Suneha Gowda

The Bakery Diaries

Novel extract

Chapter 1

4:00 am

Dear God. Make. It. Stop. 

I groan into my pillow as my alarm blares its dreadful cacophony for the fourth time this week. Forcing my heavy eyelids open, I fumble for the stop button on my phone and stare blankly at the ceiling. Even the devil clocks out at 3 am, and yet here I am, wrestling with my fractured sleep schedule like some sinner sentenced to insomnia purgatory. With a sigh of surrender, I throw back the blankets from my sinfully cosy bed and flick on my lamplight.

Across the room, my roommate mumbles into her pillow, burrowing deeper into her fortress of warmth. God, how I envy her. I’d give anything to stay cocooned between those layers, shielded from the horrors of the world outside. Instead, I drag myself to the bathroom, which I share with my roommate and two other flatmates. The cramped space bears the familiar chaos of half-empty shampoo bottles, a damp towel slung over the radiator, and the ever-missing toothpaste cap.

I splash my face with icy cold water, the shock feeling less like rejuvenation and more like punishment. I scrub my teeth half-awake, then shuffle back to my room where my neatly laid-out clothes wait for me on my desk chair, a silent testament to last night’s optimism. I start layering on the thermals, each a futile attempt to shield myself against the November chill.

I glance at the mirror and wish I hadn’t. After two months in London, my golden-brown skin has taken on a pallid, sickly hue. My once thick and defiant black hair hangs limp, as if it has been beaten into submission. And to add insult to injury, dark circles peek under my eyes. Grimacing, I slather on moisturiser, detangle my hair with reluctant force, and swipe on a tinted balm, the equivalent of sticking a band aid over a bullet wound.

Once I’ve deemed myself presentable enough for public scrutiny, I tug on my hideous, mustard-yellow winter jacket (two sizes too big) and a cheap beanie already fraying at the edges. Deliberately skipping gloves (I hate the constriction), I grab my keys, Oyster card, and a scrunchie in hand and ease the door shut behind me, careful not to disturb the fragile silence of my flatmates’ slumber.

As I descend the one-storey stairwell, the automatic lights flicker to life, bathing me in a stark electric glow that makes the early morning feel even more alien. I wonder if anyone in the building is awake, pondering who could be stepping out at this ungodly hour.

One, two, three…go! 

I tug the heavy door open, its groan echoing behind me, and step out with speedy conviction. The oppressive glow of the hallway dissolves into the darkness, and the frigid air hits me like a slap. My breath forms ghostly spirals as I zip up my padded jacket tighter, pretending it’s enough to shield myself from the biting cold. I wish the streets didn’t feel like the aftermath of an apocalypse — so desolate, so unforgiving, and so, so cold.

A peculiar cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety churns in my chest as I quicken my pace into a jog to keep warm and avoid any unwanted encounters. Just a few more minutes, I tell myself, as the shadows of loitering figures, homeless men and drunken souls, flit in my peripheral vision. My hair is strategically stuffed under my beanie in a futile attempt to pass as a boy, while my earphones blast a bizarrely upbeat song about whips and chains. It’s oddly comforting.

Some of my anxiety evaporates once my bus stop comes into view, a tiny beacon of hope in the endless night. I lean against the cold metal perch, lungs aching as I exhale. But before the breath escapes, headlights slice through the night like daggers. A car pulls up across the street, engine idling, and a strange man leans casually out the driver’s window. Hands draped over the steering wheel like he owns the road, he’s clad in all back, with that ridiculous backwards cap that all young men in London seem to think is cool. Worst of all, his eyes are bloodshot. Great, this is just what I need right now.  

“Oi! You Priya?” The voice is casual, almost cheerful, but something about it sets me on edge.

I stiffen, realising my beanie isn’t doing a great job of masking my gender, and I answer in the negative. 

“You sure, yeah?” He taunts, smirking. 

Yes, I’m pretty sure my name is Jhanvi, dickhead. 

“You got a fag?” he asks, like we’re old mates at a bus stop. 

I clamp my lips shut, pretending I haven’t heard him, my whole body taut with refusal. Even if I had a cigarette, nothing could compel me to go near him, not even a ten-foot pole. His engine hums low, a predator’s growl, stubborn as his persistence. I must give it to him: the man is resilient, even with his pupils blown wide, clearly higher than the stars.

My pulse drums in my ears, the silence between us stretching thin, until at last my bus screeches into view. I clamber aboard and sink into a seat, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the cold metal pole. Only when his car melts into the darkness, vanishing in the opposite direction, do I let myself relax. And as the city swallows him whole, one stray thought needles at me: who the hell is Priya?

4:58 am

I’m late. Not catastrophically late, but late enough to know I’ll be a few minutes off when I finally reach the bakery. My chest tightens with that familiar edge of dread as I clock in and blaze through the silent store. I burst into the cloakroom on the second floor, shove my jacket and scarf onto a half-broken hanger, and mutter half-hearted ‘good mornings’ to the handful of sleep-deprived faces scattered around me. Halfway down the stairs, I freeze.

My keycard is still in my jacket. Dammit.

By the time I reach the bakery floor, slightly out of breath and more than a little dishevelled, key card dangling mockingly from my wrist, I already know I’ve lost. The clock above the counter mercilessly blinks 5:05 am.

“You’re late,” Stacey remarks, not even looking up from her counter.

Stacey: 1              Jhanvi: 0

“Sorry,” I mutter, pushing through the hinged barricade that reads, “No apron, no entry.” The scent of freshly baked bread floods my nostrils, momentarily softening Stacey’s jab.

She’s already in full battle mode, blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that bobs furiously as she moves with military precision. I grab a hairnet and a freshly washed apron, then march to the Hothold kitchen to tie my hair into a low bun.

“Morning, Jaan!” Dylan’s voice booms cheerily from the far end of the store.

“Morning!” I yell back, forcing some enthusiasm into my voice.

I complete my pre-shift ritual of scrubbing my hands raw before heading over to Stacey, who’s training me this week. She looks more stressed than usual, her sharp eyes flicking from oven timers to trays to me like a hawk tackling prey.

“Okayyy, we’re a little behind today,’ she announces. When are we not? “So, I need you to pick up the pace, all right?”

I nod, swallowing my annoyance. It’s still astonishing how someone barely five feet tall and five years younger than me manages to talk down like she’s a drill sergeant.  

“All right,” I reply with forced enthusiasm that feels plastered on. Inside, I vow to be quicker than yesterday, though I made the same vow yesterday and still ended up behind.

The bakery itself hums with controlled chaos. Against the back wall, four industrial ovens roar like beats, their metal bellies glowing red. This is where all the magic and the occasional disasters happen. Two oversized refrigerators with frozen pastries and cookies hum nearby. Out front, three counters stand ready for traying and packing. On the customer side, the shelves are empty and barren, waiting to be filled.

I head to counter number three and tackle the easiest task: donuts. I drown the freshly baked rings in a disturbing amount of granulated sugar, coating them until they sparkle under the dim lights. Then, I pack them into annoyingly cute pink bags. It should take twenty minutes to knock out forty bags, but time in this bakery bends and stretches according to Stacey’s whims. Twenty minutes can easily become forty without warning.

An oven beeps, shrill and impatient.

“Jaaan, can you get it?” Stacey calls from across the store.

When did she even get over there? 

I jam my hands into bright red silicone gloves, a necessary armour against third-degree burns, and wrestle open the oven door. The blast of heat slams into me. Carefully, I slide the trays out, stacking them into a towering wheeled rack. I’ve been burned by these beasts before, my knuckles still bearing red, angry scars from last week, and I do not want a repeat.

Just as I finish, another oven screeches.

“Jaaaan, have you not gotten it yet?”

“It’s a different oven!”

I shuffle over to the next one, meticulously unloading trays of pastries, sweat already prickling at my temples, when—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Fucking hell. 

This time, it’s the lower left oven, arguably the most inconvenient one to reach since it’s practically on the floor. With a resigned groan, I crouch, tugging the trays free, when suddenly, Stacey materialises behind me.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, I jerk upright too fast. The tray kisses the side of my neck with blistering heat.

“Agh! I’m taking out the trays like you asked.”

“Why aren’t the donuts done yet?”

Stacey: 2              Jhanvi: 0

A string of colourful words bubbles up in my throat, but before they spill out and cost me this job, Dylan intervenes.

“Now, now, Stacey,” he says in that maddeningly calm voice. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s only been here a week.” 

Stacey snorts, “In my first week, my co-workers left me alone on my third day. Third day! Can you even imagine? I got everything done by myself.”

She punctuates her triumphant little speech by dismembering a box of frozen pain au chocolat. It’s the kind of dramatics I’m too tired to process.

Rolling my eyes, I return to my mountain of sugar and donuts. Somehow, this is my life now.

5:30 am

At last, the donuts are packed to perfection, rows of pink bags lined like sugary soldiers. I wrestle them into a massive plastic container already heaving with pre-packed cookies, limp defrosted muffins, and yesterday’s unwanted breads. Thank God for the unsung heroes of the night shift who mercifully prep the cookies for the AM team. 

Grunting, I hoist the container up onto a wheeled trolley. The weight nearly wrenches my arms from their sockets, my spine giving a loud protest. With all the grace of an overworked mule, I begin my delivery circuit, lumbering through the store’s empty bakery aisles. En route, I almost collide with Robert, who materialises like a shop-floor phantom. The man is always there, drifting about, seemingly without a single definable task.

“Sorry, love,” he mutters as I nearly plough him down, sidestepping the trolley at the last second before vanishing between shelves like a guilty ghost.

By the time I finish dropping off the goods without flattening any other co-workers, I return to the bakery, chest heaving. Stacey doesn’t bother with words. Instead, she jerks her chin toward my nemesis.

The baguettes.

My mortal enemy.

I groan and drag myself toward the towering pile, glaring at the smug sticks of doom waiting for me. Each must be slid into a branded paper sleeve proudly emblazoned with the company’s cringeworthy slogan: “Baking, it’s our bread & butter.” Right. Because clearly, the financial future of the entire franchise rests upon these crusty little saboteurs.

I grab the first one.

Ouch!

The jagged crust rakes across the back of my hand like a blade. I hiss as a thin line of blood blooms on my knuckle, the exact spot the goddamn baguettes always find. Do you see why I hate them? It’s not enough for them to be long, awkward, and impossible to stack. No, they’ve also got to be sharp and vindictive, thirsty for my blood.

Cursing under my breath, I rush to the sink and shove my hand under cold running water. The sting ignites instantly, soap and micro-cuts conspiring against me. The truth is undeniable: these baguettes aren’t just bread. They’re evil incarnate. And with every shift, they grow bolder.

“The baguettes get you again, darling?” Dylan’s voice purrs from directly behind me, far too close for comfort.

Jesus, ever heard of personal space, Dylan? 

“Unfortunately, yes,” I say and slip around him, artfully avoiding physical contact in a way women know all too well.

“Faaaster, Jaaaan,” Stacey’s voice cuts across the bakery like a knife, or perhaps, a baguette.

A half-baked plan forms in my mind: I could “accidentally” launch a baguette at her head and pretend it was Dylan. But reality bites harder than the baguette crusts. I need this job. I’ve made the choice to be independent, to cut off the financial umbilical cord from my parents. Running back to them, begging for money to pay my bills, is not only unthinkable but also embarrassing.

So I keep going. I bag each cursed breadstick, wincing as they carve tiny new stings into my skin, and shove them onto the rack. By the time I’m done, my hands look like I’ve wrestled a very angry hedgehog.

The agony is endless.

6:00 am

Just as the rhythm of trays, trolleys, and sugar-coated monotony begins to blur into one endless loop, she appears. A tall woman in a razor-cut pink suit sweeps into the bakery, her heels clicking against the tiles. Every sound announces her authority, slicing the air like gravel. My stomach knots instantly. This isn’t just another staff member wandering in; this is her. Margaret. The manager. The one whose approval determines whether I have a job past Christmas.

“Morning, Stacey; morning, Dylan; morning, Janae.”

For fuck’s sake. My name is Jhanvi. Jhan-vi! Two syllables. It’s not rocket science. Stacey insists on shortening it to ‘Jaan’ because, apparently, pronouncing two syllables is an affront to her delicate tongue. And now Margaret, in all her corporate glory, has taken it upon herself to remix my name entirely. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be Jasmine, or Janine. At this point, why not?

“Moorning,” I chirp, forcing my voice to sound as sugary sweet as a frosted donut.

She barely glances at Stacey or Dylan before zeroing in on me, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. “How’s our new hire doing?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine. My entire body goes rigid. I freeze mid-task, a ciabatta roll dangling precariously from my hand. And then, because fate is a cruel, stone-hearted bitch, my fingers suddenly lose all feeling. The roll slips free in perfect slow motion, tumbling, flipping, and bouncing against the floor before landing in defeat against Margaret’s feet.

“She’s alright.” 

“She’s great!”

Two voices, overlapping. You don’t need a detective to figure out who said what.  

Margaret raises a single eyebrow. The expression is surgical, hovering somewhere between mild amusement and disapproval, the kind that makes you shrivel no matter which way it leans.

“Right,” she says finally. Just one word, clipped and heavy with judgment. With a dismissive nod, she turns on her heel and strides away, sidestepping the stray roll near her feet. 

Meanwhile, I scramble after the rogue ciabatta, dropping into an awkward crouch like a child caught misbehaving. My cheeks burn as I scoop up the roll, muttering silent curses at my treacherous fingers. Of all the moments for my body to betray me, it had to be this one.

7:00 am

“Jaaaan, pastries!” Stacey’s voice cuts across the bakery like an alarm bell, but this time, I’m ready for her. Before the words even finish leaving her mouth, I’m already wheeling out the pastry rack like a knight drawing a sword. I meet her gaze with a mock-confused expression, as if to say, Am I supposed to be doing something else?

She falters for half a second, then waves me on with a sheepish, “Well, go on then!”

Stacey: 2              Jhanvi: 1

If there’s one thing I can claim total dominance over in this chaotic kingdom, it’s the pastries. Stacey slaps them onto the shelves with all the grace of a toddler throwing Lego blocks, and Dylan’s no better. Their “presentation skills” make the display look like a pastry massacre. But me? I treat it like art. Each pastry gets its own stage, carefully angled and placed with scientific precision.

I tenderly grab a croissant, the bakery’s undisputed bestseller, and place it onto the shelf like I’m crowning royalty. Its buttery layers glisten under the lights, golden and delicate, every swirl a testament to the patience of some unseen baker. Handling them day after day may have killed my appetite for eating pastries, but I can’t deny their aesthetic glory.

After allowing myself this one fleeting moment of admiration, I quickly tackle the rest of the pastries: pain aux raisins (passable at best), cinnamon buns (another crowd pleaser, though I can’t see why), chocolate twists (a basic bitch if I ever saw one), cheese pretzels (a crime against humanity), fruit scones (dry as sweetened sawdust), apple turnovers (don’t even get me started), and finally, palmier (my one true pastry love).

I take a step back and admire my work. For once, everything looks… perfect. Not a single croissant slouching, not a palmier out of place. And then, something miraculous happens. Stacey looks at my display, really looks at it. Her usual snark falters, replaced with something that could almost pass for admiration. She nods once and mutters, “Beautiful.”

Stacey: 2              Jhanvi: 2