Page 2 of Someone Like You

1

GABY

‘Gaby, it’s back on!’ CiCi calls out from the living room.

Attempting to hurry, I twist the cork so forcefully that frothy wine cascades over the rim, spilling everywhere. ‘Shit.’ I look around for something to clean up the mess and try tearing a sheet from a roll of paper towels one-handed. Only it isn’t a one-handed task and now I’ve unrolled enough to sop up a mid-sized murder scene.

‘Whatareyou doing?’ asks Raff.

‘Help!’ I wail.

I am hands-down the clumsiest person I know – mini disasters like this one are par for the course – but they’re about to announce Raff as the winner, so no time for my typical ha-ha-I’m-such-a-hot-mess brand of self-deprecation.

With a soft chuckle, Raff helps by tearing off a couple of sheets.

‘Thanks,’ I say, mopping up wine from the counter, my hands, and finally the bottle. I deposit the soggy paper towels in the trash, then catch sight of the shitty job Raff’s done of winding up the extra sheets. When she sees that, CiCi will emit a sigh so loud, my parents will hear her back in Seattle.

‘Gaby! Raff! They’re about to announce the winner!’ yells our best friend, Freya.

‘Coming!’ we reply in unison.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask him.

‘Mixed feelings,’ he replies, his lips wrenching into a wry smile.

‘It might not be that noticeable.’

‘A confused me looking for my absent girlfriend while the camera’s zoomed in on my face? Yes, you’re probably right.’

‘Will you two please hurry up?!’ Freya yells again – and Freya rarely raises her voice.

‘After you,’ I say.

Reluctantly, Raff heads back to the living room and I follow. While he folds himself onto the floor in front of the huge modular sofa, I zip around and top up everyone’s glasses then take my seat next to Freya. She claps her hands under her chin with excitement.

It’s corny, all of us pretending we don’t know who wins, but the impending absent-Winnie drama aside, this is also fun. And even though CiCi and I were there on the day of filming, we weren’t allowed inside the barn, so getting to see how Raff made his winning cake has been incredible.

‘You are proper sweating, you are,’ says Raff’s Uncle Devin, his eyes fixed on the TV version of Raff.

‘Well, yes, because they filmed in the middle of August during aheatwave, but we still had to wear festive jumpers!’

‘Shh, this is it,’ says CiCi.

We fall silent, the rest of us leaning closer to the TV while Raff gnaws on a thumbnail in my periphery.

‘And the winner ofBritain’s Best Bakers: Festive Baking Spectacular, taking home the coveted trophy and fifty thousand pounds is… Rafferty Delaney!’ says the host, a moderately funny, middle-aged comedian who dyes his hair black.

We whoop and cheer as if we’re genuinely surprised and Raff’s cheeks flood with colour, a wide grin spreading across his face.

‘All right, all right, no autographs, please,’ he says, holding up his hands, pretending to fend off the hoards.

Onscreen, Raff receives one of those giant novelty cheques and a gaudy trophy, then he’s swamped by his fellow contestants. Only, as he’s the tallest person onstage and (literally) head and shoulders above everyone else, it’s painfully obvious the moment he clocks Winnie’s absence from the crowd. His eyes narrow in confusion as he scans the small crowd, then his face falls, switching from elation to disappointment in an instant. The moment passes quickly enough, a back slap from a short, stocky man restoring the smile to his face.

I catch Freya’s eye and jerk my head towards the kitchen. She nods, and as the theme song plays and the credits roll, we sneak off, leaving Freya’s boyfriend, Freddie, rapid-firing questions at Raff.

‘That was brutal,’ Freya whispers when we’re out of earshot.

‘I told you.’

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