Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Clemmie had been curled up on the garden chair all evening.
She loved this time of year, the lighter nights, the soft rustle of flowers swaying in the breeze and the soothing sound of the sea murmuring in the distance.
On her lap lay the handwritten recipe book from her great-great-grandmother – open at the page of the famous torte – the book’s well-worn edges a testament to its history.
In her hand, she held her iPad. For the past ten minutes she had been scrolling through Fiona Fairweather’s TikTok account.
Clemmie had never seen anything quite like it.
Fiona was a master of promotion, each reel dripping with glamour and carefully curated, a far cry from the quiet, messy charm of Clemmie’s Café on the Coast. The stark contrast made Clemmie’s stomach twist with nervous energy.
As Fiona’s latest video began to play, the screen filled with her poised smile before her voice purred, ‘For The Royal Baking Competition I’ll be presenting my family’s signature Pearlescent Pistachio Opera Cake, an eight-layer masterpiece that’s not only technically flawless but also artistic enough to belong in a museum.
Can any of the other competitors in the baking competition say that about their sponge? ’
Clemmie wondered how easy it would even be to serve an eight-layer cake at the royal garden party.
She felt a wave of self-doubt wash over her, but she couldn’t stop watching.
Fiona continued, answering a question from an unseen interviewer.
‘The key to winning is not just baking, it’s branding.
People eat with their eyes first. My cakes don’t just taste divine; they make people feel important for eating them. It’s a skill, and not everyone has it.’
The final clip was the most cutting. With a dazzling smile, Fiona offered her competitors a parting comment.
‘Practice makes perfect, but in my case, perfection is innate. Good luck to the rest of the competitors in The Royal Baking Competition. I do hope someone manages to bake a cake that doesn’t look like it came out of a children’s birthday party.
I’d hate to win by too large a margin; it would feel unsporting. ’
Clemmie stared at the screen, her mind racing. The self-assured confidence and sharp jabs from Fiona Fairweather were intimidating. Could she compete with someone like that?
The next morning, Clemmie woke with a start, her heart racing and her thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic whirl.
The early-morning light filtered through her bedroom curtains, but instead of feeling the usual calm that accompanied the golden glow, she felt worried.
The memories of Fiona Fairweather’s TikTok from the night before looped in her mind like an unwanted reel, each dismissive comment and smug smile chipping away at her confidence.
‘An eight-layer masterpiece that belongs in a museum,’ Fiona’s voice echoed. ‘Can any of the other competitors in the baking competition say that about their sponge?’
Feeling disheartened, Clemmie started to spiral.
What was she thinking, accepting her invitation to compete in a competition like this?
She wasn’t some celebrity baker with a high-profile following or a line-up of glamorous cakes on display in a Kensington patisserie.
She was just Clemmie, with a cosy café by the coast.
This was a high-stakes competition so she needed to put her best foot forward. To that end, Clemmie had been thinking about what her granny had said. She agreed with her that the torte was the best option; a recipe close to her heart and one that was a firm favourite with the café’s customers.
She threw on her dressing gown and padded downstairs into the kitchen, where Betty was already bustling around, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, but even that comforting aroma couldn’t soothe Clemmie’s nerves.
‘What’s the matter with you? You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ Betty asked, turning to face her with a raised eyebrow.
Clemmie slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, clutching her mug of coffee like it was a lifeline. ‘Granny, I don’t think I’m good enough.’
‘Good enough for what?’ asked Betty.
‘The Royal Baking Competition.’
‘Don’t be daft, they selected you. Why the sudden doubt?’
Clemmie sighed. ‘Fiona Fairweather’s presenting a cake with eight layers. Eight! And the way she talks, it’s like she’s already won. I don’t stand a chance against someone like that.’
Betty swiped the flour from her hands, her expression both firm and kind. ‘Now you listen to me. Someone who has to shout about their achievements from the rooftops is not a winner. A winner is someone who quietly does the work, puts their heart into it and lets their results speak for themselves.’
‘But she’s so polished, so confident,’ Clemmie protested.
Betty shook her head. ‘Confidence isn’t about showing off.
It’s about believing in what you do and why you’re doing it.
You think your great-great-grandmother had time to boast about her torte when she was baking it for the people who helped rebuild this island after the war?
No, she simply baked it quietly with love and gratitude.
That’s what made it special and it’s why people still talk about it today. ’
Clemmie bit her lip, her granny’s words tugging at her heart.
‘Fiona might have fancy cakes and a silver tongue,’ Betty continued, ‘but you have something she’ll never have: roots.
You’ve got a recipe with a story, a café with history, and a community standing behind you.
Let her talk all she wants. You focus on baking from the heart, and trust me, that’ll be enough. ’
Clemmie looked up at her granny, the flicker of doubt in her chest slowly giving way to a small, tentative spark of determination. ‘You really think so?’
‘I know so,’ Betty replied.
‘I’ve decided to go with the torte.’
‘I think you’ve made an excellent choice.’ Betty gave Clemmie a hug. ‘Now drink your coffee, and let’s get to work. You’ve got a torte to perfect and I need to get these deliveries out before we open.’
Clemmie smiled, the panic beginning to loosen its grip. She still had doubts, but her granny’s words settled her. She needed to focus on what mattered most: honouring her great-great-grandmother’s legacy and putting The Café on the Coast on the map.
An hour later Clemmie heard the roar of an engine.
Mid-whisk, her hand hovering over a bowl of rich chocolate ganache, she stared and narrowed her eyes at the deep blue sports car that had parked just outside the café.
It was the kind of car that made you think of glossy magazine covers or the hero of a spy film, not a sleepy little island town that had more puffins than people.
Wiping her hands on her pinny, Clemmie hurried outside.
‘I’m sorry, you can’t park there. There are numerous carparks on the…
’ The words died on her lips as she stared, her mouth slightly agape.
She now wasn’t sure what was more surprising: the sleek, ridiculously impractical sports car gleaming in the sunlight, or the man stepping out of it.
Oliver Lockwood.
For a moment, time seemed to stop. He stood there, a vision of gorgeousness and easy confidence, his dark hair slightly tousled as though styled by a careless breeze.
He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to make her stomach flutter, exuding a casual elegance that looked effortless and yet infuriatingly deliberate.
His eyes, that familiar shade of hazel, locked onto hers, and she saw his smile widen.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning one arm casually on the car door.
‘If it isn’t Clementine Rose. And this must be the reason you turned me down, The Café on the Coast.’ He glanced over the pink cottage that had been transformed into the café at the bottom of Lighthouse Lane.
The corners of his mouth lifted into that grin, the one that used to make her feel like she’d swallowed a whole tray of espresso shots.
Now, it made her feel … well, exactly the same, even though she wanted to be annoyed.
Definitely annoyed. He hadn’t fought for her. It was all his way or no way.
Clemmie folded her arms, hoping it would disguise the fact that her heart was pounding. ‘Like I said, you can’t park there,’ she shot back.
His grin widened. All she could think about was the last time she saw him, three years ago, slipping into a black cab outside her hotel room after their last argument that still echoed in her mind.
‘You’d give up the chance to see the world for… what? Puffin Island? A little café on the coast?’ Oliver’s frustration had flared, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.
‘It’s not just a café’, Clemmie had countered, her tone equally fiery. ‘It’s my life. My home, and there’s no other place I’d rather be.’
Oliver, most probably used to getting his own way, had been stunned.
For all his sophistication, he couldn’t seem to understand why Clemmie would choose a small island over the vast, thrilling adventure he was offering her.
She, meanwhile, couldn’t understand why he couldn’t see the value in staying rooted in the place she loved.
She’d stood at the window watching him go, the cab disappearing at the bottom of the road into the London night.
Her heart ached, the pain sharp and immediate, because she knew the best week of her life had just ended.
She wished she had thought about it more, about him, about them, before falling headlong into a whirlwind week of passion.
But what haunted her more than the loss was the memory of how he had made her feel, as though she were the only woman in the world.
That magic was shattered weeks later when a glossy tabloid photo surfaced showing Oliver, dashing as ever, arm-in-arm with a stunning model at a glamorous event.
The sight of his familiar smile aimed at someone else had gutted her, leaving her with a bitter truth …
she had been unforgettable to him for just one fleeting moment, while he had become unforgettable to her for ever.
‘And how are you?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Clemmie avoided his question.
‘I was passing through and I thought to myself: why don’t I call in on my favourite baker?’
‘Three years after you left without a backward glance?’
‘It does seem like only yesterday, doesn’t it?’
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the raw passion and chemistry between them before he’d smashed her heart into smithereens.
‘Is that a Ferrari?’
Clemmie spun around to see her granny standing a few feet away. Apparently, she’d finished the deliveries.
‘It’s an Aston Martin,’ Oliver said smoothly, flashing her a polite smile.
‘It’s very shiny,’ she replied. ‘And very impractical for these roads.’
Clemmie couldn’t help but smirk at that. Oliver, however, looked entirely unfazed.
‘Where can I park it, then?’ he asked, turning back to Clemmie.
‘Down the lane, near the harbour,’ she replied, gesturing vaguely.
‘Perfect,’ he said, climbing back into the car. The engine purred to life, and with a wave, he drove off, leaving Clemmie standing there wondering if she was actually dreaming.
‘Isn’t he a sight for sore eyes? He looks like he has everything going for him,’ remarked Betty before turning back into the café.
‘He’s a food journalist, in fact more like a food presenter these days,’ replied Clemmie.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Betty.
‘Oliver Lockwood.’
Betty straightened, her face lighting up with recognition. ‘Oliver Lockwood? Well, now, I’ve heard that name somewhere recently. That’s him? I wish I’d known. I could have introduced myself.’
‘What do you mean, “That’s him”?’
‘He’s presenting The Royal Baking Competition special.’
Clemmie’s stomach dropped. She stared at Betty, dread creeping over her like a tide. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, it’s all over social media and I was going to ask whether you’d heard of him. By the way, Sam is going to set up a huge screen on the jetty outside The Sea Glass Restaurant so everyone in the village can sit on the beach and watch it live.’
Clemmie didn’t answer. Her mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening. Oliver Lockwood was going to present The Royal Baking Competition?
Clemmie’s hands trembled as she pulled her phone from her pocket, her fingers fumbling to unlock it. A few taps and a search later, the headline stared back at her in bold black text:
Oliver Lockwood Confirmed as Host for This Year’s Royal Baking Competition, to be held aboard the Royal Yacht at Puffin Island
Her heart sank. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, her pulse pounding as she scanned the article until her eye caught on a single sentence that made the whole situation irrevocably worse: Oliver will accompany the winner of The Royal Baking Competition to this year’s Royal Garden Party. Double shit.
‘Do you think he’s married? I didn’t see a ring. The looks, the career and the car…’ Betty chuckled softly. ‘You should get in there!’
Clemmie barely heard her. All she could think about was that the man she had tried so hard to forget was now back in her orbit, and all those long-suppressed feelings were quickly rising to the surface.
The realisation hit harder than the headline and was an even more unwelcome surprise.