Page 4 of Baking Battles

There is a small pink sock under the kitchen table. A small piece of cotton that makes Mattias’s eyes water with strange tears. He misses her when she is not here, in his two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of one of the monotone apartment buildings nestled alongside Oslo’s botanical gardens. Tøyen. Not quite the place he has imagined he would be living at the age of twenty-seven. He has done well for himself, considering. He has been lucky scoring this apartment, near enough to Emi’s nursery and a short bus ride to work. He loves her. He loves his daughter more than anything else he could ever have loved. It’s almost stupid, the way he can't find the words to describe his feelings for that little girl. He’s never been a man of many words, of romantic declarations and grand gestures. But with Emi he has thrown all the rules out the window. He is the dad who props his daughter up on a chair in the coffee shop and reads her stories in silly voices until she squeals with laughter. He lets her drink big sips of his milky coffee, that he lets go cold so she can taste it. He buys croissants and lets the flaky crumbs cover his dress pants, because Emi loves them, and he couldn’t care less about the extra calories or the fat stains on his expensive suit. He loves her and the time he has with her is precious, too precious to waste a single second on all of Sara’s stupid rules. Which is why he presses the tiny sock to his face and breathes her in. The soft smell of the washing powder Sara always buys. The smell of home. The home that isn’t his anymore. It’s strange how he misses it, when he doesn’t miss his old life at all.

He’s promised himself not to be an absentee father, ever, and never wants to be one of those weekend dads. The ones who knowingly smile at him at the weekend when Emi and he share a plate of sugar-coated breakfast at one of their favourite overpriced cafes. Table after table of bewildered men who sit there with their kids without knowing what to say. The kids staring into their tablets as their stranger-of-a-father looks depressed and lost.

He misses her, always. His heart is always full of guilt for not spending more time with her when she is with him, and then working too much to dull out the fact that he is alone when she is with Sara. Alone. He’s always alone. Which is good. And bad. His life is manageable on his own. The bubble he has created around himself is fine. It’s freedom, wrapped up in a fine sheet of guilt and sorrow.

Which makes his stomach curl up in a tight knot of angst as he swings through the back doors to TV3’s headquarters. The big steel building with the musty smell, the dust rats gathering along the back corridors, that despite fire regulations are constantly lined with parcels, cardboard, screens and stray equipment. He keeps his head down, his feet at a steady pace, picking up his messages from the reception desk, before stopping briefly to pour himself a cup of coffee in the pantry area. He doesn’t talk to people. He just pretends to read the messages in his hand, allowing himself a sip of the scalding coffee in his cup.

“Matt Strømme?” The voice seems hurried and rushed behind him. “Matt, hey, wait!”

“Caroline?”

“Yup, yours truly. Called in at the last minute. Oh Matt, you still look good! Good enough to eat.”

He lets his arms curl around the woman who is making him spill coffee over his hands as she kisses his cheek and pats him down, like she is trying to read him. Get a feel of him. Catch up, because he hasn’t seen Caroline in years.

“Caroline,” he says, then his face flushes with warmth. It’s been years. Years and years.

“Gorgeous boy. You are still as handsome as ever. Chief Financial Officer, eh? You were always such a number nerd Mattias. How’s your Sara?” Caroline’s like an open book, always talking too fast, skipping from subject to subject, like Mattias is supposed to figure out what on earth she is on about, when he is still bewildered about her standing there in front of him. Looking like she belongs here, when she hasn’t been seen anywhere near TV3 since being headhunted over to some international network.

“Eh, uh, Caroline? What are you doing here? Espionage from rival networks?” He tries to keep things light. He doesn't know if he can handle life stories and truths and gossip and things he can’t quite deal with right now. Things he doesn't want to deal with. Like ever. Because Caroline belongs to an old part of his life that he doesn’t really want to remember. A long-gone life when he was young, and Sara was overdramatic, and he was making one bad life choice after another.

“Danijel pulled me in, and I mean it wasn't like I was snowed under with projects, so I thought a few weeks back in my old playground dealing with the mess he has going on down there, would be perfect. Lovely actually. Especially since I have come up to personally escort you down to hair and makeup. Danijel told me you would be a real grump, and Mattias, please help me score some points with him byactuallycoming down with me. It’s too early to argue with you on day one, and we haven't even shot the promotional stills. Did you bring clothes, Mattias? The styling team said you are not on their list, so we will need to wing it unless you are planning to bake in a business suit. Are you? I mean, it’s a nice suit…” She actually stops and takes a breath and Mattias inhales a gulp of coffee.

“I’m not going to have anything to do with that baking show this morning, Caroline. I have a job to do, I have deadlines. I haven’t got the time to clear my schedule for weeks just because Danijel can’t do his job properly….”

“Excuses, excuses” Caroline singsongs and cocks her head. Giving Mattias that look. Glaring at him over the rim of her glasses. “Julian has it covered. Danijel briefed him earlier this morning, he is to report to you between takes and update you on anything that needs dealing with, and anyway that Halvor in accounts is very capable. I think we hooked up once in my youth. I think. Or maybe we just partied… Anyway…” She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing much has changed around here. The same faces, the same crap. Including you, my darling. Mattias Strømme. Gorgeous boy. Now, hop hop, you are coming with me and we are getting you all dolled up. You’ll look a million dollars. You sort of already do… Oh, and by the way, here is today’s schedule and script. We are filming mostly intros and fillers this morning, plus the stills photographer is here to do your headshots, who has suggested you all hold on to a piece of equipment, but I think it’s naff. I mean, you standing there with a bloody whisk? Juggling eggs? WTF, Mattias, who employs your people these days? We need fun and Christmassy, but we really, really need all of you to look shaggable. Sex sells, babe.”

“Shut up,” Mattias says before he even realises he is walking back down the stairs heading towards the Studio B area. “Just shut it.”

This is where Mattias should say no. This is where Mattias should step the fuck up and walk out. Or where he should give Danijel a piece of his mind, when in reality, he just groans at Danijel’s huge grin as he greets him by the studio setup. The lights are already on, bathing the area in lights that are too warm. Too bright. Unforgiving, making Danijel’s skin seem paler and greyer than it is, and no doubt making Mattias look like shit as well. Not that he is vain, but studio lights never bring out the best in people.

The place is buzzing, the tech people milling about with equipment and the prop people lining up the kitchen tools on the contestant’s work benches, on a set that to be honest, looks like someone has vomited Christmas all over the place. Far too much tinsel and candles and cheerful Santas for Mattias’s early morning head. He vaguely clocks the baking machines, remembering that he was smart enough to approve the purchase order when the bloody company wouldn’t agree to a free loan or even donating ten lousy baking machines for the ridiculous amount of exposure they will get when this mess of a show airs. Not that it will be a mess, because Mattias knows that Danijel will pull it off. He always does, despite the ulcer brewing in his stomach, the sweat patches around his neck and the dark skin under his eyes being a clear indicator that he is feeling the pressure of this. In a way Mattias loves being down here watching him work, and his stomach is secretly bubbling with joy that Danijel has lured Caroline back. He loves Caroline, he really does, and it’s comforting in a way that even though he hasn’t spoken to her for years, she is right back there, her arm snaking under his, her smile beaming at him as she pushes him down the corridor to the shabby green room where the styling team seems to have taken up residence.

“Mattias Strømme?” someone questions, looking up from a clipboard and immediately getting that concerned look on her face. “Please tell me you are not wearing that.” The young hip-looking stylist looks almost disgusted.

“It’s Hugo Boss?” Mattias questions and his face blooms once again. Yeah right. He knows this stuff, knows about guidelines and rules for what to wear, but it’s not like he is going to agree to this. I mean, really? He glances down to the paperwork in his hand, letting his eyes take in the first couple of lines of text, as the stylist person tugs at his jacket.

Episode One.Christmas Breakfast.

Introduction: Show off your skills! This is your chance to set the tone, showing the viewers who you are and what you can do. You will have one hour fifteen minutes to pull off a festive treat to serve at the Christmas breakfast table.

Technical challenge: The perfect Christmas Pancakes forty-five minutes on the clock to pull off the ultimate festive pancake platter.

Showcase challenge: Kransekake. Create the perfect showcase for the Christmas table.

Mattias has to stop to exhale. He feels a little faint, not only that, but he still has his coffee cup in his hand whilst this stylist is trying to yank his suit jacket over his shoulders.

“Caroline?” He shouts at her disappearing out the door, leaving him helpless and flustered among the wolves that are eyeing him up and down.

“He needs jeans.” Someone says. “He has good legs. Nice hips.”

“Hair is good, do you think it’s long enough for a man bun? What did you say this one does again? Some kind of office jockey?”

Mattias just stares, not that the hip-looking stylist girl, who is wearing a t-shirt advertising a band she is nowhere near old enough to remember, cares. She flicks her purple hair, and totally ignores him, chatting away to the other stylist as she threads her fingers through his hair. “No man-bun, but it needs to be slicked. Good hair. Don’t let anyone cut it, Okay?”

Someone holds a shirt in front of him, something far too bright and cheerful for Mattias’s stern scowl. He wants to run. He wants to shout. Hide back in his office for an hour with a large cup of hot coffee until he feels vaguely human and like himself again. Because this is as far out of his comfort zone that he will ever get.

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