Confetti & Cake Page 9

  I look down the length of Rosemary’s Kitchen. Gretchen has grabbed an armload of cookbooks from the shelf and is passing them out. The Little Cook didn’t have recipes for all of the things on the menu, but I’m willing to bet that Rosemary Simpson marked them in her other cookbooks. Once we find the recipes, we’ll have to practise each of the dishes – make sure we know exactly what we’re doing. Then we can decide if we want to make some changes to add our own twist to the recipes – like vol-au-vents. It’s all going to take time, and a lot of effort.

  ‘I know we can.’ I say. Because now that The Secret Cooking Club is on the case, I feel like things are right back on track.

  I end the call and return to my friends. ‘It’s a thumbs up!’ I say.

  ‘Great,’ Gretchen says, barely looking up from the recipe book she’s flipping through.

  ‘I’ve found two of the recipes,’ Naya says, looking excited. ‘For the salted caramel truffles and the spring vegetable risotto.’ She skims the recipe. ‘It looks like it’s some special kind of rice with vegetables.’

  ‘Cool,’ Nick says. He looks over at me. ‘Should I have a go at making it? We can have it for supper.’

  Violet and I glance at each other. I’m not sure that rice with vegetables sounds particularly appetizing, but one thing I’ve learnt since starting The Secret Cooking Club is to be brave and try new things. Most of the time – when we’re using our special recipes, at least – even things that don’t sound too good on paper turn out to be delicious.

  ‘I’ll help,’ Alison says. The two of them get up and go over to the larder where the fresh vegetables are stored.

  ‘Should we try the truffles?’ I look at Violet. Her head turns in Fraser’s direction. ‘Fraser, do you want to help?’ I ask.

  ‘Um, sure.’ He gets up from the table. I’m hoping that Violet doesn’t notice his quick glance at Alison.

  ‘Great,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll keep looking for the recipes,’ Naya says. ‘Then maybe we can whip up some muffins for school?’ She glances at Gretchen. ‘OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ Gretchen says. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  With everything agreed, I get up from the table, determined to ‘keep out of the way’ of Violet and Fraser. But Violet seems to be overcome by an attack of shyness. ‘Um, what should I do?’ she asks.

  ‘You and Fraser melt the caster sugar,’ I direct. I open the cupboard and hand her the packet of sugar.

  ‘OK, Fraser, can you get the pan out?’

  Leaving the two of them to get on, I find the other ingredients and set them out. She and Fraser seem a little awkward together. He measures out the sugar while Violet heats the pan. Once he tips it in, she swirls the hot sugar towards the middle so that it dissolves evenly. I bring her some vanilla, staring into the pan as the mixture gradually turns a dark, golden-brown colour.

  Violet measures out the vanilla and sea salt and tips them in. ‘I’m just so glad you’re back,’ she says to me. ‘I missed this. I mean, it’s like old times isn’t it?’

  I nod, knowing what she means. At the beginning, it was just her and me, trying to puzzle our way through the lists of ingredients and the many steps of instructions. We made cinnamon scones, and then caramel flapjacks. Those went well, so we got more confident and tried more complicated things like banoffee pie. Then, we learnt to cook real food – eggs, meat, vegetables. Once, we even did a whole four-course dinner.

  ‘Are you ready for the brown sugar and cream?’ Fraser steps over and I move away to get some chilled butter out of the fridge.

  ‘It smells so good,’ I hear Violet say.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fraser says.

  I bring over the butter and then go to break up the dark chocolate into a bowl. Naya and Gretchen are laughing as they make the muffins – somehow Naya has managed to get her black hair completely dusted with flour like an old-fashioned powdered wig. I feel a little stab of pride that all these people who might never have known each other, and who probably wouldn’t have been friends, have come together here in this very special kitchen.

  When Violet and Fraser have added the butter and the rest of the cream, I pour the mixture over the dark chocolate. It looks and smells heavenly. I take the bowl to the fridge to cool.

  Nick and Alison have finished chopping the vegetables and are preparing to cook the rice.

  I go back to the table, noticing that Gretchen and Naya have used up nearly half a pack of yellow Post-its marking pages in the various cookbooks. Suddenly, I have an attack of nerves. This is by far the biggest project that The Secret Cooking Club has taken on since our first online bake-a-thon where we raised money for a charity for the elderly.

  Gretchen sees me standing there and comes over. ‘It’s going to be a big job,’ she says, like she’s reading my mind.

  I keep my voice low. ‘Do you think we’re up to it?’

  She looks around at all the others: stirring, chopping, washing up; laughing, chatting and working together.

  ‘I hope so,’ she says. We both smile.

  Another ‘truth’

  Special bulletin, 25 April

  Help! I’m looking for a few volunteers to come and help us with a very special project. Details and venue to follow. I promise, there will be lots of great food for everyone to enjoy.

  The Little Cook xx

  Later that evening, I hit post and the bulletin is posted to the webpage. I don’t know for sure that it will work, but other Secret Cooking Club ‘flash mobs’ have worked before, according to the stories that other members have posted on the website. I’m not quite sure how the TV station is going to handle a huge group of kids cooking together in their studio, but I do know that we’ll need all the help we can get, and it will be fun for as many members as possible of the cyber club to be involved. At least there will be plenty of grown-ups around to ‘supervise’ us. I just hope I can count on Assistant Annie to make it all happen.

  I close down the blog and pop a truffle into my mouth, savouring the soft, oozy caramel. Dusted in cocoa powder with a tiny crystallized violet on top, the truffles turned out well, if a little too big. That’s the thing I’ve discovered about cooking – it always helps to try a recipe more than once, because sometimes things don’t go to plan. Just like life, I guess.

  I check out some of the stories and photos that have been posted recently on the blog. It’s incredible how many creative, beautiful and fun things people have made. There’s a volcano cake with a river of red candy whips spewing out like lava – made by a ten-year-old boy member named Thomas. There’s a batch of sparkly butterfly fairy cakes that a thirteen-year-old made for her little sister’s birthday. Another girl posted a home-made pizza with fresh tomato sauce and sausage, absolutely dripping with mozzarella cheese. A group of kids from a school in Wales are holding a charity bake-off at a local children’s centre. We also have six new followers.

  And there’s one photo in particular that grabs my attention. It’s a batch of heart-shaped biscuits with pink and purple piping, glitter, hundreds and thousands and Smarties all at the same time. The photo caption reads: ‘I made these for my brother’s birthday. Hope you like them. Love, Annabel Greene.’

  Annabel Greene. At first it takes me a second to twig on the name. She was the winner of the school bake-off I did before the Easter holidays. I’m so glad that she’s joined the online club! I ‘like’ her photo and add a comment: ‘Those are so beautiful. You have a real talent. Scarlett x’.

  When I’ve finished looking at the member page, I upload the photos I’ve taken tonight of the truffles, and the risotto which – though it was strictly speaking rice with vegetables – was tasty and warming. If Mum sees the post and asks me about the ‘special project’, I’ll tell her that we’re doing a summer lunch at the old people’s home. Though recently, Mum’s been way too busy to do much lurking on my blog.

  All in all, I feel happy that I’ve patched things up with my friends, and that we’ve got a new secret project to work
on. And glad that Annabel Greene has kept up with her baking. But as I shut down the website, the good thoughts vanish. There’s a little stamp icon at the bottom of the screen with a tiny red number ‘1’ over it. One new message.

  If only I hadn’t opened the bag from the Apple store and the box inside. I knew in my heart that I should have returned the gift – why didn’t I? Did I really need a new computer that badly? Creating a little hole for a worm of unhappiness to creep into my room, and my mind. Maybe I should tell Mum about the emails – get her to tell him to leave me alone. Maybe . . .

  There’s nothing for it. I won’t be able to go to sleep until I’ve faced it. Swallowing hard, I click on the mail icon and open the message.

  Dear Scarlett,

  Me again. You haven’t responded – and that’s fine. I said I wasn’t going to talk about the past, but there are a few things on the record that maybe I need to set straight. So I’ve decided to lay it all on the line, and let you decide for yourself.

  First, I should tell you why I left. Things weren’t going so well between your mum and me – I was stressed out at work and I didn’t find it easy to talk to her about how I felt. I want you to know that it wasn’t your mum’s fault, or your fault, or your sister’s fault. It happened, and there’s nothing I can say or do to change that or take away that hurt.

  I know this might not do anything to help things between us, but I wanted to make sure that you knew the truth.

  Dad x

  The truth. I read the message several times, trying to take in everything that the words say and don’t say. He’s right that it doesn’t help. But as I file it away in the ‘Dad’ folder, somehow it feels like a chapter is closing behind me. A few questions have been answered and no longer have to haunt me. I shut down the computer and lie down on the bed, staring at the stars on the ceiling until I finally drop off to sleep.

  A drizzle of suspicion

  The next week goes by in a blur. I gather some recipes for the tiers of the wedding cake, and try a few at home. Mum is wrapped up in a flurry of fittings, and invitations, and coffees with friends – something Mum usually never makes time to do. Once or twice, when I overhear her making plans, I have a nagging suspicion that at least one of the ‘friends’ is actually Dad. Not that she can’t meet up with him if she wants – I mean, they aren’t married any more so I guess they can be friends. I’m sure they have lots to catch up on for ‘old times’ sake’. Though it seems weird that she’d want to see him now, of all times.

  Em-K is away for a few days, and whenever I hear Mum speaking to him on the phone, they seem to be arguing – something I haven’t heard them do before. When that happens, I stick in my earbuds, turn on some music and try not to listen.

  The good news is that things are going much better at school. At break time and lunchtime, the known members of The Secret Cooking Club gather to discuss the menu, the recipes and life in general. We’ve added a few twists of our own to the menu – sausage rolls in puff pastry, sushi and cucumber rolls, rainbow fruit kebabs and vegetarian lasagne. I’ve also got a few responses to the message I put out to the wider world. It makes me feel good to know that the kids who have joined the club online are actually real people. And there’s one response that makes me really happy. At lunchtime, I read it aloud to Gretchen, Violet and Naya, who are sitting at my table in the canteen.

  Hi Scarlett. Thanks for ‘liking’ my photo. You may not remember me, but we met when you judged the bake-off at my school. I just wanted to say thanks for picking me as star baker, because I’m new at my school, and I was finding it hard to make friends. After the bake-off I met two other girls who like to bake, and now things are so much better. I wanted to email before, but I was kind of scared. But if you really do want people to come and help you for the special project, my mum says she’ll let me do it.

  Thanks again, so much. Love, Annabel Greene.

  ‘That’s so sweet,’ Violet says. ‘She sounds nice.’

  Gretchen takes out the pages of lists she’s been making of people, dishes on the menu, ingredients and practice times – she’s taken to her role as organizer like a duck to water.

  ‘Should I add her to Main Dishes, or do you want her for Starters?’ she asks Naya.

  ‘I’ll gladly have her,’ Naya says.

  ‘I could do with someone else on puddings, too,’ Violet says. ‘The cake we’re planning has six tiers.’

  ‘OK,’ Gretchen says. ‘I’ll add her there, too.’

  ‘Maybe we should ask her what she wants to do,’ I throw out.

  But luckily I don’t have to brave Gretchen’s response because just then, the bell rings – lunch is over. As I’m about to silence my phone, I accidentally scroll down from Annabel Greene’s message and catch sight of the folder marked ‘Dad’. Instantly, I feel like a rain cloud has come in through the open window, and made a beeline for my head.

  The four of us leave the canteen. As we pass the office, I notice that there’s a new bulletin board up, with the caption: ‘Don’t let the worry monsters drag you down!’ There are some furry monsters peeking out of a zippered bag tacked to the board. The board then lists all the people you can talk to if you feel worried: a teacher, a school counsellor, a good friend. For a second, I wonder what it would be like to get the heavy bag of worries off my back.

  ‘How lame,’ Gretchen rolls her eyes at the board.

  I look away, feeling silly that I took it seriously.

  Naya and Gretchen go off to science. Violet and I both have PE. Just outside the changing rooms, I slow down and pull her aside. ‘Can I talk to you for a sec?’ I say.

  ‘Sure.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Are you OK? What’s up?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just . . .’ I hesitate, finding it hard to share my worries, even with my best friend. ‘You have to swear not to tell any of the others,’ I say.

  She crosses her arms. ‘You know you can trust me – don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘Is this about Nick?’ she interrupts, loud enough for half the school to hear.

  ‘No. Shhh . . .’ I pull her closer and lean in towards her blue-black hair. ‘It’s just that . . . well . . . my dad is kind of like . . . back.’

  As the other girls file past us into the changing room, I tell her everything. From Mum running into Dad at the TV station, to the dinner, the new computer, and the emails. ‘I think she’s also had coffee with him a few times,’ I say.

  Violet looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe they’re just catching up.’

  ‘They can do that on the phone, surely.’

  ‘I don’t know – it might not be a bad thing if they’re friends. Especially if he’s back in town.’

  ‘But that’s just it. Dad has been totally OUT of our lives for so long. It all just feels really weird that he’s back. And now, of all times.’

  ‘Maybe. But your Mum loves Em-K, right?’ Violet’s voice rises. ‘You know how we all thought they were a weird couple at first. But now, it just seems normal that they’re together.’

  It’s true that for a long time after Mum and Em-K got together, none of us really ‘got it’. I mean, he’s an MP – why would he want to be with someone like Mum? It’s not like it was going to help his political career to be dating a mummy blogger with two kids.

  But that’s one of the things that, over time, I’ve learnt to like most about Em-K. He’s not just in politics for his image. He really does care about trying to make things better, and he’s a real person underneath. If he’s with Mum, it’s because he loves her and wants to be with her – and us. The problem is, can I say the same about Mum?

  I rub at my head that’s starting to ache from the whole thing.

  ‘They’re arguing a lot too,’ I say. ‘Just like Mum and Dad used to do.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure the wedding and the TV thing are stressful. But your mum seems to really want this wedding.’

  ‘Yeah, she does. But Em-K wasn’t too happy about the TV thing, and the rus
h to do the wedding in two months. But he went along with it. Then Dad turned up out of the blue, and things got worse.’ I stare down at the grimy tiled floor of the corridor. ‘I just want things to be settled. And for this wedding to go ahead, and then be over. I’m scared that something’s going to go wrong.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Scarlett . . .’ Violet makes like she’s going to hug me, but my phone vibrates in my pocket. An incoming call.

  I fish the phone out and check the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize and instantly, I’m wary – could it be Dad calling from a landline? I let it go to voicemail, then dial in and listen to the message. It’s not from Dad, but rather from Producer Poppy, the boss of Assistant Annie.

  Scarlett! I hope you don’t mind my calling you direct. My assistant told me your idea about the secret club – lovely! But I’m afraid it’s too much for the station to take on at such short notice. So let’s focus on getting you here to make the cake. We’ve got a kitchen in the studio for our celebrity chefs that will knock your socks off. Call me, OK?

  The message ends. My stomach tightens in a knot. I pass the phone to Violet, and she listens to the message. Other than a tiny flash of disappointment, she doesn’t react. The message ends and she hands me back the phone.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She smiles reassuringly. ‘You tried. Gretchen knows that. And we can still do the menu – maybe we can do a summer lunch at the old people’s home.’

  ‘No . . .’ the word comes out of my mouth sounding tortured.

  ‘Hey! It’s cool. You’ll be a star. You’re going to have your very own celebrity kitchen and your own show.’

  ‘But Violet,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t want any of those things. I just want to be part of The Secret Cooking Club.’

  She shrugs. ‘OK. But just remember, most people would love to be in your position.’

  ‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ I say. More than anything, I MUST make her understand. ‘I know it sounds totally lame, but when we were in that bridal shop, and the cameras and the spotlights were on me, I felt sick – like my lunch was going to come up all over the dry-clean-only dresses. It was awful. And I’ve had it before – when I speak in front of assembly at the charity bake-offs. It’s the same feeling I had back when I was counting down the minutes till one of Mum’s blog posts. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me.’