Battle Royal by Lucy Parker
Chapter Three
Hartwell Studios
Time-honored, beloved home of Operation Cake.
Where somebody has made the executive decision to hold a meeting about baked goods and not serve snacks.
As the assistantproducer of Operation Cake tapped her iPad, Sylvie tried to find a more comfortable spot on the conference room chair, and wished she’d eaten a chocolate bar in the car. Although even if she’d had one, Dominic’s silent, brooding presence beside her would likely have put her off. Nothing like commuting with Heathcliff to suppress the appetite.
“Libby Hannigan.” Sharon floated another headshot into the cluster on the PowerPoint. The redhead in the photo had a face full of adorable freckles and a sweet smile—and a surprisingly hard expression in her eyes.
“And what deeply traumatic event led to Ms. Hannigan taking solace in the kitchen?” Dominic turned his ballpoint pen over in his fingers, regularly tapping out a beat on the tabletop. It had taken five of these character summaries before Sylvie had identified the tune. Bonnie Tyler. Unexpected on multiple levels.
She mentally caught herself again. Contestant summaries, not characters. Contrary to all appearances—and particularly the appearance of Charlene, the sugar-cookie specialist from North London with four ex-husbands and extremely vague answers as to their current whereabouts—they weren’t vetting suspects in a murder mystery game. These were real people. Sylvie had once been one of these people.
She’d just had a considerably less dramatic backstory.
At this point, she was amazed she’d ever made it onto the show in the first place. Unlike Sid Khan, the delightfully eccentric bread enthusiast from Middlesex, it hadn’t even occurred to her to hint at past alien abduction in her audition tape. She certainly hadn’t hand-knit a human-sized cupcake costume, using wool spun by a nun she’d saved from drowning in the Baltic Sea, like retired naval sublieutenant Terence Blaine. If she recalled correctly, she’d introduced herself, Jay had filmed her piping cream into doughnuts, and she’d made a joke about jam that had seemed hilarious until about two seconds after she pressed submit on the application.
“Hard to beat a natural flair for biscuit-decorating and the high probability you’ve buried four unfaithful men in your basement.” Dominic’s voice was ominously calm, but his stubbled jaw was set in a long, tense line. One tiny flick of Sylvie’s fingernail and his whole head would probably crack like an egg.
So tempting.
“Or maybe she’s another Nadine from Bucks,” he went on. “Baking through a bereavement and quite sure her late parrot was the reincarnated spirit of Julius Caesar.”
Aadhya, the nicest of the producers, opened her mouth, but Dominic reached the end of his limited tolerance before she could speak.
“I realize that casting decisions are not my area of expertise.” Every syllable in that sentence had a cutting edge, as if he were snapping off the words one by one, like squares on the chocolate bar she still didn’t have. “And that I just need to ‘show up, taste the fucking cake, crush a few dreams, and cash my check.’” Drenched in cynicism, and clearly a direct quote. Apparently, they’d trod this path before; however, Aadhya’s expression barely changed.
Inspiring level of I do not give one flying shit from the producer on the left.
“But judging by the relentlessly healthy ratings, your past model worked, and with at least an entry level of sanity.” Dominic shot another exasperated glance at the montage of smiling faces. “Did supply just run out on the usual lineup? Pseudo-bakers with too much imagination, sporadic technical skill . . .” For the first time since he’d ignored her for the entire drive here, his eyes flicked squarely in Sylvie’s direction. He’d probably intended to look away just as quickly, but their gazes caught and held. “And the general creative aesthetic of My Little Pony.”
Languidly, Sylvie ran her fingers through her ponytail, fluffing out her latest pink and lavender highlights. She smothered the most delicate of yawns.
Aadhya studied them both, and then reached for her coffee mug and took a deliberately long, unnecessarily loud sip. “Every contestant has been thoroughly vetted by a counselor. They’re interesting people with unique personal experiences, and fully equipped for the pressures of filming, public scrutiny, and minor celebrity.” Her fingertips played against the ceramic in a jaunty little tune. “And the potential trauma of a one-on-one conversation with you. It’s a new screening process. Sit ’em down and play an hourlong loop of your tactful critiques. Anyone who makes it through with dry eyes and dry pants can grab an apron. You wouldn’t believe how quickly it weeds down the applicant numbers.”
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.
Bakery owner. Nursery teacher. In this case, very similar skill sets required.
Dominic flicked to another screen on his iPad. “I’m surprised you could actually commit to this contract. Fledgling businesses usually require twenty-four-seven attention if they’re going to have any chance of surviving.”
Sylvie finished replying to Jay and set her phone down. Picking up a cleansing wipe, she began swiping off her foundation to leave a blank palette for Zack, the show’s makeup artist. “Sugar Fair is almost three years old.”
“As I said. Or is it a moot point and things are already going in the same direction as your predecessors?”
She and Jay had looked at twenty-one possible premises for Sugar Fair. Despite the enormous drawback of it being literally across the fucking street from De Vere’s, they’d finally selected the space on Magnolia Lane because the former tenant had installed an absolute budget-blowing dream of a kitchen they’d never have been able to afford from scratch. Unfortunately, the erstwhile occupant’s culinary dreams—and those of at least six food businesses before him—had hit the rocks. A depressing history for the building that she was choosing to see as a warning and not a precedent.
“If it helps,” Dominic murmured, his voice a honeyed drawl as he accepted a sheaf of papers from a passing assistant and scanned the first sheet, “you’ve outlasted four of the previous failing ventures in that building by at least six months. Not unimpressive for premises that even Willy Wonka would find over the top, and a customer base that appears to be an even split of screeching toddlers and drunken wizards.”
The crumb of goodwill over the chocolate bar had lasted a good twenty seconds. Relations were improving.
“Question.” With a shiny, scrubbed face, Sylvie reached for the fresh cup of tea waiting on the makeup table and ripped open a sugar packet. “What exactly possessed you to commit to any of these contracts? This doesn’t seem like your natural habitat. Cameras in your face. People trying to take your photo in the street. A name over the front door and it’s not yours.”
She stirred the tea. As usual, any aversion to confrontation went into hibernation the moment those cool, emotionless eyes glanced over her. A provocative little devil always sashayed out to sit on her shoulder, prodding her more vociferously with every sardonic remark thrown her way. If Dominic could teleport in and fire her up with one of his pillock comments every time she had to negotiate with a supplier, she’d be the freaking queen of haggling.
“And technically,” she went on, “unlike your usual workplace, you’re not allowed to completely decimate someone when they fall short of your ridiculously high standards and dull decorative tastes.” Sip. “But let’s face it. Anyone who pulls out the glitter is going home with the remains of their ego in a bag.”
She truly was curious. He couldn’t be here for the same reason she was. De Vere’s had always had a foot—and a cake—in every major event and powerhouse in the city. He could hardly be hard up for cash, and she didn’t see the Serious Artiste as a closet reality TV fan. He’d lent his brutal honesty and ropy forearms to Operation Cake, but the miserable git would probably rather jab himself in the eye with a fondant cutter than curl up on the couch on a Sunday night with a hot chocolate and a slab of Victoria sponge.
Far from unwinding in front of the TV, she’d be surprised if he ever went home at all. He started work as early as she did, and he was frequently still across the road when she tottered tiredly out the door after a Dark Forest session. In fact, he often stood outside the door of De Vere’s, practically ticking with annoyance and impatience, and waited until she’d safely made it to her car. In that one singular area, it was surprisingly decent of him.
Jaw-droppinglydecent of him.
Because she had manners, she’d popped across once to thank him. He’d looked up from the piping bag he wielded with such ease. His gaze had traveled quickly over her face before returning to meet hers, his lips parting.
As he’d bluntly informed her that she was blocking the way to the stove.
She assumed that once she’d driven off in the early hours of the morning, he went back inside, plugged himself into a power outlet, and recharged his cyborg battery.
He was scrawling his name on the bottom of a paper. She’d noticed before that his handwriting was very messy for a man with the working temperament of Rabbit from Winnie-the-Pooh.
“I’d think my motivation for this would be clear,” he said after a long enough silence he’d probably been hoping she’d give up and leave.
Sylvie rested her cup on her lap and surveyed him thoughtfully. “Blackmail?”
“The responsibility to share professional expertise with multitudes of otherwise poorly informed bakers.” The words were silky smooth. He turned and signed another page. “And a natural inclination for teaching and mentorship.”
“I see.” She tapped her nails against the hot ceramic. “So, blackmail.”
A head popped around the door, then, to summon him back to the studio for his solo promo shots. Apparently, he’d already had his makeup done. Of course there’d be no visible difference.
Dominic lifted his brows at her as he rose and departed, and she realized that her bubbling nerves had simmered down to the point of vanishing completely. His sleeve caught on her hair, stirring the back of her neck as he passed.
She didn’t have a chance to speculate further, as Mariana took his place, slipping into the vacated chair and turning with a smile. “So glad to have you here. I’ve been the only woman on the panel since I came to the network. Jim Durham’s a pet, but still, I was screamingly sick of the boys’ club.”
“Lucky for me that Jim wanted to move on.” Sylvie remained surprised about that. He’d been on the show since the first season and had seemed like a stalwart.
“Oh, he didn’t,” Mariana said breezily, leaning forward to poke through the lipstick selection. “He got arse-over-tit drunk at a network party and told everyone that the head of programming has been shagging his secretary. They retired him faster than a limited-edition Lego set.” She picked up a tube. “Word to the wise. If you’re going to drink on the clock, stick to a subtle tipple between takes.”
Sylvie’s smile faltered when Mariana just looked at her placidly.
“Um—any other tips?” she asked lamely, rubbing where the skin itched on the back of her neck, and the other woman shook her head.
“Normally, I’d give a heads-up about the other third of the team, but you already know Frosty, and haven’t yet smothered him or yourself. You’ll be fine.” She hummed. “And Dominic was not impressed about your casting, so that’s always fun.”
“Was he not,” Sylvie said, with zero surprise.
“I know you two butted heads from the beginning. He used to say you needed hazard lights attached to your station. And that was before the Hoof Incident.” She pulled the cap off the lipstick. “If it sugars the pill, he also found you attractive.”
Fun new fact: when a person snorted and swallowed at the same time, hot tea ended up on their chin and in their sinuses.
“He once called you the pretty, annoying one,” Mariana added, clearing up that little mind-boggler of a moment.
With intense dryness, Sylvie said, “I don’t think he intended you to insert a comma into that sentence.”
“It’s an inevitable personality clash, I suppose. You have a sense of humor. You appear to be open to life’s possibilities. And he’s . . .” Mariana swatched a line of fuchsia pink on the back of her hand. “Dominic. But perhaps I’m not being totally fair. He does have his good points beyond those arms and the magic things he does with chocolate.”
“He gave her a present today,” a passing crew member translated.
Zack bounced through the door like Tigger arriving at Pooh Corner and leaned across Mariana to pluck a different lipstick from the display. “Try the Color Me Coral.” Turning, he cast an expert eye over Sylvie. “For you, definitely a rose. Two swipes of Bloomin’ Marvelous, and boom. Greta Garbo.”
“And I thought my work involved magical illusions.”
“Is my favorite former contestant excited about the new series?” Zack asked, ignoring that interjection. He held two bottles of foundation against her neck and put one down.
No, but she owed enough to the show and cared enough about these people to at least lie with perkiness. “Nervous, but yes.”
“It’s nice to see some enthusiasm.” He pulled a face. His own makeup was gorgeous. Precision of a neurosurgeon when it came to eyeliner. “Especially after the mug on Dominic. Someone needs to tell him that the perpetual glare can drop a bloke who’s a solid nine down to a borderline three. And believe me, over the breadth of those six points is a whole lot less sex.” He started dabbing primer onto Sylvie’s cheekbones. “You’d think he was here for a ritual disemboweling, not to be paid my annual salary for a few weeks of part-time work. All he has to do is stand there and tell people they’re failing to live up to their potential. My mum’s been doing it my whole life for free.”
Biting back a grin, Sylvie reached down to her bag when her phone buzzed with another text, trying to keep her head steady for his busy blending. She held it up to read the message and excitement surged in her stomach.
“Yes.”
“Good news?” Mariana lowered the iPad she’d extracted from her own bag. There was a paper silhouette of her distinctive head tucked into the lilac case.
“Official press release from the palace.” Sylvie followed the link in Jay’s text to the actual announcement. “‘The Duke and Duchess of Albany are pleased to announce the engagement of Her Royal Highness Princess Rose to Mr. John Marchmont. The wedding will take place in the spring, in London. Further details to follow.’”
As usual, Jay was right on the money.
“Oh.” Mariana frowned without much interest. Famously not a royalist. “Remind me. Princess Rose is—”
“Daughter of the king’s middle son,” Zack said admonishingly. “Especially popular with the under-thirty demographic. Fab fashion sense—like a young Morticia Addams—but she’d retain a spot in my top three favorite royals just for that interview as a teen where she compared her ghastly uncle to a codpiece.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “God, I love a royal wedding.”
“So do I,” Sylvie murmured meaningfully, flipping through to the news sites and clicking on the first link. The press release had been out for almost twenty minutes, so naturally the media had already thrown around names for everything from the dress designer to the supplier of napkin holders.
She scissored her fingers, enlarging the official engagement shot of the couple smiling into one another’s eyes. The bride’s sleek dark hair was smoothed into an unusually restrained knot, but she’d stuck to her guns with the heavy black eyeliner. Her lacy black dress was a little funereal, but clearly a compromise between her own preference for Victoriana and the palace’s idea of appropriate styling for a photo shoot that would make the history books. The groom was wearing a pink shirt, and his curls were fluffy.
It was like a grown-up Emily the Strange marrying Bertie Wooster.
The smiles were natural, the body language extremely affectionate, but their knuckles were white. Nerves or tension?
Sylvie studied the cover shot for a few more seconds, then scrolled down to the article. The journalist would have had a lot of the copy sitting ready to go. This had been on the rumor mill since their first joint public appearance. The union between the king’s eldest granddaughter and the youngest son of a baronet, who, according to this tabloid, had inherited neither land nor brain cells from his parents.
The overgrown Goth princess and a stuttering social climber with all the poise and sophistication of a golden retriever.
Charming.
A page-long summary of Rose’s past romances and flings followed, basically an illustrated guide to the art of slut-shaming.
Did the editors of the Daily Spin actually advertise for their writers or just draw symbols on the ground and summon them from the underworld?
Sylvie zeroed in on the column she was interested in. At least twelve fashion houses had been mooted for the gown. Only one name in connection with the cake. Even the tabloids considered this a done deal.
If Dominic had also seen the breaking news, he was probably out there right now, putting the finishing touches on a sketch for an exquisitely rendered snooze of a fruitcake.
Zack read her mind. “I suppose De Vere’s is doing the cake. First royal wedding in years. Dominic’s probably a shoo-in. His grandad had the honor in the past. De Vere Senior was the king’s pet baker. His Majesty was very fond of their Battenberg.” Mariana looked at him, and he shrugged. “Fact of the day on the Royal Stans blog.”
Mariana’s attention returned to Sylvie. She was observing her cannily. “Is that just the slightest touch of scheming criminal mastermind I see?”
Zack made a noise like an overexcited chicken. “Are you going after the royal wedding contract? Literally the cake of the year?” He hauled Sylvie’s chair around and leaned close. She widened her eyes at him innocently, and he clapped his hands together, a booming slap that made her jump. “Oh, hells yeah. Judge versus judge. Neighbor pitted against neighbor. The kitten taking on the lion.” Sylvie’s eyes narrowed again. Zack gave another wriggly little hop. “I do love me some drama. Bring it on, dollface.”
Kitten, her arse. This was for her people’s future job security. And it was a bake that would be preserved in perpetuity, a part of history. She’d probably have phrased it differently, but—what the hell.
Bring it on, dollface.