A/N
Um, so here you have a chapter focused on Andrew, that just got away with me. He's emotionally all over the place - what a wreck! There is some baking in there somewhere...
"Here we go again." Andrew couldn't help but smile at Sam's muttered comment. He was very pleased with his position in the tent this week – directly behind Sam. Who looks amazing in a pair of skinny jeans. Better yet, his dad was at the front, so he was saved from any disapproving stares.
He checked, and double checked, that his instructions were in place and that he had written the timings on properly. He was determined to prove to Sam that he was taking this competition seriously. It had stung, last weekend, to be told that he wasn't good enough, both by Sam and by his dad. He had gone back to base, fired up and had sworn that he would prove them both wrong. Now, he just had to pull it out of the bag.
And not get distracted by Sam.
"Bakers." While he had been checking his instructions, Mary, Paul, Mel and Sue had appeared. "Mary and Paul would like you to produce twelve crème brûlées."
"You can use any ingredients you like." Sue always looked like she was about to start dancing or running, rocking forwards on her toes. It made him a little anxious, tense, that kind of pent up energy. "But you cannot use a blow torch to caramelise the top."
The tension was coiling tighter and tighter. It probably didn't help that this had been one of those weeks where he hadn't been sleeping. There was a fine tremor in his hands that hopefully the crew would put down to nerves.
"On your marks." Sue began.
"Get set." Mel continued.
"BAKE!" they both cried together.
Finally. He gathered his ingredients, checking his instructions again. He kept his head down, refusing to be distracted by Sam – refusing to let himself be distracted by Sam. After all, it wasn't like she was doing it on purpose. In fact, she had made it very clear that she wasn't interested in him, not as he was. But he was going to change that.
Andrew worked steadily for two hours, weighing, mixing, baking. The camera crew came by, but he didn't have anything for them today. He couldn't even offer up a longing look at Sam – he was just too busy. He wondered if they would deem it some kind of lover's tiff.
The truth was, he had kind of made it up with Sam at the end of the last weekend, but she was definitely keeping him at arm's length. As much as Sam could. She would reply to his texts, but not straight away, and with fewer emojis. She didn't always answer his calls, claiming she was busy practicing. Which she probably had been. It was hard to be mad at Sam, especially when he was to blame in the first place.
Still, her cold shoulder, intentional or not, had left him with plenty of time to practice.
"When I agreed that you should be allowed to enter this competition Foyle, I never imagined I would be faced with having to dispose of over a hundred crème brûlées." The Wing Commander's eye brows were raised but he didn't seem displeased, despite his tone of voice.
Andrew had looked at the assortment of desserts spread across the table and shrugged. "I needed to practice sir." He was suddenly on the receiving end of a sharp-eyed stare.
"Are you sleeping Foyle?" Andrew swallowed, but nodded. "You seem a little… out of sorts."
"It's just the competition sir." Andrew smiled, hoping to deflect his superior's attention.
It didn't work, but then it never did. "If it becomes too much, I will have to pull you out."
That would completely derail his plans! "It won't sir."
And it wouldn't. He was determined. To impress Sam, to show his dad he was worth supporting, to prove, perhaps to himself, that he could do something great – if he tried. He just had to concentrate.
"Annnnd… step away from your bakes." Andrew lingered for a moment, propping up a piece of caramelised rhubarb. "Andrew!" He jumped. "Hands off!" He raised his hands in the air as he backed away. Sam threw a laughing glance over her shoulder, causing his stomach to flip-flop quite pleasantly.
She walked with him as they left the tent so that it could be tidied ready for judging. "Your crème brûlée look amazing!" Her words ignited a warmth in him that made him smile. "Seriously, they're really good."
"Well, nobody's tasted them yet. They could be runny." Sam gave him a narrow-eyed look at his unaccustomed reticence. Normally, he would have accepted her compliment as a matter of course.
"I doubt that very much." He smiled again, pleased by her honesty.
"Yours are much better. I would never think of combining those flavours." Sam looked genuinely pleased by his less than spectacular compliment, and he rushed to do better. "You really are a fantastic baker Sam, I wish I was half as good as you." He was rewarded with a blushing smile, before she turned her face away, embarrassed. "I think you're the best baker in the competition." She laughed and nudge his shoulder with hers.
The pleasure he felt at her reaction seemed almost disproportionate, but it had been a long time since he'd actually cared if someone liked him or not – like him for himself and not for his looks or the uniform.
"You're a terrible flatterer." Sam was abrupt in her efforts to seem less pleased.
"Never, when it comes to baking. I take it very seriously you know." She laughed at his response, clearly not believing him.
"Come on." She caught hold of his arm and he felt his heart kick up a gear. "Let's get a cup of tea before the torture begins."
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, back at the tent. "That wasn't torture?" Sam laughed again.
"Before it gets worse then." They walked together to the refreshments.
The morning had gone well, and he was confident about his showstopper. The one rouge element was the technical, and that could literally be anything. He had spent one sleepless night scouring Paul and Mary's recipes, trying to figure out what it might be before admitting defeat at around 4am and falling asleep in a nest of cookery books.
Had he read about spanische windtorte in those long, dark hours? He couldn't remember now. Rings of French meringue that have been baked into a cylinder with a bottom and a top lid, then filled with whipped cream, fresh berries, topped with hand-made fondant violets and Swiss meringue. It certainly sounded like something he might have hallucinated.
"Read the instructions carefully." That had been Mary's advice and Andrew decided to follow it. He read the scant instructions once, and then again. Start with the shell. French meringue. He could do that. Just one step at a time.
He glanced around the room to see how the other contestants were managing. His father had already started, no surprise there. Paul Milner seemed to be making some headway as well. Sam was reading the instructions in her usual way, one hand clutching at her hair. He couldn't see her expression from his position behind her, but he imagined she looked quite stressed. Various other contestants were in similar states, either getting on with it or still reading. Andrew reached for the eggs.
He always let himself down on the detail. Andrew couldn't help an angry sound of frustration from escaping as he failed, yet again, to create a fondant violet. Eight other failed attempts had left his fondant looking less than ideal.
"Are you alright?" He jumped at the sound of Sam's voice, so wrapped up in attempting to make the flowers he hadn't noticed her approaching.
"I can't make the f… blasted things." His father's strict rules about appropriate language had him automatically correcting what he was about to say.
"You need to flatten the fondant between sheets of greaseproof paper." Sam took the fondant from his hands, forming it into small balls, about the size of orange pips, before demonstrating what she meant. "That way they will all be the same width and they won't have any finger marks."
Andrew watched carefully, as she created more petals with the darker violet fondant, and stamens with the yellow. Then she used the paintbrush with a little bit of water to stick it all together.
Andrew groaned. "You make it look so easy!"
Same laughed. "It's not that hard." She held out the fondant. "Your turn."
Andrew attempted to recreate what he had just seen. Sam checked and corrected him a couple of times, but within a few minutes he was in possession of a passable violet. He laughed in triumph. "I did it!" He grinned at her, holding up his hand, "and I couldn't have done it without you." Sam's high-five left his hand tingling. She turned back to her own bench, leaving him to complete the rest of the violets. As she did so, Andrew became aware of the camera hovering behind her, that had, presumably, filmed the whole thing.
The camera had never bothered him, not the way it did his father or Milner, who seemed to twitch whenever he saw it headed his way. But it still felt like an intrusion and Andrew resented it. Every normal moment became something to be collected, dissected and pieced back together, in a way that suited someone else's agenda.
Andrew had tried to direct that agenda as much as he could, playing the part of the flirt, the charmer, but that had backfired with Sam. And at the end of the day, he cared more for Sam's opinion than some faceless tv executive. But that meant having the camera intrude on his moments with Sam. If it wasn't for the show, I would never have met Sam. He should be grateful really.
To his own surprise, Andrew had come third in the technical. His pleasure was soured somewhat by Sam coming second-to-last. It just wasn't right. She was far too good to keep messing up so badly. She wasn't like him, she was careful and thorough, not careless and slap-dash.
She had looked close to tears in the tent and had hurried off before he got a chance to talk to her. Andrew looked for her in the dining room but she wasn't there. That's when he knew she was really upset. Sam never missed food.
Thinking back on the previous weekends, (had he only met her four weeks ago?), Andrew decided Sam was probably somewhere outside, even though it was a gloomy, grey day.
What was it they'd seen last weekend? A walled garden? Maybe she was there. He headed in that direction – he had to start somewhere.
Walking through the archway that led to the walled garden, Andrew thought he heard a sound. Then he saw Sam, huddled up on a bench that was tucked in a corner of the garden. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her face was hidden against her knees. Oh Sam.
He approached her carefully, afraid of startling her. Then he heard a sound remarkably like a sob. "Sam." She visibly started, lifted her head enough for him to see her tear-stained face before she abruptly turned away.
"Oh. Andrew." Her voice was rough, and she was attempting to scrub discreetly at her eyes. "Were you looking for me?"
He sat on the bench next to her and tried to figure out what to do. "Yes, actually. It's getting late and you missed dinner."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Sam made a move as though to get up, and Andrew stopped her with a hand on her arm.
"Don't be sorry Sam." She still wouldn't look at him. "I just wanted to know if you were alright." She finally turned to him, the corners of her mouth turning up in a sad approximation of a smile. Her eyes were red, as was the tip of her nose.
"I'm fine." Her voice was full of false cheer, and suddenly Andrew couldn't bear it any longer. He slid his arm around Sam's shoulders and pulled her into a hug. She resisted for a moment, and he nearly let her go, before she suddenly clung to him. He pulled her in a close as he could and just held her. Long moments passed.
Eventually Sam pulled away, wiping her eyes again. Andrew offered her his handkerchief, gratefully for his father's old-fashioned ways that meant he was never without one. Sam stared at the handkerchief blankly for a moment, before taking it. "You must think I'm an idiot, crying over cake." She was clearly embarrassed, and Andrew rushed to reassure her.
"Don't be silly Sam." Realising his words hadn't been chosen as carefully as they could have been, Andrew hurried on. "It's because you care so much, and you care so much because you're a good baker. A good person. I could never think badly of you." That was the gospel truth. He couldn't imagine a situation where he could feel disappointed in Sam, she just wasn't that kind of person. She could, however, disappoint herself.
"That's very kind of you to say." Sam's tone of voice suggested she didn't believe him.
"It's not kindness Sam, it's the truth." She shrugged, and Andrew realised that there was probably nothing he could say that would convince her he was telling the truth. If only he hadn't been such a flirt in the beginning, maybe she would trust him now! "Sam…"
"We should go! I missed dinner." This time Sam made it to her feet and was heading to the archway before he realised she was moving.
"Sam!" His voice was harsher, more abrupt that he had intended but it worked. Sam stopped, and her shoulders slumped slightly. "I meant every word."
"If I'm such a good baker, how come I mess up every technical?" She turned her head enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye.
He hesitated, floundering for the right words. Sam seemed to take his silence as some kind of proof that she was right, and shook her head before moving once more in the direction of the exit. "You don't believe in yourself." He practically shouted the words at her, afraid she would leave before he could say the right thing. Sam stopped and swung round. "You don't think you can do, so you don't. You doubt yourself too much."
Sam looked down at the ground, her fists clenched. He walked towards her slowly, wondering if she'd take a swing if he got too close, but instead she unclenched her fists and looked up. "I don't think belief would change much, I'm just not good enough." She hugged herself. "My mother was right."
Andrew was suddenly angry. "Your mother was wrong!" Sam looked at him in surprise. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, you're the best baker here."
"Then how come I always come last, no matter how hard I try when you…"Sam trailed off, but Andrew knew what she had been going to say.
"When I do alright without really trying?" It hurt, that she actually felt like that, but it was his own fault really. "The truth is Sam, I do try. A lot. I just pretend that I don't." She looked a little sceptical. "It's easier that way, to laugh it off if it doesn't work out. But really, I practice like crazy."
"You can't practice for the technical." Her tone said she had clearly caught him out with that point.
"No…" he suddenly smiled at the memory, "but you can spend whole nights reading every book of Mary's or Paul's you can get your hands on." Sam looked at first doubtful and then incredulous.
"Seriously?" He nodded.
"I was awake, so I thought, why not?" Sam frowned slightly, and he hurried to distract her before she could focus on the part about him being awake. "I don't remember everything I read in detail, but it's enough that the technical seem vaguely familiar."
"And all this time I thought you were just winging it." Sam shook her head in disbelief.
"That's what I wanted you to think." He shoved his hands in his pockets.
"But why?" Really, he should have guessed that the conversation would end up here, but still he felt wrong footed.
"I don't know." She didn't look impressed with such an off-hand response, and he realised he needed to be straight with her. "I guess, I'm afraid of messing up. So, I… set expectations low." Sam's face softened. "Then I won't disappoint anyone." Except for his dad, but he had been disappointed in him for a long time now, so Dad was probably used to it.
"Oh Andrew, that's silly." How had it come to pass that Sam was now trying to comfort him? She moved forward to place her hand on his arm. "No one would be disappointed if they knew that you had tried your best."
He smiled. "That's what I've been trying to tell you." Sam frowned. "No one is disappointed in you, except for you."
Sam pulled a face. "I just wish I could do well in a technical for once." Andrew put his arm around her shoulders, steering her towards the exit. They had had enough of heavy conversation for a while.
"You will Sam. You just have to believe that." She elbowed him in the ribs gently. "How about we make a deal." She looked at him, and he realised for one dizzying moment exactly how close she was. His gaze dropped to her lips, before he tore it away. "You believe in yourself and I will stop pretending that I don't care."
She stopped, forcing him to stop also, and held out her hand. "Shake on it." He gripped her hand firmly in his own and shook it. Then, to his astonishment and pleasure, Sam placed her other hand on his shoulder and leaned up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for coming to find me."
He cleared his throat. "What are friends for?" She looked at him with an unreadable expression.
"Are we friends then?" He sucked in a breath.
"If you like?" He could have kicked himself. Every time he had a decent opening to push his relationship with Sam forward, he backed off. Bloody coward.
Sam didn't reply, but tucked her arm through his, pressing against his side. He felt suddenly too warm. "Let's go get something to eat."
Andrew had actually slept that night, so by all rights should have felt rested and ready for the competition. Instead, it was as though he had a hangover. When his alarm had gone off, it was all he could do to turn it off. Getting up was out of the question.
He had gone back to sleep, waking only when someone knocked on his door. Even then, he probably wouldn't have got up if he hadn't heard his father's voice telling him to get up, or he would come back with a spare key card and make him get up. Knowing his father as well as he did, Andrew had crawled out of bed and let him in.
Dad had taken one look at him, frowned and then set about making him presentable. He was so effective that ten minutes later, Andrew arrived in the lobby, yawning and still buttoning his shirt. The others were already there, and Andrew realised that he must have slept clean through breakfast. Sam gave him a concerned look that morphed into a frown at his attempt at a smile. 'Don't pretend' she mouthed, and he dropped his gaze to the floor, raising his eyebrows in a verbal shrug.
He ran his hand through his hair and realised that he hadn't made his usual efforts to flatten it down. Instead it was curling across his forehead. His shirt was clean but rumpled. He was going to disgrace the RAF by appearing on television, looking like he'd had a night of heavy drinking. Brilliant.
He thought of the long day ahead – getting ready for filming, baking, judging, filming inserts, heading back to base, reporting in, catching up on the work he'd missed… Andrew suddenly felt truly exhausted. I can't do this.
"Andrew?" His father's voice seemed to come from far away. Andrew slowly turned his head to look at him. "Are you alright?"
He licked his lips. "'m fine, Dad." Where was the manic energy of yesterday? Why had it deserted him now, leaving him feeling like he just wanted to sleep forever?
His father didn't reply straight away, but looked him over carefully. Dad's mouth did that thing, where it turned down. Were mouths supposed to be able to do that? Andrew had never been sure, he had never managed it himself. "Been almost a year, hasn't it?"
For a brief moment, Andrew didn't know what he was talking about. And then he remembered. "What's that got to do with anything?" His voice was cross, defensive.
His father lifted his eyebrows, shrugging much as Andrew had done to Sam. "Anniversaries can make things harder."
The sudden rush of anger took Andrew by surprise, stealing his breath and burning him up inside. 'It's alright to be angry.' The remembered voice of the therapist they had made him see was as annoying now as it had been then. It wasn't alright to be angry. Not at Dad, not when he was only telling the truth. Not when he was speaking from experience. He forced the anger down, pushed it aside. "I just slept too much, that's all." Could you sleep too much? It sounded like a nonsensical explanation to Andrew, but his father didn't query it.
Instead, he looked first to the side, before returning his gaze to Andrew. "Proud of you." His tone was clipped, as it always was when it came to anything emotional. "You can get through this."
Andrew swallowed hard against the lump that had appeared in his throat. He felt almost dizzy from the sudden, shifting, mood swings. His father clearly hadn't been waiting for a response, because he turned to follow the others with a brusque "C'mon." Andrew trailed along behind. As he did, another piece of the therapist's advice came back to him. 'One step at a time.'
"Are you alright?" Sam kept her voice low, leaning back against his counter ass the camera crews set themselves up.
"I'm fine Sam." He well deserved the disbelieving look she gave him, but he hadn't expected the flash of hurt that also crossed her face. She began to straighten up, and he realised that, once again, he was backing off when he should be opening up. If only it was easier! "Well." She paused, which gave him hope. "Not fine, really, but I'm managing."
She turned then, giving him the kind of careful scrutiny he normally got from his father. "Are you sure?" Her concern warmed him, and he nodded. "If you need anything…" She let the offer hang, and he smiled.
"I'll ask, I promise." Sam held out her hand, and he laughed, but grasped it in his. "Are we going to shake on everything from now on?" he asked.
"Only the important things." Sam gave his hand a squeeze, before letting go and turning around. Andrew felt a tiny bit better, knowing that Sam was with him. He looked at his father, only to catching him watching them. Dad nodded, and Andrew knew that Dad too was supporting him. It's just cake he reminded himself. No one will get hurt if it goes wrong. He shivered slightly, but pushed it aside as the judges and presenters walked out.
"So, Andrew, what does the RAF think of you being in Bake Off?" He was surprised that it had taken four weeks for either Mel or Sue to ask this question, he had been expecting it from week one. He glanced briefly at Sue as he tried to measure out his elderflower cordial.
"They're fine with it. I'm not on active service at the moment." He stooped to check the level.
"And the other pilots? What do they think of you baking?" Sue propped her hip against his counter, narrowly missing knocking his bottle over with her elbow.
Andrew shook his head, smiling. "They give me some stick."
"Really?" Sue leaned forward, like a dog scenting meat.
"Oh yes!" He laughed. "Rex always teases…" He trailed off. Grief rose to the surface, rendering him speechless. He took a deep breath in through his nose. And then another. Clearing his throat, he made himself continue. "Rex always teased me about it something rotten."
Sue's expression had changed from sharply curious to watchful. "Rex?"
Andrew licked his dry lips, and gave up trying to work. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to do next. "He died." Sue looked shocked, and saddened. "He was my best friend. And he died."
"Oh mate, I'm sorry." He was horribly aware that his vision was blurring. He forced himself to just keep breathing.
"He was shot down, when we were on tour in Syria, nearly a year ago." Sue placed a hand on his arm, turning him towards her and then she was hugging him. Andrew tried desperately to cling onto his composure. For a moment, he missed his mother.
She pulled away. "I'm so sorry." He made a it's alright noise. Sue turned to the camera and politely told them to "shove off." Surprisingly, they went. Andrew watched them go, bemused. "They know that if they don't, I'll just start swearing, so then they can't use the footage anyway."
"Thank you." His voice was rough, his emotions barely contained. Sue patted his arm gently.
"If you need a minute," she gestured to the exit. He shook his head, and with one last pat, she left him to go and talk to someone else. Andrew felt like the whole tent must be staring at him, but when he risked a look around, he realised that they were all too busy getting on with their cheesecakes. Except for Sam, who had abandoned her bake to round his counter.
"Sam…" He waved towards her bench, but she merely used this as an opportunity to slide under his outstretched arm, wrapping both of hers around him in a fierce hug.
"I didn't know." Her voice was a whisper against his shoulder. "I didn't know."
Her sympathy caused something to break, and he clung to her, burying his face against her curls. He didn't weep, but his throat was tight, his eyes burned, and he shook with the strength of his emotions. "I know," he managed to croak out.
He wasn't sure how long they stood like that, too long probably. He made himself let go. Again, he looked around. And again, no-one was looking. And thankfully, there was no camera hovering nearby. "Thank you, Sam." He touched her face gently, with fingers that still shook. Her eyes were big with concern. "You need to get on with your bake."
She shook her head, but he nodded. "I'll be alright, I promise." Sam took a deep breath, narrowed her eyes, but eventually nodded. "Go and make your ginger beer, or whatever it is." This caused a ghost of a smile to appear, and Sam went back to her own station. He took a deep breath himself, checked his hands, still trembling, and then re-read his instructions to try and figure out what he was actually trying to do.
His cheesecake wasn't quite what he had wanted it to be, but all things considered, it hadn't turned out that bad. He sat between Sam and Milner, waiting for the judge's final decision. Sam was practically glowing, still buzzing from the judges' compliments towards her fizzy pop inspired cheesecake. She was sat so close to him, her shoulder was pressed against his, but he welcomed the touch. It helped to ground him, alleviating the exhaustion that was back in full force.
He managed to muster up a grin when his father was named Star Baker for the second time, pleased for him. He felt a twinge of sympathy for Hugh Reid who was sent home. Mostly, he felt relief that it was all over. Followed by a panicked realisation that he would have to do it all again next weekend. One step at a time. He managed to bring the panic under control before it could take over. Sam hugged him, distracting him, which was good. It allowed him to push the negative thoughts aside.
He didn't really want to talk to the cameras, but he managed to say how proud he was of his dad and they didn't seem to want any more. Once he was free, he wandered over to where his father was standing with Sam.
"I'll give you a lift." His father made the offer sound like an instruction, which it probably was. Andrew tried to argue, but was cut off firmly. "You're exhausted. Driving in your condition, you'd probably kill someone." Himself, although that went unsaid. Andrew found himself nodding along. "When you're ready," his father said, before heading off.
"Are you going to be ok?" Sam slid her hand into his and Andrew looked at in surprise. He felt a warmth on his cheeks and realised he was blushing.
"I will be." He squeezed her hand gently. "After some sleep."
"Do you think…" Sam hesitated, biting her lip. He frowned. It wasn't like her not to say what she was thinking. After a moment, she carried on, her tone cautious. "Do you think you should… talk to someone?"
He tensed slightly, but bit back the instant retort that it had nothing to so with her. She was his friend, or something like a friend, she was just concerned. "I have talked to someone Sam. They said it just takes time." You'll get through it. His father's advice had always resonated much more strongly than the therapist's and that's what he remembered now.
"Well, you can always talk to me." Sam wiggled her fingers, and he loosened his grip, thinking she wanted to let go. Instead, she interlaced their fingers. "I'm always here for you."
He suddenly, desperately wanted to kiss her, but checked himself. Not now, not when he was so all over the place emotionally. He made himself smile, and thanked her sincerely. They started heading after his father, hand in hand. There's always next week.
A/N
Hope that was ok. By the by, anyone recognise the bakes?