“I’m glad you came today, Bex. That wig is amusing,” Annabelle said as the boys drifted closer to the tent to determine whether anyone’s chances were literally going up in smoke. “You and Nick should come out more often. We’re reopening the tennis courts, and—”
“Nick told me about New Year’s Eve,” I said. “You can dispense with pretending that we’re old chums.”
Annabelle blanched.
“That was a dark spell,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush. “I’m not proud of it. And I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“I’m glad you agree, because I wasn’t offering,” I said.
“But I can assure you that there is absolutely no chance I will behave like that ever again.” She lowered her voice. “Artie and I are expecting a baby.”
A stab of unseemly envy hit me right in the gut, so strong that it almost knocked me sideways.
“It’s been such a surprise,” Annabelle continued, placing her hands over her still very flat abdomen. “We weren’t even trying. You know, at his age, I had assumed…anyway, he’s over the moon,” she said, a slow, self-satisfied smile spreading over her face. “And, of course, so am I. Everything feels so different now. I’m not the same person I was that night.”
As she spoke, my envy turned a corner into jealousy. I wanted to tell her to go away. To stop making it all sound so easy. That I felt betrayed by my body, that I wanted a refund for years of birth control; that watching all the adorable happy kids playing on the lawn in front of us felt like karmic punishment for the misery I’d once brought Nick; that my butt stung from the progesterone shot. I wanted to tell her how much I resented her both for having what I didn’t and for trying to have what I already did.
“How nice for you,” I said instead. It came out sounding sarcastic, which I suppose it sort of was.
“Thank you. Surely I’ll be congratulating you and Nick someday soon, too,” she said.
Her eyes flickered down to my waistband and I pulled my coat closed. Then she pointed toward the tent, where a camera crew, the two hosts, and the two judges were filing out toward a smaller tent.
“Deliberations. We’ll be close now,” she said. “You should catch up with the boys. I’ll ring you when it’s over and it looks like traffic’s clearing up enough for you three to sneak out safely. Those disguises are charming, but everyone will know it’s you if they see the Range Rover.”
Two camera crews materialized in the crowd as Annabelle speed-walked toward her house, and I rejoined Nick and Freddie. We drifted around the lawn, steering ourselves as far away from the cameras as we could. Fortunately, production wasn’t interested in three unphotogenic weirdos, and focused mostly on the family and familiar faces in the crowd—including Cilla, who was twisting a handkerchief in her hands while trying to look calm. She’d brought her sister, her mother, and three cousins with her. We hadn’t told her we were coming, but I saw her do a double take when Niles Kensington crossed her periphery, followed by a disapproving twitch of the mouth that you’d only notice if you knew her as well as I did.
Before she could scan the crowd again, the producers silenced everyone. The air was thick with tension. I saw Cilla’s sister take her hand.
“And, ACTION. Go for Jilly,” the director said.
“Hello!” came the plummy voice of Jilly Hall, the petite, spiky-haired comedian who cohosted the show. “It is my honor and delight to welcome you all to the finale of Bready, Set, oh, piss up a tree, let’s go again.”
“Still rolling,” called the director as a giggle spread through the crowd. “Go again.”
“It is my honor and blight to, oh, bloody bollocks, keep rolling…It is my honor and delight to welcome you all to the grand finale of Ready, Set, Bake, the show that takes thirteen home chefs and turns them into master baters OH PANTS, I’m fired. I fire myself.”
The crowd cracked up, defusing the stress and tension of the moment, which in retrospect was probably her intent. Jilly then laid down one flawless take, and invited out the contestants with their final bakes. Wayne’s was a reproduction of his childhood home done entirely in filled pastries. Marian had built a Christmas tree cake with removable, edible ornaments in different flavors, and Gaz’s was, to our delight, a dessert reproduction of the Bodleian Library from Oxford. Each had telltale chunks missing from the judges’ tastings, and the bakers all looked emotional and nervous. Gaz, in particular, seemed about to keel over, and close to tears per usual.
“And the winner is…” Jilly said as Gaz wrapped an arm around Wayne and Marian. “MARIAN!”
Marian shrieked and dropped to her knees as three kids ran up to her and threw their arms around her. Gaz burst into tears and applauded, while Wayne clapped more sedately, seeming put out—though that might have been because one of Marian’s kids trod on his foot.
“The right baker won,” Gaz wept in his exit interview as Nick and Freddie and I lurked as close as we could manage. “Her tree was a work of genius. And perhaps it was karma that I lost by building a library I hardly went to at Oxford, eh? I knew I should’ve built the pub instead.”
With a laugh, the cameraman got one more shot of him hugging Cilla, and then trotted off to find Wayne, who seemed much happier now that his boyfriend had appeared.
“Jolly good job, Garamond,” one Niles Kensington said, striding up confidently and offering Gaz his hand.
“Thanks, good sir,” Gaz said, pumping Freddie’s hand absently. “Much appreciated.”
“Brilliant,” I added, coming up to Freddie’s right side.
Nick followed. “Rooted for you the whole way. It’s a crime.”
Cilla goggled at us. I sensed a lecture about to burst forth from her mouth but Gaz spoke up first.
“No, not at all, no miscarriage of
