Chapter Six
The fire alarm went off for the third time in two hours, and Elliott seriously considered murder.
She was elbow-deep in a delicate meringue, the kind that required absolute concentration and a steady hand, when the shriek cut through the flat. Her whisk jerked. The meringue deflated with a sad little sigh.
"For the love of—" Elliott slammed the bowl onto the counter.
The alarm didn't stop.
Of course it didn't.
She grabbed her phone and jabbed at the screen until Milly's face appeared, because if Elliott was going to suffer, she might as well have company. And all of this was Milly’s fault really.
"Elliott, dear!" Milly's voice was warm and entirely too cheerful for someone who had caused this mess. "How lovely to hear from you. How are things at the bakery?"
"Things," Elliott said flatly, "are on fire. Possibly literally. I can't tell anymore."
"Oh dear." Milly didn't sound nearly concerned enough. "Is the new owner settling in?"
"The new owner is attempting to burn down the building. Repeatedly. With impressive dedication." Elliott moved to the window and glared down at the street below. "Did you know, by the way, that you sold someone a flat that already had a person living in it? As in me."
There was a pause. "Ah."
"Ah?" Elliott's voice went up an octave. "Ah? Milly, I live here. I've lived here for years. And now there's a stranger sleeping on my couch and destroying my kitchen and setting off the fire alarm every fifteen minutes—"
"I assumed you came with the flat," Milly said, and Elliott could hear the wince in her voice. "Like a fixture. Or a very grumpy cat. People can’t just go around throwing other people out of flats, can they?"
"I am not a fixture."
"No, you're considerably less cooperative than one." Milly sighed. "I'm sorry, love. I truly am. I should have thought this could happen. But perhaps this is for the best. Change is good for a person."
Elliott made a sound of absolute disgust. "Change is terrible. Change is the worst. I had a system, Milly. A routine. Everything was exactly how I wanted it, and now there's a woman downstairs who can't tell the difference between an oven and a weapon of mass destruction. Oh, and she’s sleeping on my couch. Or I’m sleeping in her bed. I’m not sure which. "
"Is she pretty?"
"What?" Elliott blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing at all. Just curious." Milly's tone was suspiciously innocent. "You seem very worked up about her."
"I'm worked up because she's going to get us both killed! Or at least make us homeless, once she burns the place to the ground."
The alarm was still screaming. Elliott pressed her free hand against her temple.
"Go help her," Milly said gently.
"I'm not helping her. I'm working on my cookbook. I don't have time to babysit someone who can't operate a toaster."
"Elliott."
"No."
"You're going to go down there," Milly continued, "and you're going to help that poor girl before she hurts herself. Because that's what decent people do."
"I'm not decent. I'm bitter and antisocial. You've said so yourself."
"I've said you pretend to be bitter and antisocial." Milly's voice softened. "There's a difference, love. Now go. Before the fire brigade shows up."
Elliott hung up without saying goodbye, which was rude, but she was fairly certain Milly would forgive her.
The meringue was definitely ruined. She stared at it mournfully for a moment, then squared her shoulders and headed for the stairs.
If she was going to prevent a disaster, she might as well get on with it.
THE KITCHEN LOOKED like a war zone.
Elliott stood in the doorway, taking in the carnage with the expression of someone who had just witnessed a crime against baking.
Flour covered every surface. Something that might have once been bread sat smoking on the counter.
Julia stood in the middle of it all, hair escaping from its ponytail, face smudged with what appeared to be chocolate, waving a tea towel at the still-screaming alarm.
Tara took one look at Elliott’s face and sloped off out of the back door for a smoke break.
"What," Elliott said, "are you doing?"
Julia spun around, nearly tripping over a bag of sugar that had somehow ended up on the floor. "Oh! Elliott! I didn't… the alarm just… I was trying to make… um…"
"I don't actually want to know what you were trying to make." Elliott strode past her and jabbed the alarm's reset button with practiced precision. Blessed silence fell. "I want to know why you're incapable of doing anything in this kitchen without nearly burning it down."
"It wasn't nearly burning down." Julia's voice was defensive. "It was just… smoking. A little. The bread got away from me."
Elliott looked at the bread. The bread looked back, blackened and accusatory.
"That's not bread," she said. "That's a biohazard."
"It's my third attempt today."
"Your third…" Elliott closed her eyes and counted to five. It didn't help. "Why do you keep trying if you clearly can't do it?"
Julia's face fell, and something in Elliott's chest twinged uncomfortably. She ignored it.
"Because I have to," Julia said quietly. "The bakery's supposed to open. People are expecting pastries. I can't just… not have anything to sell."
"Then hire someone who can actually bake."
"I have Tara," Julia said defensively. "She's doing her best. But she can't do everything, and I thought if I could just learn the basics…"
"You can't learn the basics if you're burning everything before you get to step two." Elliott moved past Julia and began assessing the damage. Flour everywhere. Eggs cracked haphazardly. The stand mixer looked like it had been through a blender itself. "This is a disaster."
"I know." Julia's voice was small. "I know it is. I'm sorry."
Elliott didn't want to feel bad for her. Julia was rich, privileged, had probably never worked a real day in her life. She'd had this bakery handed to her on a silver platter while Elliott had spent years earning every scrap of skill she possessed.
But Julia was also standing there looking like a kicked puppy, covered in flour and failure, and Elliott wasn't made of stone.
"Move," she said shortly.
"What?"
"Move. Get away from the oven. Before you hurt yourself."
Julia moved. Elliott began methodically cleaning up the mess, her movements efficient and practiced.
"You don't have to…" Julia started.
"I know I don't have to. I'm doing it anyway, because if I don't, you're going to set off that alarm again, and I have a meringue upstairs that's already ruined because of you."
"I ruined your meringue?"
"You ruined my entire afternoon." Elliott scraped the charred remains of bread into the bin. "And probably my evening. And possibly my week."
"I'm sorry."
"You've said that." Elliott glanced at her. Julia was standing awkwardly by the refrigerator, clearly wanting to help but afraid to touch anything. "Wash the bowls. You can manage that much, can't you?"
Julia nodded and moved to the sink with obvious relief.
They worked in silence for a few minutes. Elliott found herself watching Julia out of the corner of her eye, the way she bit her lip in concentration, the careful way she handled the equipment, like she was afraid of it. Which, given her track record, was probably wise.
"Why did you agree to this?" Elliott asked suddenly. "The bakery. If you can't bake."
Julia's hands stilled in the soapy water. "My mother."
"Your mother made you take over a bakery you can't run?"
"My mother thinks I can do anything if I just try hard enough." Julia's voice was bitter in a way Elliott hadn't heard before. "She bought this place and told me I had twelve months to prove myself. A year to stop being a disappointment, I suppose."
Elliott felt that twinge again. Stronger this time. "And if you don't?"
"Then I'm cut off. From everything." Julia resumed washing, her movements jerky. "The money, the family, all of it. I'll be on my own."
"Would that be so bad?"
Julia laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "I don't know. I've never been on my own. Not really."
Elliott thought about being seventeen, with nothing but a backpack to her name. About learning to survive without a safety net, without family, without anyone to catch her when she fell.
"It's not as scary as you'd think," she said quietly.
Before Julia could respond, the front door opened and Jamie walked in, looking harried.
"Thank God," he said when he saw Elliott. "I thought the place was going to burn down. I've heard that alarm go off at least five times today."
"Six," Elliott corrected. "I've been counting."
Jamie took in the state of the kitchen, then Julia's flour-covered appearance, and his expression softened. "Rough day?"
"You could say that." Julia attempted a smile. It didn't quite work.
"She's been attempting to bake," Elliott said flatly. "With predictable results."
"Ah." Jamie nodded sagely. "Have you considered… not?"
"Not baking?" Julia looked panicked. "But I have to. The bakery—"
"The bakery has Elliott." Jamie gestured at her like she was an exhibit in a museum. "Who, from what I understand, is rather good at this sort of thing."
"I'm working on my cookbook," Elliott said immediately. "I don't have time to teach basic skills to someone who can't tell the difference between baking powder and baking soda."
"They're different?" Julia asked weakly.
Elliott stared at her. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I… am definitely joking." Julia did not sound convincing.
Jamie laughed, then tried to hide it behind a cough when Elliott glared at him. "Look, I'm just saying, you two are going to be living together anyway from what Tara tells me. You could be working in the same kitchen. Julia could learn a lot from you, Elliott."
"Julia could learn a lot from YouTube," Elliott shot back. "Or a cookbook. Or literally anyone else."
"But you're right here." Jamie spread his hands. "Convenient, isn't it?"
"I'm not convenient. I'm busy." Elliott crossed her arms. "I'm working on something important. I don't have time to hold hands with some little rich girl playing at running a bakery."
The words came out harsher than she'd intended. Julia flinched like she'd been slapped.
"Right," Julia said quietly. "Of course. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I’ll take the batteries out of the smoke alarm next time."
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, spine very straight, shoulders very stiff. A moment later, Elliott heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the flat.
Jamie was looking at her with an expression that managed to be both sympathetic and disappointed. "That was a bit much, don't you think?"
"She needed to hear it."
"Did she?" Jamie leaned against the counter. "Or did you just need to say it? And you do realize that her taking the batteries out of the smoke alarm is a terrible idea?"
Elliott didn't have an answer for that. She stood in the middle of the destroyed kitchen, surrounded by flour, and told herself firmly that she didn't care.
She had a cookbook to write. She had her own dreams to chase.
She didn't have time to worry about Julia and her sad eyes and her hopeless attempts at bread.
She didn't.
Really.
After all, what could possibly be in it for her?