Competing with witches spells disaster …

When popular baking show Britain Bakes decides to televise their latest series on location in Claddach, Esme is thrilled. This will finally put her beloved hometown back on the tourist map, and revive the family’s cafe business. But when her cousin Harmony insists that novice baker Esme join her as a contestant on the show, she panics – with no witching allowed on prime-time TV, this will be a question of focus over hocus pocus…

So once filming gets underway, Esme is surprised to find that she is actually enjoying herself, until strange ‘accidents’ start to befall the other contestants. Are they just run-of-the-mill baking mishaps, or is someone trying to sabotage the show? It looks like Esme may need to wave her magic spatula after all …

Praise for KERRY BARRETT

‘It was just lovely! I loved the plot, I loved the spells and the magic, I loved the characters and I loved the writing. Kerry Barrett is a talented writer’ – Girls Love to Read on Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

**

‘Thoroughly enjoyed Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered... couldn’t put it down’ – A M Poynter*

**

‘I was absorbed from the first page’ – Pass The Gin on Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

**

‘This was a joy to read, clever, witty and fun. I would thoroughly recommend it and am looking forward to seeing what happens next??!!’ – Mrs Ami Norman on Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered*

**

‘For lovers of witches, strong female characters who you really root for, good writing and great storytelling this is a must’ – Caz on I Put a Spell on You*

**

‘A little romance, a little danger and a whole lot of fun make this an unparalleled reading experience’ – cayocosta72 onI Put a Spell on You*

**

‘I recommend this to anyone wanting to escape to a wintery witchy romance’ – Splashes into Books on Baby It’s Cold Outside*

**

*Amazon reader reviews

Also available by Kerry Barrett

Could It Be Magic series:

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

I Put a Spell on You

Baby It’s Cold Outside

I’ll Be There For You

A Spoonful of Sugar

Kerry Barrett

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2015

Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9781474035897

Version date: 2018-10-30

KERRY BARRETT

was a bookworm from a very early age, devouring Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfeild, before moving on to Sweet Valley High and 1980s bonkbusters. She did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Endpages

About the Publisher

One

‘No,’ I said. ‘Absolutely not.’

I crumpled up the flyer and threw it into the bin.

‘No.’

My cousin Harmony – known as Harry – looked at me with disappointed eyes.

‘Okay, Esme.’ She shrugged. ‘If you’re absolutely sure. It’s just a shame though...’

‘Oh don’t do that,’ I said, feeling my resolve beginning to weaken and hating myself for it. ‘Don’t do that disappointed but resigned thing.’

Harry gave me a sad smile.

‘No, honestly, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘Would you mind ringing your mum and telling her it’s not happening? I’ve got some stuff to do.’

She got to her feet and picked up her jacket. I sighed.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it.’

Harry squealed, which was very unlike her.

‘Really?’ she said.

I nodded glumly.

‘Really. But don’t expect me to be any good.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Harry said with a grin. ‘I’m good enough for both of us. I’ll ring them now and tell them you’re in.’

‘And don’t expect me to enjoy it either,’ I shouted at her back as she disappeared out of my office.

But either she didn’t hear me, or she didn’t care.

With some difficulty I fished the flyer out of the bin and smoothed it out on my desk, then I sat back in my chair and rested my hands on my bump. I was seven months’ pregnant with my second baby and I felt enormous. Absolutely the last thing I wanted to do was take part in a baking competition. Especially as I was no baker. But Harry was very persuasive and the fact was, I grimaced, she was right. Again.

Harry and I both lived in Edinburgh now but my mum, Tess, and Harry’s mum, Suky, lived in a small town called Claddach in the Scottish Highlands where they ran a cafe with their friend Eva. Eva’s husband Allan was an artist and he looked after the top floor of the loch-side, running it as a gallery and small arts centre. But a couple of years ago, a huge avalanche had cut off the town for a whole winter – making the bohemian tourists look elsewhere for their writing/painting/pottery/poetry retreats, and they’d never really come back. Businesses were suffering and something had to be done to put Claddach back on the map. And, much to my horror, Harry had decided she was the person to do it.

She’d found this baking competition – it was an annual thing apparently and very popular – and somehow convinced the organisers to hold it on the shores of the loch next to the cafe. She said the publicity would be worth thousands of pounds, and if we were to enter the competition, it would be even better.

I picked up the flyer and sighed. I supposed she had a point – it was a great opportunity. I just didn’t really want to be involved.

Britain Bakes! the paper said. Do you have what it takes to bake your way to the top? Then enter our tasty competition and prove it!

I shook my head. There were so many things wrong with this whole situation that I didn’t know where to begin.

For a start, like I said, I was pregnant. And grumpy. Sweating over an oven as I fended off midges on the shores of the loch was not how I planned to spend the last few weekends before my baby arrived. And there was the tiny problem that I was useless at baking. Mum was brilliant, my Auntie Suky was brilliant, Harry – I had to grudgingly admit – had recently discovered a talent for whipping up the most amazing cakes. But I was hopeless. I had no business entering a baking competition.

I peered at the flyer again. At the bottom was a logo. It was a large H with swirly writing around it. Highland Television it said. WHAT?!

Harry came back into the office, her phone in her hand.

‘It’s on bloody TV,’ I said. ‘It’s on Highland Television.’

‘Is it?’ Harry said. She didn’t sound very surprised.

‘You knew?’

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted, sitting down opposite me and thumbing through some papers on my desk. ‘But that’s why it’s so great. The cafe will get so much publicity. Claddach will look amazing. Tourists will flock there and takings will go through the roof.’

‘I don’t want to be on TV,’ I said. ‘What if someone I know sees it?’

‘They’re not likely to watch Highland Television, are they?’ Harry pointed out. ‘I think it’s got something like ten viewers.’

She didn’t quite meet my eye, though, so I suspected HTV got a lot more viewers than that.

‘Anyway, it’s too late,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s all sorted. There are six contestants, including us, two judges and loads of crew. Milicent’s beside herself with joy because they’re all staying at her B&B.’

I grinned. Milicent was the local hotelier. She was a real character with a heart of gold, and she would love all the extra people descending on Claddach.

‘We start filming next weekend.’

‘Next weekend!’ I practically shouted. ‘Aren’t there like auditions and heats and things to get through first?’

Harry looked shifty.

‘Well, yes there were,’ she said. ‘But I had a word with the producers and they saved two spots for us.’

‘A word?’ I said. ‘What word would that be? Abraca-bloody-dabra?’

Because that was the other thing about Harry and me. We were both witches. Just like our mums, and Eva – and my toddler daughter Clemmie, which was already proving to be a bit of a headache. But unlike Harry and the rest of my family, I wasn’t massively enthusiastic about witchcraft. I used it when I really had to – why clean the bathroom by hand? – but I wasn’t casting spells left, right and centre like the rest of them were.

I was fairly sure that Harry had used her magical skills of persuasion to get the producers to let us enter the competition at this late stage and probably to get them to hold the bloody thing in Claddach too.

Harry grinned at me.

‘It doesn’t matter how I did it,’ she said. ‘All that matters is we start filming next weekend.’

‘I’m busy next weekend actually,’ I said, sulking. ‘I’ve got things to do. We need to paint the baby’s room.’

Harry waved her hand as if that was a minor inconvenience.

‘You’ve got ages before the baby comes,’ she said.

‘And I can’t bake,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be in the competition.’

‘They always have two local contestants,’ Harry said.

‘I can’t bake,’ I said again. ‘Just because you’re a bloody domestic goddess nowadays, you can’t assume everyone is.’

Harry laughed.

‘I’m not a domestic goddess but, yes, I can bake because I learned. And so can you.’

‘Not by next weekend,’ I wailed.

‘Oh we’ll sort it out,’ Harry said vaguely.

‘With magic?’ I was hopeful Harry could fix this, even if I couldn’t.

‘Erm, not really,’ Harry said.

‘Not really?’

‘Not at all.’

My jaw dropped.

‘What do you mean not at all?’

‘No magic allowed, I’m afraid,’ Harry said. ‘You know as well as I do that we can’t bake with magic – it just doesn’t work.’

‘What’s the point of entering then?’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘Well, it’s fun, isn’t it?’ said Harry. ‘And it’s nice for us all to get together.’

I put my head in my hands.

‘So how does it work?’ I said, dreading the answer.

‘They’re putting up a big marquee on the shores of the loch, right by the café,’ Harry said. ‘It’s going to be amazing. There will be ovens and fridges and mixers and everything we could possibly need inside there.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘It’s every weekend for six weeks – someone gets knocked out each weekend.’

‘I’ll be out first,’ I said, cheering up a bit. ‘So it’ll only be one weekend really.’

Harry shook her head at my lack of focus.

‘Anyway,’ she carried on. ‘Each week concentrates on a different aspect of baking. We do two challenges and the judges taste them and decide who’s going through to the next round and who isn’t. It’ssimple.’

‘Simple?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Simple.’

‘What’s the first week?’

‘Spongecakes,’said Harry. ‘Easy bloody peasy.’

‘Fine,’ I said, perking up at the thought of scoffing cake for days on end. ‘I’ll do some practice this week. Are you taking the kids?’

Harry and her wife Louise had twins – Fiona and Finlay – who were three years old, adorable, and, in my opinion, out of control.

‘No way,’ she said. ‘Louise will be fine at home with them. Jamie can look after Clemmie on his own, can’t he? She’s no trouble.’

I wasn’t so sure about that, not now my cute Clemmie had started experimenting with her new-found witching skills. But the thought of an unbroken night’s sleep was too good to resist.

‘He’ll love it,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’

Two

‘Are you trembling?’ Harry looked at my hands in suspicion. ‘You are, you’re all shaky.’

‘I’m nervous,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been on television before, I can’t bake, I’m too fat to do up my own shoelaces and, altogether, this is one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done.’

Harry gave me a look that suggested I’d just grown an extra head.

‘It’s going to be fun,’ she said.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s just my idea of fun is normally very different from yours. Can we drive down? I’m not walking.’

We had arrived in Claddach, the tiny town where we’d grown up, super-early that morning after driving up in Harry’s car. The competition was taking place down in the town, on the shores of the loch and close to Mum’s cafe. I was keen to see what it would be like after Harry’s talk of marquees and what not. We’d not seen anything yet as the road from Edinburgh skirted Claddach itself and wound up into the Cairngorms where our house was perched in the foothills and where we now stood, contemplating the road in front of us.

It was a beautiful day but the walk into Claddach was pretty steep and I knew that while I might manage to waddle down the slope, the chances of me waddling back up again were slim.

I sighed heavily and stuck my bump out, and Harry rolled her eyes.

‘Okay, fatso,’ she said. She beeped the car doors and I, rather inelegantly, wedged myself into the passenger seat.

‘So what should I expect?’ I asked as Harry pulled out on to the main road.

‘Nothing fancy,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be the marquee, like I said but, honestly, it’s all going to be fairly understated. It’s not the X Factor.’

‘So it’s just a fun way of promoting Claddach?’ I asked, hoping for reassurance. ‘No pressure?’

‘No pressure,’ Harry said, glancing at me as she turned off the main road into Claddach centre. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. It’s a tiny show on a tiny channel – it’s not a big set-up.’

She indicated, then spun the wheel to go round the corner into the lane that led to the café. I was thrown forward as she slammed on the brakes.

‘Harry!’ I said in annoyance, giving her a filthy look. But she wasn’t listening.

‘Oh. My. God,’ she breathed. ‘Oh. My. God.’

I looked up from adjusting my seatbelt over my bump.

‘Ohhhhh,’ I said, horrified.

This was no small set-up. This was huge.

It was a gorgeous June day and Claddach was at her most stunning. The inky-black waters of the loch were, for once, a deep blue, the sky was bright with sunshine and tiny puffs of cloud skipped along in the breeze. On the distant hills gorse burned vibrant yellow, and the trees shone their greenest green. It would have been quite a view anyway, but add Britain Bakes to the mix and it took my breath away.

A beautiful white marquee billowed on the shores of the loch, close to the cafe, like the sails on a pirate ship. There was bunting strung along the outside of the cafe and forming a sort of corridor between the cafe’s front door and the entrance to the marquee. And there were people everywhere.

There were cameras being set up all over the place, and lots of people wearing black trousers and T-shirts speaking into headsets running around. There were some young women with swishy hair clutching clipboards and shouting into mobile phones and two huge trucks with HTV emblazoned along the side parked like exclamation marks across the road.

The Claddach pipe band was playing a little way along the beach, and lots of locals were drifting about, watching what was going on. I saw several people I recognised – my best friend Chloe, who was with her kids and her husband, was easily spotted because of her bright-red hair. I saw another friend, Kirsty, looking like an off-duty rock star in shiny black leggings and an oversized vest top that showed off her tattoos. Millicent Fry was bustling around organising everyone and everything – as always – and it looked like just about the whole town had turned out.

Harry and I stared at the action through the windscreen. She turned the engine off.

‘Shall we go and introduce ourselves?’ she said.

I folded my arms over my bump protectively.

‘We could,’ I said. ‘Or, we could turn the car round, drive back to Edinburgh and pretend this never happened.’

For a second I thought Harry was going to agree and my heart lifted.

‘I admit this is a bit bigger than we thought it was going to be,’ she said.

‘Harry, I was imagining a couple of old women in a tent,’ I said, my voice shrill. ‘Not the whole town showing up to watch me make a mess of a Victoria sponge on national television.’

Harry swallowed.

‘Britain Bakes is a bit more popular than I thought it was,’ she said. She looked through the windscreen again and took a breath, then she threw her shoulders back, shook her super-shiny hair, and gave me her most dazzling smile.

‘But this is good,’ she said.

‘It is?’

‘Yes. It’s good. It’s great, in fact. All this fuss means the whole country will be looking at Claddach. It will really put the town on the map. Business will go through the roof. See how amazing it all looks – the tourist board will be going wild.’

If I’d been trembling before, I was shaking violently now.

‘But look at all the people,’ I said. ‘Look at how many people there are. Everyone’s going to be watching me make a huge mess of this.’

Harry patted my hand. I pulled it away.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine.’

But I wasn’t convinced.

Harry unclipped her seatbelt and got out of the car. I followed, far less elegantly.

‘Where do we have to go?’ I asked, hoiking up my maternity leggings.

Harry glanced at me over her shoulder. She was wearing sunglasses and, with her Mulberry bag on her arm, she looked like a film star.

‘Make-up, I think,’ she said.

‘Really?’ That was good news. Perhaps they could make me look like a film star too.

We walked down the path towards the cafe. I was expecting things to be frantic with Mum and Suky running around like mad things. But instead we found them standing outside with their business partner Eva having their photographs taken for the local paper.

‘Check you out,’ Harry said as we kissed them hello. ‘You’re like local celebs.’

Mum kissed my bump and then my cheek.

‘Are you okay?’ she said, taking my chin in her hand and studying me closely. ‘You look tired.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. I angled myself away from Harry so she couldn’t hear what I was saying. ‘Just a bit nervous. I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here.’

I nodded back over my shoulder to where the action was happening and lowered my voice.

‘It’s more of a thing than I expected,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to it.’

Mum gave me a sympathetic hug.

‘Just do your best,’ she said. ‘That’s all anyone’s asking of you.’

‘I’d feel better if my best included a bit of magic,’ I said, making a face.

Mum chuckled.

‘That’s not like you,’ she said. ‘It’s normally Harry who’s desperate to cast a spell.’

‘No magic, Esme,’ I said, in my best impression of Harry’s voice. ‘It just doesn’t work with baking.’

Mum laughed again.

‘She’s right, though,’ she pointed out. ‘Plus it’s a bit too risky, what with all these people and cameras everywhere.’

I opened my mouth to argue that I was perfectly capable of being discreet when one of the clipboard-wielding women appeared at my shoulder so I shut up. Mum gave me a smug look and I rolled my eyes.

‘Esme and Harmony?’ the woman said in a frighteningly over-friendly fashion.

‘I’m Harmony,’ Harry said. ‘Call me Harry.’

The woman made a note on her clipboard.

‘And you’re Esme?’ she said to me. ‘Oh! You’re pregnant, how fab. When are you due? Not this weekend I hope.’ She giggled madly and I stared at her, speechless in the face of such perkiness.

‘I’m Portia,’ she carried on, flicking the end of her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. ‘I’m one of the crew and I’m the person you need to speak to if you need anything. Anything at all.’

She giggled again, showing very straight, very white teeth.

‘The other competitors are all here already – they’re just in Make-up. So if you’re ready, I’ll take you up and introduce you. Ready?’

She looked at us in expectation. Harry and I looked back in silence.

‘Ready?’ she said again.

‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ Harry said. ‘Ready.’

Portia spun round and raced round the side of the cafe with Harry and I scuttling along in her wake. I shot Harry a filthy look but she stared resolutely ahead. I wondered if she was as nervous as I was.

We followed Portia up the stairs to what was normally the gallery. It was a brilliant room, used for exhibitions, art classes, writing groups, concerts – all sorts. Jamie and I had got married there so it had a special place in my heart. It was a long, rectangular room with two huge windows – with stunning views over the loch – at each of the short ends, and two long white walls perfect for hanging pictures.

Today it had been transformed into a beauty parlour. Its long walls were now hung with long mirrors. In front of two of the mirrors were narrow tables, covered in hairbrushes, tubes of foundation and eyeliner pencils, and a chair. Two make-up artists were busy powdering the noses of the person in each chair. Some other people stood around chatting, clutching paper cups of coffee emblazoned with the Claddach Cafe logo. That was good.

Portia cleared her throat as though she was about to make an announcement.

‘Everyone,’ she said. ‘These are our final two competitors, Esme and Harmony.’

‘Harry,’ said Harry, flashing her most dazzling smile at everyone in the room. ‘Hello.’

I was overwhelmed with fear once more, so I simply raised my hand and croaked, ‘Hi.’

‘So,’ said Portia. ‘That’s Wilf, having his nose done.’ In the chair furthest away from where we stood, was a young man in his mid twenties. He had dark-rimmed glasses and a sort of messy afro that the make-up artist wasn’t even attempting to control. He grinned at us showing slightly crooked teeth and Harry smiled back. My smile was more like a grimace – but I tried.

‘Next to him,’ Portia continued. ‘Is June.’

‘Hi,’ Harry and I chorused. June was around sixty with greying curly hair and a sizeable bosom. I found myself wishing I could rest my head on her chest and have her tell me it was all going to be okay. But I changed my mind sharpish when she gave me a frosty glare. Ooh, what had rattled her cage?

‘I’m Amelia,’ a frighteningly young girl stuck her hand out for me to shake.

‘Are you in the competition?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Is there a children’s event?’

Amelia giggled. She was quite sweet, with mousy hair pulled back into a ponytail and a crop of spots on her chin.

‘I’m seventeen,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the bakers.’

‘Amelia’s our youngest competitor ever,’ said Portia proudly. ‘She’s just done her A levels.’

‘And I’m afraid I’m one of the oldest,’ said the man Amelia had been chatting to. ‘I’m Ronald.’

I took in Ronald’s straight back, shiny shoes and close-cropped hair and grinned.

‘Navy?’ I said.

Ronald roared with laughter.

‘That obvious, eh?’ he said.

‘My dad was in the RAF,’ I admitted. ‘I grew up surrounded by military types.’

Ronald beamed at me.

‘We shall have to compare stories later,’ he said.

I smiled back, relieved to have met at least one person who seemed nice and normal.

‘Okay, people,’ said Portia, sending me back into spasms of terror again. ‘We’re almost ready to get going. Harry and Esme just need to have their faces done, then we can head out to the marquee to meet the judges. They’ll introduce themselves. Don’t worry, they’re really nice – not nearly as frightening as they seem on TV.’

That was a relief. I’d watched a few clips of the show on YouTube and, frankly, the judges seemed marginally more brutal than the prison officers in Orange is the New Black. Hopefully they just put that on for the cameras.

‘They’ll explain how the competition is going to work,’ Portia carried on. ‘And then we’ll get cracking on the first round. Exciting!’

She squealed and flicked her ponytail over her shoulder again.

Next to me, Amelia bounced on the balls of her feet, eager to get on with it. I rubbed my bump and wondered if I could fake going into labour just to escape.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Harry, giving me a poke in the side.

‘Ow,’ I hissed. ‘Stay out of my head.’ I hated it when she used her witchcraft to listen in to my thoughts.

Harry shrugged, unconcerned by my crossness.

‘Any questions before we start?’ said Portia.

‘Can we go home?’ I whispered.

Harry poked me again.

‘Lighten up, fatty,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fun, honest.’

‘Okay then,’ said Portia. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

Three

The judges, of course, were completely terrifying. But at first, they seemed very nice. We lined up in front of them, outside the marquee, like children waiting to start detention. Which, in a way, I thought to myself, we were.

Up ahead of us, the two judges were chatting to a cameraman, who was explaining something about angles and close-ups, which gave us a chance to check them out before they came to check us out. The male judge was in his forties, very tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair, a neat moustache and soft brown eyes. I’d watched him on television, of course, but he was much more handsome in the flesh than I had expected him to be and that unsettled me.

The woman was older – in her sixties, I guessed. She had shoulder-length dark hair, flicked out at the ends and she was dressed in an unflattering wrap dress that made her boobs look enormous. She wasn’t the judge I’d expected – the one who was normally on the show.

‘I thought the female judge was that other woman,’ I hissed to Harry. ‘Martha whatsit. The one with the sharp platinum bob and the fabulous jackets.’

‘Martha Rowan,’ Harry whispered back. ‘She’s gone to Hollywood, would you believe? They’re making a film about her. This Lizzie is her replacement. I think she does some daytime cookery show, but I’ve never seen it.’

Portia overheard.

‘We were devastated to lose Martha,’ she said in a low voice. ‘She’s a national treasure and she’s brilliant for publicity. Everyone loves her so she goes on all the chat shows when we’re recording.’

A shadow crossed her face.

‘I’ve got to be honest, I’m not sure Lizzie’s got the same appeal.’

We all looked over to where the female judge was staring fiercely down the lens of the camera.

‘She presents Lunch Club,’ Portia carried on. ‘Have you seen it?’

Harry and I both shook our heads.

‘Nah, didn’t think you would have,’ Portia said. ‘Its fan base is mostly much older viewers. It’s actually where Martha started about twenty years ago, but she moved on to bigger and better shows and, erm, Lizzie stayed.’

She glanced round to make sure no one was listening.

‘Between you, me and the gatepost, Lizzie was the only presenter who was available at short notice.’

Harry gave Portia a reassuring smile.

‘She looks nice enough,’ she said. ‘I bet she’ll be great.’

‘I bloody well hope so,’ Portia said. Then, spotting that the judges were ready, she cleared her throat again.

‘Everyone,’ she said. ‘This is Peter Houston and Lizzie Cotton, your judges.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amelia stand up a bit straighter. She was beginning to annoy me.

The judges both smiled at us all. No one smiled back.

‘I’m Peter,’ the man said. He had an Essex twang to his accent that made him seem just a normal person.

‘We know,’ said Amelia under her breath. Like I said, annoying.

‘And I’m Lizzie,’ said the woman with a friendly smile that lit up her whole face and made her look far less frumpy.

I relaxed slightly. They were very nice, really. Maybe we were all on the same side.

‘Are you all looking forward to getting baking?’ Lizzie carried on.

We all stood in silence.

‘No need to be so nervous,’ Peter said with a gruff laugh. ‘It’ll be fun.’

No one spoke.

This time Lizzie laughed too.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should get started?’

I didn’t see how that was going to help us feel less nervous but it seemed I didn’t have much choice.

‘Here’s how it’s all going to work,’ Peter said. ‘It’s cake week, as you all know. So we’ll go into the marquee and you can familiarise yourselves with the equipment while we record some links. Then we’ll get started on the first challenge – which is a skills test. Later you’ll do your Great Bake challenge, which is your chance to really wow us.’

‘I know you’ve all been practising,’ Lizzie said with a warm smile. I scowled at my feet. I had intended to practise, but with a small child, a demanding job and an enormous bump, there just weren’t enough hours in the day. ‘You’ve all worked really hard to get here so let’s see what you can do.’

Amelia clapped and on the other side of her, June gave a small, determined nod. I kept staring at my feet. It’s just one day, I told myself. One day, then I can go home to Jamie, paint the baby’s room and forget this ever happened.

‘Follow me,’ trilled Portia, pulling open the entrance to the marquee and we all trailed inside.

It was incredible, I had to admit. An enormous, sturdy structure with a proper floor and windows overlooking the loch. There were six long wooden workbenches – three on each side of the tent – groaning with every kind of baking equipment you could imagine. There was bunting everywhere, and – scarily – lots of cameras. At the front of the tent was another big wooden table where the judges sat down. I was relieved to see my name on a bench right at the back, next to Wilf. Ronald was in front of me, next to Amelia, and June and Harry were at the front, closest to the judges.

We all filed into the tent and stood behind our benches. It was very warm and I wondered what it would be like once all the ovens were on.

‘Everyone’s got stools to sit on,’ Portia said in my ear, making me jump. I hadn’t realised she was so close to me. ‘But if you want a proper chair, give me a shout. It gets very warm in here and I don’t want you to faint. And there’s lots of water in your fridge. Drink it.’

She gave my arm a squeeze.

‘Don’t look so scared,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fun.’

I gave her a grateful smile.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m so nervous.’

‘Oh god, so am I,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be fine. You’ll be great, Lizzie will be great, it’ll all be great.’

She dashed off, leaving me hoping she was right.

While Lizzie and Peter recorded some links, the rest of us played with the mixers, located spoons and scales, and worked out how the ovens switched on. Everyone seemed very calm. I was just hoping my hands stopped shaking.

Eventually, the cameras rolled and Peter stood up at the front.

‘You’ve got an hour and a half for this test,’ he said. ‘We want you to make a traditional Victoria sponge, filled with cream and homemade strawberry jam. Every week we’ll give you a recipe for the first challenge, then expect you to come up with your own for the second test. This morning’s recipe is on your bench. Good luck.’

Around me, everyone whirled into action. I perched on my stool and read my recipe. It seemed straightforward enough, except for the jam. I’d never made jam in my life. But how hard could it be?

In front of me, Amelia was already weighing out butter. I made a face at her back, feeling only slightly ashamed of myself for taking such a dislike to a child. She was so confident, I thought. It would probably do her good if she got knocked out first. Maybe I could be the underdog who sent home the favourite. Stranger things had happened.

I slid off my stool and started gathering my ingredients. I could do this, I thought. Baking was in my blood.

I worked my socks off for the next hour, weighing, mixing, spreading and keeping a close eye on what my competitors were doing.

Next to me, Wilf had created chaos. He had flour all over his bench, a smear of butter on his cheek, he’d dropped an egg on the floor and had to scoop it up, and he almost threw his whole cake in the air when he was getting it out of the oven.

‘Oh shit,’ he kept saying. ‘Sorry, Esme.’

I was enjoying his apparent incompetence. He was making me laugh and that meant I wasn’t worrying about my own cake. Which, actually, wasn’t looking too bad. I mean, it wasn’t great. But it wasn’t a disaster. Unlike my jam, which at the moment was a congealed mess in the bottom of my pan.

I stared at it in dismay.

‘How are you getting on?’ Lizzie and Peter appeared by my bench. Just what I needed.

I showed them my pan, wordlessly. They both looked stern.

‘Oh dear,’ said Lizzie. ‘Did you have the heat too high?’

‘Apparently,’ I said, making a face. ‘I think I need to start again.’

‘Might be an idea,’ Peter said with an arched eyebrow. I revised my opinion of him as a nice chap and instead decided he was a horrible man.

There was a loud clang next to me.

‘Oh shit,’ Wilf said, dropping his pan and splattering jam all over himself. ‘Sorry, Esme.’

Like sharks scenting blood, Peter and Lizzie looked round.

‘Start again,’ Lizzie said as they moved off to bother Wilf.

I dumped my pan in the sink and ran water into it, then headed to the fridge to get some more strawberries but the shelves were empty.

‘Did someone use my strawberries?’ I asked, confused.

‘Oh sorry, pet,’ June said. It was the first time I’d heard her speak though I’d seen her and Harry huddled together discussing something while their cakes cooked. ‘I used them. I did ask if they belonged to anyone – did you not hear me?’

Oh that was all I needed.

‘I’ve got no jam,’ I said hysterically. ‘I’ve got no jam.’

Four

I stared round at my fellow competitors, who all studiously ignored my cries for help.

‘I’m really sorry,’ June said again. Her Geordie accent grated on my frayed nerves. ‘I just didn’t know.’

I opened the fridge door again and stared inside. It was empty – no strawberries to be seen.

Harry came to the rescue.

‘I saw some more in the bottom bit,’ she said. She stuck her head inside the fridge and I felt the slight disturbance in the air that meant there was magic being done.

Harry reappeared, clutching a paper bag full of strawberries.

‘They were right at the back,’ she said. ‘No wonder you couldn’t see them.’

She winked at me and headed back to her bench to finish her cake.

Crisis averted. Sort of. I made my jam, but there wasn’t really enough time for it to set, so when I stuck the layers of my cake together it looked amazing for about thirty seconds and then started to slide, slowly, to one side.

I stared at it in dismay, wishing Harry had waggled her fingers and produced a jar of jam instead of just some raw ingredients, and righted it just as Lizzie and Peter appeared at the front of the room.

‘Time’s up,’ they called. ‘Step away from your cakes.’

We all carefully took our cakes up to the front and then perched on our stools waiting for the axe to fall.

For all his mess, Wilf’s cake looked amazing. He presented it proudly to the judges and listened with a grin as they praised him to the skies. Harry, June and Amelia also came in for lots of praise, especially Amelia, which made me scowl though I remembered just in time that there were cameras everywhere and fixed a smile to my face instead.

Ronald’s cream was over-whipped and his cake slightly caught round the edges, but Lizzie said it was beautifully presented – he’d cut out a stencil of a British flag and shaken icing sugar over the top, leaving the recognisable silhouette on top of his cake.

And then there was me. The top layer of my cake had almost completely slid off by the time Peter and Lizzie got round to trying it. My icing sugar topping had melted because I’d put it on when the cake was still warm. It wasn’t a bake to be proud of.

‘It tastes good,’ said Lizzie kindly.

‘You had a problem with your jam, didn’t you?’ Peter added. ‘I can see that’s where it’s gone wrong.’

I nodded, trying to look stoic and knowledgeable.

‘I had to do it twice,’ I said. ‘But there wasn’t enough time for it to set.’

Peter nodded grimly.

‘Watch your timekeeping,’ he said.

I shot June a frosty glance but she wasn’t looking at me.

And that was it. Round One done. As soon as the cameras stopped, I raced to the loo and then I joined Harry outside the marquee where she was waiting with a cup of tea for me.

‘This is a nightmare,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you’d not found those strawberries.’

‘You’d have found some,’ she said calmly. ‘It would have been fine.’

I sipped my tea and looked out over the loch, turning my face up to the sun.

‘It’s really warm,’ I said. ‘What a beautiful day.’

‘It’ll be roasting in the tent after lunch,’ Harry said. ‘It was pretty warm this morning.’

I nodded.

‘I don’t remember it ever being so hot up here,’ I said. ‘Not since we were kids anyway. Can’t say I’m happy about it.’

Harry looked sympathetic, which was unusual for her.

‘Must be uncomfortable,’ she said. ‘Being so fat.’

I gave her a thump on her lean arm, which she was showing off to perfection in a black vest top.

‘Shut up,’ I said, affectionately. I carefully lowered myself onto the wall outside the cafe and closed my eyes.

‘This is nice,’ I said.

‘So are you ready for the next round?’ Harry asked.

‘Don’t spoil it,’ I said. ‘I was just beginning to relax.’

Harry chuckled.

‘No time for relaxing this weekend,’ she said.

‘Oh well, this time tomorrow it’ll all be over,’ I said. ‘I can go home and forget about stupid cakes and you can carry the flag for the McLeod family in Britain Bakes.’

‘You might get through,’ Harry pointed out. ‘Don’t write yourself off yet.’

‘My cake fell apart,’ I said, not caring too much. ‘I hardly think I’m a contender.’

‘You never know,’ said Harry. ‘It’s all still to play for.’

The next round was cupcakes. We’d been given a few days to come up with ideas.

‘We’d like you to make twenty-four cupcakes suitable for a baby shower,’ said Peter when we all filed back into the tent after lunch.

He winked at me and the camera closest to me swooped round to capture my reaction. Dutifully I smiled in a Mother Earth fashion and rubbed my bump.

I’d planned to make twelve blue cupcakes and twelve pink cupcakes with a question mark piped on top. Hardly ground-breaking stuff, but I thought I should show willing.

I began gathering my ingredients, but just as I opened the fridge, the generator – which had been buzzing away in the background all day – made a strange choking sound and shut off. Everyone went quiet and we all looked at each other.

‘Oh goodness,’ said Amelia. ‘No electricity means no fridges and no ovens.’

There was a hubbub of noise as we all contemplated the consequences of having no electricity.

Did that mean the bake-off was over for today? I crossed my fingers behind my back. Maybe that would be it.

A flustered Portia appeared in the door of the marquee.

‘Don’t panic,’ she cried.

‘We’re not,’ I said under my breath.

‘We’ve had a bit of an issue with overheating,’ Portia said. ‘We can get things going again, but we can’t overload the generator. We’re going to hook up the ovens but turn the fridges off – we think that’s the best way to do it.’

‘Ooh I’m not sure,’ said Lizzie. ‘They might need to keep some of their ingredients in the fridge.’

I grinned. Surely we were out of there?

‘There’s a walk-in fridge,‘ Harry said. ‘In the cafe. I’m sure we can use that if we need to.’

Shut up, Harry, I thought directly at her. She glowered at me as she picked up on what I was telling her.

Portia looked like she might kiss my grumpy cousin.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘That’s brilliant.’

‘I’ll go and have a chat with Mum,’ Harry said. ‘But I can’t imagine it will be a problem.’

Five

Of course both my mum and Suky were thrilled to bits to let the bake-off contestants use their huge walk-in fridge, and so within minutes the competition was back on. Much to my disappointment.

‘So, the ovens are all working and there’s one fridge in here,’ Portia explained as we all gathered behind our benches once more. ‘That’s pretty much full now though, so if you need more space just nip out to the cafe where you can put things in their walk-in fridge.’

‘I’ll probably need that,’ Ronald said. ‘I’m moulding babies out of chocolate.’

Babies made from chocolate? That took the edge off my piped question marks a bit. Never mind, I grudgingly accepted I had to give it a go. I was, after all, a goody-goody at heart and I always tried my best. Almost always.

I started throwing together my cake mix and carefully divided it into two so I could dye one half pink and one half blue.

As I watched the colour swirl into the batter, I rubbed my bump thoughtfully and the baby squirmed beneath my hand. I didn’t know what this baby was going to be and I didn’t really mind. Another girl like my lovely Clemmie would be great, but a little boy would be fab too. I adored Harry’s son Finn, and my husband Jamie already had a son – Parker – but he lived in America so we didn’t see much of him. I knew Jamie missed him like mad, as did I, so a baby boy would be a welcome addition to our brood.

I wondered if Harry knew what my baby was. I suspected she did – she was a very good witch and she could pick up on all sorts of things. If she did, she was keeping it very quiet though and I appreciated that.

I dolloped my pink mix into cupcake cases and put the tray in the oven, then started dripping blue colouring into the remaining mix. It didn’t look very nice.

‘I was going to do blue cakes,’ Amelia said, as I peered into my mixer in dismay. ‘But I’m not sure about blue food generally.’

I gave her a withering look, which she blithely ignored.

‘I’m doing ducks instead,’ she said, even though I hadn’t asked. ‘Little rubber ducks made from pale-yellow fondant, perched on a swirl of blue buttercream.’

Sure enough, I could see twenty-four tiny iced ducks lined up on her bench. They were really very good.

‘They’re lovely,’ I admitted, resisting the temptation to point out that blue icing was, strictly speaking, also blue food. Then I lowered my voice.

‘What’s everyone else doing?’

Amelia moved closer to me.

‘June’s doing bootees,’ she said. ‘Wilf’s making baby faces out of icing – he’s really clever.’

I grimaced, more sure than ever that my question marks would be overly simple.

‘Harry’s doing little peapods, I think,’ I said.

Amelia made a face.

‘Pea pods?’ she said. ‘That doesn’t sound like a baby thing.’

I grinned.

‘She’s got twins,’ I explained. ‘And everyone says they’re two peas in a pod – that’s what gave her the idea. So she’s doing normal cupcakes, but to go on top she’s making pea pods out of icing with little baby faces inside instead of peas. They’re super-cute.’

Amelia smiled uncertainly.

‘Nice,’ she said. ‘And have you seen Ronald’s?’

I hadn’t but I followed Amelia’s eyeline. He was topping his cupcakes with sleeping babies – a round head poking out of an icing blanket – and he’d made a tiny wooden crib to arrange them all in. I was WAY out of my league here. Way out.

‘You’ve got forty-five minutes left,’ Peter said, wandering over and staring in disappointment at my cooling cakes. They did look a bit sorry for themselves, I had to admit.

‘What are you topping them with?’

I gave him a fake beaming smile.

‘Question marks,’ I said with a confident toss of my hair.

There was a pause.

‘Question marks,’ Peter repeated.

‘Amelia’s doing ducks,’ I said, desperate for him to leave me alone. It worked. He gave me a steely glance and headed over to Amelia’s bench instead.

‘I must get these babies in the fridge,’ Ronald muttered. ‘I don’t want melted blankets.’

He’d arranged his tiny snoozing tots on a tray and I peeked at them as he went past. They were really very good.

‘Back in a mo,’ he said, as he strode off down the bunting-strewn path towards the café.

I carried on dolloping icing on top of my cakes. I’d iced the pink cakes with blue icing, and the blue ones with pink. They looked okay. I’d have been pleased with them if I’d made them for a friend’s baby shower but I suspected they wouldn’t be good enough for Lizzie and Peter.

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