Chapter 7 #4
Clemmie’s hands rested on the edge of her station as she glanced at the equipment.
The stand mixer, with its sleek metallic finish, seemed to gleam with an almost otherworldly promise.
The knives in their holder appeared razor-sharp, their polished blades catching the light in an almost intimidating way.
Every detail in the kitchen from the brass fixtures to the immaculate countertops was designed to inspire, but also to remind them of the standards they were expected to uphold.
‘And one last thing,’ Oliver added, his tone suddenly serious. ‘This kitchen is steeped in tradition. While you’re here, I encourage you to think of the chefs who came before you. They worked not just for glory, but to honour their craft. Let that inspire you.’
Clemmie couldn’t take her eyes off Oliver as he spoke, his words weaving a tapestry of culinary history that enthralled the room. He was damn good at his job, commanding attention effortlessly.
She thought about the last time she’d seen him in London.
In that moment, she felt a pang of recognition.
This was a man who loved his work, who lived for it in the same way she lived for her café on Puffin Island.
He spoke with a passion that was as undeniable as it was inspiring, and for the first time, she let herself truly see it.
Clemmie realised the last day they’d spent together she hadn’t considered how he might be feeling.
She remembered that last night in London vividly, though she’d tried to bury it.
The way his eyes had searched hers, filled with hope and something that looked like desperation, when he’d told her he wanted her to come with him on his travels.
She hadn’t hesitated when she had said no, unable to even consider leaving behind her life on Puffin Island.
Now, standing here, watching him command the room with the same passion that had scared her off, she felt the sting of regret.
Not because she had stayed – she still loved her café and her life by the coast – but because she had never really understood the depth of his love for his work.
She had seen his request to leave her home as a threat to her happiness, not as an invitation into his.
The thought wouldn’t leave her head, as she stood there, her hands brushing absently over the cool marble of the countertop.
She had told herself for years that if he had cared enough, he would have written, called, found her.
But had she really given him the chance?
She hadn’t called him either. She hadn’t written.
She had let those seven days of passion fade into a bittersweet memory, convincing herself it was better that way.
But now, watching him, she wondered if she had been wrong.
He was so alive in this space, so utterly in his element, and she couldn’t help but admire him.
More than that, she envied him, the way he had poured himself into his work, the way he had built a life that reflected who he was.
As she stood there, caught in the spell of his voice and the energy that seemed to radiate from him, she couldn’t escape the question that had begun to form in her mind …
had she given up something too precious too easily?
She was beginning to think about what could have been.
She’d buried her feelings deep for the past three years, hidden them under the daily rituals of her life, but they were there all the same.
In this moment, they were rising to the surface, undeniable and raw.
Oliver caught her eye, his gaze lingering for just a moment before he turned back to the room.
It was as if he could read her thoughts, though he didn’t say a word.
Clemmie felt her cheeks flush, her heartbeat quicken.
She looked away, focusing on her hands, but the feeling remained.
She wasn’t sure what she was feeling – admiration, regret, longing?
– but she knew she couldn’t ignore it much longer.
Watching him now, she realised that the past wasn’t as far behind her as she had thought.
The oven positioned right in front of her looked like it had been lifted straight from a professional culinary dream.
Its digital display blinked invitingly, and the chrome knobs felt sturdy and precise as she gave one an experimental twist. Behind her, a line of tall silver fridges hummed softly, their interiors stocked with ingredients meticulously organised and labelled.
Everything about the set-up exuded precision, luxury and the quiet promise of culinary perfection.
Clemmie inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the gravity of where she stood.
This was no ordinary kitchen; it was grand, and a little bit intimidating.
She had practised tirelessly, but now that she was here, with the competition looming, the reality of it all was a little overwhelming.
Clemmie adjusted the stand mixer’s bowl, double-checked the oven’s settings, and glanced back at the fridges, mentally mapping out where everything she needed was stored.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.
Turning to her left, she felt her stomach sink as Fiona Fairweather sauntered into view and positioned herself at the adjacent station.
Fiona gave her a slow, deliberate smile, which managed to be smug, sharp and brimming with unspoken superiority.
Damn. Of all the competitors, why did it have to be Fiona on the workstation next to her?
Clemmie could feel the pressure mounting as the woman began fiddling with her own equipment like a queen surveying her domain.
Fiona’s presence alone was enough to make Clemmie’s nerves skyrocket, and now she knew she’d be stationed beside her on live TV for at least two hours.
Fiona glanced her way again, her smile widening as if to say, This will be easy.
Clemmie breathed in, trying to regain her equilibrium.
She wasn’t going to let Fiona’s smugness or the looming pressure of the competition ruin this moment.
This was her chance to prove herself, to put The Café on the Coast on the map, honour her heritage, and maybe, just maybe, win an invitation to the royal garden party.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Fiona was going to find a way to make this even harder than it already was.