Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Now
The swing door pushed inwards, and the volume of Sam Grey’s voice shocked Mae anew. A boom dipped overhead, a camera tried to be unobtrusive in the corner and utterly failed.
‘Oh my God, look at this!’ he cried, stopping dead just inside the threshold. ‘It’s like an actual kitchen. With… things.’
‘That’s the technical term,’ Callie said dryly, following him in.
Mae had braced herself for this moment, but the reality—if you could use that word in this context without laughing—was a lot.
The make-up was doing its job; Callie looked put together, every angle softened just enough for the lens. Only Mae, apparently, could see the faint tightness around her mouth, the way her shoulders held a fraction higher than usual.
Their eyes met, just for a heartbeat.
Everything in Mae went very, very still.
‘And this,’ Callie said smoothly, turning back to the camera, ‘is Mae. She’s the one who actually knows what she’s doing.’
Mae forced her face into something that felt like a smile. ‘Only when it comes to dough.’
That got a little laugh from Sam. Mae wondered if he even knew what he was laughing at.
But Callie wasn’t laughing. Nope.
‘Hi,’ he said, stepping forward, hand out. ‘I’m Sam. I’m sorry in advance for what I’m about to do to your kitchen.’ He shot a look at Callie, and she dutifully laughed.
‘Mae,’ Mae said, taking his hand. It was very oily.
‘This place is amazing,’ Sam went on, turning in a slow circle to take in the shelves, the ovens. ‘Really…’ He waved a hand, apparently lost for a word. ‘Proper.’
‘Not sure what that means,’ Mae said, before she could stop herself.
‘Mae, be nice to him,’ Callie said.
Sam’s head whipped back around at the tone. For a moment, something like interest flickered across his face. ‘Did you guys know each other?’
‘You could say that,’ Callie said.
‘We have doughnuts to make,’ Mae said very quickly.
‘What? I thought we were doing scones?’ Callie said slightly horrified.
‘Changed my mind. Doughnuts.’
‘Jesus, why?’ Callie beseeched.
Because it can’t be like yesterday, Mae thought. We can’t have fun.
Outwardly, though, she only shrugged. ‘Teenagers make these at fairgrounds. You shouldn’t find it that hard.’
She turned to the work surface.
‘Okay,’ she said, louder now. ‘We’re starting simple. Classic doughnuts. Yeasted. Glazed. No fancy fillings.’
‘Challenge accepted,’ Sam murmured, looking at Callie, waiting for another pity laugh. He didn’t get it this time.
‘Bread flour,’ Mae went on, tapping her pre-prepared bowls as she listed. ‘Sugar, salt, yeast. Warm milk, not hot. Butter goes in last.’
She demonstrated, mixing the ingredients, fingers quick and sure. Her hands knew what to do even if her brain was a messy bitch.
‘You want it soft,’ she said. ‘Not too sticky, not too dry.’
Sam, a bull at a gate, poured in his milk far too fast.
‘Like this?’ he asked, immediately plunging both hands in.
‘Less like you’re drowning it,’ Mae said.
Sam barked a laugh. ‘You’re funny.’ He turned to Callie. ‘She’s funny.’
‘Mmm,’ Callie said.
Callie’s attempt was better, but she was being a bit too careful. Dough clung to her fingers.
Mae bent to look into her bowl. ‘You’re overthinking it. Just get in there.’
‘I’m trying not to embarrass myself,’ Callie murmured back.
‘Best of luck,’ Mae shot back.
‘Mine looks… aggressive,’ Sam said, peering into his bowl.
‘What about mine?’ Callie asked.
‘Sad?’ Sam said.
Mae sighed and said nothing.
Neil was waving at her from the corner, urgent. ‘Mae, can we get you helping them a bit more?’ he called.
Mae moved around to Sam, repositioned his hands, kept it brisk and impersonal. Sam hammed it up for the camera.
‘Oh my God,’ he said to the lens. ‘This is like stress relief. You’re so calm. How do you do it?’
‘I don’t care,’ Mae told him.
‘She’s so rude!’ Sam said happily to Callie.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mae could see Callie watching them, jaw set.
‘Now you,’ Mae said, hoping it came off as a threat.
Callie’s dough was close but still tearing slightly at the edges. It needed more kneading, more confidence.
‘You’re holding back,’ Mae said quickly.
‘I don’t want to overwork it,’ Callie replied.
‘There’s a difference between overworking and not committing,’ Mae said. ‘Here.’
She stepped in, placing her hands over warm, soft Callie’s. She felt the contact all the way up her arm.
‘Like this,’ Mae murmured. ‘Heel of your hand. Push, fold, turn. Let it stretch.’
For a moment, the rest of the room faded. There was only the dough, the rhythm of movement, the soft thump of it against the bench.
‘Stop being polite,’ Mae said under her breath.
‘You could do with a new fridge,’ Callie said, turning to her slightly.
Mae looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘I meant to the dough.’
The corner of Callie’s mouth went up.
They turned back to the bowl. The dough smoothed under their hands, elastic and alive. Mae felt Callie relax, just slightly, trusting the motion. Mae could have left her to it, then. It was the moment to stop the touching.
But she didn’t.
And of course, that was the exact moment Sam let out a delighted noise.
‘Oh my God,’ he crowed, eyes shining as he looked between them. ‘I’ve just realised something. You two are—’
They looked over as one, both waiting for his word choice.
Back Then
Mae was watching Callie get dressed. She was only at the knickers so far. Mae had to force herself not to beg Callie to stop right there. Jesus, she was beautiful. Mae could have looked at her naked body all day.
But time ticked on. Things had to be attended to, responsibilities met. And Mae told herself it wouldn’t be this soon. Soon, they’d have all the time in the world. They were leaving in a few weeks to start their lives together.
But that was on the other side of a difficult conversation. One Mae had yet to have.
She’d promised that she would tell her dad. That she would say the words: I’m not taking over the bakery. I’m going to London. With Callie.
Every time she worked herself up to it, she found a reason to wait: He’s tired. He’s in a good mood, don’t ruin it. It’s Sunday, that’s cruel. It’s Monday, that’s worse.
She’d carried the words around with her like a stone in her pocket. Now it was early September. The leaves outside were starting to turn.
‘You’re doing it tonight?’ Callie said, zipping up her boots.
‘Yes.’
Callie looked at her.
‘Honestly. I swear.’
Callie kept looking at her.
‘Yeah, I know. But I’m doing it.’
Callie leaned to kiss Mae on the cheek. Mae turned her head and turned it into a deep smooch that made Mae want to undress Callie and pull her back into bed. She settled for getting her hands around Callie’s pert rear end.
‘Cheeky,’ Callie said as they parted.
Mae grinned at her. ‘Can’t help it.’
Callie sighed and went to the door. ‘Text me later,’ she said and sauntered out.
Mae let herself moan slightly at the thought of what she and Callie had been doing. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
But if she could just have one horrible conversation, Callie would be all hers in a place they’d share. It was a high price to pay. But worth it.
***
She waited until they’d closed the following day. Until the last loaf was wrapped, the door locked, the lights off downstairs.
Her dad settled at the kitchen table with his notebook, as he always did. Numbers, deliveries, vague plans. He had his glasses on the end of his nose and a biro behind his ear.
Mae made tea. She watched the kettle, heart pounding, feeling ridiculous. Surely this was an inconvenience at worst and a minor disappointment at best? Not a betrayal. Please, God, not that.
He’d cope, she told herself. Callie was right. He loved her. He’d be upset, but he’d cope.
She set the mug down in front of him, sat opposite, and realised she hadn’t planned how to start.
‘Dad,’ she began.
‘Love,’ he said at the same time, then laughed. ‘Snap. You go.’
Her courage wobbled. This was it. No more excuses.
‘I need to talk to you about…’ She swallowed. ‘The future. About… me. And the shop.’
His expression changed, just a fraction. His eyes flicked to the ledger, then back.
‘Funny you should say that,’ he said, leaning back slightly. ‘I was just thinking we needed a talk. Can I… go first?’
The knot in her stomach tightened. ‘If it’s about the same thing, it might be easier if I—’
‘Please, love,’ he said, and there was something in his voice she couldn’t ignore. Something weary. Something that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
She nodded, throat suddenly dry. ‘All right.’
He took off his glasses and set them on the notebook. His hands were shaking very slightly.
‘I should’ve told you sooner,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been… putting it off. Didn’t want to worry you. Didn’t want to…’ He blew out a breath. ‘Anyway. No easy way to say it.’
Every nerve in Mae’s body went cold.
‘Say what?’ she managed.
He looked at her then, properly. She saw things she usually skimmed over: the grey in his hair that hadn’t been there a few years ago, the way his skin seemed thinner, the dark smudges under his eyes that she’d always put down to early starts.
‘Do you remember,’ he said slowly, ‘a couple of years back, when I kept going to the doctor about my stomach?’
No. No, no, no…
‘Well. Turned out it wasn’t just indigestion. They found… something they didn’t like. Sent me for tests. Then more tests.’
‘And?’ she whispered.
His fingers tightened on the edge of the table.
‘It’s cancer, love,’ he said.
Everything inside her seemed to drop. The kitchen went distant, as if she were suddenly looking at it from the far end of a tunnel.
‘No,’ she said. It came out childlike. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘You would’ve told me,’ she insisted. ‘You would’ve… I would’ve…’ She broke off, realising even as she said it that it wasn’t true. He could have hidden it. He had hidden it.
‘All those times you went to “see the supplier”,’ she said. ‘Those mornings you left me to run the place…’