Page 107 of Frosted Fakes

He ran a hand through his hair, looking guilty. More than guilty. He looked like a man who'd made a terrible mistake and was only just realizing it. "I might have… encouraged Julia to do something. To confront someone. The way I did with your mother. Her mother, I mean. With Gabby."

Elliott's stomach dropped. "Jamie. Where is Julia?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and then held it out to her.

Elliott took it.

On the screen was a live broadcast. Gabby Richardson's cooking show, streaming in real time. The kitchen set was gleaming and professional, the lighting perfect, the audience visible in the background. Gabby stood at her station, mid-demonstration, her famous smile fixed firmly in place.

And walking onto that set, blonde hair catching the studio lights, was Julia.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Julia had grown up on sets. She could remember playing around the legs of tables as her mother cooked above her, cautioning her to be quiet when the cameras started rolling. And the set of Cooking with Gabby was no different from any other. Gleaming countertops, professional lighting that made everything look slightly unreal, and an audience of about a hundred people arranged in tiered seating like spectators at the Colosseum, waiting for someone to get devoured by lions.

Julia wondered if she was the gladiator or the lion. Well, it was time to find out, wasn’t it?

Her heart was hammering so hard she was fairly certain the sound technicians would pick it up. She'd slipped past a distracted PA who was too busy arguing about catering to notice one more blonde woman in the building, walked through a door marked TALENT ONLY, and now here she was. Standing at the edge of the set. On live television.

This was either the bravest thing she'd ever done or the stupidest. Probably both.

Her mother was mid-sentence, demonstrating something with a whisk, when her gaze landed on her youngest daughter hovering in the wings like a nervous ghost.

To Gabby Richardson's eternal credit, she didn't miss a beat. Thirty years of live television had prepared her for worse surprises than an uninvited family member.

"And look who's surprised us today!" Gabby's smile was television-perfect. "My daughter Julia, everyone. Come on out, darling."

The audience applauded politely. Julia walked onto the set on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone braver. Someone who hadn't spent twenty-nine years being terrified of this exact moment.

The lights were blinding up close. The cameras looked like enormous mechanical eyes, tracking her every movement. Julia resisted the urge to wave at them like an idiot.

She was doing this. Really doing it. Acting, not talking, proving to herself, to Elliott, that she had a spine and that she could, finally, be honest.

"What a lovely surprise," Gabby said, pulling Julia into a hug that was mostly a warning. "What are you doing?" she whispered against Julia's hair.

"Something I should have done years ago," Julia whispered back.

Gabby pulled away, that professional smile still firmly in place. "Well! Julia's been running her own bakery in Oakhaven, haven't you, darling? Perhaps you'd like to tell our audience how that's been going?"

It was a trap, obviously. A chance for Julia to spin some feel-good story about following in her mother's footsteps, to perform the role of grateful daughter one more time. The cameras were rolling. The audience was watching. Every instinct Julia had, every deeply ingrained people-pleasing reflex, screamed at her to smile and nod and say something vaguely positive.

She thought about Elliott. About the way Elliott had looked at her when she'd found out about Gabby. About all the ways Julia had failed to be honest when honesty was all Elliott had ever wanted.

She took a deep breath.

"Actually, Mum, that's what I wanted to talk about."

✽✽✽

"Would you slow down?"

"No," Jamie said cheerfully, accelerating past a tractor. "You want to get there, don't you?"

Elliott gripped the door handle of Jamie's car and tried not to think about all the ways this day had gone sideways. Twenty minutes ago, she'd been in the bakery kitchen, surrounded by the comforting smell of lemon drizzle biscuits, preparing to have a mature, adult conversation with Julia about her feelings.

Now she was hurtling through the countryside like they were in some kind of low-budget action film while Julia apparently staged a one-woman intervention on live television.

"I wasn't going to do grand gestures," Elliott said, more to herself than to Jamie. "I had a plan. I was just going to be honest. Tell her how I felt. Like a normal person."