The phone goes dead. I put the receiver down and look at my reflection in the hall mirror, my eyes bright.
I was right. And they know it.
They’ll offer me my job back, it suddenly hits me. They’ll offer me partnership. At the thought I’m seized with excitement—and at the same time, a kind of fear.
I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I walk into the kitchen, keyed up, unable to stand still. What the hell am I going to do for the next few hours? I pour hot water onto my chamomile tea bag and stir it round with a spoon. And then I have an idea.
It takes only twenty minutes to pop out and get what I need. Butter, eggs, flour, vanilla, icing sugar. Baking tins. Mixers. A set of scales. Everything, in fact. I cannot believe how badly equipped my kitchen is. How did I ever do any cooki
