Page 50 of Baking Battles

Life is a joke, Mattias concludes. What the hell was he thinking? One minute he is up on cloud nine and the next. Fuck.

His toffees won’t set. Not that he has a clue about how to make toffee, really, but even Ida seems to have figured this one out. Hers look perfect, and they have seven minutes on the clock and Mattias’s toffees are still liquid. Fuckety fuck on a fucking hobby horse of fucks.

Ida just looks at him and mouths, “Sorry!” before going back to sprinkling confetti over her display plate.

“Paulina!!” He stage whispers, to Paulina, who is casually sitting on a stool, sipping a cup of tea with her perfect display of traditional sweets in front of her. She raises her hand and just shakes her head. Nope, she is not risking a disqualification for helping. Or not helping. Because right now, Mattias doesn’t trust anyone.

He shoots a longing glance at Christopher who is leaning against an empty workbench with one of the make-up team spraying his face with whatever it is they spray people’s faces with. Some kind of misting finishing powder or whatever.

Mattias Strømme should not give a fuck, because he has nothing invested in this mess of a project. Zero. Well, apart from that he did approve its funding and budget, and he thinks he kind of signed a load of contracts. He thinks. To be honest, the last two weeks have been such a blur that it wouldn't surprise Mattias if he walks up and finds his office gone.

“You resigned? You don’t remember? You are now permanently employed as some kind of lowlife filler contestant on whatever show Danijel approves of. See? Look, you signed your new contract right here?”

Mattias shudders with that uncomfortable feeling that is back in his stomach, making his guts twist and his nerves misbehave. He is sweating, and if he bends over, he might throw up. Not that he will. His arse is stinging, and his eyes are stinging and Mattias Strømme will not be crying on TV over some fucking arsetwatting toffees. It’s a lost cause, he knows that. There simply isn’t enough time to scrape the little fuckers back out of the wrappers and get what is left of the mixture back in a pan and on full heat, so he can boil them up for another couple of hours. And anyway, he hates toffees. Hates them with a passion.

“Oh Baby…” Pablo sings over his shoulder, looking down at the tray where toffee mixture is bathing in a random mixture of colourful festive wrapping papers. Because everything is leaking.

“Yup.” Mattias snivels. “I’m fucked.”

“I sure hope you are.” Pablo sniggers. “Everyone benefits from a good regular fucking. It releases all those lovely little endorphins and it’s proven to be good both for regular exercise and improving people's general health.”

Mattias just stares at him. He can’t quite deal with Pablo today, because today is proving to be just that. A little too much, and if Mattias is very honest with himself, getting Christopher by the collar and forcing him into any old random taxi so they can get home and get to bed, and Christopher could get them both naked, and then he could fuck Mattias into kingdom come, thatwouldprobably help. A lot. At least it would calm Mattias down enough that he would know how to deal with things, because right now, he just stands there and stares at the bloody toffees like they are supposed to magically transform themselves back into perfect firm chewy little delicacies.

“And... Action!”

Mattias is not paying attention, and he has to take a quick jump to the side so he’s back in his spot, the orange markings on the floor neatly outlining his feet.

He can’t concentrate as Christopher waffles on about whatever rubbish script they’ve made him churn out. He grimaces when Louise is the first one up to show off her tray of sweets. He can’t look when the judges praise Paulina for her delights. Mattias is fucked. So, so fucked.

“Oh, Christopher, what delights has Mattias produced for us today?” Isolde grits out, her voice dripping with sarcasm, yet her smile is perfection.

“It looks like… a toffee traybake?” Herman says, dipping his finger in the mess on Mattias’s pathetic-looking tray.

“Well, Herman, I’m not quite sure, but it seems to be… everywhere.” Christopher says, his eyes flickering in panic. He’s clearly grasping at straws trying to find something positive to say.

“It didn’t set.” Mattias tries to sound indifferent, but there is a definite wobble in his voice. “I obviously didn’t cook the mixture long enough, and I am painfully aware that it is… sh... terrible. It’s terrible toffee and I apologise. This is something I shouldn’t have struggled with, but you see, we are all human and today, Herman, I fucked up.”

“CUT!” Danijels voice rings out. He sounds tired. “Take it from the top. No shits, no fucks. Is that clear people? Keep it clean.”

“I’m fucked.” Mattias mutters.

Herman agrees, without a twinkle of humour in his voice, as Isolde keeps her mouth shut and just glares at him.Christopher stands there looking pained, as he gets his hair touched up, and Mattias doesn’t know where to look. Where to stand. He wishes he could just disappear, again. Be a nobody in a glass office, where the only thing he had to concentrate on was his own number-crunching dilemmas and silly emails. This? This kind of sucks.

Things lighten up a little bit for the technical, and Mattias pulls off his gingerbread dough. They also pull a fast one on their future audience as their doughs are replaced with ready-made substitutes for the showcase challenge, as Isolde loudly exclaims that they won't be judged on the taste of the houses, only on construction, style and flair. It’s a bloody joke, but that’s how things work these days. Fake fake fake. Anything that can be faked is faked in the name of money, time and studio space. He builds a damn gingerbread house, complete with glazed windows and sparkly icing and a myriad of decorative sweets thrown on top. It looks homemade. A bit shite, but still. It’s Christmas, andChristmas should be bloody homemade!He declares this in his defence, to a round of applause from the room. He bows. He smiles. He survives, he hopes.

He can barely walk by the time he stumbles out of the studio in time to set off on a very uncivilised jog towards Emi’s nursery, his hands having to hold his hood in place to stop the icy gusts of wind from hitting his face full on. It’s fucking cold, and even Emi shivers in his arms when they make it back outside, finding the pram neatly packed with Sara’s signature storage bags underneath. She’s been shopping. Again.

“Mummy found clothes.” Emi declares, and sneezes into Mattias’s cheek, sprinkling him with a good dose of day-care bacteria and viruses, which will no doubt have them both barred from nursery within days.

“Snot!” Emi squeals. “Daddy all snotty!”

Yeah. Parenting is attractive. And that’s another thing he needs to tell Sara, to back off about the bloody clothes. Mattias is fully capable of providing clothes for their daughter, yet Sara insists on buying everything in doubles, so Mattias can dress her in the posh designer shite she insists on buying. Stuff that Mattias shoves at the back of the wardrobe and only unpacks if it’s an emergency. The rest of the time Emi wears sensible playwear that he buys from H&M in bulk. Buy three pay for two cotton pieces he can shove into the washing machine and not worry if they get ruined.

They still make it home in one piece, Emi the wrong way around in the pram, talking nonsense about Lego, and Mattias reluctantly gives in to YouTube, only to have to rein in a full temper tantrum when he can’t make the YouTube shite play on the TV like ‘Uncle Clistopler’ does. Because bloody Christopher isn’t there to rescue him, because of some work thing he has on tonight, and somehow Mattias feels like he’s lost a limb. He misses him. He misses the quiet hum of having another person around. He misses the random touches as they pass, just a little squidge of a hand on his arm. A soft pat of his bum. A kiss on his cheek. He misses everything.

“Uncle Clistopler!!” Emi shouts, snotty tears running down her face. “Uncle Clistopler tootube. Kitty go baarrrff.”

It’s probably mere minutes before the neighbours will call the police, and Mattias ends up on the sofa with Emi hiccupping herself to sleep without having brushed her teeth and Mattias’s phone firmly on some YouTube monstrosity of a film clip playing on repeat. He’s a shit father. Totally shit.

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