Page 18 of Someone Like You

‘I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love it. Even after AuntCiCi opened her shop and didn’t have as much time to teach me, I baked. I watched baking shows on the telly, I borrowed cookbooks from the library… I was always trying new recipes. I was that one pupil who couldn’t wait for Food Technology.’ He laughs to himself.

‘But rather than becoming a pastry chef, you went into marketing. Why was that?’ she asks, posing the first hefty question of the interview.

‘Ahh, yes,’ he replies, flicking his eyes in my direction. This is something we’ve talked aboutmanytimes. Raff may be terrific at his job, but he has never really loved it, not the way I do.

‘Off the record?’ he asks Greta, his eyes filled with trepidation.

‘Sure,’ she replies with an understanding head tilt.

‘I chose it after my parents got wind of my initial plan. I’d decided to forgo the expected university course in commerce or law and study to become a pastry chef. As soon as they heard, they wasted no time in coming straight back to England from Switzerland, sitting me down, and forbidding me from – as they put it – “throwing my life away to bake cakes”.’ He wiggles his fingers to make the air quotes.

Greta inhales sharply. ‘Theyforbadeyou?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ she commiserates, and I can tell she’s being genuine.

‘Yes, well, it was to be expected, I suppose,’ Raff replies, his tone a mix of resignation and resentment.

‘So, if you were supposed to go into commerce or law, how did you end up in marketing?’

‘It was as far into the humanities as I could get them to agree to and still cover my university fees. Even now, my father believes I do little more than attend parties for wankers. Again, those are his words, not mine.’

‘I suspected as much,’ she says, and they share a wry smile. ‘So,back to following your passion. Is there any chance you’ll ever pursue a career as a pastry chef?’

Raff’s eyes dart towards me again, and I nod encouragingly. I told him on the way here that this topic might come up, advising him to be truthful. Even though his decision isn’t public knowledge yet – he hasn’t even told Claire – the article won’t come out until December, so he has time to inform everyone who needs to know.

‘Actually, yes,’ he says with a proud smile, his whole countenance shifting. ‘Aunt CiCi has asked if I’ll join her at Baked to Perfection. She wants to branch out into specialty cakes with me at the helm of the new division.’

‘Wow, that sounds like a dream come true,’ Greta replies.

‘WinningBritain’s Best Bakerswas a dream come true. This would be… I don’t know – beyond my wildest dreams, I suppose. Actually, she’s been asking for some time – it’s only now, off the back of my win, that it feels… well,possible.’ Raff’s face suddenly contorts into a frown.

‘Is something wrong?’ Greta asks.

‘Just thinking about telling my parents…’

‘Ah,’ says Greta.

Raff shakes his head as if he’s trying to dislodge the thought.

‘You know, it might not be that bad,’ I say, interrupting, and they both look at me. ‘Maybe they’ll be supportive.’

‘Hah!’ Raff laughs sardonically.

‘Okay, but even if they aren’t… this is your dream we’re taking about. So what if they don’t approve?’

‘Easy for you to say; you haven’t met them. You’d be singing a very different tune if you’d witnessed firsthand how terrifying they can be – especially my father,’ he says.

‘How about we get Gina over from Seattle to mediate?’ I jokingly suggest. ‘She can kill them with kindness – maybe hug ’em to death.’

My mom’s always telling people, ‘I’m a hugger,’ right as she captures them in a bear hug. There’s no escaping Gina’s special brand of affection. As I’d hoped, Raff laughs and the tension in his shoulders falls away.

‘Gina is Gaby’s mum,’ he explains to Greta. ‘She believes that hugs are the panacea for any malady – even the absence of parental love.’

‘She may be onto something,’ Greta replies. ‘We published an article a few months ago that explored the healing properties of physical affection – particularly for emotional distress and trauma.’

‘Please don’t tell my mom that. She’ll get T-shirts made,’ I quip.

---