Hastily, Sylvie lifted her own cup, and once more Dominic’s gaze narrowed on her. His eyes reminded her of his least popular chocolates, the ninety-percent-cacao truffles. Deep, dark, and velvety, with an incredibly sour aftertaste.
“If you’ve all read your briefings, you’ll know we’ve made format changes this series,” Aadhya continued. “A shorter filming schedule to get things moving.” And significantly cut their costs on everything from staff catering to contestant hotel rooms. “Stepped-up contestant support services. I’m sure Sylvie can attest that it’s disconcerting to go from normal anonymity to suddenly being accosted by strangers at the supermarket.” She shot Sylvie a smile.
For all the things Sylvie hadn’t enjoyed about her first stint on the Operation Cake set, most of the crew had been genuinely kind. There had always been a tacit understanding that shedding a few stress tears or having a spat with another contestant would be well received, but behind the stirred-up drama, there were warm and helpful personalities.
Like Mariana Ortiz. The food writer was flipping through the paperwork in front of her, the gorgeous diamond Art Deco ring on her finger sparkling under the lights. “Good call dropping the mystery-ingredient round.” She caught Sylvie’s questioning glance. “Finalist last year with an unknown allergy to turmeric. Violent gastro effects. Ever seen the pie scene in Stand By Me?”
Sylvie winced.
“We had to reshoot the whole day. I was scrubbing neon yellow out of my ears for a week.” Mariana smoothed back a strand of salt-and-pepper hair. “We looked like we’d banded together to massacre Big Bird.”
Only this woman could make that anecdote sound almost classy.
“Mystery ingredient is out, new bonus round and theme week are in.” Aadhya shoved her papers together and stood. “I think that’s all for now. I want you all in makeup, then the studio for a few more promo shots. You’re free to head out after that.”
Dominic pulled out his phone and shook his head at the frozen PowerPoint display. He shot another unreadable glance at Sylvie before he left the room. He was already dialing, and as he disappeared, she heard crisp orders being issued to some long-suffering underling at De Vere’s.
“Sylvie, just a sec.” As Mariana squeezed past them with another charming smile, Aadhya stopped her at the door. The producer was a lovely woman in her fifties, who shared Sylvie’s delight in all things shiny and pretty. Originally from Jaipur, she’d been working for the network for over twenty years and had steered the Operation Cake ship since its very successful maiden voyage. “We’re so glad to have you on board. You still head up every poll of most popular former contestants.”
That was lovely and flattering. It would, admittedly, be more flattering if it were because of her sparkling personality and ingenious bakes, and not because she’d catapulted baked goods into Dominic’s skull.
“I’ve been delighted to see your success with Sugar Fair. There’s a framed copy of your Society write-up in the greenroom. Bit of alumna inspiration for the newbies.” Aadhya was studying her with approval and a tinge of surprise. She looked like a proud mother whose unprepossessing toddler had suddenly come home from nursery with a gold star. “Only three years in business, and you’ve not only kept a start-up bakery in Notting Hill solvent, you’re already gracing the hallowed pages of Matthew Trenery’s column. And how did he phrase it?” The words lifted with a provocative lilt. “‘Curling your fingertips under the crown of your nemesis’? ‘The scorned student preparing to knock her mentor off the throne’?”
Her mentor. Dominic. Hell—and she could not stress this enough—no.
“For now,” Sylvie said, “I’ll be happy with the continued solvency.” Her tone was unintentionally grim. Any prolonged conversation with Jay lately and his pessimism started to rub off. She dragged back a lighter note. “Dominic’s had a head start. Nudging him off the top spot is more of the five-year plan.”
Aadhya’s nod was knowing. “It’s a tough, stressful business. Smart move accepting this contract. I’d expect a sharp lift in profits as soon as the series goes to air.”
That was the idea.
And the effect would be quadrupled if they landed the job of all jobs.
There wasn’t much better ongoing promotion than baking the cake for the first British royal wedding in almost twenty years.
“You’re looking very determined,” the producer said, her lips twitching. “And having seen the way your work has continued to develop, I’m not sure Dominic should rest too comfortably on his laurels.”
Neither he nor anyone else was resting comfortably in the makeup room when Sylvie slipped in a few minutes later.
“Ah, the Chairs of Doom,” she murmured, gingerly lowering her butt onto a piece of furniture straight out of Jane Eyre’s boarding school. “How much I have not missed thee. This show brings in a fortune in advertising revenue. You’d think they could shell out for a few cushions and a muffin basket.”
She bobbed her foot as she looked around. Everything still looked exactly the same. It didn’t feel exactly the same, however. As she sat still for what felt the first time in weeks, not merely hours, and stared at a poster on the wall with her name emblazoned next to Dominic’s and Mariana’s, the sudden unfurling of nerves in her stomach caught her entirely unaware. She’d done this show before, however reluctantly; not for four years and not from this side of the workstation, but still, it shouldn’t be so daunting. She taught dozens of classes every month in the Dark Forest, without blinking an eye.
In her lap, her fingers looked strangely pale and bony as she clasped them together.
Very slightly, very subtly, her hands were trembling.
Hell.
There were a lot of people—and a lot of zeroes coming into her bank account—expecting her not to fuck this up.
A chocolate bar appeared in front of her face. Startled, she unraveled her death grip on herself and took it automatically. The calluses on Dominic’s fingers rubbed past the calluses on hers, and the wrapper crackled as her fist closed around it.
His attention had briefly left his iPad. His eyes narrowed on her face. “You’re shaking. Are you cold, hungry, or scared?”
“Two and three,” she muttered, unwrapping the bar. To her relief, the quivering in her limbs eased a bit when the comforting taste hit her tongue. “Thank you.”
“Change of pace for you. Some decent chocolate for once.” The corner of his mouth indented in an extremely aggravating way.
Midchew, Sylvie turned over the wrapper. She hadn’t even noticed she was eating a De Vere’s truffle bar. A new flavor. It was delicious. Damn it.
“Why scared?”
She was astonished he even asked. As was he, by the look on his face.
“I don’t especially enjoy being on TV.” She kept her voice low. It was nothing but the truth, but she had just enough media savvy not to bellow it in the ears of the people signing her paycheck. “And I don’t like personally being the subject of online discussion. Work, business, is different.”
She ate three more pieces of chocolate. Debated keeping the remaining half for later.
Just as she stuffed the entire thing in her mouth, her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out to read the message. An update from Jay. All good on the home front, although he’d argued with Mabel and she’d started making disturbing amezaiku lollipops of his face.