A Faker's Dozen

To make a decent, crunchy, delectably soft pastry once, does not a pastry chef make. Paul found that hard truth tougher to swallow than the many uneatable breads, buns and, brazenly - a babka - he'd attempted and scorched over the past four weeks.

Paul's ordeal started at the top of the summer month of June, as all summer romances often do. A beverage (or four) after work on a Thursday prompted enough courage to at last make a pass at desk partner and long-ogled crush, Sarah. Less enemy-to-lover tale, more slow burn. Comparable to the death of Paul's recent custard tarts; a slow burn to be sure.

The pub had begun to empty about ten past ten; the work team peeled away one by one when Paul's hazy beer fog rose just enough to see through the clammer of nerves - he and Sarah were at last alone! As he recalled a chat by the water cooler the day before, the bolt from the blue plan that formed there and then seemed hopeful and almost too easy.

"So you fancy yourself a baker, do you?" Paul asked, nonchalance smothered by nerves.

"Casually," Sarah deflected. "Often only of a weekend. Not enough hours round the clock to go pro."

"You reckon you're better than me?" The gambler Paul dared.

"Oh well aren't you one to throw a gauntlet? What's on offer for the better baker?"

"A bottle of bubbly. The cheap stuff of course. And to share." He added, eyes ablaze.

A beat. And then Sarah's mouth curled upward at the edges. Challenge accepted.

"You're on."

Paul floated home soon after, rested a stuffy head atop dreams of Sarah, amor, future beers and laughs, a hand on knee, and then suddenly a hand to bowl, flour dashed across a counter, a plume of smoke from an aga, a gasp and cry as the smoke alarm became the alarm clock; and Paul, newly awake, covered by sweat and post-booze fear, remembered the mammoth task he'd created.

"Oh you'll regret that for sure, my shoes are the talk of the town," Paul had bragged, and also revealed carelessly he'd only ever heard of choux pastry offhand. The hungover google taught the man that much, and only worsened the headache he nursed.

However, Paul grasped the bare bones of the art of bakery and began humbly: a lone loaf of bread. An adherent to the arcane power that surrounds the rule of three, Paul was both sad and pleased to see that success only bloomed on attempt number four. One golden loaf (and three charred husks) snuggly under the belt, Paul felt better about the end goal of a grander bake.

To roll the dough up as crescents or fold over and wrap around chocolate as the French do, or the Turks who press nuts and honey and syrupy goodness between wafery sheets could probably score a clean-sweep at work, Paul felt daunted by the task. The playful jabs from Sarah had only grown, a spark renewed by the shared endeavour. As they grew closer, a tease, a joke here, another laugh there, Paul revelled under her gaze, the work days flew by as a meteor streaks across the sky. However, Paul found that when the moon held court up above, as the sky grew dark and the world slept, he could not.

For fear of Sarah's shrug, her scoff, Paul would bake up to the break of dawn. The terror drove Paul to tears, as he muddled eggs and flour and broke bars of chocolate and stoked the oven. Each botched baguette, each trashed teacake and each scorched strudel served only to fan the flames of Paul's worry. He began to wonder how he could capture Sarah's heart by honest means; after all these hours wasted, he had only a lonesome raspberry turnover to show - puff pastry now the preferred bake, dreams of choux abandoned. The one solo snack, golden and crunchy yet soft and fluffy, stuffed full of hope and shop bought jam (one mustn't fool oneself that Paul would be able to make jam too,) stood out amongst a sea of flops.

The playful banter at work was heavy on Paul's thoughts, somehow Sarah would know he'd go bust and have to eat the brave words he spoke. Curse beer, Paul thought. After dark, the late bakes put to doleful rest, a plot formed before the TV. An old caper showed gangsters and a grand old scheme to swap one bag of loot for one of fakery, full of forged notes. Paul started suddenly, as a scheme began to bloom. The hapless man, desperate to save face before a work crush mulled over all the fancy stores who flogged pastry and bun and charted them along a journey to work. He foresaw a major expense, but couldn't face Sarah only one teeny turnover to hand.

The walk to work took the best part of half an hour, but Paul hopped a bus for the added detour. He felt as the condemned must do as they trudge towards the gallows. The open door of the café gaped and groaned as beast of yore would, ready to swallow Paul whole. There was no retreat now. Footsteps heavy, gaze glued to the counter, Paul felt as though every other eye watched, every customer and staff member saw through the calm façade he threw up. Even the cakes separated by Perspex seemed to judge. He selected a dozen or so crowd pleasers, almost snatched the bag from the employee, and fled the scene. Fled towards Sarah.

The desk was crowded the day of the talked up show and tell (and taste). Paul walked forward, later than usual, sweaty browed and clammy palmed. The whole fraudulent effort had Paul's hackles on end, some fool's errand to steal Sarah's favour. As colleagues crunched and raved about her cream horns - made to dear ol' grandma's specs - chocolate mousse and strawberry cream sealed so sweetly a deal that Paul could only dream of. The accolade of best baker was always, undoubtedly hers. Not that he would ever concede that assessment; he kept shtum for now.

The shame Paul felt only doubled when Sarah confronted the man's entrants to the contest. The bag Paul sported gave up the plot rather promptly; the bag bore the cafe's shop logo and was stuffed to burst. The colour rose through Paul's cheeks, embarrassment threatened to suffocate the poor bloke there and then. But there was no lambast for the general populace of the bullpen to hear. Only a soft chuckle. A look up and down. A toss of her wavy locks. She knew she'd won, and had known from the off.

She wants to go for a bev anways? Paul thought, struck by wonder.

"Hold up Sarah!" He called after her, as she made her way towards the cluster of workers, hungry for more sweet treats. Paul tossed the goody bag to the mob and pursued Sarah, a small, neat parcel wrapped and ready - the best surrender he could offer.

"May not be the best you've ever had, but the jam's not half bad." He babbled. "Tesco's best, you see."

He placed the turnover meekly across the desk from Sarah, turned to head over to her success story of a bake-off, when she called out.

"Don't you owe me a bottle of bubbly too?"

The U-turn he made was so fast he nearly cleared nearby a desk. Hope threatened to stop Paul's heartbeat there and then, as Sarah stared, turnover half-eaten before her.

'Date?' had been crudely scored along the top of the pastry, that after Sarah's colossal chomp now read, 'te?'

"Must say though, get a couple more of these on the go, and you could eventually earn the spot as top baker." She laughed, and real enjoyment played on her face.

"Maybe you could pass on a few clues?" Paul, the gambler, dared once more.

"You're on."