair of raunchy pants. It’s really not. I’m just going to go home and hot wash the contents of my underwear drawer.

Sex is probably the most obvious part of Being Nice to Pete but so far I haven’t got round to making a special slutty effort. So tonight, I’ve applied my reddest lipstick on the bus home, tied my hair back, and put my reading glasses on. We’re going to play Naughty Librarian. Hey, I said it was going to be sexy, not original. And I have my smallest pair of pants on, which I know is like a red rag to a horny bull with Pete. I’m jogging up the stairs to our flat and rehearsing the role play. The plan is to accuse him of not returning his copy of the Karma Sutra as soon as I step through the door, and then tell him he’s got to be punished like a very bad bad …

Bee.

There’s Bee, my father-in-law, standing in my kitchen, opening all my cupboards.

‘Hey love! Guess who just popped in to say hello,’ Pete holds the tops of my arms as he hugs me, as if anticipating that inside I’m Hulking out about this unplanned visit and he’s trying to hold on to Eleanor Banner with his bare hands.

And there’s Marie, quick on his heels. Dressed in rainbow colours and flowing linens as ever, a smile on her face that I’d usually call serene in my better moods but right now I would classify as self-satisfied.

I smell an agenda.

‘We just missed you! And it’s been so long since we came into the big bad city.’ Her phrasing reminds me of my Naughty Librarian character and I suppress a shudder, trying not to visualise Marie in stockings, beating Bee on the bottom with a copy of National Geographic.

‘How lovely!’ I manage to squeak.

‘And we’ve brought apple cake,’ Bee says proudly. ‘We know how much you like cake, Ellie. I was just looking for the plates.’

‘Er, I’ll get it all out Dad, you just take a seat.’ Pete herds Bee out of my sacred space; he just needs a white suit and net visor to complete the look.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters through clenched teeth when his parents are out of earshot, poking about in the living room. ‘I really had no idea. They just appeared. You don’t mind, do you, Smells?’

Pete’s eager eyes can always sooth the Hulk. ‘Course not. It’s … a lovely treat. And cake too. Lovely. Really lovely.’

We sit down and politely and thoughtfully chew our slices (not too heavy, could have done with some more cinnamon and maybe just a pinch of salt for contrast). And pretty soon The Agenda becomes clear: Skye and Rich are going to get married. Quickly, so they have the marriage certificate filled out before the birth certificate, but also because they’re madly in love. Marie and Bee have volunteered to have it at the farm, in the big barn with hay bales up against the walls to keep everyone toasty.

‘Always wise to count against a warm British summer.’ I nod as I finish off my cake.

‘Oh, no, darling. January. They want to get married on New Year’s Day. Start the year with a bang. The time of birth, new life, things beginning. So it might be a bit cold.’

‘Right,’ says Pete, his eyebrows lowering. I can hear the abacus sliding about in his brain, calculating catering, Portaloos, outdoor heaters, booze costs versus lack of earnings while his parents run the wedding and not the business. The weeks left before then and now: less than four.

‘Gosh,’ I say, as any good Englishwoman should when she has no idea at all what to say.

But Pete is obviously one step ahead, ‘So how can we help out?’

And then Marie and Bee rumble through their side of things: they have offered to carry the cost as Rich and Skye save every spare penny for the new baby. So they’d like Pete’s help in moving some money around, freeing up some cash from somewhere, finding the funds. What we all know, and what’s hidden in their embarrassed mumblings, is that there is no money to be moved, no cash to be set free, no fund to be miraculously found under the sofa cushions. Their business keeps things going, but only because their mortgage is so small – and Pete has always strong-armed them away from getting another. Pete is either going to have to perform an accounting miracle, a serious bit of embezzlement, or find the money from his own sofa cushions.

He looks at me. I give him a wide-eyed look and a half-smile, which he’ll know – being the ultimate codebreaker of my expressions – means ‘I’m OK with this if you are.’

Pete laces his fingers together and lets them drop into his lap. ‘We’ll have to think about it.’

This wasn’t what I was expecting and I can see by Marie’s blinking that it wasn’t what expected to hear, either.

‘Of course, Sunflower!’ Bee chirrups, breaking the tension. If they ran a hippy commune version of Butlin’s, he’d be the perfect red coat. Or tie-dye coat, I suppose. ‘Take all the time you need. Well, maybe just a few days, seeing as we need to start organising this shebang!’ He chortles harmlessly.

Marie also recovers her serene smile, like it is a chiffon scarf that has just slipped from her shoulders. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Give me a tinkle in a few days. Do you know, darling,’ she turns to Bee, ‘we should really get this caravan on the road if we’re going to drop in on the twins too. Tell them the exciting news! Unless there’s anything you two need to talk to us about?’ Marie’s pursed lips and the intent with which she scans my slumped form on the sofa make it very clear she’s sniffing for baby news. Maybe if they hadn’t wrecked my slutty seduction tonight there might be more chance of something to tell …

‘No, no,’ Pete says politely but firmly. He stands up, collecting the cake plates in a stack and looping tea mugs on his long fingers. No surer sign of ‘You are dismissed. Please leave the building.’ And so with hugs and backslapping, they trundle off.

‘Ooh, I do love a wedding,’ I say in the Yorkshire accent I randomly adopt when there’s an awkward silence. I don’t know where it comes from: the nearest I’ve been to Yorkshire is the tea.

Pete has his hand at his chin, looking at the closed front door.

‘Pete?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘What are you thinking? About the money, I mean? We could dip into the house fund. It’s not ideal, but then how often does your brother get married? Well, three times, I suppose, with you having three brothers.’

‘I’m not sure,’ he says slowly.

‘It’ll set us back a little bit but I’m OK with it, honestly, if you are. What’s another six months compared to your brother’s lasting memories of his big day? We can’t let them have ASDA sandwiches in a freezing cold barn, we just can’t. Especially when Rich spent eight hours making confetti cones for our wedding, and then we totally forgot to even hand them out.’

Pete shrugs. My own enigma machine at decrypting his little twitches is a bit jammed. I can’t read him at all. So I might as well put the kettle on.

Five minutes later I’m lost in a daydream of a snowy, wintery wedding with hot toddies for the guests, holly in the bouquets (though very hazardous, depending on the average age of the bridesmaids) and – most vitally – the cake. White icing is going to do a lot of the thematic work, sure, but there’s so much to play with: lovely red and green velvet ribbons around the outside, maybe fondant snowmen? No – better! A snowgroom and a snowbride, holding twig hands! That wouldn’t be hard to do. I could even volunteer to make it, save a bit more expense for Marie and Bee. My Christmas cake would be perfect as the base layer – and I’d have the extra time to make it super boozy. Cake flavour of their choice for the smaller tiers (it is their wedding after all. And I should remember that), but fruit cake is the best option for the load-bearing foundation.

I grab a biro and have a little sketch – the two snow people, some little pine trees, maybe those ones you get in model railway towns. Would a robin be too twee? Would making the snowbride preggy be going too far? I’d have to practise my icing writing, in case they wanted some lettering on it.

‘What are you doing?’

Pete catches me miming icing ‘Congratulations’ in joined-up writing with an imaginary piping bag full of brandy butter frosting.

‘Ha!’ I wipe my hands on the back of jeans, to get off the invisible icing sugar. ‘Thinking about cake, of course!’

He’s not smiling. ‘Eleanor, we need to decide what we’re going to do.’ Whoah. Use of the full name. He’s not a jolly sausage. I bring the tea into the living room, trailing him.

I sit down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he paces back and forth by the coffee table, like he’s impatient to start a game of charades. ‘We have to think carefully about this. Not because it’s money – I’d give them anything they needed, you know that – but because of what it means to us, right now. This money we’ve saved is for our future house, for our future lives, and if we give some of it away that will mean … a longer wait.’ He looks hard at me, not blinking.

‘OK.’

‘OK? OK in what way?’ Still the hard look, the blank face.

‘I get that it’ll be a longer wait for a house, but I think it’s worth it. For Rich and Skye, and the whole family, really.’

Pete doesn’t move. This is the weirdest game of charades ever. I’ve already said I’m happy to lend them some money. We love our flat; it won’t kill us to stay here and keep saving for a bit longer. As long as we have our contingency money for the ‘what if one of us breaks a leg or loses an eye and can’t go to work for a month?’ disasters, I can sleep easy at night.

Pete laces his fingers again. ‘OK. OK. I’ll tell Mum yes. I’ll work it out.’ He walks slowly towards the bedroom, to power up his laptop.

There’s a weird feeling in the flat, as if it’s overheard us talking about the shiny dream of a mortgage and now feels betrayed and cheap. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the moment to put some more lipstick on and try and get Pete interested in naughty late fees. So I Google ‘winter weddings’ instead and text Rich for Skye’s email address.