‘It will help,’ I said, although privately I thought it might take more than that to mollify Mum. I comforted myself with the image I had produced in my head of Coco’s mother: a plump, homely lady of a certain age, glued to her soap operas, living with her cats and Maurice in rural bliss. It didn’t seem likely that I would have to referee a Dynasty-style diva war and I relaxed and joined in the chatter as we drove home.
We got back to Blakeney Hall just after five and found Mum, Douglas and Constance having tea in the Hall.
‘Do join us,’ said Douglas, standing up and ushering everyone into seats. ‘We brought back some Fat Rascals from our little trip.’
I was taken aback, particularly when the others all made various expressions of delight. Alexander must have seen my face.
‘Fallon, have you ever had a Fat Rascal?’
‘Er…’ I replied.
‘They do sound horrible, don’t they?’ said Mum. ‘But I can confirm that they are delicious.’ She twinkled at Douglas like a schoolgirl, and he smiled soppily back. She turned to me again. ‘I could only manage half of one, of course.’
She patted her flat stomach complacently. Alexander continued, ‘Fat Rascals are traditional up here. They’re cakes made with pastry offcuts, sugar and dried fruit and flavoured with winter spices – cinnamon and so on. Would you like to try one?’
‘Yes, please, they sound amazing,’ I said, and was handed a plate with an enormous bun on it. I could see why Mum had only eaten half; a normal meal for her was smaller than this bun. But I tucked in with relish, hungry from my busy day.
‘Dad, has Mum been in touch?’ asked Coco, between mouthfuls.
Douglas glanced at my mother before replying.
‘Yes, she has. She and Maurice will be here any moment, I think. I hope she doesn’t disapprove too much of these shop-bought cakes.’
‘With any luck, she’ll knock out some of her own,’ said Coco. She turned to me. ‘Mum’s Fat Rascals are the best I’ve ever tasted, but that’s true of all her baking.’
I glanced over at Mum, who was sipping her tea and looking remarkably calm. I suppose she had come to the same conclusion as me: Coco’s homely-sounding mother wasn’t much of a threat. It was then that there was a loud knock on the door.
‘She’s here!’ exclaimed Coco, and ran out, followed at a more stately pace by Douglas. In a minute or two they returned, witha friendly-looking man and a woman with neatly coiffed blonde hair, merry eyes and a wide smile. I recognised her instantly.
‘Estelle Knight!’
I turned to Mum, who had blurted out the name. It was very unlike her to do something so gauche, and I could see that she was shaken. For this was no dowdy homemaker who had walked through the door, but Estelle Knight, doyenne of the most popular baking show in the country:Bake for Britain.
‘Jacqueline Honeywood!’ Estelle returned, and went over to Mum, who hastily put down her cup and stood up. As she held out her hand, Estelle bypassed it and went in for a hug. Mum was used to being embraced by overkeen fans, although she didn’t enjoy it, so took this sudden physical contact in her stride, patting Estelle’s back before delicately extricating herself.
‘Can I pour you a cup of tea?’ Douglas asked.
‘Yes, please, Maurice and I are parched,’ she replied in her strong Yorkshire accent, so familiar from hearing her console contestants over sunken soufflés, or berate them gently for careless crème Anglaise.
She beckoned him over and introduced him to Mum and then to me, before we all sat down again, and Douglas refreshed our cups from the enormous Brown Betty teapot.
‘I’m sure Coco has told you how excited I am to meet you, Jacqueline,’ said Estelle, reaching for a Fat Rascal and biting into it with no evidence of distaste at its commercial pedigree. ‘I’m a big fan ofMayfair Mews, always have been. I hope you’re going to share some of the show’s secrets with me.’
‘Of course,’ said Mum politely. This is something she is often asked to do, and she has a stock list of ‘secrets’ that she reveals. ‘I’m afraid I’m no baker, but I have also enjoyedBake for Britain.’
‘You must come on one of the charity celebrity ones!’ said Estelle. ‘Do say you will, it would be grand.’
I could no more imagine Mum baking on TV than I could see her living in the jungle for three weeks on a diet of caterpillars, which she has turned down more than once. But she wasn’t about to make herself look like the bad guy. There were other people who could take the blame.
‘That sounds super, but all those sorts of requests must go through my agent, I’m afraid.’
Estelle nodded, but I wondered just how long it would take Mum to get her phone out and text Mags to put her on the alert.
‘I’ll get the show to get in touch,’ she said. ‘And maybe in the meantime I could get you ahead a little? I’m happy to give you some lessons while I’m here. And we have so much to talk about! Coco told me that you and Douglas are engaged, congratulations! I’m sure you’ll make a much better hash of it than I did. Poor Douglas, he had to drag me to London, I was much happier up here in the kitchen. But I love a wedding. I can’t wait to chat to you all about it. Ooh, maybe I could make the cake, do say you’ll let me! And did you know Maurice is a hairdresser? He’d do all the coiffing, wouldn’t you, dear?’
Maurice nodded enthusiastically, but then Douglas spoke up, thank goodness. I might have helped out, but I was too busy trying to stifle my giggles behind my teacup at the worsening look of horror on my mother’s face. No one had touched her hair other than her own hairdresser, Linda, for nearly thirty years.
‘Estelle, give us a chance,’ he said. ‘We’ve barely been engaged forty-eight hours. What’s happened at the house anyway? It’s always good to see you – both – but what has precipitated this sudden visit?’
