much of a cook when I started out, but I’ve been doing this for years now! I’m not saying I could walk into a restaurant and do a dinner service, but I
do
cook, and I come up with tons of good ideas!’
‘Icing on the cake,’ Rory said. ‘You don’t bake the bloody cake.’
‘I
can
!’
‘You fucking
eat
the bloody cake, by the looks of you!’ he said. ‘And if you don’t lose the weight you’ve put on, we won’t be commissioning you again, Devon. No one will. You’re getting like the before picture in a weight-loss ad!’
It was like being slapped across the face – in front of a group of people who, before this awful meeting, had done nothing but crawl to Devon, telling her how wonderful she was. Total humiliation. And the worst part was that, years ago, Devon had actually had a brief affair with Rory. He’d been the producer who spotted her on
Wake up UK
and decided to give her a cooking show. It hadn’t been a casting-couch situation – Rory hadn’t made it a condition that she sleep with him – but, dazzled with excitement, Devon had done it anyway. The sex hadn’t been anything memorable, and nor had Rory’s pink, freckled, slightly podgy body, which looked a lot less impressive out of his smart business suits.
He’d talked dirty, she remembered bitterly. Told her how beautiful she was. Said he couldn’t believe he was getting to do it with her, to be exactly where so many men wanted to be. He hadn’t even lasted that long, too carried away with excitement at getting to see Devon McKenna naked. It had fizzled out quite soon –
just like him in bed
, she thought meanly – after the initial buzz had worn off. When the sex wasn’t that great, that was what happened. There hadn’t been any bad aftertaste. Rory was all business, and it had been a mutual, unspoken decision to let things tail off.
But now, looking at him, Devon felt her blood boil.
He’s put on weight, too
, she thought savagely,
and he wasn’t exactly skinny to begin with. All those expense account lunches and dinners – I can tell he’s got a paunch under that posh suit he’s wearing. Bastard! How dare he call me fat!
She stood up, pushing back her chair, all eyes in the room riveted to her. ‘I know I need to lose some weight,’ she said bravely. ‘I’ll go on a diet.’
Every single person there sagged visibly with relief. Devon was a high-earning brand, and their careers were all closely tied to hers; if she could pull herself out of this downward spiral, diet herself back into the size 12 Devon the nation loved . . .
‘
And
,’ she said, a martial light in her eyes, ‘I’m going to go on
1-2-3 Cook
. They’ve been asking me for years, and I never did it, because all you lot told me not to! Well, I
can
bloody cook, and I’ll show you I can!’
It would have been comical, the way her audience’s faces gaped in horror – from happiness to tragedy in a few seconds – if their expressions hadn’t demonstrated all too clearly how little faith they had in her cooking skills.
‘Devon!’ blurted out the previously loyal Bettany. ‘The reason we didn’t want you to do it is . . . well . . .’
She glanced swiftly round the table, hoping someone else would step in. No one did, not even Rory; but he gave her a sharp nod of assent, almost a command to continue.
‘
1-2-3 Cook
is
live
,’ Bettany went on, her voice wavering. ‘In
real time
. You only have half an hour to make a dish.
And
it’s in front of a studio audience. There are cameras
everywhere
. It’s really only for professional chefs – I mean, people who’ve worked in kitchens a lot, who do cooking demonstrations – you know we’ve always steered you away from those big live shows at Birmingham and Earl’s Court, it’s not the best use of your talents—’
‘This is exactly what I need to do!’ Devon interrupted imperiously. ‘I’m going to go on one of those crash protein-shake diets, and in a month I’ll have lost pounds
do
cook, and I come up with tons of good ideas!’
‘Icing on the cake,’ Rory said. ‘You don’t bake the bloody cake.’
‘I
can
!’
‘You fucking
eat
the bloody cake, by the looks of you!’ he said. ‘And if you don’t lose the weight you’ve put on, we won’t be commissioning you again, Devon. No one will. You’re getting like the before picture in a weight-loss ad!’
It was like being slapped across the face – in front of a group of people who, before this awful meeting, had done nothing but crawl to Devon, telling her how wonderful she was. Total humiliation. And the worst part was that, years ago, Devon had actually had a brief affair with Rory. He’d been the producer who spotted her on
Wake up UK
and decided to give her a cooking show. It hadn’t been a casting-couch situation – Rory hadn’t made it a condition that she sleep with him – but, dazzled with excitement, Devon had done it anyway. The sex hadn’t been anything memorable, and nor had Rory’s pink, freckled, slightly podgy body, which looked a lot less impressive out of his smart business suits.
He’d talked dirty, she remembered bitterly. Told her how beautiful she was. Said he couldn’t believe he was getting to do it with her, to be exactly where so many men wanted to be. He hadn’t even lasted that long, too carried away with excitement at getting to see Devon McKenna naked. It had fizzled out quite soon –
just like him in bed
, she thought meanly – after the initial buzz had worn off. When the sex wasn’t that great, that was what happened. There hadn’t been any bad aftertaste. Rory was all business, and it had been a mutual, unspoken decision to let things tail off.
But now, looking at him, Devon felt her blood boil.
He’s put on weight, too
, she thought savagely,
and he wasn’t exactly skinny to begin with. All those expense account lunches and dinners – I can tell he’s got a paunch under that posh suit he’s wearing. Bastard! How dare he call me fat!
She stood up, pushing back her chair, all eyes in the room riveted to her. ‘I know I need to lose some weight,’ she said bravely. ‘I’ll go on a diet.’
Every single person there sagged visibly with relief. Devon was a high-earning brand, and their careers were all closely tied to hers; if she could pull herself out of this downward spiral, diet herself back into the size 12 Devon the nation loved . . .
‘
And
,’ she said, a martial light in her eyes, ‘I’m going to go on
1-2-3 Cook
. They’ve been asking me for years, and I never did it, because all you lot told me not to! Well, I
can
bloody cook, and I’ll show you I can!’
It would have been comical, the way her audience’s faces gaped in horror – from happiness to tragedy in a few seconds – if their expressions hadn’t demonstrated all too clearly how little faith they had in her cooking skills.
‘Devon!’ blurted out the previously loyal Bettany. ‘The reason we didn’t want you to do it is . . . well . . .’
She glanced swiftly round the table, hoping someone else would step in. No one did, not even Rory; but he gave her a sharp nod of assent, almost a command to continue.
‘
1-2-3 Cook
is
live
,’ Bettany went on, her voice wavering. ‘In
real time
. You only have half an hour to make a dish.
And
it’s in front of a studio audience. There are cameras
everywhere
. It’s really only for professional chefs – I mean, people who’ve worked in kitchens a lot, who do cooking demonstrations – you know we’ve always steered you away from those big live shows at Birmingham and Earl’s Court, it’s not the best use of your talents—’
‘This is exactly what I need to do!’ Devon interrupted imperiously. ‘I’m going to go on one of those crash protein-shake diets, and in a month I’ll have lost pounds
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