Chapter 15
FREYA
‘Oh my goodness, the relief.’ I open the door to our suite and, as Jake closes it behind him, I flop onto the sofa on the far side of our living room. ‘What a ridiculous day.’
Jake sits down on the sofa too, in the opposite corner, and smiles at me. Weirdly, the smile looks quite fond. Equally (possibly even more) weirdly, he has, I realise, grown on me today, and I feel almost fond of him too. He didn’t have to get me away from that reptile experience.
‘Do you like reptiles?’ I ask, suddenly aware – now I’ve stopped panicking – that Jake might have been looking forward to seeing them. ‘Sorry; that was really selfish of me. Please feel very free to go back to the tent and listen to the talk if you’d like to?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks. I don’t have any reptile issues and I’m sure it would be moderately interesting, but also I’m totally happy to have a break. It feels like we’re on some kind of school activity trip. This is our actual weekend.’
‘Yep it’s very weird.’ I put my hand over my mouth as I fail to suppress a huge yawn.
‘Sorry. I’m not used to getting up that early or doing assault courses.
’ I suddenly realise something. ‘Oh my goodness. I don’t think I’ve thanked you for saving me from the reptiles. I’m very, very grateful. Thank you.’
‘I love the way you say “saving me from the reptiles”, like we’re characters in a kids’ cartoon being pursued by giant mutant toads. But honestly, it was nothing.’
‘That sounds like a great premise for a book,’ I tell him.
‘Have you ever written in any other genre?’ he asks.
I think about the two thrillers I’ve had published under a very secret pseudonym, and remember that really we barely know each other and that only a few hours ago I still thoroughly disliked him, so I say, with great vagueness, ‘A bit.’
For all I know, he has something massively against thriller writers too.
More importantly, I don’t want anyone to know about the thriller-writing, because not all readers appreciate authors writing in more than one genre, so I’ve told almost no-one about it. Jake is definitely not someone I trust enough to confide in about that.
‘Oh really?’ he pursues. ‘Which genres?’
‘Just… you know… lots of authors dabble in different things until they settle on their preferred genre. It would be a lot of fun to write kids’ books, but obviously completely different. Very different lengths and so on. What would you write if you wrote a book?’
He looks at me for a long moment, as though he knows that I was babbling because I have something to hide, and then says, ‘I don’t think I’d be a good writer.
I kind of think it’s offensive that everyone says, “Oh, yeah, I could totally write a book, I just need an idea and I’d be away.
” I think it’s much harder than people think.
But if I could write and had an idea, both of which are very questionable, I’d go for a legal thriller I think. ’
‘Busman’s holiday,’ I comment.
‘Yeah. Although if I’m honest my day job isn’t that thrilling that often…’
I laugh and then we’re interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ we call as one.
We’re asked (instructed) to go and do our baking.
‘We’ll be there in five minutes,’ Jake tells the man, forestalling me; I was about to leap to my feet and pathetically do exactly as I was told.
We both spend those five minutes freshening up (aka in my case lying face down on my bed for four and a half minutes fighting sleep; and probably in Jake’s case just being cool, because he’s always cool), before wandering over to the kitchen tent together.
We chat the whole way, about nothing really, like you would with a friend.
Obviously we aren’t friends, but also Jake – when not being a total arse – is kind of okay. Well, he’s actually really good company.
I’m really laughing at his impression of Sonja (we both now have a very strong distrust of her bordering on serious dislike) as we enter.
We’re a lot less snarky with each other now than we were earlier on when we were cooking together. It’s like we’ve settled into something approaching, well, a team.
‘What are your thoughts on the berry compote?’ I bother to ask Jake as I work out the exact final desserts we’re going to make.
‘No thoughts,’ he tells me. ‘We both know you’re in charge and it would be better for everyone if I don’t think, just do as I’m told.’
I smile. ‘Perfect.’
And it is perfect. The three judges are all around, and they keep popping up, separately and together, for food-related chats. I’m an extremely keen home baker (and, obviously, like half the nation, would very much fancy my chances on Bake Off) and I’m really enjoying myself.
Jake tells me that he definitely can’t do anything as advanced as cracking eggs without getting shell in the egg, and that the idea of keeping a yolk intact blows his mind.
He’s also never whisked anything before.
Since he’s already ruined several eggs, I decide he can just wash and grate lemons and carrots and weigh things out.
He’s also pretty good at passing stuff to me, it turns out, and we end up working in perfect harmony, very much like two people who do not loathe each other.
You might almost say that Sonja’s team-building weekend is working, although I’m not sure she was intending it to work like this; I think she was hoping for arguments, or breakdowns from me over having to do activities I hate, and certainly not for us to begin to get on well through both refusing to do the tasks.
We’ve made a trio of desserts for everyone: mini lemon possets, mini carrot cakes (little friands) and mini raspberry tarts, with lemon-flavoured crème fraiche (which Jake does in quenelles, which he’s very proud of) and the berry compote.
It’s all very classic and not pushing the boat out flavour-combination or idea-wise, but I’m very proud of it because, although I say it myself, I think it’s delicious, and so do all the judges.
‘I’d hire you,’ Angus, the chef, tells me, and Fenella, the baking judge, agrees. I’m beaming from ear to ear.
The plated-up desserts are carefully put to one side by waiting staff as Jake and I go to join the other pairs in a separated-off part of the tent, which serves as a dining room.
We are all, as we were at lunchtime, seated at separate tables in our pairs, and then we’re served cheese fondues, with each table having their own fondue in the middle.
‘So, just to clarify,’ Jake says after ours has been placed on our table. ‘You don’t like cheese fondue, and Sonja knows that?’
‘Yep. Can’t stand it.’ I have my face turned away because (OTT, I know, but…) stringy melted cheese makes me gag slightly, and the smell is strong.
‘So, what, you’re going to eat dry bread this evening for your main course? This is ridiculous. How do they keep their viewers? How is that good TV? Exciting! Watch now! Woman looks away from fondue and eats bread! I mean, please.’
Out of the corner of my eye, which is trained very much away from the fondue, I see Jake indicate to one of the staff.
When the man comes over to our table, Jake says, ‘I’m so sorry, but my companion has a cheese intolerance, so we can’t eat this.’
‘Sorry, intolerances had to be mentioned beforehand,’ the man says.
Jake raises an eyebrow, and the man wilts slightly before our eyes.
‘Firstly, it’s rare for an entire meal to be cheese,’ Jake says, ‘and secondly, Sonja was aware that Freya doesn’t eat melted cheese. We’d love anything else. We obviously don’t want to make any work for anyone; we will happily eat something very basic, some of the leftovers from the lunch task.’
The man asks us to give him one moment, and then shortly afterwards turns up with Sonja.
‘I can’t eat melted cheese,’ I tell her.
‘Won’t, not can’t,’ Sonja says.
I shake my head. ‘Can’t.’
‘You told me you don’t like it, not that you can’t eat it. Are you now self-identifying as dairy intolerant?’
I gasp at the sheer meanness of her.
Jake just shakes his head sorrowfully. ‘Sonja. There’s literally a camera right behind you.
You literally just admitted on camera that Freya told you she can’t stand melted cheese and then you chose to serve her cheese fondue.
I feel as though it doesn’t take a lawyer to point out that that isn’t acceptable.
If you don’t have any food available that Freya can eat, we’re happy to leave and go to a restaurant. Or get a takeaway.’
Sonja looks at Jake for an unnervingly long time, eyes narrowed, and then smiles (eyes still narrowed). ‘Of course. We’re very happy to provide you with an alternative. Leave it with us.’
As she walks away and the camera withdraws somewhat, I lean forward to say in an undertone, ‘Okay, so now she’s going to spit in our food.’
‘At best. I feel like she’d poison it if she could.’
‘Do you think it’s bad that we seem to be making an enemy of one of the most powerful women in British television?’ I ask. ‘Genuinely.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Genuinely. Maybe we should play nice now.’
Our food – heated-up leftovers from lunchtime – arrives very quickly. It is, of course, the least popular dishes.
And – one mouthful in – we both know what Sonja has done instead of spitting in our food.
‘My goodness,’ I croak, when my eyes have stopped watering from the immense amount of chilli that has been added to the fish stew. ‘Pure bloody evil.’
‘She’s like a cartoon character.’ Jake lays his cutlery down and reaches for a slice of the bread that was thankfully left on the table when the fondue was taken away.
Then he takes another two slices. ‘Quick, take a few of these so you won’t go hungry before she realises we have it and confiscates it. ’
‘Before I went on her show,’ I muse as I take bread, ‘I genuinely bought into the whole Sonja-is-lovely thing. I’m massively re-evaluating now.’
‘Next thing, we’ll discover that reality TV is heavily edited to make viewers think certain things,’ says Jake, deadpan.
‘Yes, and on that point, we are now reality TV,’ I say.
‘Yep. We need to be really nice to Sonja until we can extricate ourselves. Neither of us wants our reputation to be trashed, and obviously she’s capable of that.’
‘Er, rich from the man who seemed to be trying to trash my entire career the first time we met,’ I point out.
Jake winces. ‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ I swivel my eyes to the right, signalling. ‘There’s the woman herself. Heading towards us.’
One of the serving staff pulls a chair over for Sonja and places it under her exactly as she sits down.
‘That was great choreography,’ I say. ‘The chair.’
‘Thank you.’ Sonja is not smiling. ‘I thought it would be good for us to chat now. The three of us.’ She waves the camera away, pointing at the far end of the tent. ‘So. I think we all have the same aim.’
I nod pathetically, feeling as though we’ve strayed into a medieval court where our monarch has absolute power and might at any moment decide to send us to the Tower. On the other side of the table, Jake is also nodding.
‘Our aim.’ Sonja jabs the table with her finger. ‘Our aim is to make great national television and enhance all our reputations.’ She looks – glares – at each of us in turn. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ we both say. I can’t actually believe this is happening. She is honestly terrifying.
‘So. What we want is great footage of you two arguing. Or making up, if you know what I mean.’ She does an enormous and quite terrifying boob shimmy.
I sneak a look at Jake. He has his lips clamped tightly together like he’s scared that if he opens them at all he’s going to laugh and laugh.
‘Or one or both of you finally admit that you were wrong. But, basically, we – the nation – just like seeing the two of you interact.’
Jake still has his mouth clamped shut and isn’t speaking.
‘Okay,’ I say on behalf of both of us.
‘So we need a plan,’ Sonja continues. ‘This evening we’ve decided that we’re going to have a salsa dancing lesson for all of you. You will obviously both join in, fully.’
We both nod.
‘And tomorrow we have our treetop adventure. I am aware that you aren’t particularly fond of heights, Freya, but I expect you to join in.
Jake can help you the way he did on the assault course.
Which made excellent footage, by the way.
Can you confirm that you will join in? Remember: we’ve invested in you two. ’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Excellent. Then I won’t spit in your desserts.’ She pushes her chair back and smiles at us, crocodile-like, as she stands up. We both smile back.
When she’s out of earshot, I whisper, ‘Spit in our desserts? Did she actually just spit in our stew? As in her spit is actual chilli-hot venom?’
Jake’s nearly choking with laughter.
‘I really hope she doesn’t spit in our pudding,’ I say.
‘Me too. I really want to taste it and I’m hungry.’
We’re still laughing about Sonja when our puddings arrive and, thank goodness, they seem to be unadulterated.
‘That was good,’ Jake says as he finishes scraping his plate completely clean. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m more pleased than I would like to admit by Jake’s clearly sincere praise.
I’m actually getting congratulations from all directions of the tent, both from the other tables and from the serving staff who’ve also tasted the food, but Jake’s means the most by far.
Nearly as much as the judges’ praise in fact.
I feel as though I know him now, and I think praise always means more coming from people you know.
But also, it feels particularly huge to have finally impressed someone who was so extremely antagonistic towards me when we first met.