скачать книгу бесплатно
‘But I don’t know how …’
‘For God’s sake, Morgan. There’s a door at the front. You know the round bit you can see through? Open it and put your T-shirt in. Then open the little drawer at the top and put in some powder …’
‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear—’
‘I’m not whispering …’
‘Speak up!’
‘Put-powder-in-the-little-drawer,’ I bark, at which the man raises a brow in amusement.
‘Where is it?’
‘For goodness’ sake! It’s the big white appliance, the one that’s not the freezer, the one that doesn’t have peas in it …’
‘I mean the powder—’
‘Cupboard under the sink,’ I growl. There’s some urgent rummaging, then the machine door is slammed shut. Hope he hasn’t broken it.
‘Now what?’ Morgan huffs.
‘Select the programme,’ I instruct him as, mercifully, the man seems to understand that I require privacy and strides ahead. ‘That’s the round dial with numbers on at the top,’ I add. ‘30 degrees is probably best. Nothing bad ever happens at that temperature. Okay now?’
I hear clicking noises. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘Have you turned it on?’
‘God, Mum, why does it have to be so complicated …’
‘There’s an on button,’ I snap. ‘It’s not complicated. Just press the damn thing …’
‘How am I s’posed to know …’
‘You should know,’ I retort, far too loudly for the tranquil surroundings, ‘because I gave you that washing machine tutorial, remember? I showed you the dial and the little drawer but you wouldn’t pay attention. You wandered off to get ice cream …’
‘It really wasn’t that interesting,’ Morgan mutters.
‘No, I suppose it wasn’t, but what if I’d been teaching you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and you’d wandered off then, more interested in stuffing your face full of Ben & Jerry’s than saving a life?’
He splutters. ‘All right, all right! No need to go off on one. I was only asking …’ Now he sounds genuinely upset. I stop on the path, breathing slowly, and watch a squirrel scampering up a tree.
‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sound so snappy.’
‘Yeah, well, I was only asking for a bit of help.’
Guilt niggles in my stomach. ‘Yes, I know. Look, I suppose I’m just a bit nervous about this whole hotel thing, okay? And I know I shouldn’t have just left like that, without saying goodbye …’ I trot up the wide stone steps and enter the hotel’s revolving doors. In the enormous foyer, the posh car man is waiting to be attended to at reception.
‘S’all right,’ Morgan mumbles.
‘I love you, darling.’
‘Love you too,’ he says grudgingly.
‘Did you enjoy the cakes?’
‘Haven’t tried them yet, had other stuff on my mind …’
I smile. ‘Like your T-shirt.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you managed to start the washing machine yet?’
‘Nah. Think something’s wrong with it …’
I inhale deeply and murmur, ‘Just hand-wash it, darling,’ and finish the call.
An elderly couple drift away from the desk, and the receptionist beams expectantly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Erm, I think this man was first …’ I indicate the stranger, noting his soft grey eyes and the dark lashes around them. He has that bone structure thing going on: strong nose, defined jawline and chin. Bet he’s the sort who knows about wine and whirls it around and sniffs it instead of tipping it straight down his neck.
‘No, no, after you,’ he says graciously.
‘Oh, thank you.’ I pull my case towards the desk.
‘Do you have a reservation?’ The receptionist’s glossy black hair is tucked behind her dainty ears, and she has the kind of bright, white teeth that make ordinary un-veneered ones – the kind everyone used to have, perfectly serviceable teeth – look like trowels in comparison.
‘I’m Audrey Pepper,’ I say. ‘I’m here for the cookery course …’
She blinks at me. ‘The residential?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
There’s an almost imperceptible frown as she starts tapping away at her keyboard, still seeming unsure and perhaps suspecting that I’m trying to sneak my way in. ‘Ah, yes.’ Her pencilled brows shoot up. ‘Here you are. Oh, you’re in the honeymoon suite! It’s beautiful. I do hope you like it …’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘If you could just complete this form …’
‘Yes, of course …’ I fill in my details and hand it back to her.
‘And if I could just take an imprint of a credit or debit card please …’ A wave of panic rushes over me as I rummage through my purse.
‘It is paid for, the room? The suite, I mean?’ I haven’t made some awful mistake and it’s not free after all? Sweat springs from my forehead.
‘Oh yes, madam,’ she says brightly, taking my card and swiping it before handing it back. ‘Great, all done. I’ll ask Jasper to show you to your room …’ She waves to a uniformed porter across the foyer. I hover, hoping Jasper’s too busy to help me because I’d rather find my room myself and avoid some sweat-making tipping scenario (not a problem at a Day’s Inn motel).
‘I’m on the cookery course too,’ the posh car man offers.
‘Oh, are you?’
His eyes crinkle appealingly. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘No, not really – I mean, I have no idea who goes on these kind of things. I won my place in a competition …’
‘Really?’ the receptionist asks. ‘Which one?’
I sense my cheeks flushing. ‘Dinner lady of the year.’
‘Wow!’ She bares her perfect teeth. ‘That’s, er, fantastic!’
‘Dinner lady of the year?’ the man exclaims in one of those rich, rounded voices that carries across a room. ‘Gosh, you’ll be showing the rest of us a thing or two …’
‘Oh, I don’t actually cook at school—’
‘Sorry, I just assumed …’
‘Don’t worry, everyone does.’ I smile.
‘So you’re not vastly experienced in the world of classic French cuisine?’
‘Not remotely,’ I reply, laughing. ‘To be honest, I don’t exactly know what it is.’
He chuckles. ‘Can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. We can sit in the dunce corner together …’
I laugh, sensing myself relaxing. ‘Sounds good to me.’
He reaches to shake my hand. ‘I’m Hugo. Hugo Fairchurch …’
‘I’m Audrey, Audrey Pepper.’
‘What a lovely, unusual name.’
I smile, taken aback by his enthusiasm. ‘Thank you. I must admit, no one’s ever said that before.’
‘It’s charming. Very memorable. See you at the welcome reception then,’ he says as the ridiculously buff young porter takes my suitcase and escorts me towards the lift. We wait in stilted silence. No one takes you to your room in the kind of places I usually stay at. But then, I have every right to be here, brassy highlights and charity shop dress and all. I can’t cook anything fancy but then neither can Hugo, who’s bantering away in jovial tones with the glossy receptionist. The lift arrives, and his voice rings out as I step in: ‘A dinner lady on a classic French cookery course. Isn’t that just so sweet?’
Chapter Nine (#ulink_b6f6a501-e4e7-5904-8b73-3528d47313b9)
Fungal Popcorn (#ulink_b6f6a501-e4e7-5904-8b73-3528d47313b9)
He didn’t mean to be patronising, I tell myself as I gaze around my suite. It’s just funny, to someone like him. He probably thinks we still dish up Spam fritters and disgusting mince with a tidemark of orangey grease floating around the edge. Anyway, never mind Hugo; I’m far too excited to feel annoyed about an offhand remark. I managed the tipping scenario by pressing a fiver into the porter’s hand (he looked faintly surprised; was it too little? Too much?) and, more importantly, this place is gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling brocade curtains are held back with tasselled golden ropes, and the enormous four-poster bed is strewn with sumptuous furry cushions and throws. It is, I decide, unable to suppress a ridiculous grin, very Audrey.
Oh, she probably wouldn’t fling herself onto the bed with a whoop of delight – and with her shoes still on – like I do. But who’s watching? I stretch out like a giant starfish, relishing the bed’s vastness with the baby-soft covers billowing all around me. It feels like a continent compared to my bed at home. Thank God Stevie’s not here. It’s not that I don’t appreciate champagne, great sex and a Ginsters pasty. But if he were here he’d be pawing at me already and right now, I just want to be.
Scrambling up into a cross-legged position, I scan the room for a laminated card advertising the £5 all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. Of course there isn’t one. No hum of motorway traffic either, or a crappy chipped desk. There’s a polished oval table and two plump armchairs upholstered in pink brocade which look as if no human bottom has ever parked itself on them. There’s a huge, velvety sofa – how much furniture does one person need? – and from here I can see there’s another sofa in my other room (two rooms, just for me!) perfectly positioned for gazing down at the walled garden below. The bathroom is dazzlingly bright, with white mosaic tiles, a vast oval bath and a shower that’s easily roomy enough for four. The elaborate chrome knobs and dials have settings to replicate various weather conditions: fine drizzle, summer rain, downpour. I’ll try them all, first chance I get. I’ll experience multiple climatic conditions.
Feeling peckish now, I bound off the bed and burrow in my bag for the remaining motorway muffins. They’re squashed flat in their cellophane wrappers. While I’d normally scoff them anyway, it doesn’t feel right in such beautiful surroundings. Instead, I select a plump nectarine from the fruit bowl which has been thoughtfully put out for me, and feel as if I am almost sullying the room by dropping the stone into the waste paper bin.
Further explorations reveal that a gleaming dark wooden cupboard is in fact a fridge filled with booze, plus a multitude of snacks: three types of nuts, including pecans! Packets of thyme and shallot-flavoured crisps! A crinkly bag of truffle popcorn, several biscuit varieties including stem ginger, and a box of red foil-wrapped Kirsch Kisses, whatever they might be! There’s even a glass dish with a lid, filled with tiny slices of lemon. At Charnock Richard you don’t even get a bourbon biscuit.
I check the time – still half an hour until the welcome reception – and remove all the edibles from the cupboard and set them out carefully on the table. Grabbing my phone, I take pictures of the pleasing arrangement from all angles to show everyone back home. I also take a selfie, my grinning face poking in from the side in front of the swanky snacks. Kim, Cheryl and Ellie won’t believe what you get here. Neither will Paul. He eats like a horse; I often spot him marching about Mrs B’s garden clutching an enormous doorstep of a sandwich. He never seems to stop to eat lunch. So I stash all three packets of crisps into my case for him – handy to eat while he works – plus the pecans for Morgan as, to my knowledge, he’s never tried them. That boy needs to be educated in the world of posh nuts. The Kirsch Kisses will do nicely for Mrs B – nuts get jammed in her dentures – and the ginger cookies will be handy for home. It occurs to me that there’s not an awful lot left to last me the rest of the week, but I want to take a few presents home.
To quell my pre-reception nerves – and make use of the lemon slices – I pour myself a gin and tonic, discovering that the fridge has a tiny freezer section at the top, with ice cubes. Can life get any better than this? I prowl around my suite, clinking my glass and taking pictures of the pink chairs, the bed and the sweeping view of the manicured gardens below. In the bathroom I photograph the basket of Molton Brown toiletries and the scented candle in its glass and chrome jar. I try on the fluffy white bathrobe over my dress, then carefully hang it back in the wardrobe. I pop open the bag of truffle popcorn and recoil at the earthy whiff. I’d expected chocolate. It smells like soil and the popcorns are flecked with black bits as if they’ve been swept up off the pavement. I try a single piece, crunching tentatively; it’s sort of fungal, bringing to mind Morgan’s athlete’s foot. I spit it into a wad of super-soft loo roll and drop it into the bathroom bin.
Ping! I snatch my phone from my bag: three missed texts from Morgan. They read Mum?, then MUM?!, then, Hand wash T shirt how???? I sip my gin and reply: Fill sink with warm sudsy water, squish about with your hands and rinse clean. As I picture my boy, dutifully laundering away at the kitchen sink, my heart swells with love for him. Okay, he’s an idiot, but we don’t do too badly, I reflect, just the two of us. Well, the three of us now Jenna’s virtually a permanent fixture at our place.
Feeling all warm and, admittedly, a little tipsy now, I inhale my room’s sweet scent. As there’s no obvious source of the smell – no dusty old pot pourri – I can only assume it’s being piped in from some secret source. However, while it’s lovely here, inhaling vanilla and gin, I’d better get downstairs for the welcome reception. I redo my make-up – or rather, apply another layer on top – and clean my teeth extra thoroughly so no one knows I hurled myself at the booze.
Just before leaving, I check my reflection in the full-length mirror. The vivid orange floral print of my dress seems to have faded to a doleful peach. Never mind, people will probably assume it’s properly vintage – and vintage is meant to be faded – rather than merely second-hand. Remembering that long hair should be tied back, I rummage in vain through my toilet bag for a hair band or scrunchie. Damn, must’ve forgotten. I’ve got to find something. I plunder my case and find the sole pair of tights I brought with me. Using my nail scissors I hack off a leg and use it to secure a sort of casual topknot. Then, giving my room one last lustful glance, I glide towards the lift.
Wilton Grange Cookery School is housed in a stable block behind the main hotel. I cross the gravelled courtyard, conscious of a fungally gin taste lurking at the back of my throat. The huge barn-style doors are wide open, and the sound of chatter and laughter drifts out. Sounds like a party’s going on. A party where everyone – at least, everyone except Hugo – is capable of creating beautiful French lemon tarts as casually as if they were sticking fish fingers under the grill.
A young woman with flushed pink cheeks and a demure blonde plait spots me from the doorway. ‘Hi, are you on the course?’ she asks brightly.
‘Yes, I’m Audrey …’ I make my way towards her.
‘Hello, Audrey. Do come in.’ She flashes a warm smile. More perfect teeth. ‘I’m Chloe and I’m here to help with any queries you have. Let me get you your apron and badge …’ The stable block is already milling with what I assume are my fellow guests, or students, or whatever we’re called. I fix on what I hope is a confident smile as Chloe hands me my apron: dazzling white and emblazoned with Wilton Grange Cookery school in swirly blue letters on the bib. As Chloe swishes off, I pin on my circular ‘Audrey’ badge and glance around at the gaggle of women – and one man – who are all chatting animatedly. The women exude breezy confidence. They remind me of the popular set at school; the sporty girls, whom the boys would buzz around like wasps. Not one of them appears to be wearing a scrap of make-up. My lipstick feels claggy in the heat, and I discreetly wipe it off onto the back of my hand.
Whilst the women are definitely younger than I am, the sole male student present is ridiculously youthful: he has the carefree air of a gap year boy, complete with a mop of long dark hair, messily ponytailed, and an extravagant sleeve tattoo. How on earth am I going to fit in here? I mean, what will we talk about? I sense that flurry of apprehension starting up again.
The room is split into several cooking areas, each with its own worktop, oven and sink. The walls are whitewashed brickwork and shelves bear numerous stainless steel containers and bottles of various oils. Clumps of fresh herbs and garlic bulbs dangle from silver hooks, and several women in white overalls are buzzing around efficiently. Heck, I’ll just throw myself into the cooking. It’s always appealed to me, the idea of being able to rustle up proper, grown-up meals rather than the teen-friendly fare I consume daily. I could start inviting friends round more: maybe even Stevie. Yep, I sense my oven chip days are over …
Chloe reappears with a tray of shimmering glasses. ‘Would you like a drink, Audrey?’
‘Oh, thank you.’
She smiles briskly. ‘Wine, sparkling water or elderflower cordial?’
‘Cordial please,’ I say, hoping it’ll mask any lingering scent of Tanqueray.
A burst of deep, barking laughter rattles down the room. ‘That’s Brad,’ Chloe adds with a wry smile, indicating the huge bear of a man who’s just strolled in. ‘He’s your teacher. He’s an amazingly talented chef, but then, you’ll know all about him already …’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say quickly, assessing his broad, ruddy face topped off with a mop of cherubic pale blond curls. Several women have gathered around and are gazing at him reverentially while he holds court.
‘The plan is to have a bite to eat and get to know each other,’ Chloe continues cheerfully, ‘then you’ll start cooking …’
‘Really? We’re cooking today?’
She nods. ‘Didn’t you receive your itinerary when you booked?’
‘Um … no. It was a sort of last-minute thing.’
‘Well,’ she says kindly, ‘don’t worry. Just go with the flow and I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.’ With that, she scampers away to greet another new arrival.
It’s Hugo, thank goodness. He’s all jovial smiles as he pulls on his apron, pins on his badge and takes a glass from Chloe’s tray. ‘Do help yourselves to the buffet, everyone,’ she calls out, and we all drift towards the enormous table which is now entirely covered with platters of beautifully-presented miniature delicacies. There are tiny speckled eggs and prawns blanketed in what looks like fluffy foliage. There are dainty rolls of some kind of ham wrapped around dates, and tiny pancakes with blobs of creamy stuff, topped with little black beads. It’s quite dizzying.
‘Well, this is quite a spread, isn’t it?’ Hugo grabs a plate and starts loading it up with enthusiasm.
