pretty special about the idea of falling in love…
‘Penny for ‘em.’ My colleague Fred’s voice startles me and brings a swift end to my musing. ‘You looked like you were daydreaming there!’
‘You know me, I’ve always got my head in the clouds!’ I say with a cheery smile as I ice some lemon cupcakes. ‘Fred… did you always want to be a baker?’
He adjusts his glasses and taps his chin thoughtfully. He’s almost seventy, but the age gap has never caused a problem before. Whenever I need his help with something, he always comes up with excellent advice.
‘For as long as I can remember, yes,’ he replies with a dreamy smile. ‘My dad was a baker, as was his dad before him. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Why do you ask?’
For a moment, I consider telling him about my latest dance studio rejection, but I decide not to. Although Fred and I have formed a close-knit unit here at The Pastry Corner and I know he’d be supportive, I don’t want to dwell on the rejection for any longer than necessary. It won’t change anything and definitely won’t make me feel any happier about it.
‘No reason,’ I say with a shake of my head. ‘I was just wondering. How are those bread rolls doing?’
Fred turns his attention to the batch of rolls in the oven, leaving me free to return to my own thoughts. He won’t want to burn the bakery’s top seller, after all. Holding the piping bag in my hand, I pick up a cupcake and create a perfect lemon swirl on top. I can’t help but smile at my handiwork; although I didn’t plan to become a baker, I’m glad I did. Creating tasty cakes and breads gave me a purpose after my car accident ruled out a professional dancing career. Pirouettes and arabesques turned into operations and physiotherapy sessions after my friend’s mum’s car veered off the road. Baking was there for me when dancing couldn’t be any more. I fell into a comfortable job at The Pastry Corner and the rest, as they say, is history. Yet, as I continue to ice the cupcakes in front of me, I can feel my mind begin to wander, as though it’s ready to tackle new, bigger dreams. Maybe, after all these years, I’m finally ready to spread my wings and realise my full potential.
I almost don’t feel bad for eating those chocolate buttons any more. Almost.
*
Trips to the gym really aren’t my idea of fun.
You’d think, being an ex-dancer, that exercise and I would go hand in hand. No such luck. Since my accident, I’ve made loads of attempts to find fitness classes I enjoy, but to no avail. I tried ones related to dance, like Zumba or Salsacise, but they didn’t quite give me the same sense of enjoyment as my other dance classes had. When I joined Carb Counters, I also got myself a gym membership in hopes of becoming a fully fledged gym bunny. However, it didn’t quite work out that way. Every time I go, I feel everyone has a secret workout manual except me.
That sort of manual would definitely come in handy today. I’ve made one of those once-in-a-blue-moon trips to the gym, and I’m stuck on the rowing machine.
Yes, really.
This is the kind of trouble a packet of chocolate buttons and a twelve-year-old bucket list can get you into, folks. After closing up the bakery for the day, I decided to embrace my newfound positivity and finally use the gym membership I’ve been paying for for what feels like for ever.
I had a nice little rhythm going before I decided to call it a day; the back-and-forth motion was even quite relaxing in a weird sort of way. I managed to lose myself in the exercise and even stopped thinking about my bucket list for a little while. However, when it comes to getting my feet out of the pedals, I’ve hit a snag. The straps won’t loosen and there’s no wiggle room whatsoever. So now, my sparkly trainers are firmly wedged in the rowing machine’s pedals and I’m way too embarrassed to ask for help. Instead, I smile and carry on sliding the seat back and forth, like this was what I planned to do all along. I catch the eye of a big burly bloke on a nearby treadmill; I flash him a smile, but he sharply diverts his gaze elsewhere.
‘A smile doesn’t cost you anything,’ I mutter under my breath, mentally noting the unfriendly patrons as yet another reason why I don’t come to the gym. It has nothing whatsoever to do with how disaster-prone I am with exercise equipment, absolutely not.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure approaching me. I hope to God it’s not someone who wants to use this machine. They’ll be waiting a hell of a long time if that’s the case.
‘Everything OK over here?’
I sneak a glance and see a tall, dark-haired man clad in gym gear towering over me. An amused smile is playing on his lips and I can tell he’s trying his best not to laugh at me.
‘Oh, yeah!’ I muster my best breezy smile and continue my awkward sliding motion on the rowing-machine seat. ‘Just gearing up for the next… er… row! I’m really going for it today.’
Mr Gym Gear crouches down next to me, his smile growing wider by the second and his hazel eyes sparkling with humour. ‘Your feet are trapped, aren’t they?’
He gestures to my sparkly silver trainers, still in the rowing machine’s evil clutches. I let go of the chain handle and slap a hand to my forehead.
‘How did you guess?’ I ask with a chuckle. ‘Am I really that obvious?’
He shakes his head and expertly undoes one of the straps, before moving to the other side to work on the other.
‘No, this machine’s notorious for trapping people,’ he explains as he frees my other foot. ‘Up until a few minutes ago, you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. Then I clocked the panicked look on your face and thought I’d come over to give you a hand.’
He extends a hand to help me up and I take it, feeling my cheeks turn a deeper shade of scarlet.
‘Well thanks for, er, coming to my rescue!’ For some reason, I think my words should be followed up with a hand gesture, so I salute.
Cleo, what the hell are you playing at?
I’m all too aware that I probably look like a sweaty, overgrown Girl Guide, but I try my best not to show my embarrassment. My encounter with Mr Gym Gear has been awkward enough already.
‘No problem, any time.’ He smiles at me. ‘My name’s Scott, by the way, Scott Robinson, like the Neighbours character. In case you need to be rescued again.’
He looks expectantly at me, like he’s waiting to hear my name in return. It sits snugly on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to pop out…
Instead ‘I’d better go’ leaps out, followed by ‘I’m running late for a root canal appointment!’ Before Mr Gym Gear – now known as Scott – can ask any questions, I take off down the metal steps towards the weightlifting area and scurry off to the changing rooms as quickly as possible.
I didn’t completely lie to Scott; there is somewhere I have to be, but it’s a whole lot worse than a root canal appointment.
*
For those of you who haven’t been to a Carb Counters meeting before, here’s how it works. You stand in a very long queue to get weighed and measured, then sit in a circle and talk about what kind of week you’ve had. The group leader, in this case
