Read Online A Spoonful of Sugar by Kerry Barrett - Free Book Online
Authors: Kerry Barrett
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after Ronald was shut in the freezer, then now they were gripped.
Lots of people said the show was unlucky or cursed. Others said it was a publicity stunt – I’d remembered the glint in Portia’s eye as she drafted her press release and barked down the phone at a researcher from
This Morning
and grinned as I read that tweet – and others said someone was sabotaging the bakers.
This morning I’d woken up to an email from Portia saying ratings for the latest episode were through the roof. Apparently the whole country was in the grip of
Britain Bakes
fever. I was absolutely terrified. With the eyes of the nation on me, how on earth was I going to get through pastry week? Especially when I had an uncooperative two-year-old, a job, and an ever-increasing baby bump to deal with.
I grabbed Clemmie as she danced past me and tickled her with one hand while I dragged her leggings on with the other. She laughed and laughed, which made me smile. She was a real tonic, I thought. As she squirmed on my lap, I pulled up her top and blew raspberries on her little rounded tummy.
Giggling, she pushed me away, sat up and grinned at me.
‘No trous-uhs,’ she said sternly.
I tickled her again.
‘But you’re wearing your trousers, so I win,’ I said. ‘Mummy wins.’
Clemmie smiled serenely, waggled her fingers and in a shimmery haze of silver, her leggings were gone.
‘No trous-uhs,’ she said.
I groaned. Parenting was much harder now Clemmie had discovered her magical talents. I had a sudden flash of sympathy for Harry, whose twins had been enchanting stuff since they were teeny.
‘Where are they, Clemmie?‘ I said, looking round the room. I spotted the leggings balancing on top of the TV, where Peppa Pig was tormenting her poor parents just as Clemmie tormented me.
‘Right you,’ I said, trying to do my best ‘don’t mess with Mummy’ voice. ‘No more Peppa until the leggings are on.’
‘Noooooooo,’ Clemmie cried, throwing herself off my lap and onto the floor in a most dramatic fashion. ‘Peppppppaaaaaa!’
I sighed again, watching my daughter flail about on the floor, then I smiled. Parenting a toddler witch wasn’t easy – but at least I had my own talents to fall back on.
With a wave of my hand, I retrieved the leggings, changed the TV from Peppa Pig to BBC Breakfast and made bubbles fall from the ceiling to distract my drama queen daughter.
‘Bubbles,’ she said, pointing as I pulled her leggings on for a second time. ‘Pretty bubbles.’
But I wasn’t listening. Instead my attention had been caught by the newspaper review piece on the TV. The smiley woman presenter was holding up a copy of the
Sun
, which had a huge picture of Amelia, dripping with caramel, on its front page.
‘Sticky end!’ the headline shouted.
‘Oh. My. God!’ I said.
Now the man was holding up the other tabloids. They all had Amelia on the front.
‘Did someone sabotage Amelia?’ the
Daily Mail
asked.
‘No,’ I muttered. ‘It was an accident.’
Even the
Guardian
had Amelia on its cover, her caramel-covered head peeking out from the top of the page.
‘Toffee Gate!’ its headline teased. ‘Who’s to blame?’
I stared at the TV in horror. This was getting out of hand.
‘Coming up,’ the woman was saying. ‘We speak to Amelia Watts to hear what she has to say about Toffee Gate.
I let out a small shriek, which Clemmie immediately copied, and grabbed my phone to call Harry.
‘I’m watching,’ she said as soon as she answered. ‘This is crazy.’
‘Amelia’s coming on in a minute,’ I said. ‘Let’s watch it together.’
‘Don’t you have to go to work?’ Harry pointed out.
‘I’ll say I had an unexpected midwife appointment,’ I said airily. ‘It’ll be fine. Aaaahhhh, here she is.’
On the screen Amelia was sitting on the sofa, opposite the presenters. Her hair was cropped into a pixie cut – a bit like Anne Hathaway’s after she went all arty for
Les Mis
– and it looked
Lots of people said the show was unlucky or cursed. Others said it was a publicity stunt – I’d remembered the glint in Portia’s eye as she drafted her press release and barked down the phone at a researcher from
This Morning
and grinned as I read that tweet – and others said someone was sabotaging the bakers.
This morning I’d woken up to an email from Portia saying ratings for the latest episode were through the roof. Apparently the whole country was in the grip of
Britain Bakes
fever. I was absolutely terrified. With the eyes of the nation on me, how on earth was I going to get through pastry week? Especially when I had an uncooperative two-year-old, a job, and an ever-increasing baby bump to deal with.
I grabbed Clemmie as she danced past me and tickled her with one hand while I dragged her leggings on with the other. She laughed and laughed, which made me smile. She was a real tonic, I thought. As she squirmed on my lap, I pulled up her top and blew raspberries on her little rounded tummy.
Giggling, she pushed me away, sat up and grinned at me.
‘No trous-uhs,’ she said sternly.
I tickled her again.
‘But you’re wearing your trousers, so I win,’ I said. ‘Mummy wins.’
Clemmie smiled serenely, waggled her fingers and in a shimmery haze of silver, her leggings were gone.
‘No trous-uhs,’ she said.
I groaned. Parenting was much harder now Clemmie had discovered her magical talents. I had a sudden flash of sympathy for Harry, whose twins had been enchanting stuff since they were teeny.
‘Where are they, Clemmie?‘ I said, looking round the room. I spotted the leggings balancing on top of the TV, where Peppa Pig was tormenting her poor parents just as Clemmie tormented me.
‘Right you,’ I said, trying to do my best ‘don’t mess with Mummy’ voice. ‘No more Peppa until the leggings are on.’
‘Noooooooo,’ Clemmie cried, throwing herself off my lap and onto the floor in a most dramatic fashion. ‘Peppppppaaaaaa!’
I sighed again, watching my daughter flail about on the floor, then I smiled. Parenting a toddler witch wasn’t easy – but at least I had my own talents to fall back on.
With a wave of my hand, I retrieved the leggings, changed the TV from Peppa Pig to BBC Breakfast and made bubbles fall from the ceiling to distract my drama queen daughter.
‘Bubbles,’ she said, pointing as I pulled her leggings on for a second time. ‘Pretty bubbles.’
But I wasn’t listening. Instead my attention had been caught by the newspaper review piece on the TV. The smiley woman presenter was holding up a copy of the
Sun
, which had a huge picture of Amelia, dripping with caramel, on its front page.
‘Sticky end!’ the headline shouted.
‘Oh. My. God!’ I said.
Now the man was holding up the other tabloids. They all had Amelia on the front.
‘Did someone sabotage Amelia?’ the
Daily Mail
asked.
‘No,’ I muttered. ‘It was an accident.’
Even the
Guardian
had Amelia on its cover, her caramel-covered head peeking out from the top of the page.
‘Toffee Gate!’ its headline teased. ‘Who’s to blame?’
I stared at the TV in horror. This was getting out of hand.
‘Coming up,’ the woman was saying. ‘We speak to Amelia Watts to hear what she has to say about Toffee Gate.
I let out a small shriek, which Clemmie immediately copied, and grabbed my phone to call Harry.
‘I’m watching,’ she said as soon as she answered. ‘This is crazy.’
‘Amelia’s coming on in a minute,’ I said. ‘Let’s watch it together.’
‘Don’t you have to go to work?’ Harry pointed out.
‘I’ll say I had an unexpected midwife appointment,’ I said airily. ‘It’ll be fine. Aaaahhhh, here she is.’
On the screen Amelia was sitting on the sofa, opposite the presenters. Her hair was cropped into a pixie cut – a bit like Anne Hathaway’s after she went all arty for
Les Mis
– and it looked
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