Chapter 16
C lem was curled on the sofa with Misha, wrapped in a blanket and holding a strong cup of tea.
It was almost ten and her mum had gone to bed already, to wake up for an early photo shoot in the morning.
Clem had spent most of her time after she’d dried off chatting to her about today’s round of the contest – and strenuously avoiding mentioning Lucas and the taxi ride home. And that kiss.
Now her mum had gone to sleep, an itchiness was settling over Clem like a scratchy blanket.
She absently stroked Misha, who was curled into a ball in Clem’s lap, her nose between her paws.
Reality was pinching at Clem like cat’s claws.
Clem had kissed Lucas. It had been wonderful and calming and everything she’d needed at the time, relaxing her mind and her soul.
But people were talking about them already.
What if someone found out they’d kissed and it ended up online?
She was fighting the impulse to check social media to see what people were saying, even though the first round and their biscuit-baking wouldn’t be posted for people to watch for another few days.
Her phone vibrated with a message. She grabbed it from the arm of the sofa. It was Lucas.
I have an idea, he’d written.
How soon was too soon to reply? She didn’t want to look like she’d been sitting here waiting for a message from him.
She drank half of her tea, trying to concentrate on the TV, droning absently across the room above the fireplace, some show about people with far too much money complaining about ceiling beams in grand houses.
But her mind chittered on: what was his idea?
Something to do with the contest, or that kiss?
Four minutes passed. It was enough time not to seem desperate, she figured.
What is it? she typed.
He clearly didn’t care about timing himself, because he replied at once.
Next round is bread and you said you’re not good at it. I’m no good at cakes and that’s coming up later.
Clem was encouraged by his speed, so she stopped hesitating and responded right away with:
Okay, so what’s the idea?
He wasn’t going to mention the kiss. Should she bring it up, ask if it was going to make things awkward? In hindsight, maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea . . . She chewed on her cheek as she considered, but soon a reply came through reading:
We could help each other out. You teach me what you know about cakes and I’ll help you with the bread.
She stared at her phone, her hand resting on Misha’s soft back and tracing the stripes. Misha gave a wide yawn and stretched out her front paws, claws extending and piercing Clem’s pyjamas.
Clem: Is that allowed?
Lucas: Nothing in the rules or terms about it. And trust me, I read them all. Three times. Some people are doing family recipes, so they can’t exactly ban us having help or getting advice, right?
Clem: You’re very thorough, ha
Lucas: I’m glad we’re not up against the Grasmere gingerbread. That would be seriously un-fun. Do you know how popular it is?
Lucas: Anyway, what do you think?
Clem paused. Thoughts were crashing and cascading through her mind like ocean waves.
The kiss, now the offer of them teaming up to help each other with their weak skills.
Ronan’s audience already wanted them to get together, and wouldn’t this add fuel?
And yet . . . the last time she’d tried to make the bread she had in mind for the contest, it had failed spectacularly, coming out more like something from a bricklayer’s arsenal than a baker’s kitchen.
Lucas: Unless you can manage the bread? I mean, you’ve got skills so I know you could do it
Was he worried he’d offended her now? In spite of herself, in spite of the fact they were competing, she wanted to spend more time with him. She wanted to kiss him again.
Clem: My skills don’t really stretch to bread, haha. I’m bad at it. I tried lembas bread once, and it nearly broke my mum’s teeth. Think she actually had to go to the dentist after.
Lucas: A Lord of the Rings fan!
Lucas: RIP your mum’s teeth though
Clem: Safe to say I felt like a colossal failure for letting the elves down
Lucas: Is that a yes?
Clem looked down at Misha, stroking the soft spot between her ears. Misha lifted her head and yawned massively, exposing a set of pincer-sharp teeth and looking up innocently with big, green eyes. Clem groaned and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Misha extended a paw, stretching it out onto Clem’s abdomen. Clem’s phone buzzed again and she checked his message.
We don’t have to tell anyone. It can be our secret. I promise the online trolls won’t find out. If they do, I’ll handle them Bilbo style.
Clem laughed.
Clem: What, by hiding until the wizard gets there?
Lucas: Something like that
Clem: Okay, but no one can find out we’re helping each other. Don’t feed the trolls like we said?
Lucas: Deal
She considered asking him about the kiss, too – what it meant, how it might change things – but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe, like their helping each other out, it would remain their little secret.
*
Clem huffed out a breath of frustration, tucking her hair behind her ears.
She was in the little kitchen in their cottage, trying to get in some bread-making practice for round two of the contest, which would be happening next month.
And it was not going well. The radio was tuned to a classical station – she couldn’t concentrate on anything with lyrics right now.
Misha was sitting in the corner on the wash basket, tail curled around her and watching her with wide, green eyes, as if judging her every move.
‘I’m glad you find this so amusing, Mish,’ said Clem, huffing out a breath and going over to give the cat a cuddle and a kiss on the head.
When the embrace went on ten seconds too long for her liking, Misha protested with a little mewl, and Clem let go.
‘Shame you’re not good at anything other than making biscuits out of blankets, otherwise you could have helped. ’
Ingredients were packed up next to the sink, and shoved into the wall.
Various test batches of bread were spread out along a tray on the counter – all of them had come out wrong.
Some of the bready shapes resembled battered and beaten cat heads, but they were a far cry from the kitten rolls she’d been hoping for.
They looked more like something an animal charity should be concerned about.
It was too small in this cramped cottage kitchen.
It hadn’t mattered so much when she hadn’t been part of a competition, and was baking the occasional thing for fun at home.
But when she needed to keep practising, it wasn’t ideal.
She stood at the sink – already full of dirtied equipment – sunlight filtering in through the small window.
Clem popped a failed roll in her mouth absently and chewed.
This one was too doughy and claggy, but at least it tasted good.
She was considering asking Sylvie if she could use the cat café’s kitchen today when her phone buzz-buzzed on the counter, illuminating the screen. A call? She checked the screen and a muscle jumped in her throat. Lucas.
She answered quickly. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Clem.’
‘What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is the video up?’
‘No . . . Ah, sorry. It’s not been posted yet.’
She let out a long breath. The video for the previous round was meant to go up today, which meant they could expect a flood of comments and commentary.
Clem wasn’t looking forward to it – she was bracing herself for it, like you’d brace for bad news – and the bread-making practice had been her way of distracting herself, even though she’d agreed to Lucas’s help too.
‘Did I catch you at a bad time?’ he asked her.
‘No, I was . . . ah, failing at bread again.’
A smile crept into his voice. ‘That’ll be because you didn’t consult the breadmaster over here.’
‘Is breadmaster an official title?’
‘I’m thinking of asking Dwayne to make it part of my job title,’ he quipped. ‘You want to practise together today, if that’s what you’re doing?’
The suddenness of the suggestion caught her off guard. ‘Today?’
‘Sure, I’m not busy. It’s my day off.’
‘Okay, but . . .’ She trailed off. ‘My kitchen here is tiny. I was thinking of going and using the one at Catpurrcino . . . It’s bigger. Do you want to come?’ Realising what she’d said, she hurried on, ‘Wait, what if someone sees you? The guy from the dog place, visiting the cat café.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line as if he were considering. ‘I’ll wear a disguise.’
‘A disguise?’ she repeated, snorting out a laugh.
‘I don’t have a cat costume though – can’t pretend to be your new mascot or anything. A cap and sunglasses will have to do.’
Clem’s smile was hurting her cheeks at the image of him dressed in a giant cat costume. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll meet you at the cat café?’ he said.
‘Alright, I’ll wait for you in the car park.’