The Baking Life of Amelie Day by Vanessa Curtis

won’t you?’
    â€˜I guess so,’ I say. I sit down and cough. My newfound energy is starting to flag a bit now and I’ve got a small thrill of fear in my stomach. Now I’ve bought the outfit it feels like this is really going to happen. And I don’t know what to expect at all, other than that I’ve got to be there on Monday at 9 in the morning.
    And that I’m travelling up to London on my own.

Chapter Eleven
    On Sunday afternoon Dad comes over to see me.
    â€˜I really hope it goes well tomorrow, Mel,’ he says. We’re sitting outside in our courtyard garden on the cobbles where horses used to tread. Sometimes it’s weird thinking that I live inside a building where horses were tied up and taken out to hook up to old carriages. Once or twice at night I swear I’ve heard the neigh of a horse and the stamping of hoofs, but I reckon I’m probably just imagining it.
    â€˜What?’ I say with a start. I’m half asleep today. Couldn’t sleep at all last night for mulling it all over in my head. For a moment I think that he’s rumbled me. Then I realise that he’s referring to my operation. I wish I could tell Dad where I’m really going. I know that he’s keen for me to follow my heart and my cooking and try to fulfil all my ambitions while I’ve still got enough breath to do them. I also know that he’d be very angry if I did something behind Mum’s back.
    That’s why I can’t risk telling him.
    â€˜Oh, thanks,’ I say in what I hope is a vague way. I need to change the subject. Quick.
    â€˜I’ve made treacle tarts,’ I say. ‘Little ones. Do you want some?’
    Dad stretches out in the sun on his chair and makes a noise of satisfaction.
    â€˜Now you’re talking,’ he says. ‘What are you waiting for? Bring on the cake!’
    I go inside to get a tea tray together. Mum is in the kitchen watering all her houseplants. The sight of her back and the way that she’s humming as she waters makes guilty tears threaten to spring up in my throat. For a moment I feel really small. Then I have a feeling of genuine fear. This is my home, the place where I feel safe and Mum looks after me. And I’m going to remove myself from my safety zone and throw myself into the Great Unknown, all on my own.
    â€˜They look nice,’ says Mum, turning round and watching me put the mini-tarts onto a big white plate. I’ve put strips of criss-cross pastry across the glistening orange tops of each little tart. I can already feel the way that the treacle is going to glue all our teeth together. ‘Save me one. I’ll be out in a minute. Oh – maybe we can take the rest to hospital tomorrow, for after the op? You know how you hate hospital food.’
    â€˜Mm,’ I say, ducking back out through the back door into the courtyard.
    Dad bites into my crumbly pastry and gooey treacle with an exclamation of bliss.
    â€˜You really are good at this, aren’t you?’ he says, letting crumbs fall all over his blue shirt. ‘It’s a shame you can’t get to that competition. I reckon you’d have done really well.’
    He rolls up his shirt-sleeves and lies back in the sun with his eyes closed. I dissect the strips of pastry from the top of my tart and suck on them, but I’m not really thinking about the recipe for once. All I can think of is what I’ve got to do later.
    I hope that it works.
    ***
    I do my breathing at six after Dad’s gone and then I make sure that my tablet box has everything I’m going to need in it. I drag out my rucksack from under my bed and I pack the box, the inhaler, the nebuliser and a plastic bowl in case I need to throw up. The oxygen canister is too big and bulky for me to manage so I leave it at home.
    I feel sick already but I reckon that’s just nerves.
    I add the new dress, cardigan and shoes to my bag, along with the grey tunic