Free The Baking Life of Amelie Day by Vanessa Curtis Page A

‘Bet you can’t wait to get home. I think we’ll get a DVD out tonight and maybe have fish and chips. OK?’
    I know she’s trying to be kind and cheer me up and all that, but it’s not really working. All I can think about is the competition in two weeks’ time and the fact that I’ve hardly done any preparation for it and all I can see up ahead of me is a huge black mountain blocking my way to London. Of course being me, the mountain is made out of thousands of black olives all gleaming and glistening with oil and dotted with chilli and garlic, but even this dramatic image fails to cheer me up much.
    We’ve reached the office next door to Mr Rogers, my consultant, now. Trish is already there. She’s going to do my lung function test and then Mum and I are going to have a late lunch and then wait a couple of hours while Mr Rogers gets all my results together and gives me his opinion on them.
    The lung function test is the thing I dread most of all. It’s really simple. All I have to do is blow hard into a machine and it measures the volume of air blown out of my lungs. Trish then compares this number to the number she recorded when I last did the test and then she can tell if my lung function has got better or worse.
    I breathe as hard as I can into her machine and as usual it leaves me coughing and breathless again, so we go through the whole process of Trish holding a bowl under my mouth and Mum pacing up and down. Then Trish gestures for me to sit down.
    I can see by her sympathetic face that it’s not great news.
    â€˜Yes, you’ve guessed it,’ she says. ‘Your lung function is down a fair bit since last year’s review. It’s only at forty-eight per cent as opposed to last time when you were at nearly sixty. We’ll get the x-ray results and then Mr Rogers will be able to talk to you about what we might be able to do next. OK?’
    Trish is really nice so I give her a big smile, even though my heart is aching at the news and I can’t even look at Mum.
    â€˜You should get some better sweets for CF patients,’ I say, pointing to the tired pile of fruit lollies that she keeps to give the little kids. ‘There aren’t enough calories in those. You should be handing out fudge made with condensed milk. I’ll knock some up for you next time.’
    Trish laughs.
    â€˜Fair point,’ she says. ‘See you later.’
    Then we stagger off downstairs to find the canteen.
    The canteen in the CF centre does hot meals and sandwiches and sells loads of high calorie junk food as well so Mum piles up my tray with Shepherd’s Pie, roast potatoes and green beans and adds a strawberry milk-shake and a piece of sponge cake.
    She chooses a ham salad for herself.
    â€˜I think I’d rather have yours,’ I say, eyeing up the small meal with envy. My guts feel like they’re twisted in knots and I’ve got a faint sick feeling, not helped by the strong smell of hospital disinfectant all over the place.
    â€˜Tough,’ says Mum. ‘You heard what Diane said. You’re losing way too much weight. So you need to eat this.’
    Mum is going into ‘CF Police’ mode again, but I’m too tired to argue. I pick up the fork and examine the mixture of meat and mashed potato I’m about to put into my mouth.
    â€˜Packet gravy,’ I say, all doleful. When I make Shepherd’s Pie I do amazing gravy with fresh sage, home-made lamb stock and a dash of Mum’s favourite red wine when she’s not looking. ‘And cheap white potatoes, not Maris Piper. Yuk.’
    Mum sighs.
    â€˜Oh Amelie,’ she says. ‘You are funny. Only you could be complaining about the gravy when you’ve just been given all that difficult news to digest. Most kids don’t care what potatoes they’re eating so long as they’re made into chips.’
    I prod at my over-salted meal and consider