Think. Think.
Justin turned to look at me then the cake then back at me, and he grimaced in support. I could see his from here, universally risen, cut into a precise circle. Fuck.
“No one says Christmas has to be perfect,” he murmured as the cameras moved away. “Just saying.” Then he turned back to his creation, and I wanted to snap at him that yes, this did have to be perfect. Smooth icing, gracefully decorated with chocolate work, and… wait.
I re-read the brief, which was, as the name suggested, nothing more than a few words on a page.
Create a chocolate cake wreath, sandwiched with apricot jam, covered in buttercream, and with suitable decoration handmade in your choice of chocolate.
I already had the jam finished, and it was cooling. I’d chosen the ruby chocolate and white that I intended to color green, and it was already tempered into leaves or ivy and holly along with perfect glossy scarlet berries. Nowhere on the brief did it say it had to be one smooth cake. Justin was right. I glanced at the other guys. Everyone’s cake looked like Justin’s, smooth, perfect, so I was fucked if I was being judged against their interpretation of the words.
A freaking child could make this much of a mess and get away with it but me? I couldn’t. Despair and self-doubt began to grow inside and then something hit me.
What if the story is that a child made this? A dad sitting and helping their kid, none of them knowing what they are doing. I had an elaborate back story about Timmy, Tammy, Teresa, and their dad Tom trying to make a beautiful thing for their mom Tara. Hit by inspiration, I rooted about in the draw and found cookie cutters in Christmas shapes. Reindeer, stars, trees.
TREES!
I carefully cut out twelve individual trees from the non-cracked bake—at speed because time was limited. Then I carefully sandwiched them with the jam and spread the buttercream icing, smoothing it as I went. From this, I created a loose circle, aware as the time began to run out that most of the others had finished, and Justin even had a coffee.
Praise the baking gods, he casually left a coffee for me on my bench as well and slunk away without saying a word.
“Ten minutes to go, bakers! That’s only ten minutes to go!” Courtney hovered for a moment but was distracted away by something Justin said, and thankfully left me alone. I only glanced up at her once, but she was chatting to Justin, and I hoped to hell she didn’t come back.
I interlaced the berries and the two types of leaves then ran a keen eye over the small tableau. Shaking a little edible glitter on it before writing with soft icing ‘for mom’ in a fake childish hand.
“Bakers, your time is up!” Courtney announced. “Please bring your bakes up to the table here behind your photos and take a seat.”
This round was judged blind. Hence the name. Venetia and Lewis had been off doing God knows what for the hours we were given, and now they were back, looking at six bakes. Five identical in size but decorated with individuality and then mine. I was hot as I sat on a stool next to Justin, who swung his legs like a kid.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
He shrugged as if he’d done nothing, but I caught his soft smile. He smelled really good sitting next to me. Our stools were so close together that we were touching. He had his hands in his lap, fingers laced, and I was tempted to reach out and hold his hand, just to find out how soft the skin really was. We had to wait for the first comments as the two judges tasted and were filmed as they did. Every so often the cameras would turn to us, and we’d been told to make facial expressions as appropriate. What would be appropriate as my reaction when they got to my bake? Shock? Horror? Fear?
“This is interesting,” Venetia muttered as she stopped in front of mine. “I guess it’s what a child might make for his mum, individual cakes, iced, decorated beautifully but with a certain rustic charm. I like this premise.”
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Lewis said, frowning so hard I hoped the wind didn’t change and leave him that way.
“It’s not a mess. It’s a child’s chaos. It’s clever, and I think not done by accident. They have captured the art of Christmas for me,” Venetia truthfully admitted.
“Let’s taste it.” Lewis cut into the nearest tree and separated the two parts. I held my breath. Lewis spent a long time poking his part and there was that frown again. Then he tasted it, and the frown vanished. “Lovely jam, I’m getting hints of brandy. Very nice. The cake is a touch overbaked but the jam and cream are perfect.”
“It’s a lovely cake, very nice.”
The camera panned to us to make suitable expressions and then back to the judges. None of us were to give away that it was our bake, and I remained as carefully neutral as possible in all my reactions. At least, they hadn’t told us that the cake was shit, so I was still in with a chance if rustic charm outdid smooth and perfect.
They moved on to the next one. I didn’t even hear what they said about it because there was a rushing noise in my head, and I had to concentrate on smiling for the camera. Then there was the inevitable delay as they stood back and discussed.
“Okay in sixth place, this one.” Lewis looked up at us expectantly, and it was Shauna’s bake that had gotten sixth place. “Overbaked and your jam is crystallized.” Shauna nodded, but she wasn’t too upset. Kristen fifth, Clare fourth, and somehow I was third. How the hell I’d managed that, I don’t know. But Justin got second and the winner was a startled Ivan, who was sitting next to a seething Clare.
“Cut!” the director called, and the six of us relaxed.
“What the hell was that shit, fourth? What the hell?” Clare complained.
The rest of us congratulated Ivan, and we chatted amongst ourselves until Rita stood in front of us with her clipboard.
“Okay, sound bites in the atrium. Ivan, you’re up first.”
We made our way to the foyer but just as we reached the door, I tugged Justin to a stop. “Seriously, thank you for the heads up.”
He bit his lip and smiled all at the same time. “It’s all good.” He stepped closer to me. I could feel his breath on my skin, smell chocolate on his hands, see a tiny smudge of buttercream on his collar that makeup would sort. “Anyway, I owed you for that shit before.” He placed a hand on my arm and leaned in even further. “You would have done the same thing for me.”
He was too near. His voice was soft. The corridor was empty. We were alone, and I was hard. God, he was all smiles and gorgeous eyes and his hand on my arm was warm, the scent of chocolate thick in the air, and if he leaned in and kissed me, I would melt into his arms. I just knew I would.
“Are we still on for the coffee?” he asked.
I pretended to consider it, tapping a finger on my lower lip. “I think that will be fine.”
“Justin, I got the photos!” Rita handed Justin his phone, and I stepped away from him.
“Photos?” I asked. Were they photos of us? Of me and him, while we just happened to be standing in a dim corridor looking all cozy and close up.
“Of the bakes, she took them as we were working,” Justin explained as he pocketed his cell.
“Well, I took some candid ones as well and got some video.”
Justin patted her arm. “I owe you one.”
“Always,” she said and clearly no one was immune to Justin’s charm. I felt stupid and embarrassed and new distrust about his motives rose up. Had Rita been prompted to capture Justin giving me advice? What about us standing here chatting alone? I fought the memories of Marc and the way he would share things with others that were supposed to be between ourselves. Just because I’d married an asshole didn’t mean that every man who looked at me was the same. But it had been Justin’s idea to fake an attraction…