Caramel Hearts Read Online Free

not like anyone else is going to talk about these things – Hatty gets too embarrassed – but still!
    I realize I’ve been daydreaming and the dough has turned lumpy. I turn the mixture out onto the kitchen surface and start to knead, hoping this will help. Everytime I lift my hand, the dough sticks and, no matter what I try, I can’t make it stop. Taking a deep breath and checking the recipe, I realize I haven’t floured the surface. Annoyed at myself for missing such a basic detail, I grab a fistful of flour and wiggle my fingers so it falls like snow. The dough works better this time, and I relax into the kneading, enjoying the rhythmic strokes – until I realize I’m missing a rolling pin. When did I get so crap at following instructions?
    I grab the first heavy item I can find – a supersize tin of beans – and lay it flat on the dough. I try to roll. But once again, the mixture sticks. It lifts with the tin, breaking into gloopy blobs and slopping back down onto the surface. Sweating and cross, I squash the dough together as best I can and pound it into shape with my fists. The citrusy, chocolatey aroma makes my mouth water. I pull a bit of the dough off and let it melt slowly on my tongue. The velveteen mixture’s dead tasty. These are going to be divine! Hurriedly, I check the recipe one last time: “ Use a heart-shaped biscuit cutter to get as many biscuits as you can out of the dough .”
    That’s a laugh – and I can’t even imagine Mam writing it. There’s nothing heart-shaped or patterned anywhere. “False hearts and broken promises are the reason I drink,” Mam always says. When she’s not blaming me. But the recipe is proof that she must have believed in love once upon a time, and I can’t help wondering why she changed her mind. She says it’s Dad’s fault, of course – we all know nothing is ever down to her – but she’s never actually explained why they split up. You get the feeling she’s hiding something.
    After fashioning my own heart shapes with a dinner knife, I place them carefully on the baking tray. I reread the bit about the icing sugar – “ seal with a kiss ” – and a boy’s face from school unexpectedly pops into my head: Jack Whitman. Even though I’m alone, my face burns. Pushing him out of my mind, I splash sugar on the biscuits and pop them into the smoking oven. Ignoring the acrid burning smell, I set about cleaning up.
    The tidying takes longer than expected. Flour dusts the floor, the worktops and my hair. Wherever I turn, there’s another doughy handprint or footprint. I’ve trampled it everywhere and, to make matters worse, the dough isn’t easy to wash away. Like the clay we use in Art class, it clogs the sink.
    â€œHatty’s going to kill me…”
    I check the time. My sister’s probably due back any minute. And I’m meant to be at school. A loud whoosh catches my attention and I turn to see flames lapping out of the oven.
    â€œHoly crap!”
    I bust the oven door open. Angry blue and yellow tongues flick out. The fat on the shelf has caught fire. I’m definitely dead meat now. I cross my fingers and hope that Hatty will be too busy celebrating her new job to get angry with me. Grabbing a bunched-up tea towel – I’ve discovered we don’t own an oven glove – I try to snatch the baking tray out of the fire but the heat is too strong. The flames lap higher, blackening the ceiling. Smoke fills the kitchen, spilling into the passageway.
    â€œLiv, is that you?” I hear Hatty call out. I hadn’t even heard the front door slam. “Liv? What are you doinghome? Pauline next-door called me – said she’d heard noises… What the—?”
    Hatty runs full speed into the kitchen and flings her bag across the floor.
    â€œQuick, get me a damp tea towel!”
    I do as I’m told. Within