‘I’m not sure you knowhowgood you are, Christopher. I’m not exaggerating.’ She points at the bin. ‘Do you remember what was here before? That wreckage? You literally saved Christmas.’
He laughs in his self-effacing way. ‘Now that’s definitely exaggerating.’
‘No really, Christopher,’ she says, hopping up on a kitchen stool. ‘I follow baking people on Instagram who are less good than you and they’ve been on telly. Did you do any courses or anything?’
‘As a teenager, I did a bit. And at uni. There was a baking society.’
‘Oh my God... there must have been so much cake,’ she says, thinking of a society of bakers making her every treat under the sun.
‘So much cake. Andgoodcake.’
Haf’s stomach rumbles. ‘I’m jealous. Why didn’t you tell me about it before? All you talked about was rugby, which it sounds like you hated.’
He shrugs softly but offers no more.
‘What else have you made?’
He takes out his phone and passes it to her. On the screen is an open pictures folder called Baking and inside are so manyphotos of beautiful and intricately designed cakes, biscuits, pies and all things baking. There are things in here that she knows are difficult to make, always coming up as the surprise technical challenge choice onThe Great British Bake Off. Everything is precisely designed, and there are so many sweet little details.
‘Did you make all these?’
He blushes, the tips of his ears going pink. ‘Yes.’
‘Holy heck, Christopher,’ she breathes. ‘Why do you work in finance when you can do this?’
‘It’s a nice hobby, but probably not one I think I could make money from.’
‘Is that what you think, or what your parents say?’ The air in the kitchen seems to freeze, along with Christopher. Her big mouth, she’s always saying something too blunt. ‘Sorry, I... that was over the line. I didn’t—’
‘No, you’re right,’ he says, sighing. ‘That’s exactly what they said.’
‘You’ve talked to them about this before?’
‘We should start assembling this all and then get over to the fête before Mother passes out from stress,’ he says, looking at his watch.
‘All right,’ she concedes.
Conversation over. For now.
She’s not going to leave this alone, not when he’s this talented and obviously unhappy in... whatever his job his, damn it she can never remember.
Together, they fill the dishwasher and hand-wash the last little bits that would melt if they put them in the machine. The counters sparkle, and all the disaster bits are binned, much to the dogs’ disappointment.
Just as they finish, Christopher disappears off and comes back with a lidded box.
‘I just remembered something I thought you’d like.’
Christopher lifts off the lid, and out of it draws a bright-green velvet Santa hat. It’s very obviously the work of a child – everything is wonky, and the furry edge is matted with eight different colours of glitter glue. At the end of the hat is a very badly sewn-on bell.
‘Oh my God, did you just whip this up for me now?’ she teases, as he plonks it onto her head. It fits remarkably well, probably because she has a tiny head.
He pulls out a second one in burnished-orange fabric. The pom-pom at the pointed tip of the hat has a smiley face drawn on in permanent marker, which she assumes is to make it look like a snowman. It is slightly too small for Christopher’s head and stands up completely straight like a party hat. Probably from all the glitter glue – this one hasn’t escaped it either.
‘Kit and I made them when we were little. I thought we could get them out, as it’s a special occasion.’
‘Wow, they’re so . . .’
‘Terribly shit?’
