Baking with Hugh

This story is by Lori Paradis and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Lucy stood in her kitchen, bathed in a warm glow of sunlight. She wore a blue checkered apron, her hair swept back in a ponytail as she baked. She measured the ingredients, humming to herself as she whisked them together.

Suddenly, her eyes glazed over as she fell into a daydream. Hugh Grant materialized in her doorway from thin air, holding a cup of tea. “Well, I say, what’s this you’re doing? Finished writing your story, did you?” His lips brushed against the rim of the cup as he took a sip and fixed her with a curious gaze.

Her brows raised, and her mouth gaped before she found her voice. “Not yet,” she admitted, “I’ll get to it.” She went back to whisking, more aggressively now, as a tinge of pink seeped through her cheeks.

Lucy felt Hugh’s eyes on her as she cracked an egg. Its shell shattered so that the yoke ran down her arm. She threw her hands up. “What’s the point of entering a contest? I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.”

Hugh chuckled at her response, raising his eyebrows. “A perpetual overthinker, aren’t we?” He observed her with a knowing look. “Oh, darling, forgive my bemusement, but isn’t the essence of entering a contest to actually, well, win it? Rather straightforward, I’d say.”

She sighed, picking up another egg, this time gently cracking it into the bowl. “I think a story ultimately needs more meaning than that.”

“Is there, perhaps, another reason you’re putting this off?” Hugh inquired, his gaze penetrating.

She looked away, then forced herself to look back at him, raising her chin. An icy wind swept through the kitchen, and the sun clouded over. The cheerful wallpaper and checkered apron vanished, replaced by a desolate landscape, the counter of ingredients stretched before her.

Lucy persisted in mixing her ingredients, wind-blown hair in her face. “I’m not very good. I write a lot of silly things.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow. “meaning, me.”

She paused, whisking, and brushed her hair out of her face. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean you, I only meant–”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I get it. Rather daft, isn’t it, me being here?” With a half-smile playing on his lips, he leaned forward, eyebrows raised.

“I suppose it is. I was having a lovely time baking when you just appeared out of nowhere.” Lucy retorted.

“Ah, but I didn’t just appear, did I?” Hugh said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You were thinking about writing a story and needed a touch of romantic charm, a sprinkle of wit, something worthy of Hugh Grant,” he added with a theatrical flourish, taking a mock bow.

Lucy gave him a small smile, but her eyes betrayed a lingering sorrow.

Hugh seemed to consider her reaction as he pulled an umbrella from behind his back, leaning on it like a cane. “But…?”

Her face flushed scarlet, her eyebrows knitting together. She looked at the umbrella and then straight into Hugh’s blue eyes. “But what?” It was less a question and more a challenge. Ominous thunder rumbled nearby. “Say it, Hugh.”

He gave her a sympathetic look.

She shook her head, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’m not skilled enough to write lines for you. I’m wasting my time.”

Hugh opened the umbrella as it started raining.

Lucy ignored the rain and hastily cleaned up her workstation. She couldn’t help but recall the countless instances when her stories had been met with disdain and rejection. Frustrated, she wiped her hands on a rag and tossed it aside, her wet hair clinging to her face, the water rising so that the hem of her dress was soaked.

“I want to make this perfectly clear,” Hugh shouted as the wind escalated. “I never said that.” His voice softened as the wind calmed. “Let’s not forget–you’ve indeed penned a novel. Quite the accomplishment.”

She took a deep breath as the rain turned into a gentle sprinkle, contemplating his words. Then she straightened her posture, a flicker of determination igniting in her eyes. “I did. I finished writing a book.”

“Ah, we wouldn’t exactly say you’ve finished it, would we?” Hugh’s tone was teasing and supportive. “After all, you’re still knee-deep in—” he gave the rising water a cursory glance, “—editing.”

“Yes, but my writing is better than it was.” A hint of pride crept into her voice. “It’s not great, but it’s loads better than a year ago. I am getting better.”

“Why, you are! How on earth did you manage that?” He inquired with polite surprise and genuine curiosity.

“Well, I just practiced…uh…ah.”

“Ah…indeed, small steps and all that, my dear,” Hugh nodded sagely. “So, are we agreed you will write your story?” The rain stopped, and Hugh lowered his umbrella, his trousers sodden in the flood. “Okay then.” He clasped his hands together with anticipation. “The eternal question of what to write about… perhaps a tale of love and misadventure, with a sprinkle of wit and charm. What say you?”

“I could write a story about love and loss,” she mused, her thoughts taking shape. “But is that really meaningful?”

Hugh nodded, his expression reflecting deep consideration. “To one grappling with the throes of heartache, such a tale could be a source of wisdom and consolation.”

Lucy wasn’t feeling it. There were no creative stirrings whatsoever. “I need cake.” She looked about her, trying to find her bowl of batter.

Hugh chuckled. “No, no, my dear. If we stop to make a cake, we’ll never reach the finished story, will we?”

She considered for a moment. “But if I don’t make a cake, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it. Then I’ll end up writing about cake,” she protested, striking Hugh with a plaintive look.

Hugh sighed. “Then write about cake if you must. Just as long as you write.”

Lucy cracked a smile, and a desk and computer replaced her kitchen counter. She bounced in her chair, turning and clicking merrily at her keyboard.

Hugh paced to the window and muttered quietly, “We’ll just edit the cake out later.”

She replied, upbeat and breathy, “Depends on how hungry I am when editing.”

Lucy finished writing about cake, and her hands became immobile at the keyboard once more.

Hugh turned and gave the back of her head a stern look. “Shall we crack on, then?”

Her eyes looked off into the distance as her heart grew heavy. “I don’t think I’m turning the story in,” Lucy said.

“But why?”

“Because there’s no way I’ll win!”

Silence enveloped the room.

“So.” Hugh said slowly, “That’s the crux of writing, is it? Merely to win?” His thin lips pressed together.

She closed her eyes. Writing proved more challenging than she expected. Her words never lived up to the grandeur in her mind, causing unbearable self-disappointment. A single tear cascaded down her cheek.

Had she entered a writing contest to win, or was it simply for the joy of participating?

Her lips twitched into a smile, and she opened her eyes, turning to him. “No,” she said with finality. “I entered to finish.” She turned back to her keyboard, typing furiously now. “The point is to finish and learn from the experience so that—perhaps—I’ll continue to improve at the craft.”

Then her brow furrowed, and a dark cloud hung over her. “But if I don’t have it finished in the way I want…”

He offered her a compassionate smile. “Then, you don’t have to hand it in.”

A breath escaped her. They sat there like that as Lucy typed away. Finally, the clickety-clack of her keyboard stopped.

Hugh looked over her shoulder. “Sorry to pry, but might this be your tale, then? Not one to judge, of course, just terribly curious.”

Lucy held her hands, showcasing her screen with dramatic effect. “This is it.”

“Well, you’ve written about writing, haven’t you? Quite amusing, I must say. But, um, dare I suggest, it might have had a tad more oomph with a metaphor, don’t you think?”

“Everything’s better as a metaphor!” she exclaimed, folding her arms across her keyboard and dropping her head in them.

“There, there, dear,” he gazed absently into the distance, giving her a comforting pat on the back. “Now, what’s your plan, hmm?”

Her head popped up, and she blew the hair that had fallen in her eyes before sitting up straight. She looked the story over, reading each word carefully, working the words with a voiceless mouth, tying the words together here and separating them there. She pondered the work and was aware of its considerable imperfection, so she sat ruminating for quite some time.

Then, with determination, Lucy pressed the send button, delivering her story to the world, imperfect yet complete.

As she watched the progress bar inch forward, she knew that tomorrow would bring another opportunity to write, another chance to learn and grow.

And for now, that was enough.