Chapter 13 - Week Five: Vegan Week (Part 1b)

‘Better?’ she asked, trying not to breathe heavily.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

This was proving a bit awkward, if heavily erotic. Not sure what they could say that didn’t sound like flirting, they both seemed to have defaulted to saying hardly anything at all.

‘So,’ Rebecca said, ‘I’m guessing you didn’t get the noro?’

He relaxed a bit, his fingers loosening from where they held tight onto the metal arms of the makeup stool. It’s not just me, Rebecca remembered. He has to perform today. If he’s out, his dreams are over. Shamefully, she kept forgetting what was on the line for him. Contestants who finished in the middle didn’t get book deals, didn’t get to open bakeries and attract custom based on fame alone. He needed to get to the final—not an easy feat for a straight guy, judging by past series.

Robert was nervous, and she wasn’t sure she was helping. Maybe a distraction helped him perform better? She didn’t know.

He smiled. ‘No, thank fuck. You?’

His eyes settled on her stomach. He knew she hadn’t.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I have a stomach like a steel trap. Once something’s down, it will never escape.’

He laughed, then quieted. _Too chummy._ She reined herself in.

_God, I miss you,_ she thought, rubbing foundation into the skin beneath his ears, brushing the puckering of his scars.

‘Stop me if this is too personal a question,’ Rebecca said, remembering the many, many personal questions they had asked each other in that blissful week of texts and phone calls: their families, their backgrounds and old relationships, religion (Robert: Agnostic, though dabbled in Buddhist meditation when the rural Scottish lifestyle proved too fast-paced; Rebecca: Easter-and-Christmas Methodist), and the correct order of jam and cream on a scone.

‘Fuck,’ he’d said, laughing, ‘you English would fight a war over your ruddy scones. As long as there’s cream on it, who the fuck cares?’

‘Right answer,’ Rebecca had replied. ‘But plain scone or fruit scone?’

He’d answered immediately: ‘Fruit. I’m not a monster.’

He shuddered as she blended concealer in with her fingers.

‘Shoot,’ he said.

‘How did you get these scars? I mean, I know the broken bottle bit, but not the rest.’

He laughed, instantly relaxing. ‘Steady on! Buy me a ring first.’

Her face turned hot.

‘Is it that personal?’ she said.

‘A story I’ll take to the grave,’ he said. ‘Or at least Week Seven. I need to maintain some air of mystery, otherwise I’ll just be some bloke from Scotland who works with wood.’

‘Tease,’ she said. She stopped. _Too much._ ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You’re done.’

‘Already?’

_If you’re in here any longer I’m going to jump your bones, and then we’ll _both_ have to go home._

‘I’m a quick worker,’ she said. ‘And you don’t need much work.’

She popped her brushes into the steriliser. Robert seemed hesitant to move from the stool. His clenched hand was a mere inch away from the soft jut of her hip. They both looked at his fingers, as though they were both waiting to see what they might do.

Robert cleared his throat and released the armrest. ‘Vegan week,’ he said. ‘Christ.’

‘Well, we need to make up for all that dairy from Cheese Week somehow,’ Rebecca said. ‘We’ve probably drained the cows dry.’

‘True,’ he relented, smiling again. ‘Well, cheers for your help.’

Rebecca smiled back, a little sad. ‘Break a leg.’

‘That would be handy, wouldn’t it?’ Robert said. His smile widened. His blue eyes glowed. ‘I could use the sympathy vote.’

#

Rebecca shouldn’t have had favourites, but that was clearly never going to happen. Robert was obviously first on her list, closely followed by Shana. With Odette, Alan, and George, they were the only ones left, and Shana and Robert were running out of people to do worse than them.

While Shana excelled—thanks to her vegetarian wife--Robert only did OK, getting a ‘passable’ judgement on his chocolate cake and coming third out of five with his aquafaba meringues (they seemed fine to Rebecca—she grabbed a can of squirty cream from the fridge and ate three). She wished she could hug him and promise him that tomorrow would be better. She hoped he knew.

‘Pub?’ Will said to her after production had wrapped for the day.

Rebecca bristled, not wanting to do anything he suggested. But she was starving, and as long as she was sat far away from Will and with Patrice from set design, the evening might even be bearable.

‘Company paying?’ she asked, with a smile to take the edge off.

‘Sure,’ he said. His eyes settled on her belly like he didn’t have one of his own. ‘Might need to cut you off at some point.’

Rebecca smiled wanly, as though she didn’t know what he was implying.

_I’ll take that as a challenge._