Page 101 of Go Cook Yourself

“I made it to the recipe,” I stutter. The exact recipe.

Now comes the aftertaste.

His eyes are wide, and he presses his lips together.

Boom.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as he takes another bite. The two cameras are fixed on this moment. Everyone in the audience is silent as the scene unfolds. Garett whispers to my dad. I can lip-read Dad’s reply.Just wait, champ.

Clive’s eyes pinch, and his tongue moves around his mouth, pressing his cheeks out occasionally. “Clive, I’m so sorry if I did something wrong,” I say. Every pathetic moment in my relationship with Neil helped me create that confused, sad voice.

“What is in this cake? Specifically, what ingredients?” he snarls at me.

“Self-raising flour, milk, softened butter, eggs, a little baking powder, sugar—caster sugar.” I reel off the ingredients while ticking the things off my fingers. I do it slowly as if I’m confused. It will annoy him further. I know what he wants, but he doesn’t realise that yet. “I used muscovado sugar once. That was a big mistake.”

I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh with me. Betty and a couple of the other bakers do, though. They know what a mistake that would be.

He taps his fork hard and repeatedly against the countertop until the floor manager waves his arms. He sneers, “And what else?”

“Ummm.” I tap my fingers against my chin. Clive’s face gets redder. “Good question. Oh yes.” He raises his eyebrows. “There’s buttercream, too, and all the decorations. So we have softened butter. I’ve used so much of that when practising. Icing sugar, vanilla extract. Everyone in my family loved my preparation for this competition, including my boyfriend, who is a chef. He’s called Garett. You might know him. He’s outstanding. Anyway then, for the decoration we have—”

“Stop,” he roars. The filming crew wave their arms and rush around behind the cameras. Clive is meant to be less nasty than Gordon Ramsay but fiercer than Martha Stewart. I gasp as if scared. I want to bring this man down. Barry smiles awkwardly at the audience, but Clive hasn’t finished ranting. “Your boyfriend is Garett Kelsey?”

I nod. I suck my lips into my mouth and make my eyes wide like I’m an innocent young woman. “He helped me with a few bits. I hope that’s not cheating.”

“Did he give you ingredient ideas? I meant the ingredients you haven’t mentioned yet, the ones that have given your cake its… unique flavour.” He presses me with his questions.

I smile broadly. “Yes, he did. He’s so good to me. I don’t deserve him.”

Clive’s jaw hardens. I laugh but cover it with a fake sneeze. “Sorry, Clive. Allergies.” Allergies to massive shitheads.

“And what ingredients make your unique flavours?” He nears me, and I step back as if worried. Again, the filming crew shake their heads. He can’t be seen bullying a lovely baking contestant.

“That’s a good question.” I tip my head to the side. “It’s a really good question.”

Time ticks by slowly. His body shakes beside me with increasing anger.

“Answer me, then!”

I hold my tongue as someone from the filming crew rushes to him and says in his ear loudly, “Maybe we should announce the winner.”

He pushes the staff member hard enough to make the audience murmur.

“Not yet. I need to know what’s in this cake.”

And that’s when I land my blow. “You should know. They’re the same ingredients from ‘your’ famous pasta recipe,” I counter, “the one you haven’t made since you won that competition.”

The crowd gasps, led by my mum, Kath, Amber, Wicksy, and Kalen. They’re loud and attention-seeking, and everyone joins in.

Clive fists his hands. “I’m aware. You’ve stolen my secret ingredient.”

“That’s impossible, Clive. How would I know it? They’re your secret ingredients”—I emphasise the plural—“that you famously said you never told anyone.”

“But I—”

I turn from confusion to confrontation. “So what is in the cake? If you don’t tell everyone, then I will. Why haven’t you made any pasta since the competition?”

He stutters before snapping, “I haven’t been able to source the ingredients. They’re hard to get hold of.”

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