Chapter 7 #2
There were calls of agreement. Clem still couldn’t bring herself to raise her head.
She could hear the receptionist talking to Lucas and Dwayne about taking Reina back to the farmhouse – apparently, a window had been open and the dog had managed to prise it open even further and escape to the main hotel.
On a normal day, Clem would have found this extremely funny, like a scene from some wild animated movie, but her mind was racing and all she could think about was having to continue to audition when the air was being squeezed from her lungs – and they’d caught her on camera with a dog trying to grab a squishy toy from her hand, milk being sloshed all over herself.
‘Hey.’ It was Lucas again, standing beside her, lowering his voice so the cameras couldn’t pick it up. She felt a stab of appreciation for his consideration. His voice was so silky, so calming. ‘Are you okay?’
Clem nodded again; it was more noticeably a nod this time.
‘I had a friend who used to try to postpone it,’ he advised. ‘You can panic all you want after this audition, for as long as you like. Tell it to wait until later. Can you do that?’
Postpone . . . ? Something like irritation cut through some of the stiffness in her limbs – did he think she could control this?
– and Clem finally raised her head. But wait .
. . the small, logical voice was rising up within her and saying he was right.
She could control this, she reminded herself.
She hadn’t let it take over her, not yet.
Not completely. That meant she could salvage things.
If she could keep it together long enough to audition, and not have a full-blown panic attack .
. . Running away never helped, and she’d only feel worse afterwards, and too scared to continue the competition.
She’d been there before, and didn’t want to go back.
I’m in control. If she broke down later, it didn’t matter.
So long as she didn’t do it here, in front of these cameras.
She did some more deep belly-breathing, trying to tune everyone else out, to think rationally. I’m okay. No one is laughing at me. They were laughing at Reina.
Reina the golden retriever had disappeared down the corridor, heading to the farmhouse.
Lucas had measured out the milk for her again.
She may be damp, her dress smeared with spilt liquid, but it hadn’t ruined anything.
They had been given extra time. She repeated all of this in her head several times, like the chorus of a song.
‘Carry on, everyone!’ Ronan was calling over their heads. ‘Filming is never predictable anyway – it’s good to give you a taster, get you used to the chaos!’ He laughed, and some of the others joined in. Clem attempted a weak laugh that came out sounding all wrong – strangled.
They aren’t laughing at you , she reminded herself.
Sylvie gave Clem’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘Let’s get cracking. We can do this. Everything’ll be fine, Clem.’
The camera moved away from them, and the crew seemed to have decided Clem had been given enough attention – and humiliation – for one day, because they focused on the other workstations.
Clem and Sylvie worked on mixing their wet and dry ingredients together, before transferring it all to a pastry bag.
Clem was doing everything on autopilot, trying to shove down the simmering anxiety beneath her skin.
Later. You can panic later. She forced herself to remain detached.
When their doughnut pans were filled, they shoved them in the oven to bake – then set to work making more. Soon they’d filled some more doughnut pans.
Focusing on the baking, on the motions, had helped soothe her somewhat, even though her shoulders were tight and rigid.
Clem glanced across at the workstation beside them, where Lucas and Dwayne were baking.
A strong cinnamon scent was in the air, and it looked like they were making iced cinnamon buns – one of her favourite treats in the world.
They looked divine , fat and doughy and beautifully swirly, with a layer of pale yellow on top.
Maybe a lemon coating? Lucas caught her looking and smiled at her – she smiled tentatively, her stomach performing a wide loop.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ Sylvie asked Clem, touching her lightly on the arm.
‘I’m okay, thanks,’ said Clem. ‘Just . . . need to keep occupied.’
‘We’ll be grand. Your cat doughnuts are always excellent. All the customers think so.’
‘Technically they aren’t proper doughnuts, though,’ Clem said, looking down at the doughnut pans set out in front of them. ‘They aren’t fried or anything . . . It’s quicker to make them like this in big batches, like we do at Catpurrcino. Do you . . . do you think that’ll matter?’
‘Not if they taste like they usually do,’ said Sylvie, dusting her hands on her apron. ‘It’s all in the taste, and everything you bake tastes incredible. And they’ll look incredibly cute. It’ll be fine!’
Clem nodded, hoping she was right. Her shoulders were hurting from the stiffness and her chest still felt constricted.
The decorating was Clem’s favourite part – giving the doughnuts little almond cat-ears and adding the colourful candy melts to their surface to give them character.
Her hands were shaky after what happened earlier, but she managed.
When she was done decorating everything and the timer had run down, they had an assortment of cute cat-shaped doughnuts with little almond ears, and iced bodies in all colours: black and white, pale brown, grey, pearl white, light pink, baby blue.
Each cat had a teensy nose and a smiling mouth – and whiskers, of course.
When Ronan clambered up on stage again to end the audition, he was beaming, his cheeks aglow with enthusiasm.
‘Well done, everyone! The taste-testing will be done in private so we can discuss – but we have refreshments set out for you in the dining hall, so feel free to head there before you make your way home. You’ll hear from us shortly if you’ve been selected for the show. Thank you all so much for coming!’