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Authors: Kerry Barrett
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amazing. She no longer looked like a mousey teenager, instead she looked like an edgy, beautiful art student. Her eyes were enormous, her smile broad and she’d ditched the unflattering boot-cut jeans for a pair of skinnies that really suited her.
‘What’s happened to her?’ I said in amazement. ‘We only saw her about three days ago. She looks completely different.’
‘Media training,’ said Harry in disgust. ‘That’s what happened. I bet Daddy pulled some strings and got her a stylist for these interviews.’
‘She did say she was going to phone him,’ I remembered. ‘Looks like he’s got Portia’s talent for publicity.’
On screen, Amelia was looking sad, her huge eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m so disappointed,’ she said, her expression earnest. ‘I was really looking forward to taking part in the competition.’
‘And you were doing so well,’ the female presenter schmoozed.
Amelia smiled faintly.
‘Oh the others are all very talented,’ she said. ‘But I would have given it a good shot.’
‘But you’re not returning to the competition?’ said the man, his voice oozing with sympathy.
Amelia took a deep breath and down the phone, Harry snorted impatiently.
‘I’ve decided to take a step back,’ Amelia said, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘I’m sure it was just an unfortunate accident, and just coincidence that Ronald – another competitor – also had his accident last week…’
‘Ronald was shut in a freezer,’ the woman explained to surely the only viewer left in the country who didn’t know what had been happening on
Britain Bakes
.
Amelia looked a bit cross to be interrupted but carried on.
‘So after my accident, and having to cut my hair off …’
‘It looks very nice,’ the man said. Amelia gave him a quick smile but didn’t respond. She obviously had something to say.
‘So after my accident,’ she said again, ‘I felt the competition had lost its cosiness. I didn’t feel safe returning to
Britain Bakes
.’
‘What the …’ said Harry in my ear.
On the television, Amelia smiled directly at the camera.
‘I had to pull out,’ she said. ‘
Britain Bakes
is dangerous.’
Thirteen
The media attention after Amelia’s little announcement was massive, obviously. Portia drafted in two assistants to help her deal with it, and bombarded us with requests from newspapers, magazines and television shows. Harry and I decided we’d only take part if they wanted all four of us, and if Wilf and June were willing. We both had our children to think about and Harry wanted to spend every minute she could with her twins, because she missed them dreadfully every weekend when we were up in Claddach. I suspected Harry’s wife Louise felt the same – she wasn’t a witch so coping with Finn and Fifi’s blossoming talents kept her on her toes at the best of times, let alone when Harry wasn’t around. She and Jamie – who were old pals from their student days – had taken to meeting up with the children every weekend. It was good for the kids to play together and nice for them to have each other as moral support.
So, with our families taking up most of our time, Harry and I had hadn’t done any publicity so far, though June had been on Woman’s Hour and Wilf had been on the Radio One breakfast show.
But the constant stream of emails and messages didn’t prepare me for the reception that greeted us when we arrived back in Claddach for pastry week.
The hot weather had broken. Heavy purple clouds hung over the mountains, hiding their peaks, and the loch had turned from a deep blue to its customary inky black. Thunder rolled in the distance and the rain pounded down.
But the torrential downpour didn’t deter the paparazzi. Oh no. They were a determined bunch. As Harry and I got out of the car by the cafe, clutching our instructions for the day and me carrying my hospital notes – my due date was approaching and I didn’t want to take any chances – we were
‘What’s happened to her?’ I said in amazement. ‘We only saw her about three days ago. She looks completely different.’
‘Media training,’ said Harry in disgust. ‘That’s what happened. I bet Daddy pulled some strings and got her a stylist for these interviews.’
‘She did say she was going to phone him,’ I remembered. ‘Looks like he’s got Portia’s talent for publicity.’
On screen, Amelia was looking sad, her huge eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m so disappointed,’ she said, her expression earnest. ‘I was really looking forward to taking part in the competition.’
‘And you were doing so well,’ the female presenter schmoozed.
Amelia smiled faintly.
‘Oh the others are all very talented,’ she said. ‘But I would have given it a good shot.’
‘But you’re not returning to the competition?’ said the man, his voice oozing with sympathy.
Amelia took a deep breath and down the phone, Harry snorted impatiently.
‘I’ve decided to take a step back,’ Amelia said, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘I’m sure it was just an unfortunate accident, and just coincidence that Ronald – another competitor – also had his accident last week…’
‘Ronald was shut in a freezer,’ the woman explained to surely the only viewer left in the country who didn’t know what had been happening on
Britain Bakes
.
Amelia looked a bit cross to be interrupted but carried on.
‘So after my accident, and having to cut my hair off …’
‘It looks very nice,’ the man said. Amelia gave him a quick smile but didn’t respond. She obviously had something to say.
‘So after my accident,’ she said again, ‘I felt the competition had lost its cosiness. I didn’t feel safe returning to
Britain Bakes
.’
‘What the …’ said Harry in my ear.
On the television, Amelia smiled directly at the camera.
‘I had to pull out,’ she said. ‘
Britain Bakes
is dangerous.’
Thirteen
The media attention after Amelia’s little announcement was massive, obviously. Portia drafted in two assistants to help her deal with it, and bombarded us with requests from newspapers, magazines and television shows. Harry and I decided we’d only take part if they wanted all four of us, and if Wilf and June were willing. We both had our children to think about and Harry wanted to spend every minute she could with her twins, because she missed them dreadfully every weekend when we were up in Claddach. I suspected Harry’s wife Louise felt the same – she wasn’t a witch so coping with Finn and Fifi’s blossoming talents kept her on her toes at the best of times, let alone when Harry wasn’t around. She and Jamie – who were old pals from their student days – had taken to meeting up with the children every weekend. It was good for the kids to play together and nice for them to have each other as moral support.
So, with our families taking up most of our time, Harry and I had hadn’t done any publicity so far, though June had been on Woman’s Hour and Wilf had been on the Radio One breakfast show.
But the constant stream of emails and messages didn’t prepare me for the reception that greeted us when we arrived back in Claddach for pastry week.
The hot weather had broken. Heavy purple clouds hung over the mountains, hiding their peaks, and the loch had turned from a deep blue to its customary inky black. Thunder rolled in the distance and the rain pounded down.
But the torrential downpour didn’t deter the paparazzi. Oh no. They were a determined bunch. As Harry and I got out of the car by the cafe, clutching our instructions for the day and me carrying my hospital notes – my due date was approaching and I didn’t want to take any chances – we were
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