A warm vanilla perfume, one question in the office kitchen on a Monday, and by Friday my name was on the charity bake sale sheet in someone else's handwriting.
'Have you been baking?'
It was Monday, in the office kitchen. I hadn't. I was wearing my autumn perfume, a warm vanilla signature with a slight biscuit vibe, like a kitchen on a Sunday.
'A bit,' I said.
That was the first lie.
By Wednesday, Sandra from accounts wanted my scone recipe. My oven still had the instruction manual inside it.
Every Wednesday morning, the office goes over last night's Bake Off. Now they wanted my opinion. I said the sponge looked underproved. Everyone nodded. I'm not sure that's a thing.
Then the sign-up sheet went up for Friday's charity bake sale. My name was already on it, in someone else's handwriting, underlined twice.
On Thursday night, I tried. The smoke alarm went off at 9:14. What came out of the tin was the height of a beer mat.
On Friday morning, I bought a Victoria sponge from the supermarket, moved it onto my own plate and roughed up the edges. Two dabs on each wrist. Then I carried it in.
Sandra had a slice before ten. She chewed slowly, looked at the cake, then looked at me.
'Lovely,' she said. 'Which supermarket?'
I opened my mouth. She gave me a cheeky wink and went back to her desk. Not a word to anyone.
It still sold first.
Next time I'm doing a lemon drizzle. Same recipe. Sandra's in on it now.
That's the trouble with a perfume this good. Smell like a kitchen on a Sunday for long enough, and sooner or later someone expects a cake.