Chapter Five
Five
Mae Morgan swore under her breath, staring at the latte remnants spreading across the floor. This was what happened when you pretended not to hear the two customers loudly dissecting someone from your past over Bakewell tarts. Fuckups.
‘Apparently, she’s a finalist. That’s why she’s here, for the home bit, you know,’ said the elderly lady.
‘I don’t watch that show,’ said her friend.
‘What a load of rubbish, June. Your daughter told me you’ve been watching.’
‘Only for Callie,’ June said quickly, cheeks pink. ‘I mean, no one from here has been famous since that man in the sixties murdered all those horses.’
Mae wiped coffee off the floor, rolling her eyes. Famous? That was rich. It was Mae’s understanding that all Callie did was flirt for a living.
But unlike June, Mae really hadn’t watched the show they were on about. Or any of them. Not properly. She didn’t need to see Callie laughing her way through perfectly lit dates, probably saying all the right things and being the charming woman who’d once been a charming girl in this very bakery.
Still, the customers wouldn’t stop bringing it up. They’d chat about the programme as if Mae couldn’t hear them, sneaking looks to see if her expression cracked. She’d become the unofficial local exhibit. Callie’s former best friend and whatever else we suspect, right here in the wild.
Mae straightened the display case, adjusting trays that didn’t need adjusting, trying to calm herself. If one more person said, ‘She looks so fancy now,’ she might start launching muffins.
The bell over the door tinkled, and a man in a navy coat worth more than her oven walked in, grinning like he’d stepped straight out of an advert for smugness.
He approached the counter with purpose. ‘Hi. Do you manage this place?’
‘Depends who’s asking,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Neil Peterson. Producer on Key to My Heart UK. Mind if I talk to you for a minute?’
Her heart jumped into her throat. Of course. The universe wasn’t content just to torture her by rumour; it had to send a messenger.
‘You can talk,’ she said.
He chuckled like she’d made a joke. People always thought she was joking when she was trying to be rude. It was annoying. People simply would not allow her to offend them.
‘We’re filming locally for the next episode,’ he said, gesturing around the shop. ‘We thought it’d be lovely to get a bit of local flavour, and your bakery is exactly the sort of charming, authentic spot we like to highlight. Free advertising. Win–win.’
‘To film what?’ The question slipped out before she could bite it back.
‘Callie. Do you know Callie?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We need to get some stuff with her and her family. We’d only need the front for an hour or two. You could stay in the back if you prefer to stay off camera. We’ll feature your business name prominently.’
Mae stared at him. She could practically hear her bank balance whispering, Do it. Her bakery name flashed on screen in some glossy TV montage… It couldn’t hurt.
But the idea of Callie here, of her voice floating through the shop again…
Free press? At the cost of her dignity? Which was worth more? If she was honest with herself, it was barely a question.
‘Fine,’ she said at last, grabbing a cloth just to have something to do with her hands. ‘You can film. But I’ll be in the kitchen.’
‘Deal,’ Neil said brightly.
When he left, Mae leaned against the counter, exhaled through her nose, and whispered to herself, ‘It’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine…’