It was incredible, I had to admit. An enormous, sturdy structure with a proper floor and windows overlooking the loch. There were six long wooden workbenches – three on each side of the tent – groaning with every kind of baking equipment you could imagine. There was bunting everywhere, and – scarily – lots of cameras. At the front of the tent was another big wooden table where the judges sat down. I was relieved to see my name on a bench right at the back, next to Wilf. Ronald was in front of me, next to Amelia, and June and Harry were at the front, closest to the judges.
We all filed into the tent and stood behind our benches. It was very warm and I wondered what it would be like once all the ovens were on.
‘Everyone’s got stools to sit on,’ Portia said in my ear, making me jump. I hadn’t realised she was so close to me. ‘But if you want a proper chair, give me a shout. It gets very warm in here and I don’t want you to faint. And there’s lots of water in your fridge. Drink it.’
She gave my arm a squeeze.
‘Don’t look so scared,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fun.’
I gave her a grateful smile.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m so nervous.’
‘Oh god, so am I,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be fine. You’ll be great, Lizzie will be great, it’ll all be great.’
She dashed off, leaving me hoping she was right.
While Lizzie and Peter recorded some links, the rest of us played with the mixers, located spoons and scales, and worked out how the ovens switched on. Everyone seemed very calm. I was just hoping my hands stopped shaking.
Eventually, the cameras rolled and Peter stood up at the front.
‘You’ve got an hour and a half for this test,’ he said. ‘We want you to make a traditional Victoria sponge, filled with cream and homemade strawberry jam. Every week we’ll give you a recipe for the first challenge, then expect you to come up with your own for the second test. This morning’s recipe is on your bench. Good luck.’
Around me, everyone whirled into action. I perched on my stool and read my recipe. It seemed straightforward enough, except for the jam. I’d never made jam in my life. But how hard could it be?
In front of me, Amelia was already weighing out butter. I made a face at her back, feeling only slightly ashamed of myself for taking such a dislike to a child. She was so confident, I thought. It would probably do her good if she got knocked out first. Maybe I could be the underdog who sent home the favourite. Stranger things had happened.
I slid off my stool and started gathering my ingredients. I could do this, I thought. Baking was in my blood.
I worked my socks off for the next hour, weighing, mixing, spreading and keeping a close eye on what my competitors were doing.
Next to me, Wilf had created chaos. He had flour all over his bench, a smear of butter on his cheek, he’d dropped an egg on the floor and had to scoop it up, and he almost threw his whole cake in the air when he was getting it out of the oven.
‘Oh shit,’ he kept saying. ‘Sorry, Esme.’
I was enjoying his apparent incompetence. He was making me laugh and that meant I wasn’t worrying about my own cake. Which, actually, wasn’t looking too bad. I mean, it wasn’t great. But it wasn’t a disaster. Unlike my jam, which at the moment was a congealed mess in the bottom of my pan.
I stared at it in dismay.
‘How are you getting on?’ Lizzie and Peter appeared by my bench. Just what I needed.
I showed them my pan, wordlessly. They both looked stern.
‘Oh dear,’ said Lizzie. ‘Did you have the heat too high?’
‘Apparently,’ I said, making a face. ‘I think I need to start again.’
‘Might be an idea,’ Peter said with an arched eyebrow. I revised my opinion of him as a nice chap and instead decided he was a horrible man.
There was a loud clang next to me.
‘Oh shit,’ Wilf said, dropping his pan and splattering jam all over himself. ‘Sorry, Esme.’
Like sharks scenting blood, Peter and Lizzie looked round.
‘Start again,’ Lizzie said as they moved off to bother Wilf.
I dumped my pan in the sink and ran water into it, then headed to the fridge to get some more strawberries but the shelves were empty.
‘Did someone use my strawberries?’ I asked, confused.
‘Oh sorry, pet,’ June said. It was the first time I’d heard her speak though I’d seen her and Harry huddled together discussing something while their cakes cooked. ‘I used them. I did ask if they belonged to anyone – did you not hear me?’
Oh that was all I needed.
‘I’ve got no jam,’ I said hysterically. ‘I’ve got no jam.’
I stared round at my fellow competitors, who all studiously ignored my cries for help.
‘I’m really sorry,’ June said again. Her Geordie accent grated on my frayed nerves. ‘I just didn’t know.’
I opened the fridge door again and stared inside. It was empty – no strawberries to be seen.
Harry came to the rescue.
‘I saw some more in the bottom bit,’ she said. She stuck her head inside the fridge and I felt the slight disturbance in the air that meant there was magic being done.
Harry reappeared, clutching a paper bag full of strawberries.
‘They were right at the back,’ she said. ‘No wonder you couldn’t see them.’
She winked at me and headed back to her bench to finish her cake.
Crisis averted. Sort of. I made my jam, but there wasn’t really enough time for it to set, so when I stuck the layers of my cake together it looked amazing for about thirty seconds and then started to slide, slowly, to one side.
I stared at it in dismay, wishing Harry had waggled her fingers and produced a jar of jam instead of just some raw ingredients, and righted it just as Lizzie and Peter appeared at the front of the room.
‘Time’s up,’ they called. ‘Step away from your cakes.’
We all carefully took our cakes up to the front and then perched on our stools waiting for the axe to fall.
For all his mess, Wilf’s cake looked amazing. He presented it proudly to the judges and listened with a grin as they praised him to the skies. Harry, June and Amelia also came in for lots of praise, especially Amelia, which made me scowl though I remembered just in time that there were cameras everywhere and fixed a smile to my face instead.
Ronald’s cream was over-whipped and his cake slightly caught round the edges, but Lizzie said it was beautifully presented – he’d cut out a stencil of a British flag and shaken icing sugar over the top, leaving the recognisable silhouette on top of his cake.
And then there was me. The top layer of my cake had almost completely slid off by the time Peter and Lizzie got round to trying it. My icing sugar topping had melted because I’d put it on when the cake was still warm. It wasn’t a bake to be proud of.
‘It tastes good,’ said Lizzie kindly.
‘You had a problem with your jam, didn’t you?’ Peter added. ‘I can see that’s where it’s gone wrong.’
I nodded, trying to look stoic and knowledgeable.
‘I