Cupcakes and Christmas - R.J. Scott Page 0,76

I may not even make it through, and it could be a Justin/Clare final.

We had thirty minutes to tidy our benches while the stage was set, and then it was the judging. I don’t know what they said to me other than the first part that it was beautiful. Everything passed in a blur, they loved the taste of mine and the look. They loved Justin’s and commiserated with him over the loss of the flower. Then, when they reached Clare’s table, everything changed. The conversation was frosty. Clare’s cakes were dry. The icing overwhelming, and the decorations too much. In fact, even though they couched each comment with a positive twist for the cameras, I got the sense they were talking themselves out of liking her bake. Clare grew stonier by the second, picking up a piece of her cake and tasting it then falling into a clipped argument with Rita and the director to the point that they had to cut filming and have a quiet word with Clare in a corner. Whatever they said to her seemed to work, and she did a very debatable job of being pleasant and regretful at the same time, even though her expression was pinched and her body was rigid with barely held aggression.

“Who pissed in her Wheaties?” Justin whispered as we were all encouraged out of the room for the judges to deliberate.

“Clare,” Rita called and subtly guided her into the small room marked stores. Justin and I took a seat in the conservatory, but he was called for sound bites and then me so there was no chance to talk about my words that had slipped out. Then it was our turn to be led into that same room with Rita, but it was both of us called in.

“We have an issue,” she began without prevarication and turned an iPad so we could see grainy footage of something that made little sense at first. “Clare engineered your shelving so it would collapse, she wanted to make sure you blew it and didn’t make it to the final.”

“She what?” Justin asked, incredulous.

“She can’t get away with that—”

Rita held up a hand to stop me from losing my shit. “We’ve come to an agreement. To save face, and in the interest of the show, we have made an agreement with Clare that she will be leaving the competition today under the guise of a bad bake. That means of course, that the two of you will move into the final, but there will still be final judging, and it’s imperative that you act as if this is a huge surprise to you. In addition, we’d appreciate it if this matter was kept internally, and we have a non-disclosure for you each to sign.” She slid two pieces of paper toward us, along with pens emblazoned with World’s Best Baking Show. Fitting the name on the side of a tiny pen was a tight squeeze, and as I twisted the pen in my hand that was all I could focus on.

Justin signed his sheet and pushed it back, but he looked miserable and slumped in his chair.

I signed mine, and then Rita collected the paperwork and ushered us out. Neither of us knew where to go, nor what to do, but there was one place we’d have peace. With the judging filming continuing and a note that we needed to be back in ten for resets and final results, I dragged Justin into the single bathroom and locked the door. Worst of it was that he didn’t argue.

“I can’t believe it,” I said after a pause—anything to get him talking to me. I expected him to be angry at Clare for ruining what he’d done and destroying his bake, but instead he just looked sad. “Justin? Talk to me.”

“This is wrong,” he said after a while. His confidence had slipped, and I could see him as rawer and more vulnerable than ever. “I wanted to show you that I wasn’t just some guy who talked a good talk. I wanted to show you what I could do, and now I get to the final by default? That’s just my entire fucking life, faking it until it looks as if I’m making it—”

“Don’t do that,” I interrupted and pulled him into a hug. He resisted for a while, and then something gave way, and he melted into my hold. “She ruined any chance you had of earning a win this week. I tasted