OKAY, BEAR WITH ME. You're going to think this is sappy as hell, but it's my current truth — as close to one as I can get anyway — so you'll have to deal.

When I was away at university, I was conscious of trying to exist a certain way. To fit in. To be smart. To walk the path I'd set out for myself by applying to that program in the first place. And that's not even taking into account the whole mess with Jules. I'm just talking about Maeve here; who I wanted to be.

Since I've been back, I've picked up a couple of shifts at the cafe. Mainly to help out while Mum's working out whether she's going to do a deal with Carvil. And that's been okay. Better than okay, even. It's been kind of good—another way of coming home.

During slow periods, I've been spending time in the cafe kitchen—just sort of digging out my old baking tins, the bowls, the measuring cups and spoons. Not using them yet. Just looking at them. Getting to know them again. Saying hello.

But an idea has been growing in the back of my mind that I might just work here again. Bake again.

When I bake — when I'm engaged in the process of weighing, sifting, spooning, folding — my mind goes completely still. I don't try to exist in any particular way. I just do.

The only thing stopping me, outside of Mum probably losing her mind about wasting my tuition and losing a year at school, is that they don't exactly need me in the kitchen anymore. They have croissants and eclairs, macarons, and all these gorgeous little cakes that the Patisserie Margolie delivers. My scones and muffins could never compete with all that French fanciness.

And no, that's not me looking for someone to say, "Oh, Maeve, you're such a good baker. There's room in the world for patisserie *and* scones!" It's really not.

I know I'm a good baker. I have an instinct for it. But when I sit down with one of those Margolie croissants and pull its translucent buttery sheets apart, it's like... I don't know. I feel like a finger painter standing in front of a Monet for the first time. Like realizing I might know the basics, but I haven't achieved mastery. Not even close.

The more I sit with that feeling, the more I start to see an unexpected path forward. Because, unlike most finger painters, I'm not discouraged by my evident lack of mastery. I'm kind of excited.

Instead of going back to school and paying them to teach me how to become soulless, what if I stayed here and learned how to bake? For real. Maybe apprentice under Margolie? Now that I've thought it, I can't stop thinking it. Baking makes me happy. Why not master what makes me happy and then do that for the rest of my life instead of wasting time getting a degree in something that gives me nothing back but a paycheque?

Jules has been helping me sort through these ideas. We've been texting and FaceTiming a bit since the night she told me she misses me and I didn't say it back. Keeping it light, but we're talking again. That in itself, plus this new vision of my future that might be forming — it feels pretty good.

I'm stacking the stainless steel bowls back on the shelves and thinking how I might convince Mum that ditching the rest of the year is a good plan when she comes through the backdoor looking a bit like a Scottish clown made a baby with one of Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love girls.

"Blergh," she says in greeting, pouring a glass of water straight from the tap.

"What. Is. All. This?" I wave my hand in a sort of sweeping gesture of distaste across the whole bizarre tartan outfit she's got on, starting at the oversized 80s shoulder pads and working down to the super-wide gold belt that looks a bit like a prom date's cumberbund.

"Vivian says it's retro-chic," she explains, tossing two painkillers down her throat and taking another swig of water.

"Well, it's retro. I dunno about chic."

She looks down at herself with a resigned look.

"I trust Viv. She says it's hot, so." Mum shrugs. "Honestly, I think she thinks this is a bigger deal than it is."

"She might not be wrong," I say, leading her over to the doors that swing out into the public area of the cafe. "Look at those cameras!"

Mum physically recoils from the doorway. I guess she wasn't prepared for whatever it is the Carvil team has planned. Unfortunately, Eloise (who I met earlier when she came in to start bossing people around and moving tables to create a more "dynamic space") sees her before she can retreat to the kitchen and pounces.

"Alice, thank god, there you are! You're late, you know. But Joss isn't here yet either, so you're off the hook. Okay, let's get you—" she stops abruptly, taking in Mum's crazy outfit. Eloise cocks her head to one side and gives Mum a long up and down. "A statement outfit. Eccentric. I love it. We can work with this. Yes, fine."

Then she bustles Mum into the bathroom, where a makeup artist is waiting.

"Just fix the face, please," Eloise shouts rudely across the room. "The hair will do. Don't touch the outfit! We LOVE the outfit!"

Then she scrambles off to speak importantly to the people wielding cameras and lights.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, JOSS has arrived looking as rich and slippery as I imagined he would. A lot younger than I expected, though. For a CEO, I mean. Natalie has already confided in me that he's insanely good-looking, and while I don't connect with it myself, I can see his effect on her.

I've never seen no-nonsense Natalie blush, but here she is, tucked away behind the bar, blushing away.

Eloise has tried to put Joss into makeup as well, but the most he's acquiesced to is a brush of powder.

"Okay, okay, let's get this over with," he shouts, batting the makeup artist away with a dismissive wave.

"Right! Places, please, everyone!" Eloise runs around, pointing and snapping at people like she's triaging patients in a war zone field hospital. "You, there! You cover that angle. Another camera behind the bar. Can you move?" She physically grasps Natalie's shoulders, manoeuvres her away from the espresso machine, and parks her over beside me, where I'm watching the chaos unfold. "Stay OUT of the dynamic space, please."

When she moves out of earshot, I lean over and whisper to Natalie, "At least she said please."

Natalie nods vacantly, her eyes still glued on Joss Carvil. Oh brother.

Eloise has my mother standing in front of the espresso machine now with a full jug of milk, and it suddenly dawns on me that what's about to happen is that they are going to make Mum dance.

Oh god. This isn't an interview at all. They're going to make a second video and hope it takes off like the first. But no follow-up video in the history of videos has EVER done better than the first. They fail miserably because they lack everything good about the original: spontaneity.

I can see Mum is also having this same horrible realization — she thought she would be chatting with a business journalist about the upcoming deal, not being made to dance like a Russian Bear at the circus. Poor Mum. I can tell from her face that she has no idea what to do.

Eloise points to the ceiling and counts backward. "Five, four, three, two..." she mouths one so her voice isn't picked up as the cameras' red lights blink on and music starts pouring through the speakers.

Ooh, baby, baby, ba-baby, baby
Ooh, baby, baby, ba-baby, baby
Get up on this!

Eloise makes silent spinning motions with her hand at Mum, who looks confused, holding her milk jug. Joss, who is standing in front of the bar, looking cool in a pair of sunglasses now, turns around and says out loud, "Come on, Alice. I don't have all day. Do the thing."

Eloise nearly busts a lung, shouting, "CUT! Starting over!" Then she hustles over to Mum and whispers in her ear, urgently and with hands flying for emphasis, until Mum finally nods. I can see she's paler and sicker looking than she started, which was already quite a lot. But she's nothing if she's not eager to please.

Satisfied that Mum's going to do her bit now that she understands what her bit is, Eloise goes back to her spot and does the countdown again.

This time, when the cameras wink red, and the music restarts, Mum cooperatively jiggles a little behind the counter. Joss stands there looking cool with his arms folded. After the intro, just as the singers start in on the recognizable chorus (Ah, Push It / Push It Real Good), three background dancers fly in through the cafe's front door and start gyrating around Joss.

Eloise is beaming. She signals to Mum that it's time to come out from behind the counter. Mum sort of moonwalks over to Joss, moving her shoulder pads around strangely to the beat.

C'mon girls, let's go show the guys that we know
How to become number one in a hot party show
Now push it

At this point, Joss reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a big fistful of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He holds them aloft.

Mum looks reluctant, but Eloise is jumping up and down now, motioning at her butt, so Mum finally does what's wanted of her. Accepting her fate, and with a full jug of milk sloshing all over, she does a half-hearted rendition of her original #bigbutts dance. The tartan jumpsuit only makes the whole thing more ridiculous.

Natalie and I look at each other in mutual mortification. She grips my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back.

As the song winds down, Joss tosses his wad of cash in Mum's direction so that it rains down on her. They shake hands, and then both pose, Joss with his hands tucked into his armpits like a B-Boy, grinning. The background dancers quit their leaping around and strike poses of their own. The cameras are still winking red as the last round of "ah, push it!" bounces from the speakers.

This is meant to be the end of the scene, everyone still as a statue and smiling, cash everywhere, but I notice Mum's looking paler and paler. Her smile fades before the cameras have stopped recording and her hand flies to her mouth. She looks around desperately before neatly vomiting right into her milk jug.