Free The Art of Baking Blind by Sarah Vaughan

back into the role of a wife – albeit one with a marriage in tatters.
    Put like this, the decision is clear and so this competition – this simple sponge – has taken on a disproportionate importance. After nearly three decades of tending to others, she has the chance to do something for herself. She can shine at what she does but, equally, she realises with a glimmer of excitement, she can redefine herself. She does not need to be a corpulent cook, the jolly fat lady of the competition – though she is aware Eaden and Son have pigeon-holed her as this. Perhaps she could even ask that they use Jenny, her name as a girl, not the more matronly Jennifer. Perhaps she could be Jenny once more.
    She focuses on the cake. Eggs, their fat yolks orange and spherical, plop into a mixing bowl and are quickly beaten before being whisked into the mixture. Self-raising flour and extra baking powder are sieved from thirty centimetres above the bowl, and folded in lightly. A splash of milk makes the mixture moister still. She eases the batter out of the bowl with a gentle push of a spatula, guiding it into the greased and lined cake tins, taking excessive care to check they are evenly distributed. She weighs the tins just to check. The tops are caressed with a palette knife and then the tins are placed side by side in the centre of the oven as she waits for the alchemy to begin.
    *   *   *
    Eleven o’clock and Karen, her sponge in the oven, is watching her fellow bakers. Vicki folds and spoons, creams and beats as if enjoying an elegant courtly dance. Claire works precisely: movements swift and economical; no time for indulgence here. Jennifer seems excessively nervous. And Mike bakes with a cavalier disregard for instructions. As if there has been enough in his life to be anxious about without him fretting over a cake.
    While Harriet darts between the contestants, her fellow judge, Dan, is ambling down the side of the work stations, moving with the cool confidence of a handsome man in his early thirties with the world at his feet.
    Karen drinks him in. Thick dark curls wreath his shapely head; his eyes, behind hipster glasses, are frank and bright; and his jaw line and cheekbones strong and exquisitely defined. He is, she thinks, an Adonis, plucked from some Mediterranean glade and placed in the most prosaic of settings: a kitchen. His skin, the silkiest olive, gleams with health; his full mouth curls as if contemplating a kiss.
    But it is his body that most invites comparisons with the Greek gods: firm pecs hinted at through a cotton shirt unbuttoned just one button too much; a torso tapering to a slim waist; and the height – he is six feet four inches – glutes and legs of an Olympic rower.
    In late middle age, he could run to fat were he to immerse himself in the bread, pasta and kuchen that he claims he was brought up on. But she suspects he is too narcissistic – and canny – for that. His cookery book may have reached number three in the non-fiction charts in the run-up to Christmas, but he must know the public’s appetite is less for his recipes than for himself. He is one of those rare creatures with true charisma. He is delectable, dangerous – and unattainable.
    Or maybe not. Karen’s assessment of individuals is automatic. A throwback to a childhood when the need to check out the opposition was instinctive: the first thing done as she entered a room. And her instincts, honed over forty years, are largely right.
    But now she senses danger: the danger of flirtation – and potential seduction. She watches him walk towards her station, his movements fluid but purposeful and waits to meet his gaze. His eyes are warm; that upper lip curls.
    â€˜Hello.’ He smiles and there is a palpable frisson.
    Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
    â€˜Hello.’ Her tone is polite, rather than inviting, but her chin is tilted up as if in challenge.
    â€˜And how are you