Page 25 of The Golden Spoon
Betsy nods, relieved as Francis continues, “Melanie may have been the one to share it with Archie first, but it wasn’t Melanie who leaked the footage to the press. It was Archie.”
“Why would he do something reckless like that?” she sputters. “What possible reason would he have to risk the integrity of the show? Do you know what would happen if it came out who has gone home already? What about the producers?” At least Archie will be fired for this kind of misbehavior, Betsy realizes, calming a bit with the idea of him finally gone.
“They’ve seen it, of course.”
She’s breathing heavily, her mind racing. “Well?”
He runs his finger over the chipped white cup in front of him.
“They love him. Apparently, they are willing to forgive him. He said he did it to ‘generate buzz’ and ‘save’ the show.” Francis puts his fingers up in air quotes, a gesture that makes her want to slap him. Betsy feels her face growing hot. He leans forward, his face puckered like he has eaten raw flour. “There’s more.”
“More?” She clenches her teeth.
He pulls something out of his bag.
“It’s a tabloid. From today.”
She takes the newspaper from him. On the cover is a Photoshopped image of her and Archie. In it, Betsy’s eyebrows are arched up and her mouth curved down like a Disney villain. God knows where the press found the photo. Next to the picture of her, Archie is just smiling that smug smile of his. They’ve done nothing to exaggeratehisfeatures, to makehimlook bad.
“They’ve made it look like I’m a crazy old bat and he’s just putting up with me.”
Francis pulls the tabloid away from her. “He is trying to sabotage you, Betsy. He wants to be the main host of the show, perhaps even push you out entirely. And from what I’ve heard, the producers are on board.”
“No. This isn’t happening.” Betsy feels like she could break something.
“There’s even talk of the show leaving Grafton, moving to LA.”
“Here’s your tea!” The woman from the counter appears next to them with a mug in her hand. She smiles and places it in front of Betsy. She’s younger than she appeared at first, probably only in her early forties. Her hair and makeup are doing her no favors, though. Her skin is rough, like she was once a smoker. She begins to walk away and then pauses. Betsy knows this pause. She is working up the nerve to say something. Betsy braces herself, rage simmering in her chest.
“I just wanted to say, I love your show so much. Made me start baking.”
Betsy suppresses her irritation with a dry smile.
“That’s so kind of you,” Betsy says through gritted teeth. But the woman doesn’t read her tone and instead takes it as an invitation to strike up a conversation, coming to stand next to the table.
“I actually made my daughter’s birthday cake this year. No mix! But I can’t do those fancy decorations like inBake Week. I was lucky enough to get the frosting on without tearing half the cake apart. Diduse some rainbow sprinkles, though. Oh no, are those not Betsy Martin approved?”
Betsy has found with these types it is best to just wait it out. The woman will tire sooner if she doesn’t engage. As she prattles on nervously, Betsy muses how simple this woman’s life must be. Just come to work, clock in, clock out. No mansions to maintain, no competing celebrity egos to stroke. Francis sighs and shifts in his seat, giving his best irritated New Yorker look. Betsy says nothing but smiles in a way she hopes won’t betray her irritation but also conveys the message,please leave me alone.
“Well, look at me, going on about my silly baking. I’ll leave you two to it. Let me know if I can get you anything. Maris makes a good chocolate cream pie. Well, not by your standards maybe, but people do seem to like it.”
Betsy says nothing but gives her a withering look. The woman retreats anxiously, her face stricken.
“I’m never meeting you anywhere again,” she says to Francis as soon as the woman walks away.
“It’s not easy being America’s Grandmother,” Francis replies, a bit sarcastically. It was the title the press had given Betsy by the end of season one. At first, she was uncomfortable with the moniker, she is rather appalled by children if she is being honest. Their constant needs and terrible messiness—there was a reason she’d never had any of her own. But there is money to be made being America’s Grandmother. There is longevity in that title, not like the short season given to so many other women in entertainment. So, Betsy has done what she needed to in order to survive and embraced it.
“Bake Weekcan’t leave Grafton, Francis. Where would it go? Some soulless studio, all chrome and glass? No,Bake Weekand Grafton are inextricably linked. IfBake Weekleft for some prefab set somewhere, it would destroy the show.”
Itmightdestroy the show, Betsy realizes, but it woulddefinitelydestroy Grafton Manor. The only thing keeping the place goingis the money fromBake Week, and even with that Grafton is just barely hanging on. The expense of keeping up an entire manor is endless. There are rooms, whole floors, Betsy has had to completely abandon. Without the allowance fromBake Week, Grafton would surely fall into disrepair. Or worse, Betsy would be forced to sell. And there is no way she can let that happen. Not after all she has done to preserve it.
“I know. I’ve told them that of course,” Francis says.
“I can’t sell Grafton, Francis.” Betsy leans across the table, jabbing her finger into the grimy Formica between them.
She can tell from the look on his face that he doesn’t understand. But who could possibly comprehend her attachment to the place? How could she ever explain what Grafton is to her—all its flaws and beauty—creaks and groans and slanted light in the afternoons. It is practically human. She feels almost wedded to the manor. All the history there—her own, her family’s. It needs protecting. Grafton is even more important to Betsy since the divorce. Roland had never loved the manor and had convinced Betsy to move to a modern high-rise in Manhattan for much of their marriage. He didn’t understand why Betsy would keep such a huge and valuable piece of real estate that she couldn’t afford to care for. It was a drain on both of their resources, he argued, even though both of their resources were earned entirely through her cookbook empire. Eventually she was strong-armed into telling him more than she wanted to. The things Roland knows about Grafton keep her up some nights.
“So now what are we supposed to do?” Betsy can feel her temper rising. It takes every ounce of self-control not to pick up her mug and hurl it at the floor as her dream of more restoration work slips from her grasp. She sees her mother’s face suddenly, her lips pursed in disappointment.
