The Bake Off (8 page)

She
nodded, slowly digesting his words. ‘Yes, you’re right enough there,’ she said, feeling tears of humiliation burn in her throat. And, she thought miserably, she’d been one of them by playing right into his hands. She raged with herself thinking how crazy she must have been to think a guy as good looking as him could ever fancy her. She cringed with shame when she remembered how besotted she’d been and how she’d swooned about him to Susan. If Susan was here now she would tell her to count her blessings that she’d found out his true character before it went any further – which Nicola knew was sensible.

She
gazed across the room avoiding Simon’s eyes. But when had she ever been sensible around good looking men? She’d been taken in again, she decided, and then wondered when she would ever learn that good looks were only superficial.

‘David
is nothing but a tanned, pathetic creep,’ she muttered, fiddling with a beer mat on the table.

She
couldn’t bear to look up at him. ‘And I’ve been a complete idiot. I thought the first week he was interested in me and I stupidly tried to look more trendy and young for him,’ she pouted. ‘I even tortured myself trying to change the shape of my bum by wearing support knickers, and wearing this push-up bra just hoping he’d notice me.’

She
felt his finger lifting her chin and she looked up into his eyes.

He
grinned at her. ‘I happen to be particularly fond of your bottom – I’ve watched it bending over the bench and oven for days now. And that blouse is very enticing,’ he teased.

She
swallowed the ball of emotion gathering in her throat and couldn’t stop herself from giggling. The bubbles in the tonic water ran up her nose making her eyes water. ‘Oh, stop it,’ she sniffed.

He
pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘That’s better – I hate to see you look unhappy. And, if you really want to go to the Savoy – I’d be glad to take you because in my eyes, and Jessica Gallagher’s, you are the real winner of the bake off…’

His
genuine smile lit up his whole face and she noticed his lovely deep brown eyes. Wow, she thought, blowing her nose – why had she not noticed them before? She felt as if she was looking at him for the first time and knew she liked what she saw – he certainly was a sexy guy. Maybe she’d been so wrapped up in David-the-creep, she decided, that she hadn’t noticed him in
that
way. She stared into his eyes and took a deep breath.

He beamed at her and held the strong eye contact. ‘Nicola,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit out of practice with this but will you have dinner with me one night?’

Dreamily,
she smiled and nodded. She parted her lips as feelings of desire ran through her body. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, hoping he was going to kiss her.

He
cleared his throat. ‘Thank God – I’ve wanted to ask you that since the day I picked you up off your knees in the car park.’

She
stared longingly at his lips and he lowered his head to cover her lips with his mouth. Responding to his kiss she wrapped her arms around his neck – maybe she’d been the overall winner after all, she decided.

Recipes from the Final of The Bake Off

I hope you enjoyed reading
The Bake Off
. To make the three final bakes – Sicilian Summer Lemon Tart, Lavender Polenta Cake with Violet Frosting, and White Chocolate and Raspberry Bread and Butter Pudding – just follow these simple recipes by my good friend, Samuel Goldsmith.

White Chocolate and Raspberry Bread and Butter Pudding

One
of the ultimate combinations: white chocolate and raspberry. Combined with a bread and butter pudding it gives a contemporary feel to a traditional dessert.

8
slices of white bread

50g
butter, softened

100g
white chocolate, chopped

225g
raspberries

284ml
double cream

250ml
full fat milk

3
eggs

1
tsp vanilla extract

2
tbsp sugar

Butter
the bread on one side and cut each slice into four triangles. Lay half of the bread on the bottom of a ovenproof dish (roughly 10 x 8 inches). You will need to overlap them. Sprinkle over half of the chocolate and raspberries and cover with the remaining bread, overlapping again. Measure the cream and milk in a jug and then beat in the eggs, vanilla extract and sugar. Carefully pour over the bread and allow to soak for 20-30 minutes. Scatter over the remaining chocolate and raspberries and bake in a pre-heated oven at 180C/gas mark 4 for 20–30 minutes or until the custard is set. Serve warm.

Lavender and Polenta Cake with Violet Frosting

Perfect
served with an afternoon tea; you can glam it up by slicing it in half lengthways and adding an extra layer of frosting and sprinkling over some crystallized violets, or fresh if you have them. It can also be served without the frosting for those who have less of a sweet tooth.

250g
butter, softened

250g
caster sugar

2
tbsp lavender

½
tsp lavender extract

1
tsp vanilla extract

3
eggs

200g,
self-raising flour

100g
polenta

50
ground almonds

½
tsp baking powder

Frosting

100g butter, softened

150g
icing sugar

¼
– ½ tsp violet syrup

Cream
the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy (this means until it is almost white and meringue like – usually takes about 10 minutes in an electric mixer). Sprinkle in the lavender and lavender and vanilla extracts.

In
a medium-large bowl mix the flour, polenta, almonds and baking powder together.

Add
one third of the flour mixture in with the creamed mixture and mix until combined.

Beat
in one of the eggs into the butter mixture and follow with another third of the flour mixture and continue this process until the eggs and flour mixture have been used up. Mix until combined.

Pour
the mixture in to an 8-inch, deep cake tin and bake in a preheated oven (180C/gas mark 4) for 40 minutes or until a knife comes out clean (this may take slightly longer, time varies even when using the same oven).

Allow
cake to cool in the tin for 5 minutes before removing to a cooling rack to cool completely.

Beat
together the butter, sifted icing sugar and a teaspoon of warm water. Mix in the violet syrup to taste; brands differ so it’s important not to add too much all in one go. Spread the frosting over the top of the cake and serve.

Sicilian Lemon Tart

It’s
really important for a lemon tart to be tart, not only in the sense that it has pastry but also it should give a real zing in the mouth. Reducing the lemon juice helps to give it this zing. When you’re making the pastry be sure to handle it as little as possible, you’re more likely to get a better result in a food processor because there is less heat being given off which should result in a shorter texture.

Pastry

75g butter, cold

125g
plain flour

1
egg yolk

40g
caster sugar

1
lemon, zested and juiced (keep the juice for the filling)

Filling

4 eggs

2
egg yolks

6
lemons, all juiced and 3 zested

300ml
double cream

250g
caster sugar

First
of all, make the pastry. Rub the butter in to the flour until you reach a breadcrumb like texture then mix in the caster sugar and lemon zest. Make a well, add the yolk in to the centre and mix it through. It is unlikely that this will be enough to combine the mixture in to a dough so add a little cold water ( ½ tsp at a time, you should need no more than a couple of teaspoons) until the dough has combined – you can, of course, do all this in a food processor. Refrigerate for 10 minutes. Roll out on a lightly floured surface until it is big enough to line a 20cm tart tin. Line the tin (don’t worry if it’s a little crumbly when you roll it out just patch it together in the tin), make a few holes in the base with a fork and place back in the fridge for 10 minutes. Pre-heat the oven to 180C/160C (fan)/gas mark 4, remove pastry case from the fridge and line with greaseproof paper and baking beans (or a suitable alternative) and bake for 10 minutes. Remove the baking beans and foil and bake for a further 7 minutes. The pastry should be a biscuit-like colour and cooked through , if it’s not place back in for a few more minutes.

Filling
time. Juice the lemons (zest 3 of them first otherwise you’ll find it tricky later) and add to the juice kept over from the pastry. Reduce the juice by a third (you should end up with around 175ml juice) by boiling over a high heat. Leave to cool. Whisk the eggs, yolks, cream and caster sugar together until combined and then mix in the cooled lemon juice, pass through a sieve if you think it looks lumpy, and then mix in the lemon zest. Place the custard mix in to a saucepan and heat over a low to medium heat, stirring continuously until you have reached a lemon curd like consistency. Pour in to the ready-made pastry case. If you’re feeling confident you can sprinkle over a couple of tablespoons of sugar and grill/blow torch the tart to give a caramelised topping.

If you enjoyed reading
The Bake Off
you may be interested in
A Taste of Love
, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
A Taste of Love
by Susan Willis

Chapter One

On Thursday evening as Helen waited in the factory car park for her husband, Rob, she looked up to a spring sky full of cloud – it was the last week of March and she felt glad to have the cold winter weather behind her. She checked her watch hoping Rob wouldn’t be too late as the garage doing the MOT on her own car closed at six o’clock. Then she saw his red BMW tearing up the road towards her – Rob Walker always did everything at break-neck speed.

He spun around in the car park and she opened the passenger door. ‘Hi, thanks for not being late,’ she said, climbing into the car. She felt a sharp sting on the side of her thigh and yelped. ‘Aah, what the hell?’ She put her hand onto the area of her trousers where she’d felt the pain and pulled the spike of a large tortoiseshell earring from the thin crêpe material. Holding the earring between her fingers she thrust it in front of his face and glared at him.

His face blanched. ‘What?’ he asked defensively, stiffening his shoulders. His eyes were darting around the car as though he was looking for an exit.

She couldn’t believe he would do this again and felt her whole body tense with anger. ‘Well, it’s not my earring,’ she spat. ‘And I’m quite sure it doesn’t belong to our daughter. So whose is it, Rob?’

He put his foot down on the accelerator and drove out of the car park. ‘Look, don’t start. It probably belongs to one of the girls from work I gave a lift to last week…’

Wrinkling her nose in disgust she opened the glove compartment and threw the earring into it as though it was scalding her fingers. Dear God, who is it this time, she thought, staring blankly out of the window while they travelled in silence throughout the short drive into Acton town centre.

He pulled up outside the garage and she opened the car door. Cautiously, he put his head to one side and gave her a tentative smile. ‘Shall I hang on here just in case your car isn’t ready?’

She looked over her shoulder as she swung her long legs out of the car and remembered how she’d fallen in love with that smile when they’d first met. But now she hated it with a passion. ‘No, just go home,’ she snapped. ‘We’ll talk when I get back.’

The car mechanic hurried out to greet her as Rob sped away from the forecourt. He explained the results of the MOT while she followed him into the office, not particularly listening, and paid the bill with her credit card. Then she settled herself into her own smart Honda Civic and drove out onto the road, automatically turning the car left to head towards their home in West Acton.

Her mind was in turmoil, as she knew, even before they had the same old argument, that he was having another affair. And, if she tried hard enough, she should be able to count the number of dalliances, which was what her sister called them, that he’d had since their marriage nineteen years ago. But she simply couldn’t find the energy any longer.

She pulled onto Queens Drive and slowly drove down to their Tudor-style terraced house. The leafy street in this ordinary London suburb still looked as nice as the day they’d bought the house and sadly she remembered how Rob had swept her up in his arms to carry her over the threshold. But now she grimaced; it was an effort to remember exactly how long it was since they’d even touched each other. She turned the ignition off and slumped forward, resting her head wearily upon the steering wheel. Their daughter, Rachel, had left home for university in September and she missed her dreadfully, and knew that in his own way Rob did too. However, she thought, this wasn’t simply a case of a failing marriage because the bird had flown the nest, as her dad would say – if that was the reason then it would at least be understandable.

*

Dressed in jogger bottoms and a black sweater Rob was sitting in an armchair in the lounge facing the large, open fireplace with his bare feet on the oak floor. A cafetière sat on the glass table and he poured some coffee into her favourite mug. ‘Is the car okay?’ he asked.

She knew he was trying to be friendly but she sighed with dread, removed her coat and draped it across the back of the brown leather settee. ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ she said as she sipped her coffee. ‘So, Rob. Who is she this time and what are we going to do?’

He jumped up from the settee and began to pace around the room. ‘Oh, here we go,’ he shouted. ‘You find an earring in my car and automatically I’m having an affair!’

She looked down at the damp impressions on the wood that his sweaty feet had made. ‘It’s all I’m used to, Rob,’ she said sombrely. ‘Since Rachel’s second birthday I’ve smelt perfume on your jackets, found lipstick on shirts, hotel receipts in your trouser pockets, telephone calls where whoever it is hangs up when I answer, and now an earring in your car. So please don’t drag this out for ages trying to deny it. I haven’t the energy to go over the same old argument.’

He rounded on her with flaring nostrils and his bright blue eyes blazing. ‘OK. If that’s the case and I don’t even get a chance to defend myself – you can have the truth. It’s over, Helen. Our marriage is finally well and truly over. I can’t stand it or you anymore,’ he snarled.

Rachel had been fourteen when Helen had found the hotel receipts and she’d been desperate to hold the family together for her sake. The last thing she’d wanted for her daughter was to grow up with only one parent. But now she didn’t have this constraint any longer and was free to do as she pleased. She decided to let him have his last rant and nodded at him to continue.

Sweat was standing on his upper lip now and his face was flushed. ‘You’ve held me back from the first year we were married. When I look around at my other colleagues in the stock exchange and see how fantastic their wives are, well, God knows how I’ve got to where I am, because it certainly hasn’t been with any help from you,’ he moaned. He stopped pacing and stood still in front of her, his legs planted wide. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I mean, you’ve never listened to me, you’re cold and unforgiving at the tiny slips that I’ve made, and as far as sex goes, well, it’s no wonder I’ve sought it elsewhere…’

She look up at him and asked, ‘Ah, so this time it’s love, is it? It’s not like the last one who you said was just a one night stand and was purely drunken sex?’

He started to pace again, jerking his head and making sweeping arm gestures. ‘Yes, it is love. She loves me and I love her. We’ve been seeing each other for five months now. So to answer your question, it’s not a one night stand and I don’t have to be drunk to make love to her.’

She calculated quickly that he must have been with her from the week after Rachel moved into the halls of residence. She snorted, ‘Hmm, so you didn’t waste too much time after Rachel left, then?’

‘Don’t you dare bring her into this,’ he yelled narrowing his eyes in temper. ‘Whatever you think of me as a husband I will not have you criticise me as a father – I love my daughter…’

Helen sighed heavily. ‘I never have or never would say that. You’ve given Rachel everything and more,’ she said, and he nodded smugly.

Silence hung between them as though they were taking stock of each other. She looked at the same face she’d seen nearly every day for over nineteen years and decided that he looked almost pathetic now and nothing short of a sad has-been. When he’d been younger and was so good looking that women stopped dead in their tracks when he’d entered a room, she’d found it thrilling to be married to him. But now she realised it meant absolutely nothing to her and the years of infidelity had wiped away any love she’d once felt – in fact, she thought, the only emotion she could summon up for him now was pity. She clasped her hands tightly around the coffee mug to steady herself.

‘OK,’ she said trying to keep the tremble from her voice. ‘I do agree our marriage is over because I really don’t have the strength to fight for it any more. And, because I feel like I’ve lived my life in a prison cell for the last ten years, well, maybe it’s time we were both set free.’

He slumped down on the edge of the settee opposite her. His smooth, Tom Cruise look-a-like face, seemed to crumple with the shock of her words. ‘Really?’ he asked, and she could tell he was astounded to be given the chance to get away so easily. Obviously, she thought, he’d been waiting for the hysterical arguments that had taken place at his previous confessionals.

She took a deep breath then asked, ‘So, if we are going to be grown up and rational about it can I ask who this woman is?’

‘Her name’s Stephanie and she’s a trainee graphic designer and is a very nice person. I met her at a party and although she is a little younger she does understand me,’ he said looking shiftily through the glass doors into the kitchen. ‘I think I’ll open a bottle.’

Helen stared at his back as he went into the kitchen wondering why he seemed to look sheepish, almost embarrassed, now. He returned carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

He poured wine into two glasses and gulped at his. ‘Er, you might as well know because people love to gossip and it’ll come out eventually, but wh-when I say younger, Stephanie is twenty-three,’ he said avoiding her eyes.

She couldn’t believe it and nearly choked on a mouthful of wine. All her previous rationality disappeared. ‘Jesus Christ, Rob! She’s seventeen years younger than you. And only five years older than your daughter – are you crazy?’

‘No, I’m not,’ he shouted. ‘It’s sixteen years and she is very mature for her age and I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks, I’m in love with her…’

‘You are forty in six weeks’ time, Rob,’ she reasoned, looking at the side of his head as he stared down at his hands clasped together. ‘Which, in my basic calculations, makes you nearer forty than thirty-nine. And whatever I think doesn’t really matter. But just for the record, I think you’re behaving like a bloody pervert and that, in case you haven’t thought, is what Rachel will think too!’

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, as he’d always done when cornered and denied any wrongdoing. ‘Oh, you’re so old-fashioned,’ he cried. ‘It’s not like that nowadays. Age doesn’t matter anymore.’

He bent forward to pull his socks back on and she noticed how his hair was thinning on the back of his head. Hmm, she thought vindictively, what was he going to do when he was bald and his Peter Pan image had died a death? Well, she decided, it’s time to let poor, unfortunate Stephanie cope with all his whingeing and dramatics because she’d had enough. And the embarrassment of this revelation would be just too much to bear – he’d have to go.

‘Fine, Rob. If that’s how you feel I think it would be best if you just left now. I take it that you want to move straight in with Stephanie?’ she asked raising her chin defiantly.

He nodded, and still avoiding eye contact stood up, left the room and went upstairs. She stared at the closed lounge door, feeling light-headed and with a tingling sensation in her chest, then gulped down the rest of her wine. My God, she thought, listening to drawers opening and closing and the wardrobe door bang, he’s actually packing and going to leave. They’d never got to this stage before as Rachel had always been home and she’d done everything possible to protect her from the upset. She looked down at her trembling hands holding the empty glass and wondered for a split second whether for Rachel’s sake, she should change her mind. But then she felt her cheeks burn remembering his words and decided she felt exactly the same – she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

She heard him come back downstairs and hover in the hallway behind the door – her heart was thumping and she held her breath silently praying he wouldn’t come back in and say more horrible things. She let out a huge sigh of relief when she heard the front door close. Picking up the bottle of wine she walked to the bay window, hid behind the full drapes and watched him climb into his car, look up at the house then slowly pull away from the kerb.

*

In the kitchen Helen poured a second glass of wine, feeling stunned by what had just happened in the last hour of her life. He was gone, and finally and inextricably she was now on her own. This was what she had imagined in the past after he’d confessed to an affair, but she’d always been able to manage the situation around Rachel and somehow they’d got through the first few weeks of distress by carrying on with normal everyday life.

It was different now because the house was empty and for once she could do exactly as she pleased. She wandered back into the lounge and slumped down on the settee feeling drained and lifeless – surely, she should be in floods of tears at the end of her marriage? Maybe they’d come later, she thought, kicking off her black brogues, laying her head back on the settee and closing her eyes.

The bleep on her mobile phone an hour later woke her and she saw a text message from her sister, Karen. When she rang her back with the news about Rob, it took ten minutes of reassurance to stop Karen from running around to console her.

‘But I don’t want retaliation or revenge, Karen,’ she explained. ‘And I certainly don’t want to be a member of The First Wives Club.’ She could tell by Karen’s silence that she hadn’t understood. ‘You know, the film with Bette Midler and Goldie Hawn when they get revenge on their husbands for running off with younger women.’

She heard Karen sigh heavily, ‘Right. But you can’t let him just walk away scot-free.’ she exploded. ‘I wish I could get my hands on him I could bloody kill him for hurting you like this…’

Helen thought carefully before she replied, ‘Funnily enough, I don’t feel hurt. If anything, at the moment, I just feel relieved. And, of course, sad thinking of the years I’ve wasted trying to keep the family together. But that was for my Rachel who is more than worth it.’