Page 24 of The Golden Spoon
I stand in front of Grafton Manor waiting for my taxi. The sun hasn’t fully risen. Next to me my suitcase and attaché case are neatly packed. The blueprints rest on top of my suitcase in their cardboard roll. At home they’ll go into the closet where I catalog all my important documents. I check my watch. It’s 6:13. The taxi will get me to the train station at approximately 7:50, giving me plenty of time for a coffee before the Vermonter arrives at 8:35 to take me back to Manhattan. I have double-checked the app, and it shows the train has left St. Albans and barring any unforeseen disaster will be arriving on time. It is still several minutes too early to expect the yellow cab to pull up the drive.
That I have left without saying goodbye to any of the others makes me feel heavy inside. This shirking of the rules of civility tugs at my chest. I should have at the very least gone down for dinner last night, but I was not at my best then. I am still upset by the events of yesterday and embarrassed by my reaction. Sometimes it can be difficult for me to process when things don’t go as planned. Up until yesterday’s competition, I had been very much enjoying my time away at Grafton, despite all the changes I’d had to make to my daily schedule in order to come. But it wasn’t fair what happened yesterday. I stand by the absolute quality of my ingredients. Everytincture had been prepared and stored with the utmost attention to detail and quality.
A flash of yellow appears on the road as the taxi arrives. Right on time. A relief. I instruct the driver on how to load my suitcases into the trunk and settle into the backseat. I brush the wrinkles out of my trouser legs as we start back down the drive, glancing behind me as the gables of Grafton’s roof recede into the distance. Soon I will be back in my apartment, back to my routines. I imagine my morning coffees and long walks. The thought should soothe me, but instead I find myself growing agitated. This wasn’t how I’d planned on things going. It isn’t losing the competition that upsets me. It’s the unfairness of the whole situation. If I had lost because of an error I made, then everything would be fine. But I am certain I didn’t lose due to an error. Someone tampered with my orange essence. It’s the only plausible explanation. I recall page forty-three of theBake Weekdossier, which states that it is strictly againstBake Weekpolicy to intentionally sabotage another contestant’s bakes. I suspect I am not the only one whose bake was meddled with. Peter’s salt and sugar containers were stored in inverse of everyone else’s. It would be very unlikely that the person in charge of setting up and storing ingredients wouldn’t have known which cannister each ingredient went into if they were filling the others as well. And Peter said the night before last that he’d even tasted them at the beginning to make sure, which means someone would have had to swap the containers while we were baking. I stop to think about what that would mean. Could someone have actually switched them upduringthe competition? It would be difficult given the cameras and the lack of privacy but certainly not impossible.
We pass through the stone gate. My mind is whirring. Someone atBake Weekisn’t playing by the rules. And that person needs to be brought to task so that the game can be restarted and, this time, played fairly. It’s only right. My watch lets out ading, letting me know my pulse is elevated. I wipe my forehead and am surprised when myhand comes back damp with sweat. Through the taxi’s front windshield, I watch the woods begin to clear at the intersection with the state highway.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say, my voice rising sharply. “Stop the car. I’ll get out here.”
BETSY
Betsy’s phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Downstairs whenever you’re ready.
George is outside with the SUV. She pulls on a cardigan and rushes out to finally meet Francis.
Normally she’d just instruct him to drive to Grafton, but having Archie here complicates things, so instead they’ll be heading to the only restaurant open, a diner just a few miles down the road. As she walks across the gravel drive, she looks back at the manor. The window to Archie’s room is black, the curtains drawn tight against the pleasant morning light. The thought of Archie being left alone at Grafton without supervision fills her with a sense of unease, but she tries to push it away. She won’t be gone long. George opens the back door to the SUV and she gets in, allowing herself to be swallowed up by the plush leather seating and climate control.
“Temperature okay back there, Betsy?”
“Yes, fine.”
As they drive through the woods and turn out onto the state highway, she becomes increasingly nervous. Francis has driven up all the wayfrom New York, which must mean it’s something serious he wants to hash out. What could he possibly be needing to tell her in person that he couldn’t just say over the phone? Finally, they pull into the parking lot of the Bluebird Diner. Betsy has never been here to eat, though it’s been around for nearly forty years according to the date on its sign. Growing up, the Graftons didn’t reallydodiner food. Francis is already here. She can see his back through the window. He’s inspecting an oversize menu, the top of his head shining like a worn teddy bear with the beginnings of a bald spot.
“Wait for me here. I won’t be long,” Betsy tells George.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A bell dings as she pushes the diner door open. Bright fluorescent lights vibrate overhead. A woman with hair the color of dishwater stands behind the counter with a rag in her hand. She glances up as Betsy walks in and Betsy watches her register who she is. Her eyes widen in surprise. Her mouth drops open.Oh dear.Sometimes Betsy really doesn’t have the time to be famous.
“I’m just meeting him.” She points across the empty restaurant to where Francis sits in a booth.
“I’ll be right over to take your order,” the woman says, her voice wavering excitedly.
“Just a tea, cream and sugar please,” Betsy tells her briskly as she begins to walk across the diner, clutching her Chanel bag. Betsy doesn’t have the patience for all this interaction right now. She’ll hear Francis out and then get the hell out of this place.
“Yes, of course! Coming right up!” The woman scrambles for a mug.
Betsy walks up to Francis’s booth, stopping abruptly. “Well, here I am.” His shoulders jump, startled, and he looks up from the menu.
“Betsy.” He starts to rise from the booth, but she waves him off, sitting down across from him.
He’s looking older, she notices, his cheeks have become hollower, his suit less filled out than it used to be. He drums his fingers together, a bad sign. She swallows.
“For God’s sake, Francis, after driving all the way up here, you’d better just come out with it,” Betsy says bitterly.
He clears his throat.
“It’s Archie.” He starts.
Her stomach drops. “Yes, he’s dreadful. Have they finally come to their senses and decided not to use him next season?”
“Not quite.” Francis tents his fingers. “The press have seen some early footage.”
“How? I’m going to murder Melanie. I swear to you, Francis, that woman has it in for me,” Betsy says. Nothing is supposed to be shown to anyone until after filming. It is the only way to keep the results a secret. They’ve had a specific way of doing things up until now. A way that has worked for everyone for a decade.
“It’s okay, it wasn’t anything that compromised the show. Nothing that will give away who is going home or anything like that.”
