Chapter 11 #3
The kitchen of The Café on the Coast was a whirlwind of movement as Betty bustled around, muttering to herself. Her eyes darted to the clock on the wall before landing on Clemmie, who had just walked through the door.
‘Where have you been?’ Betty demanded, her tone flustered but tinged with relief. ‘I thought I’d have to send out a search party! You’ve been gone for hours!’
Clemmie offered an apologetic smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. ‘I went up to the rock. I just wanted to touch base with everyone. You know, see if Beatrice had any last-minute tips for me.’
Betty’s expression softened instantly, her exasperation melting into affection. She walked over and pulled Clemmie into a hug, her sturdy arms wrapping around her granddaughter in that uniquely comforting way only she could manage.
‘Everyone would be so proud of you,’ she said. ‘And if Beatrice was here, I reckon she’d tell you to trust your instincts and to make sure you use enough butter. She always said that was the key to a good bake!’
Clemmie laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing as she held onto her grandmother. ‘Thanks, Granny. I needed to hear that.’
Betty stepped back, giving her a once-over before nodding approvingly. ‘Let’s get you some dinner before we head down to the bay.’
An hour later Clemmie reached for the worn leather-bound recipe book.
‘Ready?’ she asked her grandmother.
She glanced at Betty, who smiled, smoothing down her favourite dress, a vibrant floral number she reserved for special occasions. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be. I didn’t get all dolled up for nothing! Do you know how long it took me to find my good handbag?’
Clemmie laughed, and together they made their way out of the café and towards the bay, where Amelia and Dilly were waiting. Betty clutched her ticket to the competition like it was a golden pass to Eldenbridge Palace, her excitement bubbling over as she adjusted her dress for the hundredth time.
Puffin Island was alive with excitement. The cobbled street leading to the bay was a riot of colour and noise, with friends and neighbours lining the road. Homemade banners bearing Clemmie’s name fluttered in the breeze, and cheerful shouts of encouragement echoed around them.
‘Go get ’em, Clemmie!’ shouted Pete, the retired vet and Betty’s best friend, waving his cap in the air.
‘Make us proud!’ called Verity, who was standing next to Sam and the rest of the staff from The Sea Glass Restaurant.
Children ran alongside Clemmie and Betty, waving little flags decorated with her name and puffin doodles. The air was electric with anticipation, and Clemmie smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude for her tiny but mighty community.
Amelia and Dilly fell into step beside her once Clemmie and Betty reached them, their faces beaming with pride. ‘Look at this turnout,’ Amelia said, glancing around. ‘The whole island must be here.’
‘I feel so tearful,’ Clemmie said, her voice filled with emotion. ‘I’m so glad you all have tickets to come and watch.’
‘So are we,’ Dilly said. ‘You’re our Clemmie, and this is your moment. Besides, Max is looking forward to setting up on the beach with the twins, catching up with Sam and watching you on the big screen.’
At the end of the lane, they spotted Dilly’s partner Max with the twins in their double pushchair. The babies gurgled happily, waving their pudgy fists in the air as if they, too, were cheering her on.
‘Aww, look at my favourite people!’ Clemmie exclaimed, crouching down to kiss each of the twins on their chubby cheeks.
‘Good luck, Clemmie!’ Max called with a grin. ‘Looks like the whole island’s out in force for you.’
‘I better not let them down!’ she said, standing and brushing a hand over her apron.
As if understanding her words, one of the twins let out an excited squeal, and Clemmie chuckled. ‘You two behave for your daddy, okay? Auntie Clemmie’s got some baking to do!’
With her friends and family surrounding her, Clemmie felt a surge of determination.
The Royal Yacht gleamed just ahead, its grandness a stark reminder of the stakes for tonight.
But in that moment, with the laughter and love of her community ringing in her ears, she felt ready to face whatever the day might bring.
As she continued to walk and wave, she took in the scene at the harbour.
It was more elaborate than she could have imagined.
Picnic blankets were spread across the sand, families and friends settling in with drinks and snacks as the excitement built.
The TV crews had positioned themselves strategically, their cameras trained on the unfolding event.
A towering big screen had been erected on the jetty outside The Sea Glass Restaurant, ensuring that every islander had a perfect view of the spectacle.
Over at The Cosy Kettle, the coffee hut on the beach, Becca was serving chilled glasses of prosecco, a luxury made possible thanks to Sam, who had ensured there was plenty to go around.
The air buzzed with anticipation, laughter and the clink of glasses, a party atmosphere sweeping through the crowd.
Up ahead, a red carpet stretched along the gangplank leading up to the Royal Yacht, where the flashes from photographers’ cameras went off one after another, capturing every moment in a dazzling flurry of light.
‘I’m actually beginning to feel faint, I’m so nervous,’ Clemmie muttered to Dilly.
‘Stay focused, you’ve got this. You’re going to walk down that carpet like the queen you are and show them what you’re made of.’
‘Oh my! You’re on the big screen!’ exclaimed Betty and they all looked over to see the television cameras had captured Clemmie arriving.
Standing at the end of the gangplank to welcome the bakers were the three esteemed judges of The Royal Baking Competition, who were a blend of expertise, charisma and prestige, each bringing unique credentials to the table.
Sir Gregory Whitcomb, a legendary patissier and culinary historian, had spent decades mastering the art of desserts.
Known as the Sugar Sculptor, Sir Gregory was a former royal chef who had crafted confections for royal weddings and state banquets, and his discerning palate was said to be able to detect even the slightest misstep in a recipe.
Standing next to him was Margot Hastings, editor-in-chief of Bakers’ Monthly magazine and a household name in the culinary world. With a sharp eye for innovation and presentation, Margot had spent years championing up-and-coming bakers and curating features on the world’s most unique baking trends.
Dominic Hargrove rounded out the trio, the restaurateur and celebrity chef bringing a more contemporary edge to the panel. As the host of a wildly popular TV baking competition, Dominic’s charm and wit made him a fan favourite, but his no-nonsense critiques ensured contestants brought their A-game.
Together, the judges represented the perfect mix of tradition, creativity and modernity, making them exceptionally qualified to judge the prestigious baking event.
‘I can’t believe they’re going to judge my baking.’ Clemmie stopped and turned to her grandmother, who threw her arms around her.
‘What an experience! I wish you all the luck in the world. We have to wait until the bakers are on board until we can go and take our seats, but you need to go now. Try not to be nervous … and good luck!’ Betty held her granddaughter’s hands before Clemmie turned to hug her friends goodbye.
She set off towards the yacht and saw Oliver was now standing with the judges, looking impossibly dashing in a tailored navy blazer, a microphone in hand as he addressed the gathering crowd.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Royal Baking Competition. The bakers will be gathering inside very soon and then all those with tickets can make their way to the gangplank.’
His voice carried over the crowd, and Clemmie’s heart did a little flip when he caught her eye and smiled broadly. She made her way towards him, feeling both nervous and thrilled.
Taking her first tentative step onto the red carpet, Clemmie soaked up the atmosphere.
The buzz of the crowd outside, the glint of cameras flashing and the hum of excited chatter all blended into a surreal symphony.
She walked steadily towards the judges, whose faces were even more intimidating in person.
These were the culinary legends she’d admired for so long, titans of the baking world who could make or break a career with a single comment.
As she approached, Oliver appeared at her side and introduced her to each of the judges with a warmth that helped ease her nerves.
His charm was in full force, and Clemmie noticed how easy he made it all seem.
After the final introduction, he leaned in, his voice just low enough for her to hear. ‘You ready for this, Clem?’
She gave a small, determined nod, though her heart was racing. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she replied, managing a shaky smile.
Oliver’s grin was laced with encouragement. ‘Don’t let the cameras put you off. Pretend it’s just you in your café, baking up a storm.’
‘No pressure, then?’ she murmured.
‘None at all,’ he replied, giving her a reassuring smile.
Fiona stood nearby watching the pair closely.
Her perfectly manicured nails tapped rhythmically on a book she was carrying, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in their exchange.
Clemmie could feel her watching them, and dared to glance towards her.
Fiona’s lips thinned as she adjusted her stance, her attention unwavering.
Clemmie stole a glance back at her cheering supporters. Betty stood front and centre, waving wildly. Amelia and Dilly were clapping and hollering as if they were at a rock concert. Even the twins were waving their tiny fists in unison, coached by Max, who held the pushchair steady.
Clemmie’s heart swelled at the sight of them.
Their unwavering support was a lifeline, a reminder of why she was here.
She straightened her shoulders, her nerves hardening into a steely determination.
Just before disappearing inside the yacht, she caught Oliver’s gaze one last time.
His expression was equal parts confidence and something softer, something that sent her pulse fluttering.
‘You’ve got this,’ he mouthed towards her as Clemmie adjusted her apron. A sense of calm settled over her. She wasn’t just baking for herself; she was baking for her family, for Puffin Island.
Once inside the yacht, she was guided towards a spacious gathering area set up for the contestants.
She paused just inside the doorway, her eyes sweeping over the room, noting the diverse group of competitors, though of course she had seen them all at the press conference.
There was a man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed moustache, carefully flipping through what appeared to be handwritten recipes, his hands trembling ever so slightly.
Nearby, a young woman with vibrant purple hair was adjusting a headscarf, her lips moving silently as though rehearsing a mantra.
Clemmie took a glass of water from a nearby refreshment table and looked up at the gleaming chandeliers, whose light bounced off the polished gold and mahogany decor.
The air buzzed with excitement and nerves, but each competitor was staying focused and keeping themselves to themselves.
She spotted Fiona, who was now gushing all over the judges, acting like they were her new best friends.
Her high-pitched laughter echoed through the room as she leaned in close to Sir Gregory, hanging on his every word.
Clemmie turned away; she wasn’t going to let Fiona rattle her.
Nothing and no one, not even Fiona Fairweather, was going to stand in her way.
Not only did she want to win the competition to put the café on the map, she also wanted one last adventure with Oliver Lockwood.