kitchen, which now looked like a mad professor’s laboratory.
‘You’re early,’ said Regan, switching off the gas and marvelling at the amount of jet-black jam that was now welded to the cooker top.
‘It’s …’ Graham pointed at the kitchen clock, ‘… tomorrow.’ It was ten past midnight.
‘Really?’ She stared at the clock, then checked her watch. Where had the evening gone? She’d spent most of it wrestling with pineapples and swearing at onions. ‘Sorry. I thought I’d be done.’
‘What have you done, exactly?’ asked Graham, holding his nose.
‘I’m making jam.’ They both looked at the mixtures in the various saucepans. None of them looked like jam, or certainly not any from planet earth.
The timer pinged to tell her the jars could come out of the oven now. Perhaps there was something she could salvage. She lined up the jars and hopefully tipped up the pineapple saucepan, but nothing happened. What was left inside was clinging desperately to the inside of the pan. The onion mixture was a little more mobile, but it needed help. She stopped scooping when she reached the black layer on the bottom. She’d work out how to clean the saucepan later – hopefully there was a YouTube video for that too. The plum mixture looked a little more hopeful, but what any of it tasted like, she really was past caring.
‘Please tell me this isn’t the business venture you were telling me about,’ said her father, unzipping his anorak.
‘It’s called Sticky Situations.’ The irony wasn’t lost on her.
‘Well, that’s appropriate.’
‘If the jam stall fails at least I know I can make reasonable weapons of mass destruction,’ she said, with a smile. Her father shook his head and went to hang up his anorak.
Chapter Eighteen
Regan let out a giant yawn as Penny unlocked the café and let her in. ‘Out partying, were you?’
Regan pouted. ‘I wish. I was making jam until silly o’clock this morning.’
‘I’m proud of you. That’s the sort of work ethic that will …’ Regan was shaking her head. Penny took the hint and stopped talking.
‘Only part of that time was making jam – the rest I spent chipping it off the kitchen surfaces.’ Regan pulled two partly filled jam jars from her bag and placed them on the counter. Penny narrowed her eyes at them. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yep. Jam making is like some form of mystical alchemy. I did everything – well pretty much everything – the recipes said, and it was a total disaster. Dad’s kitchen stinks – we’ll probably have to redecorate again. And his cooker top is about an inch higher than it once was, thanks to a coating of hardened molten lava. Or my jam, which equates to the same thing. The only possible use for this stuff is to sell it to the council for road resurfacing.’ Penny was looking doubtful. ‘There was no way I could chip it off the cooker, so it’s hardwearing stuff.’
Regan let out an oomph sound as she flopped onto a chair. ‘Coffee?’ asked Penny, starting to make the drinks. ‘It’ll all look better after a coffee.’
‘That won’t,’ said Regan, pointing at the brown lumps in the two jars on the counter.
‘At least you have some samples for Bernice. That’s an achievement,’ said Penny encouragingly. ‘And you made it yourself.’
‘Worryingly, that does look like a sample I made myself and should be handing in at the doctor’s surgery.’ Regan put her tired head on her hands. ‘I give up.’
Penny plonked a large cappuccino down in front of Regan so hard the cup jumped in the saucer, making Regan jolt upright. ‘Oh no you don’t.’
‘What is this – panto time?’ said Regan. ‘Oh yes I do.’
Penny sat down opposite. ‘I didn’t have you down as a quitter.’
Regan was too tired to fight. ‘Sometimes you need to know when to quit.’ She stared at the foam on the coffee. She didn’t want to give up, but there wasn’t even a glimmer of hope from last night’s jam making that made her think it was worth trying again. This wasn’t something she was going to learn overnight, let alone become an immediate expert in.
‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Penny, tipping her head at the jam jars.
Regan shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘You don’t know?’ Penny was already up on her feet and heading for the kitchen. She soon returned with a plate, two knives and some crackers.
‘I don’t want to end up having my stomach pumped, thanks very much,’ said Regan, clutching her cup for comfort. The coffee was slowly reviving