Chapter Twenty-Two
The batter was behaving itself.
Elliott watched Julia fold flour into the mixture with something approaching competence and felt a small glow of satisfaction that she refused to examine too closely.
Three weeks ago, Julia had been a menace to ovens everywhere.
Now she was managing a basic sponge without setting off a single alarm.
Progress. Actual, measurable progress. Okay, so there wasn’t actually any heat or ovens involved yet, but it was a start.
"Am I doing this right?" Julia asked, her brow furrowed in concentration. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her hair had escaped its ponytail in several directions. She looked ridiculous. Elliott found it annoyingly endearing.
"You're not actively destroying it," Elliott said. "Which, for you, is basically a standing ovation."
"Your praise overwhelms me."
"I save my enthusiasm for things that deserve it." Elliott leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Like my cookbook."
"How's that going?" Julia glanced up, her expression softening. "You were working late last night."
"Nearly finished." The words felt strange in Elliott's mouth. She'd been working toward this for so long that the end felt almost unreal. "Just the final edits now. Then it'll be done. I think. Everything’s been tested about a million times, and nothing’s going to poison anyone."
"That's amazing." Julia set down her spatula, her whole face lighting up. "You must be so excited."
"Terrified, mostly." Elliott hadn't meant to say that. The admission slipped out before she could stop it.
"Terrified? Why?"
Elliott stared at the industrial mixer, unable to meet Julia's eyes. "Because I don't know what comes next. I've got this book, right? All these recipes I've spent years perfecting. But having a book and getting it published are two very different things."
"Can't you just show it to your agent?"
Elliott's head snapped up. "My what?"
"Your agent." Julia blinked, looking confused. "Or take a publisher to lunch? My mum does that all the time. She knows people at every major publishing house. You have to do something she calls ‘shopping it around’."
The words hung in the air between them.
Elliott felt something cold settle in her chest. Of course. Of course Julia thought it was that simple. In Julia's world, you had agents. You had connections. You had mothers who could make things happen with a single phone call.
In Elliott's world, you had talent and desperation and absolutely nothing else.
"I don't have an agent," Elliott said flatly. "I don't know any publishers. I don't have a mum who can introduce me to the right people over canapés."
Julia's face fell. "Oh. I didn't mean…"
The bell above the shop door chimed. Elliott heard heels clicking on the floor, a sound that had become depressingly familiar over the past few weeks.
"Darling!" Gabby Richardson's voice carried through from the front. "Anyone home? You’ve got a customer waiting out here."
Julia's eyes went wide. "Oh no."
"Go," Elliott said. "It’s probably just Mrs. Monmouth at this time of day. I'll handle your mother."
"Are you sure?"
"Go."
Julia pulled her apron off and fled toward the front. Elliott heard the murmur of apologies, the bright chirp of Julia's customer service voice, and then Gabby Richardson walked into her kitchen.
Gabby stood in the doorway, surveying the space like a health inspector with a grudge. Today she was wearing crimson, making her look appropriately vampiric.
"Elliott," Gabby said. "How nice. I was hoping we'd have a chance to chat. Just the two of us."
Elliott's stomach tightened. "Can I help you with something?"
"Just getting to know my daughter's girlfriend." Gabby moved into the kitchen with the predatory grace of someone used to owning every room she entered. "We've barely had a chance to talk properly. I feel like I know nothing about you."
"There's not much to know."
"Oh, I doubt that." Gabby picked up a whisk, examined it, set it down again. "For instance, I don't even know where you trained. Which culinary school did you attend?"
The question landed like a punch. Elliott kept her face neutral. "I didn't."
"Sorry?"
"I didn't go to culinary school."
Gabby's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. "How unusual. An apprenticeship, then? Le Cordon Bleu does a wonderful program. Or was it the Culinary Institute?"
"I learned here." Elliott gestured at the kitchen around them. "From Milly. The woman who used to own this place."
"From…" Gabby's expression flickered through several emotions, settling on something between pity and disdain. "You're self-taught?"
"Yes."
"How… quaint." The word dripped with condescension. "So no real training then?"
"I’m perfectly capable of baking," Elliott said, wanting very much to slap the woman and trying very hard to remember that this was Julia’s mother and that under no circumstances should she come to bodily harm.
"Are you?" Gabby smiled, and it was the smile of someone who'd just confirmed a suspicion. "So you're an amateur baker with no formal training and no credentials." It wasn’t a question.
Elliott's hands curled into fists at her sides. "If you’d like to put it that way."
"What I’m wondering is…" Gabby picked up a croissant from the cooling rack and broke it open. "Just what exactly you’re doing working in my bakery if you’re not qualified to be here?" She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully.
Elliott opened her mouth to respond, but Julia appeared in the doorway.
"Mum." Julia's voice was strange. Tight. "That's enough."
Gabby turned. "I'm just having a conversation with your girlfriend, darling."
"No, you're interrogating her. And being cruel about it." Julia stepped into the kitchen, and Elliott saw something she'd never seen before: Julia's spine was straight. Her chin was lifted. She wasn't shrinking.
"I'm being realistic," Gabby said. "Someone has to be."
"Elliott is the most talented baker I've ever met," Julia said.
"She's self-taught because she had to be.
She didn't have a famous mother to pay for culinary school.
She didn't have connections or money or any of the advantages we take for granted.
She built her skills from nothing, with no help from anyone, and she's better than half the trained chefs I've met. "
Gabby's eyes narrowed. "Julia—"
"I'm not finished." Julia's voice didn't waver. "Elliott is brilliant. And this isn’t your bakery, it’s supposed to be mine. Have you forgotten? Elliott doesn't need credentials to prove her talent. Her work speaks for itself."
Elliott couldn't breathe.
"And if you can't see that," Julia continued, "if all you can see is what she doesn't have instead of what she does, then maybe you're not as good a judge of culinary talent as you think you are."
Silence.
Gabby stared at her daughter like she'd never seen her before. For a moment, something strange crossed her face. Then she straightened, smoothed her jacket, and produced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Well," she said. "It seems you've found your voice."
"Maybe I have."
"Hm." Gabby glanced at Elliott, then back at Julia. "I have an interview in an hour. We'll discuss this later."
She swept out without another word. The bell chimed. The door closed.
Julia let out a shaky breath. "I can't believe I just did that."
"Neither can I." Elliott's voice came out rough. "Julia…"
"She had no right to talk to you like that.
No right to make you feel small just because you didn't have the same opportunities she did.
" Julia was trembling slightly, adrenaline and defiance mixing in equal measure.
"You're brilliant, Elliott. Your cookbook is going to be amazing.
And you don't need her approval or anyone else's to prove that. "
Elliott crossed the kitchen in three steps and pulled Julia into her arms.
Julia melted against her, and Elliott held on like Julia was the only solid thing in a spinning world. She could feel Julia's heart racing, could smell the flour in her hair and the remnants of the cake batter on her skin.
"Thank you," Elliott whispered.
"For what?"
"For standing up for me. No one's ever…" She swallowed hard. "No one's ever done that before."
Julia pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Then everyone you've ever known is an idiot."
Elliott laughed, but it came out watery. "I'm scared, Julia. I'm terrified that I'll never be taken seriously. That I'll always be the self-taught baker with no credentials. That my book will just… disappear. Because I don't know the right people."
"Then we'll figure it out." Julia cupped Elliott's face in her flour-dusted hands. "Together. I don't know how yet, but we will. You're not alone in this anymore."
Elliott closed her eyes. Shay's words echoed in her head: Don't push her away just because being happy feels dangerous.
"I'm not good at this," Elliott admitted. "Letting people in. I’ve been doing things alone for a long time."
"I know." Julia's thumb traced her cheekbone.
The kitchen door banged open.
"Oh, for crying out loud." Tara stood in the doorway, looking horrified. "Again? Do you two ever not snog in this kitchen? Some of us have to work here. I’m pretty sure this is a health code violation."
Elliott didn't let go of Julia. "Then learn to knock."
"I did knock. You were too busy being disgusting to hear me." Tara made exaggerated gagging noises as she crossed to the storage cupboard.
Julia laughed, finally pulling back from Elliott's embrace. "You're in a good mood."
"I'm in a traumatized mood." But Tara was smiling as she said it.
Elliott studied her for a moment. Something was different. The baggy jeans, loose and comfortable. The oversized skating t-shirt with a band logo. The way Tara held herself, somehow more settled in her own skin.
Julia noticed too. "New clothes?"
Tara glanced down at herself, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "Yeah. Just felt like a change."
"They look good on you," Julia said warmly. "The shirt's cool. Very vintage skater."
Tara's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thanks." She grabbed whatever she'd come for from the cupboard. "Anyway, I'm closing up the front. The last customer just left, and I need to get home."
"Of course," Julia said. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow." Tara paused at the door, looking back at them with an expression Elliott couldn't quite read. "And maybe next time you want to have a moment, lock the door? Or go to your own flat. Just a thought."
She disappeared before either of them could respond.
Julia turned back to Elliott. "Was it just me, or did something seem different about her?"
"Not just you." Elliott tucked a strand of hair behind Julia's ear. "But that's a mystery for another day."
"I suppose it is."
They stood there in the quiet kitchen, the afternoon light turning golden through the windows. Elliott felt something shift inside her, a wanting, a needing. Then she took a breath and pulled out of Julia’s arms. "Your batter."
Julia's eyes went wide. "The batter!"
She rushed back to the mixing bowl, spatula in hand, and peered anxiously at the contents.
Elliott looked over her shoulder. The mixture was smooth and glossy, exactly the right consistency. Not a single lump in sight.
"Well?" Julia asked nervously. "Did I ruin it?"
Elliott leaned in and kissed her cheek. "It's perfect."
Julia's smile could have lit the whole kitchen.
"Really?"
"Really." Elliott wrapped her arms around Julia from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder. "Not bad for someone who once set fire to ice."
"That was one time."
"It was memorable."
Julia laughed, leaning back into her embrace. "Shut up and help me pour this into a tin."
Elliott did. And if she kissed Julia again while they were doing it, well, that was nobody's business but theirs.