With some difficulty I fished the flyer out of the bin and smoothed it out on my desk, then I sat back in my chair and rested my hands on my bump. I was seven months’ pregnant with my second baby and I felt enormous. Absolutely the last thing I wanted to do was take part in a baking competition. Especially as I was no baker. But Harry was very persuasive and the fact was, I grimaced, she was right. Again.

Harry and I both lived in Edinburgh now but my mum, Tess, and Harry’s mum, Suky, lived in a small town called Claddach in the Scottish Highlands where they ran a cafe with their friend Eva. Eva’s husband Allan was an artist and he looked after the top floor of the loch-side, running it as a gallery and small arts centre. But a couple of years ago, a huge avalanche had cut off the town for a whole winter – making the bohemian tourists look elsewhere for their writing/painting/pottery/poetry retreats, and they’d never really come back. Businesses were suffering and something had to be done to put Claddach back on the map. And, much to my horror, Harry had decided she was the person to do it.

She’d found this baking competition – it was an annual thing apparently and very popular – and somehow convinced the organisers to hold it on the shores of the loch next to the cafe. She said the publicity would be worth thousands of pounds, and if we were to enter the competition, it would be even better.

I picked up the flyer and sighed. I supposed she had a point – it was a great opportunity. I just didn’t really want to be involved.

Britain Bakes! the paper said. Do you have what it takes to bake your way to the top? Then enter our tasty competition and prove it!

I shook my head. There were so many things wrong with this whole situation that I didn’t know where to begin.

For a start, like I said, I was pregnant. And grumpy. Sweating over an oven as I fended off midges on the shores of the loch was not how I planned to spend the last few weekends before my baby arrived. And there was the tiny problem that I was useless at baking. Mum was brilliant, my Auntie Suky was brilliant, Harry – I had to grudgingly admit – had recently discovered a talent for whipping up the most amazing cakes. But I was hopeless. I had no business entering a baking competition.

I peered at the flyer again. At the bottom was a logo. It was a large H with swirly writing around it. Highland Television it said. WHAT?!

Harry came back into the office, her phone in her hand.

‘It’s on bloody TV,’ I said. ‘It’s on Highland Television.’

‘Is it?’ Harry said. She didn’t sound very surprised.

‘You knew?’

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted, sitting down opposite me and thumbing through some papers on my desk. ‘But that’s why it’s so great. The cafe will get so much publicity. Claddach will look amazing. Tourists will flock there and takings will go through the roof.’

‘I don’t want to be on TV,’ I said. ‘What if someone I know sees it?’

‘They’re not likely to watch Highland Television, are they?’ Harry pointed out. ‘I think it’s got something like ten viewers.’

She didn’t quite meet my eye, though, so I suspected HTV got a lot more viewers than that.

‘Anyway, it’s too late,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s all sorted. There are six contestants, including us, two judges and loads of crew. Milicent’s beside herself with joy because they’re all staying at her B&B.’

I grinned. Milicent was the local hotelier. She was a real character with a heart of gold, and she would love all the extra people descending on Claddach.

‘We start filming next weekend.’

‘Next weekend!’ I practically shouted. ‘Aren’t there like auditions and heats and things to get through first?’

Harry looked shifty.

‘Well, yes there were,’ she said. ‘But I had a word with the producers and they saved two spots for us.’

‘A word?’ I said. ‘What word would that be?

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