Read The Secret Cooking Club for Free Online Page A

you say that youmade them?’
    Violet puts her hands on her hips. ‘For your information, no one saw me put them there. I thought it would be fun to have it be a secret. I’m not going to say who made them.’
    â€˜Oh.’ I feel so stupid. I can’t tell Violet about why I don’t want to be involved – it all just sounds so lame.
    â€˜So, what’s wrong, Scarlett?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ I turn away and leave the canteen.

    I rush down the corridor. Violet could have been my friend and I’ve ruined it. Why can’t I just tell her the truth – that I’m scared to do anything because of Mum and her stupid blog. Why did I go to Mrs Simpson’s house, and why did Violet have to find me? Why did Violet have to come to our school at all?
    In the girls’ loos, I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison who are on their way out. ‘Hey, watch it.’ Gretchen teeters backwards.
    I lock myself in a cubicle.
    â€˜You OK, Scarlett?’ Gretchen almost manages to sound concerned.
    â€˜Come on, Gretch,’ Alison says.
    â€˜I think she’s crying.’
    â€˜No I’m not!’
    â€˜Whatever.’
    I wait in the cubicle until I’m sure they’re gone. A part of me knows that I’m acting totally irrational – like I’m outside my own body watching a crazy person. And then a new coldness washes over me. What if Gretchen tells Mum that she saw me crying like a big baby?
    The loo door bangs behind me as I run out into the hall. Keeping my head bowed low, I push past the people in the corridor and run out of the school.

A SPOONFUL OF SECRETS
    W hat am I doing? Where am I even going? I hurry past the shops, practically knocking down an old man pulling along a battered shopping trolley. I almost get hit as a lorry grinds to a stop in the middle of the zebra crossing. All the time I’m heading towards home – but I don’t want to go home. Thoughts flash into my head: Help! My selfish daughter tried to run away , or worse: Help! My daughter ran away and then, unfortunately, came back!
    Panting for breath, I finally stop. I’m standing on the doorstep of Mrs Simpson’s house. I get the key out from under the mat, open the door and letmyself inside.
    The cat is there just inside the door. I scoop it up and sob into its black fur. It purrs in my arms but flicks its tail, like it’s deciding whether or not to tolerate me.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I say, setting it down. ‘You’ve got your own problems, haven’t you?’
    The cat struts into the kitchen, meowing for food. I follow slowly behind, my heart finally slowing in the calm quiet of Mrs Simpson’s kitchen. The recipe notebook is on the bookstand where I left it. But I’m almost positive that I left it open on the scones page. Now, it’s flipped open to a page on ‘Pat-a-cake Flapjacks’. There’s a drawing cut from an old book and pasted on to the page of a little boy in a puffy white baker’s hat. There’s a hand-drawn border around him of steaming pies and iced cakes.
    I flip through the notebook, my mouth watering at the possibilities: Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread, Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts, The Princess and the Pea Soup, Simple Simon’s Cottage Pie. But in the end, I turn back to the Pat-a-cake Flapjacks. Whatever they are – I need to make them.
    Just like before, nearly every ingredient called for in the recipe is almost immediately to hand – like some kind of magic baking elf has been atwork. Next to the recipe book, there are even two bars of Belgian cooking chocolate on the worktop that I swear weren’t there last time. It’s definitely a little weird, but I decide to make the best of it. I put on an apron, wash my hands and get started. I even remember to preheat the oven this time.
    The cat sits and watches as I work. First, I read through the recipe so I know exactly