I hold up my Tupperware. “I bring cake and mild social anxiety.”
She grins. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”
By the time I get to the large meeting room, it’s already packed with people pretending this is about charity and not passive-aggressively one-upping each other via sponge.
Caroline is in position, naturally. She’s standing beside her Victoria sponge like it’s about to be unveiled at the V&A, complete with handwritten labels and a cake stand that probably came with a certificate of authenticity.
She spots me and my slightly battered Tupperware.
“Oh!” she says, all faux surprise and weaponised kindness. “Looks like just one layer? That’s so sweet. Minimalist.”
I smile. “It’s an Austrian cup cake.”
She blinks. “Like… a cupcake?”
“No. A full-sized cake just made using a cup to measure everything. Very traditional. Very special. No showstopping layers, but it doesn’t collapse under its own ego either.”
Christa coughs behind me. Might be a laugh. Might be cake-induced choking. Hard to tell.
Caroline makes a little noise before smiling at me a bit too friendly. “Well, it’s so lovely you brought something. That’s the spirit.”
Before I can reply she stalks off clapping to draw the attention of the room to where all the cakes are displayed.
The managing director drones on about team spirit and fundraising goals while everyone eyes the cake table like it’s the buffet at a wedding they weren’t technically invited to. Then the tasting begins. Forks clatter. Moans of appreciation fill the room.
I catch snippets of conversation and have to stifle a laugh because some people sound like they’re auditioning to be the next judge on The Great British Bake Off.
Eventually, I try my own cake. It’s not bad. Actually, it’s good. Moist, subtly sweet, a bit nutty. Like something that wouldn’t win a prize but would quietly sort out your whole day.
Christa nudges me. “Yours tastes like it’s got a soul.”
“Thanks. I was going for ‘edible emotionalsupport’.”
Caroline wins, of course. She gasps like she’s just been crowned Miss World and not given a paper certificate by Tony from HR. There’s polite clapping, and someone says “Well deserved” in that vaguely threatening way people do when they want to be heard saying it.
I come second to last.
Just ahead of Colin, whose flapjacks were mostly hope and oats that never quite committed.
And somehow... I don’t care.
Not even a little.
I look down at my slightly uneven Austrian cup cake, or what’s left of it, and feel something I don’t usually associate with public events involving judgement and Victoria sponge.
Pride.
Not smug, Instagrammable, influencer-style pride. Just… the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your chest and makes you smile when no one’s looking.
It wasn’t a showstopper. It didn’t sparkle. But it tasted good. Actually good. Comforting and unfussy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of chaos. Very me, really.
And we made it in my kitchen. Me and Theo. It had been a mess. A lovely one.
That cake wasn’t just cake. It was laughter and a little flirtation and an unexpected moment where everything felt... right.
I box up the remaining slices carefully. One for me. A few for Lucy and Theo. And two slices of Caroline’s, purely for scientific comparison.
I don’t need a certificate. I’ve got something better: a cake I’d actually eat again and a day that didn’t end inoverthinking or embarrassment. Just crumbs and a pride in myself.
