Piglet by Lottie Hazell

Author:Lottie Hazell [Hazell, Lottie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529910162
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2024-01-24T16:00:00+00:00

When she asked herself which was worse – what he had done, or what it would be like for people to know what he had done – she was reassured by her inability to answer.

1 DAY

ONCE SHE HAD started to say she would make a croquembouche, she could not stop. Her ambition, her ability, had been so simply distilled by this one decision, this action, and the temptation to talk about it was always too much.

‘Wow,’ Toni had said, when she announced her plans to the office. ‘You like a challenge.’

‘I’ve made choux before,’ Piglet had replied, shrugging.

‘Three towers of pastry on the morning of your wedding, though?’ Toni shook her head. ‘That’s another level.’ Piglet had not replied, quietly checking the method for making a croquembouche online again as Toni talked about the renewed vogue of craquelin. She clicked through page after page and read the warnings: the profiteroles must be eaten on the same day that they are filled, do not let the pastry stand for more than eight hours, the croquembouche should be enjoyed on the day of assembly. But no bother. She could make the pastry ahead and the crème pâtissière the day before. Then in the morning, on the day of her wedding, what was a little sugar work, a little assembly?

‘Are you sure?’ Kit had asked when she told him her plan.

‘Don’t worry – you won’t be there. And anyway, I’ve told everyone I’ll do it now.’

When she had presented her practice bouche to Kit – a miniaturized version of the tower of bronzed choux cloaked in lacy sugar work – she had felt vindicated by its brilliance, its beauty.

‘Look,’ she had said to him as she picked a bun from the stack and placed it into his mouth. ‘Look at what I can do.’

He had been to collect the milk for her this morning – after the flowers had arrived – more than five litres, full fat, and she had enjoyed the sensation of packing him off with a list, briefly wifely, specifying the exact type of eggs that she wanted: ‘Burford Browns. If they haven’t got them, call me.’ In that moment, her life had felt normal: she was contentedly wearied by its lists, exasperated by the man she shared it with.

Although he had returned with the wrong sugar, not enough butter, and she had reacted in appropriate measure.

Now, by the hob, she readied two enormous pots – empty silver bellies – and told herself there was no time to think about Margot, about her guests asking after the pregnant maid of honour. She held out her hand, a vanilla pod between her fingers, as if she were preparing to drop a coin into a wishing well. With a small knife she slit open the pod, scraping out the paste-like, black caviar seeds. They fell in, along with the husk. She did the same for the second pot and brought her hands to her face. Her fingers were speckled with sweet-smelling black. She licked them, one after the other, and tried to feel the infinitesimal seeds between her teeth.

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