Just Desserts

For Z-list celebrity Davina Blake, a prime-time spot on a TV baking competition is full of sweet promise - until a bitter rival threatens to turn the situation sour

Patriotic pastel bunting fluttered in an English summer breeze. Bumblebees buzzed by lazily. The sky was a perfect August blue. And Davina Blake, former child actor, model and professional celebrity, picked her way across a field in her six-inch designer heels. Fake tanned and lip fillered to the max, all she wanted to do was take a lie down in a luxury spa while two Swedish men with six packs massaged her feet – but instead she was here, traipsing about in the mud with a migraine coming on.

Damn you, Kyle, she thought, cursing her agent.

Davina might have survived divorce, drug addiction, a tempestuous public spat with her former co-star, and a particularly nasty cancellation after an ill-advised Instagram post was deemed fatphobic, but the threat she faced now was far worse – irrelevance.

It was nothing to worry about, Kyle told her sweetly over a matcha latte. All that was needed was a nice, gentle reminder to the public that it existed – a little publicity TLC. And he had the perfect opportunity in mind.

At first, she told him where to shove it. Baking gave her nothing but bad memories, and she only had to look at a fairy cake to feel like hurling. But little by little, he’d worn her down. It was only one show. It was gentle and British, nothing harsh or demeaning. Besides, it was that or eat bugs in the outback.

Davina wobbled over an uneven patch of ground and grimaced. Perhaps the bugs wouldn’t have been so bad.

She glanced up at the other contestants milling around the big white tent, a who’s who of has-been actors, Tik Tok influencers and small-time comedians. No one that important, but still, she’d rather not fall flat on her face in front of them. One lucky smartphone snap and she’d be the least flattering form of viral.

After recovering her composure, she tottered to the tent, scouring to see if any of her fellow participants were worth talking to. She caught eyes with an up-and-coming pop singer, only to get caught by some leftie bore who kept trying to convince her to become a gluten free vegan.

She was half a second from another cancellation when a group of contestants caught her attention. They were leaning in close, talking in hushed tones – but Davina had bat ears for gossip.

‘Did you hear what they’re saying about the judges this year? I heard they’re vicious.’

Davina mumbled something non-committal to the leftie bore and slyly edged towards the gossiping duo.

‘Did you see that sewing show they did? They tore poor Sophia to threads. Said her applique was an applique-nay. She’s been in hiding ever since. No one’s heard a peep.’

‘Poor lamb. I’d just die if they did that to me.’

They nodded at one another sympathetically.

‘You know I’ve been doing so badly at my pastry work,’ said the first one, her voice laden with self-deprecation. ‘Look at these burns.’

‘Well, I’ve been perfecting my caramelisation with a professional tutor and it’s still not right.’

Davina blinked. Burns? Tutors? Carame-whatevers? Why the hell was everyone taking a TV programme so seriously?

Before she could ring her agent and give him the third degree, a big Land Rover pulled up on the driveway. They were here, at last.

The presenters.

There were four of them – the funny one, the nice one, the professional one and the quirky one. You could easily identify the quirky one by the neon pink flamingos on his shirt.

They walked in a line like teenage girls, waving and smiling in perfect sync. Their grins were so fake and saccharine that even Davina’s teeth hurt – and she’d been practically sheep dipped in show biz from the age of nine.

They stopped dead in front of the contestants, those winning smiles growing ever wider – even a little sharklike.

‘Wow,’ said the quirky presenter. ‘Look at you all, you keen beans. I could just eat you all up!’

He laughed. So did everyone else. Davina wasn’t quite sure why.

The nice one in the fluffy lilac cardigan gave each contestant a hug, enveloping them in a thick cloak of lavender and talcum powder. When she reached Davina, she put a conspiratorial arm around her. Her voice was low, a soft, velvet chocolate with just a hint of citrus sharp.

‘My dear, so delicious for you to be part of the show.’

‘Erm… thanks?’

The woman pulled away, to be replaced by the presenter who really thought he was funny.

‘Hey, Dav!’ he chanted. ‘Do your catch phrase!’

Davina scowled. The cameras weren’t even rolling and she was already being paraded about like a monkey – still, that was the price of celebrity. She grinned as wide as her most recent bout of filler would allow.

‘It’s sugalicious!’

The presenters fell about. In the background, the other contestants tittered awkwardly – unpopular losers trying to join in with the cool kids’ joke.

Old irritations began to churn in Davina’s stomach. Hadn’t she achieved so much since that stupid kids show? She could still feel the braces rubbing her lips raw, the puppy fat clinging to her body, her signature wide goofy smile to camera after doing something hopelessly stupid. She thought she’d escaped it all, sprung from her hapless baker chrysalis via the metamorphosis of real celebrity – but no. The ghost of Sally Lake Makes Great Cake would haunt her forever.

At last, the laughter died down.

‘You must be so excited,’ said the nice presenter. ‘Working with Minnie again.’

‘What?’ Davina spluttered.

And then she saw her. All blonde bob and girlish cuteness, even though she was pushing forty-five. The cherub who never grew up.

How the hell had Davina missed that bitch?

‘Hey!’ trilled her former co-star, elbowing her way to the front of the pack. ‘Isn’t this exciting? Like we never left the bakery!’

Davina cracked her knuckles. Never left the bakery – as if Minnie hadn’t pushed her out of it. The whole point of the show was that Davina was an ugly duckling turning swan, but sidekick Minnie made the show all about her, stealing the limelight until she became the fan favourite, the true star, and Davina the butt of every joke.

But Davina wasn’t a kid anymore, and this wasn’t some cheesy 90s comedy.

This show was a competition.

And Davina was going to win.

#

Sweat dripped off Davina’s brow and landed in her Victoria sponge mix. Just a little extra salt, she told herself. It couldn’t hurt.

The camera crew zoomed in on her, no doubt wanting to make her look flustered and stressed. Davina grinned toothily at them, then went back to her cake.

Despite dedicating the best of her youth to a show about a dorky fat girl who loved nothing more than whipping up a crème brûlée, Davina didn’t actually know that much about baking. She’d spent most of her adult life avoiding the sweet stuff, her vices tending more towards the bottle and pill variety. Besides, the floury, flushed look wasn’t exactly hot right now.

Davina glanced around the room at her competition. No one else was looking particularly camera worthy, thank God. In fact, they were all very focused – a little too focused for Davina’s liking. She needed to stir things up a bit.

‘Cooking up a storm, aren’t we?’ she announced to the room.

No one responded.

Davina frowned. It hadn’t been her greatest opening gambit, to be fair, but she’d at least expected a titter. Perhaps they hadn’t heard.

‘Forget a cuppa,’ she said, raising her voice to almost a shout. ‘What I need is a mug of tequila!’

Nothing. The awkwardness sat heavier than clotted cream.

Unappreciative weirdos, Davina thought, turning back to her recipe card.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted a presenter gliding over in her direction, as if on wheels. The camera’s hot eye fell upon her.

At last. Some attention.

‘How’s it going, Dav?’

‘It’s alright, thanks—’ She said the presenter’s name, which instantly escaped her the second she’d said it. These people were so fluffy, they were basically air.

‘Not missing your bakery assistant, then?’

‘Nope,’ said Davina, with venom.

She could sense from the presenter’s expression that this wasn’t the right response. This was a light-hearted show, full of dry humour and gentle drama – not vicious rivalry.

‘You’re looking very determined,’ the presenter ploughed on, persistent. ‘In it to win it?’

In it to rub Minnie’s face in it, Davina thought to herself. But that wouldn’t land well with the public.

‘Whatever it takes,’ she said.

There was a flicker in presenter’s eye. Almost imperceptible, a look that only someone who’d spent their life swimming in shark tank with a toothpick for protection would pick up on.

Hunger.

The presenter glided off, taking the cameras with them. Davina felt the heat of ten bodies stuffed into a marquee, like an overfilled profiterole. The air was heavy with the hiss of gas hobs, the hum of ovens. She had the urgent need to breathe.

And then she saw her.

Fresh as her character “Daisy Dee”, Minnie’s golden hair was pushed up in a pink gingham headscarf. It ought to look ludicrous, but under the August sunlight and pastel bunting, the effect was charming. She sparkled under the location lights, chattering merrily away while the presenters cooed at the airy lightness of her sponge mixture.

‘Here,’ said Minnie to one of the presenters, ‘have a taste.’

The presenter eagerly snatched the spoon, dipped, then tasted. Her eyes popped with sinful delight.

‘My goodness, Minnie,’ she purred. ‘You’re a natural!’

‘Well.’ Minnie blushed. ‘I do try!’

Davina glanced down at her own cake mixture. It looked a lot paler than Minnie’s – a lot denser too, with solid lumps of flour. She glanced around the room. No one else had lumps of flour. In fact, everyone else’s cake mixes looked rather like Minnie’s.

The sweat on Davina’s neck chilled. She grabbed the wooden spoon and attacked her cake mixture in a frenzy, beating it half to death. The mixture only grew denser and tougher. It clung to the spoon with the grip of the drowning.

‘Ooops-a-daisy!’ said the funny presenter. ‘Someone’s overmixed!’

He laughed, but not with his eyes. His eyes were greedy.

They want me to fail.

The heat from the ovens roasted Davina, sizzling her skin. Her cheeks flushed with rage, shame and, though she wasn’t quite sure why, panic. She was an awkward thirteen-year-old again, screwing her eyes shut, and inwardly begging the filming not to start. It wasn’t stage fright that killed her. It was the thought that thousands, hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of people were laughing, laughing at her. Because Sally Lake was no longer a character, no longer a shield. She was Sally Lake and Sally Lake was her, stupid, gormless, fat Sally Lake. Not like her friend Daisy Dee, the beautiful, charming Daisy Dee, who everyone loved.

‘You OK, babe? Need a cool down?’

Davina blinked. Minnie was standing at her elbow, holding a mini fan. Its tiny gasp of cool air was utter bliss.

‘Oh…,’ she said, shuffling her feet. ‘Thanks.’

Minnie smiled beatifically, then looked down at Minnie’s cake batter. ‘It’s OK if it doesn’t work out.’

Davina shrugged. ‘I know. I can’t get the flour to mix properly…’

Minnie’s mouth made a perfect zero. ‘Oh hun, I didn’t mean the cake. Not all of us get to win at life, do we?’ She fluttered her lashes, and shimmied back to her bench.

Hot steam broiled in the pit of Davina’s belly, a pressure cooker about to burst. She picked up her wooden spoon, and had a brief vision of hurling it at Minnie head.

Then she lowered the spoon, and placed it gently on her bench.

Revenge, she decided, was a dish best served overmixed.

She waited till Minnie’s back was turned. Till the cameras were on someone else. How’s this for drama, she thought, grinning as she switched the cake bowls.

She was sure Minnie would notice. In fact, part of her hoped she would notice. If she noticed, she might see the depths she had driven Davina too.

Why did her skin feel so hot? If she didn’t get out of here soon, she would start to crisp.

She watched as Minnie spoon her cake mix into two tins, frowning at the density. She watched her shrug and pop it in the oven. She watched her shimmy towards the presenters, trying to catch another camera moment.

Davina furtively tipped her stolen mixture into her cake tins, shoving them into the preheated oven and slamming the door shut. Her heart hammered. Still, no one was watching her. The camera crew clustered around Minnie. Every other contestant was frantically focused on their own cooking.

She was actually going to get away with this.

#

25 minutes later, Davina was staring down at her bench in awe.

The cake was glorious. Golden as a Kardashian spray tan, perfectly risen, the skewer crumb free.

She waited for the halves to cool before smothering them in jam and cream, and dusting the top with icing sugar. The end result was picture perfect. Tears glistened in Davina’s eyes at the heavenly sight – or perhaps that was just the heat.

Minnie was also staring at her cake. Tears were also glistening in her eyes. But there was nothing heavenly about it.

The monstrosity on her bench was pale and misshapen. The middle sagged. You could see the pieces of unmixed flour.

Davina grinned to herself. Soon the judging would come, and Minnie would be gently ribbed on national television. The ultimate humiliation for Minnie, and an utter triumph for Davina.

Still, she felt the need to rub it in.

‘Sorry about your cake,’ she called out in a sing-song voice, barely disguising her vindictive triumph. But Minnie hardly seemed to hear.

‘Not risen much, has it? Guess you’re not a master baker after all!’

Minnie turned to look at Davina. What Davina saw in her eyes wasn’t frustration, or malice, or even panic.

It was pure terror.

Minnie’s gingham headscarf had slipped so far down her head, it was covering her eyebrows, but she made no effort to push it back. Mascara ran down her flushed cheeks, their spider-black stains a harbinger of what was to come.

Davina began to experience an unfamiliar sensation, a weakness she thought long abandoned, killed stone dead by showbiz.

She pushed it down. Why should she feel guilty? It was only a baking show.

She stood back, watching the other contestants sweat over their sponges, smiles frosty, nails bitten. She waited as the presenters began to gather at the judging table. Their conversation buzzed in her brain, an indistinct hornet swarm growing louder by the second. All of sudden, it cut short. One of them stepped forwards, shouted.

‘Ten seconds left!’

With a shriek, Minnie dropped her packet of icing sugar. She looked she was about to burst into tears.

‘— nine – eight—’

Minnie gathered herself, picking up the sugar packet with shaking hands.

‘– seven – six’

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Minnie scattered sugar on her cake.

‘– five – four – three’

Minnie placed one sad strawberry in the cake’s centre. It teetered, then, with a silent sigh, rolled onto the floor.

‘– two – one. Time’s up! Step away from your cakes!’

Ten contestants stepped backwards. The tension could be cut with a meat cleaver.

They called Davina first to the judging table, the camera zooming in upon her glorious sponge.

‘Well Davina,’ said the quirky presenter. ‘That looks pretty scrumptious!’

The professional bent over, examined with a critical eye. ‘Got a good bounce,’ he declared, pressing it with a fingertip.

‘That’s always nice!’ quipped the funny one, in a somewhat risqué way.

They all laughed. The sound crackled.

‘Look how airy it is,’ cooed the professional one, cutting slices with an overly large butcher’s knife. ‘The jam’s just the right thickness.’

‘Let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks,’ murmured the professional.

The collective chewing, munching and swallowing got inside Davina’s skull, and would not come out.

‘That was absolutely gorgeous, Davina. Keep this up, and you might win this thing!’

Relief washed over Davina, golden and thick as butter. Or how she imagined butter to be, since she hadn’t eaten anything full fat in about 20 years. She almost danced her way back to her bench.

‘And now, Minnie, your turn!’

Silence. Silence Davina hadn’t heard in years, silence she’d filled with drinking and digital noise and sheer stuff, expanded across the tent. It ballooned. Consumed everything it touched.

Minnie cut through that silence. Minnie, her blonde halo plastered with sweat. Minnie, whose perfect red lips were finally smudged. She had icing sugar stuck to her cheek, a dollop of jam on the tip of her button nose. It should have been funny.

It should have been television.

Minnie placed the cake, which from its sideways lurching seemed just as eager to escape this situation as its baker, in front of the presenters with a loud clunk. Four heads craned forwards.

‘Ooo dear Minnie, it’s not looking good.’

Minnie stared down at her pastel pink pumps. Small. Shivering. Shamed.

One of the presenters reached forwards. The cake knife glittered in his meaty fist, its serrated edges sharper and larger than was reasonable. He rose it high in the air, plunged it deep into the cake’s flesh. He made an exaggerated sawing motion, mimicking wiping the sweat off his brow as he hacked four slices onto plates.

‘Consistency seems pretty tough. Let’s give it a taste.’

Cake forks dug into the sponge, lifted to mouths. One of the presenters mimed a gag.

‘That’s like eating a bag of rocks, that is!’

‘Don’t be so harsh,’ said the nice one. ‘She tried her best.’

‘And I’m trying my best not to spit it out!’

Laughter. Warm, fuzzy laughter. Their eyes were so hungry.

‘Better luck next time, love.’

Minnie didn’t take her plate. She staggered back to her station, leaned heavily, as if she might be sick.

When the last cake had been tasted, the TV crew sat them all on a row of stools. Minnie and Davina perched on opposite ends, but Davina could still feel Minnie shuddering, her delicate fingers kneading the pocket of her apron as the presenters stood in front of them.

‘Now, it’s time to find out whose Victoria sponge rocked – and whose bake sadly flopped.’

There was a theatrical pause for suspense. At least they didn’t have to work too hard to look nervous.

‘And our top bake for this week is… drumroll please… Davina!’

The applause was fierce, loud, and forced. It hammered in Davina’s ears.

‘But I’m afraid one of you made a cake that didn’t quite take.’

There was an abrupt and menacing silence.

‘Minnie – I’m so sorry.’

Minnie slid from her stool, had to hold herself upright on her neighbouring contestant, her apple-cheeked glow now glue grey. She wavered, seemed about to fall.

Then, at the last possible moment, Minnie recovered. She smiled wide, with only the lightest touch of mania around the eyes.

‘I just wanted to say how much I’ve loved being here. It’s been so much fun!’

Her pink lips peeled back, white teeth glinting in the light. The presenters beamed back at her equal sunniness and force.

‘Been great having you, Minnie,’ they told her. ‘But I’m afraid we have to whisk you away.’

They clapped their hands together, licking their lips.

A collective rigor mortis seeped through the contestants as Minnie walked down the row of chairs, waving her final farewells. She paused in front of Davina, teetering on the brink.

‘So,’ she said. ‘I guess this is goodbye!’

Davina swallowed the lump in her throat. It was even tougher to swallow than Minnie’s cake.

‘We’ve had our ups and downs, I suppose,’ said Minnie. She blinked hard, tears bubbling in her eyes. ‘But I wish you all the best. I really do.’

She pushed back her pink gingham headscarf and turned to face the presenters. They took her by the arm. And then, with faltering steps, she began her long, slow march from the tent.

#

Birds sang in the trees. The sky was a glorious English summer blue. Pastel bunting flapped lazily in a breeze that didn’t penetrate the tent, but rather skirted round it.

Inside was a hell hole.

There was no relief from the heat. It was approaching 40 degrees, and the tight fitted blue blouse Davina was wearing was beginning to feel like the world’s greatest mistake.

The theme today, apparently, was pastry. Pastry, that most elusive and temperamental of baking products. Davina kept dousing her hands in cold water, trying to get it to roll. But her palms might have been magma, as the pastry turned sticky and glued itself to her skin.

Under her breath, Davina muttered several choice phrases that would never be aired pre watershed.

‘Having fun over here?’

Davina looked up at the presenters. Was it her imagination or were they circling?

‘Where’s Minnie?’ she asked.

The presenters smiled. ‘She’s gone, Davina. She was eliminated.’ One of them reached out with a pudgy hand. His fingers brushed the air mere centimetres from what passed as her rolled out shortcrust.

‘There’s still time,’ he whispered, in a sing song voice. ‘Still all to play for.’

They wandered away. Davina breathed out.

She glanced at the other contestants. They were laser focused on their work, their hair floured, hands raw from washing, faces coated in a constant sheen of sweat. They did not speak or laugh or make jokes. They only worked.

The timer beeped relentlessly. The meat for her steak pie had been bubbling on a low heat and it was time for it to go in the oven – only her pastry still wasn’t right, damn it.

Davina made another very pre-watershed unfriendly remark, and grabbed the pan handle, hoiking it off the stove.

It was boiling.

Davina screamed. She dropped the pan and it landed face down on the floor, spilling the contents everywhere. She sunk to her knees, desperately trying to scoop it back in with her scalded hands. Tears burned in her eyes. The room faded to fuzz.

Another timer, a timer she didn’t remember setting, began to beep. It beeped and it beeped and it beeped as she stared at the meaty mess on the floor. As she reached into its depths and pulled out what she somehow known she would find within.

A single strand of pink gingham.