“I’ll try.”
Wren hugged him. She registered a familiar clip-clop in the corridor, and as she let him go, she looked over his shoulder to see Olive glaring. Monique and Duscha stood behind.
“Dites rien.” Say nothing, Wren whispered in Benoit’s ear.
“I’m sitting in on your lesson today,” Olive said.
Fuck. “Great.” Wren hoped her smile didn’t crack her face.
Georg strode in, followed by Tomas, and the pair sat down. Wren dragged her gaze from Tomas’ outstretched legs, closed the door and faced the class.
“Good morning, everyone. Today we’re going to talk about our jobs. We can also use the word occupation. What’s your occupation? What do you do for a living? What’s your job? Georg? Would you like to start? What’s your occupation?”
“I am heat treatment engineer. I make metal best for work. It can be made soft, hard, strong, resistant to impact. Depends on how treated. It—”
“Hold on,” Wren said. “You could contract the ‘I am’. I’m a heat treatment engineer. I treat metal to make it suitable for use in different situations.”
“Yes. I do that.”
“Can you give us an example?”
Olive endured five minutes of Georg giving details of timings and temperature before she slunk out.
* * * * *
By the end of the day, Tomas had come to the conclusion Wren was doing everything she could to avoid speaking to either him or Adam. He’d tried to get her attention after the morning’s conversation class and failed. She hadn’t chosen him to talk about his job and they’d run out of time. He suspected that was deliberate. Not that he cared. He hadn’t looked forward to making bartending and shopping for loo rolls seem like something he was proud of.
Benoit had been a revelation. He photographed wildlife and when Wren persuaded him to show some of his photos on Georg’s laptop, Tomas had been seriously impressed. Benoit didn’t seem the type to go diving with killer whales. Even Monique had regarded him with awe.
At lunchtime, he and Adam had searched for Wren everywhere and not found her. In the afternoon, after the Italian for Travelers class ended, she’d slipped into the corridor and disappeared before they could get out of the room. Their plan to ask her for a drink before the cookery lesson that evening crumbled to dust.
“Pub?” Adam asked.
Tomas nodded.
They took their beers to a booth in the corner and sat down.
“This is my fault,” Adam muttered. “I’ve fucked things up.” He raised his head and eyeballed Tomas. “If a woman slunk out of my bed after we’d had sex, and then avoided talking to me, I’d assume she didn’t want anything more to do with me. I just wish Wren had given me the chance to apologize. To explain. She’s spent the day avoiding me.”
“Not just you. Both of us.”
Tomas suspected Wren’s behavior had as much to do with her suspicions about his job as it did with Adam’s sneaking out of her bed. But he could hardly tell him that. Though thinking about it, she’d been pissed off with him last night even before she got in the car.
“What are you thinking?” Adam asked.
“When I picked her up last night to take her to teach the group of women working for my boss, she was annoyed with me. I wonder if she saw us kiss.”
Adam raised his eyebrows.
“We’d just come back from Waterstone’s. I kissed her, my boss turned up, she left and then you kissed me. Maybe she saw.”
Tomas had no idea whether Wren had seen them or not, but it made him feel better not letting Adam believe this was his entire fault.
Adam put down his glass. “That’s not exactly a bad thing. We just need to let her know we want to kiss her too. But how are we going to do that if she hides from us?”
“We find her, pin her down and tell her,” Tomas said.
Adam laughed. “It’s that easy?”
“You can tell her first obviously.”
He laughed even harder.
* * * * *
Wren waited until the last possible minute to approach Alfred, Ezispeke’s caretaker. He was in his basement room, putting on his coat when she knocked on the door.
“Thank goodness I caught you,” she said. And thank goodness she and Alfred had always got on well. A mutual dislike of Jolene helped. Jolene had tried to persuade him to retire a few months ago.
“Hi, Wren, what’s up?” The white-haired guy smiled at her.
“You know I’ve a cookery class tonight? I bought the groceries this lunchtime and because there was too much to go in the staffroom fridge, Millie let me put the bags in the café’s cold storage. Except she’s gone home and of course, it’s locked. Could I borrow your master keys?”
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but even so Wren felt bad about the deceit.
“I’ll come and open it up for you.”
Nooo. “I’d rather not get it this minute. I’ve three cartons of cream in there. It’d be better if I collected it just before seven. I never even thought about the café closing. I could give you the keys back when you come to lock up.” She crossed her fingers behind her back.
He hesitated and then lifted the bundle off a hook. “Don’t lose them.”
“I’ll guard them with my life.”
“And don’t tell Olive.”
Wren popped the keys in her pocket and zipped her lips.
Once Alfred had left, she hurried to the café and carried the groceries down to the cookery room on the second floor. She wiped the countertops and laid everything out. Twenty minutes before the class started, so enough time to run to the office and start copying. But as she made for the door, Monique walked in.
“I didn’t see your name on the list,” Wren blurted.
“Jolene said it would be fine. Here’s my money.” She put twenty-five pounds in front of Wren.
“I’ve only bought enough ingredients for eight. I’m sorry.”
Monique shrugged. “I wait and see if someone doesn’t turn up.”
“Okay.” Maybe the French beauty would distract Tomas.
Wren was well aware both he and Adam wanted to speak to her, but the thought of it made her throat close up. She moved again toward the door, only to have her way blocked by another early arrival. Benoit. His face lit up and Wren didn’t have the heart to walk past him.
“I do really well with signatures,” he said. “Everyone wants to sign.”
“That’s great.”
“I’ll do more tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Benoit.”
He smiled again and headed for Monique. “You have a dog. You must like animals. Wren’s mother is trying to save their home. Sign this to help.”
He offered a pen but Monique removed one from her purse. “Why do you need to know courses I study?”
“To prove you’re students here,” Wren said.
Monique frowned but fortunately didn’t dwell on the point.
“Do you really want to cook tonight?” Monique said to Benoit.
“Monique!” Wren put as much of a warning tone in her voice as she could.
“Fine. I’ll help Benoit. We can work together.” Monique smiled at him.
Benoit’s jaw dropped. Wren’s followed.
* * * * *
After Adam had emptied his glass, they stood to leave the pub. As Tomas moved out of the booth after Adam, he spotted Sanjay sitting behind them. Christ. Concern and anger flared in his chest. When Sanjay followed Adam with his gaze, Tomas came straight to the boil.
“Wait outside,” he said, relieved when Adam pushed open the door and left without a word.
Had Sanjay heard them talking? Tomas had spoken quietly but he’d spoken without an accent. This was why having a relationship with anyone was a bad idea. Carelessness could get them killed.
Tomas slid into Sanjay’s booth and sat opposite.
Sanjay glanced pointedly at the exit Adam had used and then turned his gaze back on Tomas. “Marco says you have a girlfri
end.”
I’m going to fucking kill Marco. Tomas didn’t want this scumbag knowing anything about him.
“Wren.” Sanjay smiled. “He looks a much bigger bird.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Do not rise to the bait. Don’t explain Adam’s just a friend. Not that Sanjay would believe him.
Sanjay leaned across the table. “I’ll fly you and the little bird to Paris this weekend. Provide a room at the Victoria Palace Hotel. A meal at Lasserre. Then onto Château de Lys for some…fun.”
“While you wank off in London?”
Sanjay laughed. “I was thinking more of wanking on your fucking face.”
“Not interested.”
Tomas stood and Sanjay grabbed his wrist. Tomas looked down at the guy’s hand. “Not good idea.”
“No one around to save you this time.” Sanjay uncurled his fingers. “Be careful, Tomas.”
Tomas shook his sleeve down. He had a snappy remark sitting on his tongue but he swallowed it and left the pub.
Adam waited outside. “What was that about?” he asked as they headed toward Ezispeke.
“Friend of my boss. Asshole.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sanjay outside the pub staring at them.
Christ.
He wondered whether to tell Adam that Sanjay was the one who’d attacked him but decided not to. The less Adam knew about his world, the better.
When they eventually found the room where they’d be cooking, they took up the only vacant positions, next to each other at the back. He spotted Benoit and Monique on the front row. He didn’t know the other five—three middle-aged women and two elderly men. Tomas frowned when he saw the packets in front of him. Sugar, ground almonds, eggs. No meat. His rumbling stomach hoped for a pasta dish.
“Buona sera,” Wren said. “Tonight you’re going to make macaroons the classic Italian way. In front of you, you have all the ingredients and equipment you need, and a recipe card.”
A thermometer?
“I need to warn you, they aren’t easy to make. You have to do exactly what the recipe says to have any chance of success. Did you hear that, Reg?”
The gray-haired guy sighed. “Yes, I hear you.”
“If it doesn’t say a teaspoon of salt, don’t put in a teaspoon of salt. And especially not a tablespoon.”
There was a ripple of laughter.
“Any questions?” Wren asked.
Tomas had plenty but he wanted only the three of them there when he asked them. He grinned. Actually, he wanted Adam to ask them.
“Read through the recipe and be sure you know what you need to do,” Wren said.
Tomas glanced at the photograph of a neat pile of pink macaroons at the top of the recipe.
“What am I supposed to do?” Adam looked panic-stricken.
Tomas picked up the ground almonds and the icing sugar and kept his voice low. “Weigh out what you need of these. Sift them together. Separate three eggs. Put half the egg whites with the sifted mixture.” He dropped the packets and picked up the recipe. “Er… Put the water and sugar in a saucepan and once it starts to boil, whisk the remaining egg whites while you bring the sugar-water mix up to 118 degrees centigrade. Take it off the heat, pour into the egg whites. Blah, blah and then mix that into the ground almonds and icing sugar. Pipe it onto baking sheets and leave an inch between the circles. Tap the trays to flatten the piles and leave for thirty minutes. Cook—”
“Stop. I can bloody read. You lost me after separate the eggs. How the fucking hell do I do that?”
Chapter Seventeen
Wren sighed with relief when she finally found the key that would open the office. She switched on the light and closed the door. After she’d powered up the copier, she glanced round. Were the older registers kept in here or in Olive’s office? Wren really didn’t want to go in there. There was a vague chance of making up an excuse to be in Jolene’s section if someone came, but not the room beyond. She checked the filing cabinet and found nothing of interest apart from the student files at the bottom. The cabinet next to the window beckoned.
Locked. Bugger.
Key on top. Bingo.
The second shelf down held the familiar green folders and she lifted them out. There was one for each course. Wren laid them in lines on the floor, whisked out the top three sheets from each, loaded the copier, checked there was plenty of paper and went back upstairs. Good thing Jolene was so organized.
One step back inside the cookery room and Wren had to press her lips together so she didn’t laugh. Adam appeared to have been sandblasted with sugar and ground almonds. Grains of pale yellow dust covered his face and shirt. He held a broken egg, passing it from one palm to the other, dribbles of the glutinous white oozing through his fingers into a bowl. It looked like—oh God. She felt as though she’d inhaled fire, her mouth suddenly devoid of moisture. He must have sensed her watching, because he looked up and the yolk slipped into the bowl.
“Damn,” he muttered and picked up a spoon.
“You’ll need to get out every bit or no matter how hard you whip, it won’t go stiff,” Wren called.
His eyes widened and her cheeks heated.
“Mine really stiff,” Tomas said. “Want to check it stiff enough?”
Oh God.
Monique burst in behind her and Wren jumped. She hadn’t realized the woman had left the room.
“Should it stand in hard peak?” Tomas asked.
“Not too hard,” Wren said.
If he said one more word, she’d throttle him.
“Ah, okay. Never mind. It fall over.”
Adam sniggered. Wren headed for Benoit.
“Everything all right,” she asked.
“Yes. I already mix.”
Monique dipped her finger into Benoit’s bowl. He rapped her on the knuckles, spat out a mouthful of French, and Wren smiled. Maybe he was getting braver.
She helped Reg make a piping bag and tried not to wince at the fluorescent pink of the mixture. His bottle of food coloring was almost empty.
“My hand wobbled,” he said.
Wren chickened out over checking on Adam and Tomas and instead went down to the office again. The photocopier had finished. She put the sheets in an empty brown folder and returned the originals to the files on the floor, making sure to pile them up in the same order before she slipped them back in the cupboard.
The next thing she copied were the pages from the personal files of the four whose names had appeared on her class lists. She already knew Ardita’s phone number didn’t work, but perhaps the others’ did. Unsure if she’d get a chance to come back for more information, she took everything with her, switched off the copier and the light and locked the door. When she turned, Monique stood in front of her.
“What you doing?” Monique asked.
“Photocopying for tomorrow.” Which was not a lie. “Were you looking for me?”
“Benoit has spilled color on my dress.” She pointed to a small spot on her sleeve.
“It should wash off.” Wren headed for the stairs.
“This must be dry-cleaned.”
“Then dry-clean it.”
The tiny pink spot wasn’t enough of a reason for Monique to come after her. What did she really want? There was something about her that made Wren uneasy, and not just that she was so elegant.
When Wren opened the door upstairs, she inhaled the sweet scent of baking macaroons and sighed. Very few would bear any resemblance to the photo but they still smelled divine. She shoved the folder under the chair where she’d left her purse. When she glanced up, Monique was watching her. What the hell? Tomas gave a bark of laughter and Wren turned to see Adam spattered with blobs of white cream, the electric whisk whirring in his hand. The counter in front of him looked as if it had sat under its very own snowstorm. She sighed.
“When you’ve finished, bring them to the front,” she called.
Tomas brought his first and she bit her lip so she didn’t giggle. Just one macaroon the size of the pl
ate and flat as a pancake.
“They kissed on tray,” he said. “All mix together.”
Reg walked up with a plate of bright pink misshaped, lumpy blobs. “I followed the recipe but they’re not pretty.”
Eventually everyone but Adam had brought their macaroons to the counter and as they looked from one plate to the other, they started to laugh. They might have all cooked something different.
“The recipe must be incorrect,” Monique said.
“No, it isn’t,” Wren said. “There’s so much that can go wrong when you’re making macaroons. The sifting, pouring, temperature. One error and you’re doomed.”
Monique pouted. “What was the point then?”
“Apart from showing the importance of sticking to the recipe? Well, they might not look good but they still taste lovely,” Wren said. “Shouldn’t judge by appearances.”
“Not sure about that.” Adam carried his plate over together with the bowl of whipped cream. “The cream looks wrong and it tastes odd.”
Wren winced. “You whipped it too much.”
“Hard whipping not good. I have lighter touch,” Tomas said and her cheeks heated.
“It’s turned to butter,” Benoit said.
Wren stared at Adam’s plate of little burnt circles. “Well, at least the macaroons are crisp and not soggy.”
“Soggy is bad,” Tomas said. “I no like soggy.”
She choked trying to keep back her laughter. “Did you leave them in longer because they were soft?”
Adam nodded, chewing his lip.
“Longer you leave it in, harder it gets?” Tomas asked.
Wren wanted to kick him. In a moment, she’d be crying with laughter. She took a deep breath before she began to speak. “If you’d done exactly what the recipe said, they’ve have come out fine.” She paused. “Probably.”
“They should be hard on the outside and slightly gooey in the middle,” Reg said.
Girl Most Likely To Page 20
