biscuits in something other than my basic vanilla recipe, like chocolate chip and lemon zest, to show my skills in not only design but in the recipes, too.
The rain picks up during my seven-minute drive to the palace, beating relentlessly against the windshield. The wipers move rhythmically to keep pace with the falling rain, and I furrow my brow in concentration as I fight through London traffic, which stresses me out on a good day, let alone under these conditions. I’m grateful I can take the tube most places instead of driving, that is for sure. And driving a van is an extra layer of stress. I turn off the station playing the latest pop tunes, as if somehow, complete quiet will help me concentrate better.
Soon, I’m nearing Kensington Palace, and reality hits me.
I’m being let inside these gates for the biggest job of my career.
One that if I’m lucky enough to get, will change the entire course of my future.
My bravado dips as I pull up to the security gate. I draw a breath, trying to calm the bit of anxiety that is flittering through my stomach. I can do this. I’m confident in my work. My biscuits will speak for themselves. I’ll discuss concepts and ideas with them, and then the decision will be in their hands.
I smile as I lower my window and hand the guard my driving licence. “Good morning, I’m Poppy Davies with The Biscuit Cutter,” I say over the pounding of the rain on the roof overhead. I have an appointment at eight-thirty.”
The guard checks my licence, looks at me, consults a computer, then hands the card back to me.
“Go straight on through to Ivy Cottage, Ms. Davies,” he says, giving me directions to its location within Kensington Palace. “Have a good day.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the card and slipping it back into my purse. “You, too.”
As the gates open, I drive into Kensington Palace. I draw another breath as the wipers frantically wipe away the rain. Ugh, I couldn’t have picked a worse day to wear a white blouse and a skirt if I tried.
As I drive, I see there is some major roadwork going on in front of the cottages. There are holes in the road and traffic cones up, with water and mud in pools around the holes. I navigate around them, turn into a drive to turn around, and finally park in front of Ivy Cottage.
I turn off the wipers and pull down the mirror. Okay. Luckily, only a few wisps of hair have escaped my chignon, and I retrieve my makeup bag. I always keep extra hairpins in there so I can do a quick fix. I locate them and tuck the loose strands of my long, brown hair back into place. I study my reflection for a moment, my dark-brown eyes staring back at me as I draw a massive breath of air.
This is the moment. This can change everything. If I become the bespoke biscuit artist for the royal wedding, my life will never be the same. Everything will change, from opportunities to salary to quite possibly being able to own my own business in the future.
I wait a few more minutes, hoping the rain will ease up to make getting out of the car and retrieving the box easier. I twist my lips, watching the drops pummel my car, dancing across the bonnet with no sign of clearing anytime soon.
I exhale. Okay. So it is what it is, and I’ll be arriving at this royal meeting a wee bit wet.
I reach for my umbrella, pop the door open, and quickly open it as a shield against the rain. The wind whips across me, and I’m fighting for control of the umbrella as soon as I step out of the van.
Crap. This is going to be harder than I thought.
Rain is blowing up under the umbrella, pelting my coat. I curse myself for not buttoning it up before I left. I struggle to keep the umbrella from turning inside out as I move to the passenger side of the car. Now my trench is flying open, trailing in the breeze behind me like an aviator’s scarf, and I’m wrestling with both the umbrella and the car door.
“Ugh!” I say, wedging the car door open with my hip, and the fierce wind tries to push it back closed. I get the box in my hand, securing it before standing upright. The umbrella jerks in the opposite direction,