Don't Stop Believing by Freya Kennedy

Author:Freya Kennedy [Kennedy, Freya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

Erin could hear her mother’s judgy words in her voice as she read and the faux posh accent she liked to adopt. Maybe on another day, she would’ve felt really sad that her mother hadn’t even bothered to ask how she was, but instead she felt angry. In fact, she felt so completely rage-filled that she wanted to go over to her parents’ house and knock on their door and order them out of their beds just so she could tell them that she was worth more than her relationship.

The only problem with that was that it would most likely just fall on deaf ears, as so many of the things she told her parents about her life did. So, instead she decided to channel her rage – now so immense that despite her exhaustion she knew there was no chance she would sleep – into something productive.

Erin knew her kitchen like the back of her hand. She knew at any time what ingredients she had. She kept her cupboards well-stocked with many cooking and baking basics. She had the tools and equipment she needed to bake the lightest sponge or make the richest caramel. She had her beloved KitchenAid mixer, piping bags, rolling pins and measuring cups and spoons – although she was often able to measure simply by sight. When Erin baked, it felt like she was following a choreographed routine. It wasn’t just about the ingredients, it was about how she moved around them – how effortless it felt to mix and measure, to whisk and simmer. It was about getting the shapes and flavours just right. She would accept nothing less than perfect. Maybe that’s what she took from her parents – their impossibly high standards. Yet this was okay, because this she knew she was good at. This was just a part of her.

She mixed flour and sugar and eggs. She melted butter and added chocolate and watched it transform into a silky ganache. She made a sugar syrup before adding espresso and more than a little cognac and mixed it into a rich buttercream. She baked. She cut her cake into perfectly even-sized rectangles. She assembled layer upon layer. She piped the words The Ivy Inn in a delicate chocolate script on the top of them and stood back to admire the finished opera cakes – one of the first delicacies she had made when she was in Paris. The anger had left her by then. It was three in the morning and tiredness took its place, but at least when she went to bed, she knew she would sleep.

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