Page 11 of The Golden Spoon
“Water,” she gasps.Surely it can’t be that bad.
Archie snaps a finger at his PA, who scrambles for a bottle of Fiji. It’s passed to Betsy, who takes several long, desperate gulps. I can feel my face flush. My ears are probably bright red. I try not to think of the cameras capturing this from all angles for posterity.
“Did you use salt in this in place of sugar?” Betsy finally chokes out. She says it in as kind a way as is possible for someone who just ate a mouthful of salty chocolate.
“Not on purpose.” It’s all I can say. I feel the ground opening beneath me. All I want is to curl up and disappear into it. I’ve just fed Betsy Martin a cornucopia full of creamy salt! I might throw up. She looks like she might too. I’ve never been so mortified in my life.
Archie shakes his head. “I’m not going to try that then, sorry, man,” he says. He puts his fork down onto the table with a devastating clink.
“Such a shame, Peter. It looks so lovely,” Betsy says, her voice still a bit hoarse. “You’d never know if you hadn’t tasted it.”
I retreat from the table, falling back into line with the others. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. As Betsy and Archie move on to the other contestants’ bread, I glance back at the canisters of white crystals on my baking table. They are two different sizes. I’d assumed the larger was sugar and the smaller salt. That’s how these things arealways organized. I even pressed my finger into some of the grains and tasted them at the beginning to be sure. I should have double-checked and tried a taste of my filling like I normally do at home. Then I would have been able to start over again. But I hadn’t wanted to seem like I wasn’t confident, or for a camera to catch me grotesquely eating raw batter. I glance at Melanie standing in the shadows at the edge of the tent. Her arms are crossed, and her hair is pulled back into its slick bun. She notices me watching her and gives her head a fierce little shake, circling her finger for me to turn back around to face the cameras. I do as I’m told.
As soon as judging is over, I plunge my hand inside the larger canister on my baking table, grabbing a pinch and sprinkling it into my mouth. My eyes tear up as the sharp bite of salt fizzles on my tongue.
BETSY
After judging has finished and the contestants have filed out of the tent, Betsy makes her way back to the house. She is relieved to be finished with day one, happy to be on her way to an evening of relaxation. As she walks, she already is unbuttoning her jacket, anticipating the feel of putting on a silk pajama set, wrapping up in her cashmere robe, sliding her feet into their soft slippers. She is ready for some quiet, away from everyone, a small early supper and a glass of brandy in her study. Perhaps she’ll even watch something inane on television.
As she crosses the foyer, she remembers with dismay the empty brandy bottle on her upstairs bar cart. She could ring the housekeeper and ask her to bring up another, but it would probably be faster to just go and get one herself. She sighs and turns off into a hallway. The wine cellar is just past Grafton’s kitchen. This part of the house sits lower than the rest, with stone floors that stay cool even in summer. She used to love walking on them with her bare feet as a child—secretly of course, her mother would never let her run around without her stockings on. She loved the kitchen’s cozy stone hearth and the sturdy farmhouse table, which was nearly as wide as the kitchen itself. She loved to run her hands along its worn surface, waiting to feel the dings ofknife marks and little dips from years of heavy use. She was allowed to make a mess here as a child, and she spent countless happy afternoons shaping bread dough and rolling out pie crusts alongside the family’s cook. Later she used the same kitchen to test out the recipes for her cookbooks. But once the show took off, it gobbled up her entire life and she rarely found herself down here. She couldn’t remember the last time she had baked for pleasure the way she used to. The kitchen had once been a place of relaxation and peace. Everything was just so different now.
A man’s voice coming from inside the kitchen startles her.
“You think it went all right today?”
Betsy pulls herself back, standing at the edge of the door. She can see Melanie standing in the kitchen. She’s leaning back against the table, a mug of coffee steaming next to her. Betsy moves forward slightly and sees she is with that cameraman. The dark-haired one with the beard—Gordon or Graham—she can never remember their names.
“It was fine,” Melanie says coolly. “Thanks to me. This would all be a total disaster without me, you realize. The show would be so boring, no one would even watch it.” She leans back and pulls at her hair, undoing a pin in her bun and releasing a cascade of shiny brown hair down her back.
“Today was better than all of last season,” the man says.
What on earth are they talking about?Betsy has half a mind to march into the kitchen and tell Melanie how little she has to do with the show being good. But then, she stops. She wonders if that is even true, or if Melanie has more to do withBake Weekthan she’d like to give her credit for. She’s allowed Melanie far more responsibility these last few seasons. She’s even given her the final say in choosing the bakers, a task Betsy had always prided herself on doing on her own.
“I hope so,” Melanie says, picking up her mug. “I wonder why I even chose some of them. I’m glad the idiotic lumberjack is leaving. He was way too fucking nice. It was so boring.”
Peter?What would Melanie have against Peter? That he isn’t good television? Betsy sees the man’s big hand clamp onto Melanie’s shoulder. “You’re not appreciated like you should be. You do everything around here.” She leans into his embrace. Betsy hopes that Melanie isn’t having some sort of relationship with him. Surely, she has better judgment than that.
“I have worked my ass off for that woman. But she doesn’t even see it. I honestly don’t knowwhatshe notices these days,” and as Melanie taps her pointer finger on her temple, Betsy’s mouth drops open. When Melanie speaks again her voice is icy and determined. “This year I am going to finally get what I deserve.”
Oh, these young people. What does she want? A medal for doing her job?Betsy’s teeth clench and she shakes her head back and forth.No, no, no, Miss Melanie. This ismyhouse.Myshow. A bit more respect would be suitable from someone who was a nobody assistant until about five minutes ago.It was Betsy who had helped Melanie, not the other way around. She had given her opportunities most assistants would only dream of. It was good to know who Melanie really was and that she wasn’t to be trusted. Not that Betsy ever really trusts most people anyway. Given half a chance, Betsy knows that just about anyone is likely to disappoint her.
She thinks of her mother. Josephina Grafton would never have allowed such impudence at Grafton. She knew that you had to keep a tight rein on all the house staff, to keep track of what they were up to and with who. Betsy likes to remember the house as it was when both of her parents were alive, before the responsibility of caring for it fell to her. Back then there was a whole staff of people keeping Grafton afloat. There was a gardener on sight, a nanny for Betsy, three different maids, and a live-in cook. Her mother demanded perfection. She was a stickler for detail and never missed when the staff were sloppy or cut corners.
Because of that the house was always spotless, the gardens perfectly manicured for when they’d host the upper society of New Eng75land or people her father knew from his banking days in New York. Her parents often had guests stay at the manor. She remembers being allowed into the parlor as a child, wearing starched taffeta dresses and sitting primly next to her parents as they drank martinis and mingled with their guests. Betsy was never allowed to stay for the dinners, but she remembers coming down during cocktail hour and seeing the table laid with silver, the crystal glasses catching the light. Sometimes she would sneak out of bed and down to the landing, crouching on the stairs to listen in on the adults’ conversations. Occasionally someone would play the piano and her father would sing some upbeat tune that would make everyone laugh loudly. You could always tell a good party when her father was singing. That was when she was very young, though. The fancy dinners mostly stopped by the time she turned twelve. Times were changing, and trips to old houses like hers were already falling out of fashion. Nothing at Grafton was the same as it had been.
Remembering all this makes her feel even more in desperate need of a drink. She moves away from the kitchen doorway and retreats back through the hallway to the stairs, where she climbs her way to her familiar East Wing. But without brandy. She’ll ring for some to be brought up to her instantly. It’s what she should have done in the first place.
STELLA
The six of us are gathered around a fireplace in the library. Everyone is holding a glass of wine except Pradyumna, who is enthusiastically drinking scotch from an etched tumbler. I’m sitting in a wingback chair next to the fireplace. My shoes are off, and I’m pointing my socked toes toward the hearth, trying to warm up. It was hot and humid out there today, but the temperature has dropped, something about these thick stone walls and being so deep in the forest. We are truly in the middle of nowhere. It’s enough to make a city girl nervous. I push the thought away and take a sip of wine.
“To Gerald! Congratulations on your win,” Peter says, raising a glass. He’s being so gracious, I think, given the situation. It can’t be easy sitting here and knowing he’s the first one to go home. Especially considering the circumstances. Salt instead of sugar? It just doesn’t make any sense. None of the rest of us had salt in the larger cannister.
“It’s really just a matter of making proper measurements,” Gerald demurs. His fastidiousness would be obnoxious if it wasn’t so clear that he just can’t help himself. He must love facts the way the rest of us love people. I hold up my wineglass and lean forward, clinking with the others. The wine at Grafton, just like everything else, is impeccable. I take a big velvety sip.
“I’m really sorry to see you go, Peter,” I say. And I realize it’s true—I am sad that Peter is leaving. It’s amazing how just a day of being in the tent together bonds you to each other. I know that if not for salt-gate, I’d be the one heading home tomorrow. My breads were not up to par. They were not thought out or well planned, and bread doesn’t forgive. I take another big sip, attempting to clear my head and forget that look on Betsy’s face. Not disappointment, thankfully. I don’t think I could bear that. But certainly not the delighted smile I’d been longing for. The others’ breads showed me how inexperienced I am. Today was humbling, and I am happy and relieved to make it through to another day, whatever the reason.
I tip the last of my glass back and reach for the bottle sitting on the low coffee table in the center of all of us. I don’t know if it is the wine or the relief of today being over, but I have a warm feeling running through me. Whichever way it happened, by whatever miracle, I am thrilled that I’ve made it into day two of the competition. I promise myself that I’ll do better tomorrow.
