Secrets and Sugar

Vera had always been, first and foremost, a southern belle. Her accent was intoxicating and she doled charm around her little town in all sorts of wistful ways. She was a woman of many talents; she could coax the most beautiful dahlias to emerge by the fountain in the backyard, she could put together a themed menu for a myriad of causes and she had a knack of mixing patterns to create a stylish flourish of colour! And while she’d tell you it was impolite to ask a woman’s age, particularly one of her vintage, she laughed at her wit when she’d tell you she’s been going on 34 for the past couple of decades.

But, despite her enchanting quips and her cleverly crafted sexual innuendo at the golf club, she was at her core, a fraud. The façade of pink lipsticks and oversized yellow brimmed sun hats could never hide her darkest secret. It was the black which had been oozing through her veins and bubbling about the buried chambers of her heart; it darkened her phlegm and offended her bile. It was both fear and horror – for she lived with both, and indeed, it was the trepidation which kept her up at night. She would toss and turn, and sit bolt upright, covered in figurative dusting of flour.

For the past nineteen years Vera’s baked goods had won blue ribbon at the State Fair. She was known for her flaking pastries and finely balanced sweets. She was known for her delicate baby pink frostings and perfectly sculpted fondant flowers. She was even known for the way she would proclaim humility, before boasting of the scones visitors to her home would enjoy. But what would they say if they knew the truth? More importantly, what would her nemeses, in their checked shirts and sensible shoes, do with the tasty gossip that would spell Vera’s social ruin. The thoughts, indeed, would often make her cry out in the middle of her tortured sleep, ‘Ruinous fiends!’.

Yet, in one of Vera’s more extravagant moments, she had been clinking champagne flutes with the new loca news anchor-man, an ambitious beard in a sharp blue suit, and she had flirted with the idea of allowing him to film a segment of her whipping up the masterpiece. It would take on a celebratory tone which would coronate her and take her into the next phase of her magnificent reign. Another clink of the flutes, and the date was set. The camera crew would be walking into her white laminate kitchen, with white marble benchtops to see her mix and pour her salted caramel and pecan torte at about ten the next morning.

Her secret was she had never baked successfully in her life. She had tried to follow a recipe for cookies in her younger years, but her mother had dismissed the attempt with a tut, “You’ll never get a husband without the ability to whip up a meringue”. She simply had a standing order at the Sara Lee desserts factory, and, given her strict attention to detail, her magnificence in plating up the frozen treats had garnered her praise atop praise. Vera’s order was set to arrive in a discreet white van, driven by an elderly gent who would often comment on the roses which lined the front path. Like clockwork, he would be making his delivery at about eleven the next morning.

And, as the little cuckoo poked out from its shuttered doors and cooed ten times, her front bell chimed. Vera invited them in with a certain air of confidence, always believing that she could go on the offensive with smiles and a lacey apron. She strode into her kitchen and rose her hands in welcome – and then her face fell, as the door bell again sounded. The tinkling chimes stopped and she could hear the door being opened by a well-to elderly gentlemen, who, adorned with a red cap brandishing his brand, he walked to the kitchen with a large insulated box and introduced himself to the crew, whose cameras had already been rolling.

Vera’s cheeks turned the shade of a sweet strawberry syrup, and she sunk into herself as the segment producer chuckled, ‘Desserts Queen dethroned’. Yet, as the footage rolled on the television later that night, Vera felt a sense of relief wash over her. She was wearing loose trackpants and eating a chocolate Danish straight from the packaging and the thought at not having to hide the packaging in her trash can gave her enough reason to smile. She knew that she would sleep well that night.

Cover image crafted in CANVA using free elements.