The Claddach pipe band was playing a little way along the beach, and lots of locals were drifting about, watching what was going on. I saw several people I recognised – my best friend Chloe, who was with her kids and her husband, was easily spotted because of her bright-red hair. I saw another friend, Kirsty, looking like an off-duty rock star in shiny black leggings and an oversized vest top that showed off her tattoos. Millicent Fry was bustling around organising everyone and everything – as always – and it looked like just about the whole town had turned out.
Harry and I stared at the action through the windscreen. She turned the engine off.
‘Shall we go and introduce ourselves?’ she said.
I folded my arms over my bump protectively.
‘We could,’ I said. ‘Or, we could turn the car round, drive back to Edinburgh and pretend this never happened.’
For a second I thought Harry was going to agree and my heart lifted.
‘I admit this is a bit bigger than we thought it was going to be,’ she said.
‘Harry, I was imagining a couple of old women in a tent,’ I said, my voice shrill. ‘Not the whole town showing up to watch me make a mess of a Victoria sponge on national television.’
Harry swallowed.
‘Britain Bakes is a bit more popular than I thought it was,’ she said. She looked through the windscreen again and took a breath, then she threw her shoulders back, shook her super-shiny hair, and gave me her most dazzling smile.
‘But this is good,’ she said.
‘It is?’
‘Yes. It’s good. It’s great, in fact. All this fuss means the whole country will be looking at Claddach. It will really put the town on the map. Business will go through the roof. See how amazing it all looks – the tourist board will be going wild.’
If I’d been trembling before, I was shaking violently now.
‘But look at all the people,’ I said. ‘Look at how many people there are. Everyone’s going to be watching me make a huge mess of this.’
Harry patted my hand. I pulled it away.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine.’
But I wasn’t convinced.
Harry unclipped her seatbelt and got out of the car. I followed, far less elegantly.
‘Where do we have to go?’ I asked, hoiking up my maternity leggings.
Harry glanced at me over her shoulder. She was wearing sunglasses and, with her Mulberry bag on her arm, she looked like a film star.
‘Make-up, I think,’ she said.
‘Really?’ That was good news. Perhaps they could make me look like a film star too.
We walked down the path towards the cafe. I was expecting things to be frantic with Mum and Suky running around like mad things. But instead we found them standing outside with their business partner Eva having their photographs taken for the local paper.
‘Check you out,’ Harry said as we kissed them hello. ‘You’re like local celebs.’
Mum kissed my bump and then my cheek.
‘Are you okay?’ she said, taking my chin in her hand and studying me closely. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. I angled myself away from Harry so she couldn’t hear what I was saying. ‘Just a bit nervous. I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here.’
I nodded back over my shoulder to where the action was happening and lowered my voice.
‘It’s more of a thing than I expected,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to it.’
Mum gave me a sympathetic hug.
‘Just do your best,’ she said. ‘That’s all anyone’s asking of you.’
‘I’d feel better if my best included a bit of magic,’ I said, making a face.
Mum chuckled.
‘That’s not like you,’ she said. ‘It’s normally Harry who’s desperate to cast a spell.’
‘No magic, Esme,’ I said, in my best impression of Harry’s voice. ‘It just doesn’t work with baking.’
Mum laughed again.
‘She’s right, though,’ she pointed out. ‘Plus it’s a bit too risky, what with all these people and cameras everywhere.’
I opened my mouth to argue that I was perfectly capable of being discreet when one of the clipboard-wielding women appeared at my shoulder so I shut up. Mum gave me a smug look and I rolled my eyes.
‘Esme and Harmony?’ the woman said in a frighteningly over-friendly fashion.
‘I’m Harmony,’ Harry said. ‘Call me Harry.’
The woman made a note on her clipboard.
‘And you’re Esme?’ she said to me. ‘Oh! You’re pregnant, how fab. When are you due? Not this weekend I hope.’ She giggled madly and I stared at her, speechless in the face of such perkiness.
‘I’m Portia,’ she carried on, flicking the end of her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. ‘I’m one of the crew and I’m the person you need to speak to if you need anything. Anything at all.’
She giggled again, showing very straight, very white teeth.
‘The other competitors are all here already – they’re just in Make-up. So if you’re ready, I’ll take you up and introduce you. Ready?’
She looked at us in expectation. Harry and I looked back in silence.
‘Ready?’ she said again.
‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ Harry said. ‘Ready.’
Portia spun round and raced round the side of the cafe with Harry and I scuttling along in her wake. I shot Harry a filthy look but she stared resolutely ahead. I wondered if she was as nervous as I was.
We followed Portia up the stairs to what was normally the gallery. It was a brilliant room, used for exhibitions, art classes, writing groups, concerts – all sorts. Jamie and I had got married there so it had a special place in my heart. It was a long, rectangular room with two huge windows – with stunning views over the loch – at each of the short ends, and two long white walls perfect for hanging pictures.
Today it had been transformed into a beauty parlour. Its long walls were now hung with long mirrors. In front of two of the mirrors were narrow tables, covered in hairbrushes, tubes of foundation and eyeliner pencils, and a chair. Two make-up artists were busy powdering the noses of the person in each chair. Some other people stood around chatting, clutching paper cups of coffee emblazoned with the Claddach Cafe logo. That was good.
Portia cleared her throat as though she was about to make an announcement.
‘Everyone,’ she said. ‘These are our final two competitors, Esme and Harmony.’
‘Harry,’ said Harry, flashing her most dazzling smile at everyone in the room. ‘Hello.’
I was overwhelmed with fear once more, so I simply raised my hand and croaked, ‘Hi.’
‘So,’ said Portia. ‘That’s Wilf, having his nose done.’ In the chair furthest away from where we stood, was a young man in his mid twenties. He had dark-rimmed glasses and a sort of messy afro that the make-up artist wasn’t