Match Me If You Can. Michele Gorman

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      She spotted the Bake Off application still in the tea drawer, as unfilled-in as when she’d first printed it off. Not surprising. Sarah was the last person to sing her own praises.

      Her eyes darted to the kitchen doorway.

      She’d be coming back from Sissy’s on the train now, like she did every Tuesday and Thursday. And often at weekends too.

      Rachel stared at the application. The teabags were under it anyway …

      She picked up the sheets.

      When the kettle finished its furious boil she poured her tea and rummaged in her bag for the thriller she’d been devouring. There were only around fifty pages left and she was pretty sure she knew who’d done it.

      Her glance bounced between the book and the application.

      She should read her book and drink her tea.

      But she did know who’d done it.

      Her eyes wandered to the Bake Off questions.

      How long has the applicant been baking?

      That was easy. Sarah was already great by the time she moved into the old flat. It was her promise of home-made scones that won her Catherine’s vote when they first met.

      Her mum had taught her to bake when she was little (the next question). Every year when she got tipsy on her birthday she told them how she’d baked her own Victoria sponge when she turned six. Every year they pretended this was new information.

      Glancing again at the doorway, Rachel’s hand found a pen. It seemed to have a mind of its own.

      I started baking my own cakes at six, she wrote.

      Next question: What did she personally get from baking?

      Sarah never really talked about it but it seemed to make her really happy. She usually sang when she baked, and filled the whole kitchen with a homeliness as she worked through her recipes. Rachel said as much on the form, but skipped the part about the singing in case that might be distracting on set.

      Next were a load of questions about skills and knowledge. She had to guess at those. Sarah seemed to know how to bake everything, so Rachel just listed the main categories from one of her cookbooks as examples. The judges probably wanted a broad idea anyway.

      When she got to the questions about hobbies and ambitions, it started sounding a lot like a dating profile. I like long chocolate eclairs on the beach, enjoying sunset cheesecakes, and I live life to the fullest-fat cream. The questions were handy though, given the conversation she’d have with Sarah when she got in. Two birds, one stone.

      She let out a little yelp when the front door opened upstairs.

      ‘Anybody home yet?’ Sarah called from the living room.

      She shoved the application back in the drawer. Somehow it seemed less sneaky to keep it there in relatively plain sight.

      ‘Been home long?’ Sarah said, throwing her bag on the table. ‘Whatcha doing?’

      ‘Just finishing my book. I got home a few minutes ago. Have you eaten?’

      Sarah shook her head. ‘Let’s order from the Noodle Shop.’

      She moved toward the tea drawer to get the noodle menu.

      ‘Let me do it!’ Rachel cried, launching herself at the drawer to shove the application beneath the menus. ‘You’ve just walked in the door. Go change into something more comfy. You want the Thai noodles, right?’

      Sarah stared at her jeans and baggy dark blue fisherman’s jumper. ‘Catherine wants to get me out of my trackies and you want me in them. I wish you’d make up your minds,’ she called over her shoulder.

      Rachel’s heart hammered. So much for feeling less sneaky. Still, Sarah would be grateful if she got the chance to have Paul Hollywood compliment her iced buns.

      Twenty minutes later, Aziz was at their front door. His parents owned the Noodle Shop.

      ‘All right?’ he said, handing Rachel the steaming plastic bags.

      ‘Good, Aziz, thanks. You?’

      Something about him looked different but Rachel couldn’t put her finger on it. Was it his hair? Yes, that was it. She could see his hair. ‘No helmet? Where’s your scooter?’

      ‘Got nicked yesterday,’ he mumbled, hunching further into his winter coat.

      ‘Oh no! Your parents aren’t making you deliver on foot?’

      ‘Nah, we’re not doing deliveries till we get the insurance money to replace it.’

      ‘Well thanks for making an exception for us.’

      ‘No problem, you’re our best customers. See you later.’

      Poor Noodle Shop family, thought Rachel. As if the people in their neighbourhood didn’t have enough trouble making ends meet.

      ‘Aziz’s scooter got nicked,’ Rachel told Sarah as she unpacked their order.

      ‘That’s shite! It’s probably halfway to Africa by now.’

      ‘It didn’t run away, Sarah. It was stolen.’

      ‘I know. They’re selling them in Africa.’

      ‘Are you sure that’s not bicycles?’

      ‘Maybe.’ Sarah shifted her container of noodles aside to make room for her sketch pad. ‘What do you think of this? I’m pitching it at the ideas meeting tomorrow.’

      Rachel pulled the pad closer.

      She loved Sarah’s sketches. No wonder her cards were consistently bestsellers. Her company was very lucky to have her.

      She’d done some preliminary colouring in on the pen-and-ink sketch. Two figures stood hand-in-hand beneath an arch of summer flowers.

      ‘What’s the theme?’ Rachel asked.

      The man in the sketch was balding, with a big tummy beneath his suit.

      ‘It’s an Asian lady marrying an English man,’ she said, scooping up some noodles with her chopsticks.

      The lithe young woman smiled adoringly at her paunchy groom.

      ‘Seriously?’

      ‘Harry’s always looking for ways to expand the wedding cards. I know everybody thinks she’s a mail-order bride but sometimes they must really be in love. Don’t they deserve a nice card too?’

      Sarah was such a romantic at heart. Maybe it was the cause of her success as a wedding card designer. Or a consequence. Either way, it worked for her.

      ‘Well, good luck in the meeting,’ СКАЧАТЬ