I pulled a face.
‘No, not like that, you silly mare. I mean that everyone tends to know everyone else, which means if Tabitha Tits-Biggles gets engaged to Timothy Todger-Reeves, it’s round the houses faster than you can say Bollinger.’
‘I feel really sorry for the children, with names like that,’ I joked.
Morven sighed, exasperated. ‘Clearly they are a figment of my very creative imagination. Look, if Petra was engaged to Vaughan, believe me, I would have heard about it.’ She sidled a little closer. ‘Yes, he’s gorgeous but he’s also a bastard. His reputation with women precedes him. For your own sake, keep him at arm’s length, okay?’
I forced myself to smile at my best friend. I knew I had no option but to take Morven’s advice, even though I secretly didn’t want to. My mood plunged further when my mobile rang. It was Babs, the cleaner at Thistles.
Morven watched me carefully as I answered the call monosyllabically. She clearly got the gist of the conversation because when I rang off, she momentarily closed her eyes.
‘Don’t tell me. Babs has just quit.’
‘It’s not her fault and she was so apologetic,’ I explained with a defeated sigh. ‘Her daughter’s returning to work after having her little girl and she needs help with childcare. She had warned me from the start that this might happen but I was desperate for good help.’ I stared into my mug. ‘So now I have to find a new cleaner, and Babs was so thorough and reliable, she’s going to be a hard act to follow.’
I put my tea back on the coaster and picked up my pen and to-do list, which never seemed to get much shorter. ‘I don’t like asking you, Morvs, but would you be able to draft a job advert for a new cleaner, please?’
Morven nodded. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course I can.’
‘Babs said she can only work till the end of the week, so the sooner we get someone else, the better.’
Morven suddenly sat up beside me. ‘Hang on. I don’t think we’ll need to place a job advert.’ A bright smile lit up her face. ‘You remember my Aunt Bea? Well, she’s decided to return to domestic recruitment consultancy work.’
I put down my pen. ‘Do you think she’ll be able to get us someone?’
‘Of course she will. She’s got a lot of contacts. Leave it with me. I’ll give her a ring now.’
I watched my dynamic friend explain the situation over the phone. When she hung up, she was positively frothing. ‘One of her friends, Connie Hunter, has cleaned for the Barwood-Symes up at Tyndell.’
I grinned at her. ‘You sound like you’re speaking in code.’
Morven rolled her eyes good-naturedly. ‘Take it from me, that family are fussy with a capital F. Anyway, Connie is fed up with the commuting and had asked Bea to look for a cleaning job in the central belt.’
‘And her references?’ I asked, pushing myself straighter.
‘Glowing, apparently. Bea will send through some of them now.’
As we waited, I took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Are you still happy being involved with me and Thistles, Morvs?’
Morven’s brow creased. ‘What sort of silly question is that?’
I shrugged. ‘I just wondered. I mean, you’ve been so invaluable to me and I know that hasn’t left you much time to help your dad out with his business.’
‘Listen,’ said Morven, ‘as long as you’re happy to have me around helping you with whatever needs doing, then that’s more than fine by me.’
She propped her head back against the sofa. ‘I know Thistles belongs to you but I feel like I’ve got a vested interest in her as well and it’s so lovely doing something that’s not connected to my family name.’
‘Well, as long as you’re sure . . .’
She patted me on the leg. ‘Quite sure. And I can’t leave you and Jess to eat all those delicious cakes on your own, can I?’
There was a sudden ping from Morven’s mobile and a text message shot up. We scrolled through an impressive list of references for Connie and Morven texted her aunt back to say we’d love to meet her and have an informal chat.
‘See?’ beamed Morven, closing her mobile phone case shut. ‘Things have a habit of sorting themselves out.’
I grinned back. ‘You need to write a motivational book. It would sell shedloads.’
‘Nah,’ giggled Morven, taking a gulp from her mug. ‘I don’t think I’m motivated enough.’
September sunshine wrapped itself around me like a golden blanket as I threw open the patio doors to Thistles.
Even though we’d been open for almost two months now, the sight of the high-backed chairs and tables, waiting for the latest batch of visitors, and Lydia’s artwork in gold and wood frames never failed to make my heart lift with satisfaction. If it hadn’t been for dear old Hugo, none of this would have been possible. A sudden image of him seated in the corner, his silvery moustache twitching with mischief, came to mind and I smiled.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lawns winked beneath a mild dusting of dew. I was growing to love Glenlovatt more and more, but on early autumn mornings like this, when the tea rooms and house were in a quiet slumber, it really stole my heart.
I fired up the coffee machine and then headed straight for the kitchen, intending to put some chocolate flapjacks and cookies and cream muffins I’d brought from home out on display after getting started on an ultimate indulgence mirror glaze cake. It had been one of my great-aunt’s favourite recipes—an orange flavoured genoise, covered in a chocolate glaze and layered with salted caramel cream; utterly decadent. As the music from my iPod wafted around me in the kitchen, I stirred the orange zest and salt together and poured the melted butter down the side of the glass bowl so that it folded in neatly. Sleepy sunlight tiptoed across the tea room’s kitchen floor as I scooped in some double cream.
It was at times like this, that I couldn’t thank Hugo enough.
Business had been so good at Thistles that we’d had to advertise for an additional member of staff. Despite only placing a small ad online, I was amazed by the response. Morven and I had managed to whittle it down to four applicants to interview and in the end Becky Taylor, with her pink hair, air of positivity and previous Glasgow tea room experience, was the perfect addition. She was also an aspiring baker, bringing her own sensational lemon drizzle cake to the interview.
‘Morning!’ Becky skipped into the kitchen, where I was checking on the cake’s progress in the oven, her shoulder-length raspberry-ripple hair in a ponytail. She took one look at the chocolate flapjacks and her face fell. ‘Oh blimey. I don’t think my date slices can compete with that.’
‘You’re too modest,’ I laughed.
Becky feigned shock. ‘I am not!’
‘Yes, you are. Remember how fast your cherry and coconut scones got snapped up yesterday?’
Her pretty pointed face beamed. ‘Yeah, they did go down rather well, didn’t they?’
At that moment, Jess arrived, her ballet flats tapping on the wooden floor. ‘Morning, both,’ she eyed Becky’s Tupperware expectantly. ‘Ooh, spill. What’s in the box?’
Becky thrust it towards us. ‘Here, have a look. And please be honest. I won’t be offended.’
I gently placed the large container on the kitchen top and pulled off the lid. The inside of the box was separated into four compartments. Red velvet cupcakes topped with swirls of vanilla cream and shiny Empire biscuits studded with glazed cherries occupied the first two slots. Mixed berry meringues sat in the second two like crimson teardrops alongside triangles of lemon chiffon cake.
‘Wow,’ I exclaimed in admiration. ‘You’re putting me to shame.’
Becky shrugged off her black leather jacket and smiled at me. ‘I want you guys and Morven to tell me honestly what you think. Now that Jack and I have called it a day, I’ll have more time on my hands for baking.’
‘Oh no. What happened?’
Becky turned around, smudges of tiredness just visible under her make-up. ‘Things haven’t been going well for a w
hile now. What with Jack and the problems I’m having with this ruddy red velvet cake, it was some night.’
Jess and I gave her sympathetic looks but she just smiled and turned around to unpack her box of goodies.
Morven breezed into the kitchen, her shiny curtain of blonde hair swinging down her back. ‘Morning, ladies! Tell me I’m crazy but I’ve been thinking all night about us throwing something like “The Great Glenlovatt Bake-off”.’
‘That sounds like a fabulous idea,’ I said, leaving the cake to cool and handing her some trays of goodies.
We headed out to arrange the cake counter. ‘While we’re on the subject of promo stuff, am I right in remembering that you studied web design at some point, Morvs?’
Morven gave Jess’s avocado and fetta tartlets a come-hither look of appreciation. ‘That’s right, before I saw the error of my ways. Why?’
I asked to borrow Becky’s iPad, and pulled up Glenlovatt’s website and turned the screen round. ‘What do you think of this?’
Morven sat down at a nearby table for a closer look, while I continued arranging the day’s treats. ‘I like the snowy Glenlovatt scene,’ she replied, ‘but the general look of the site is a bit old-fashioned.’
‘That’s what I thought. Gordon was telling me that Lydia set up the site years ago but when she passed away, no one bothered to keep it updated. It just looks so neglected, and there’s no mention of Thistles, obviously.’
Morven smiled. ‘Is this a subtle way of saying you’d like me to take a look at updating it?’
‘Am I that transparent?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d be very grateful if you did,’ I laughed. ‘I don’t need you to reinvent the wheel, but if you could suggest some improvements and include the tea room on it, that would be great.’
Morven tapped on the screen idly. ‘Have you mentioned this to the Carmichaels yet?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I haven’t. I thought if we could go to them with some suggestions for improvements, that might be the way to go. As Lydia started the site, I don’t want to upset them in any way.’
Morven raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay. I’ll have another look at it and jot down some ideas.’ She leaned forwards again, taking in the staid-looking web pages. ‘All it really needs is a bit of updating and rearranging,’ she said, scrolling through the content. ‘A website should be easy to navigate but some of this text is a bit all over the place.’ She looked back up at me. ‘We’ll have to create a new section for the tea room, where we can link our Instagram and Facebook pages, and maybe take it in turns to write blogs? We could promote the baking, give tips, run competitions, have a Thistles customer of the week, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s a great idea.’
Morven tapped away, reading out snatches of information about Glenlovatt from the website.
‘What about setting up a Facebook page for Glenlovatt itself?’ I suggested. ‘Like the one you did for Thistles? To be fair, Gordon doesn’t seem to have the time or the inclination to wade into that world.’
Morven nodded. ‘If you don’t have some sort of social media presence nowadays, it can have a negative impact on your business. And the house has to be a business to survive. Sad but true.’
I leaned in beside her to look at the paragraphs of information about Glenlovatt and its weird and wonderful characters from the past. It was hard to glean much at a glance from the cramped text.
As if reading my thoughts, Morven said, ‘I think changing the font would make the text much easier to read. And the colour scheme needs updating too. Leave it with me and I’ll create a mock-up for us to show Gordon.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘I just had a thought. My cousin Aidan is into photography; he’s got a real talent for it. I could ask him to come down and take some photos of Glenlovatt and of us here. We could use on both the site and social media.’
I clapped my hands. ‘That sounds great. I love it when a plan comes together.’
At that very moment a platinum blonde helium balloon waltzed in from the great hall. A diaphanous leopard-print dress hung from expanses of brown skin and the feet were encased in bright red platform shoes.
Morven and I swapped terrified glances.
‘Oooh, how retro!’ exclaimed the balloon in a high-pitched squeak. ‘Not my choice of colour scheme but that can be easily rectified.’
She pouted and prodded her way around the tea room, picking up the laminated menu. ‘Marble cake,’ she read aloud. ‘Do you have any coconut water or spinach and kale smoothies?’
Not giving us time to respond, she oozed between the tables and chairs like a snake. ‘Brave choices,’ she observed, bending down to examine the quilted cushions on the chairs. ‘But vintage is so 2017, isn’t it?’
My face turned the colour of my hair. ‘I’m sorry, you are . . . ?’
The woman’s eyes slid from left to right before resting on us again. ‘Rhiannon Kincaid,’ she answered with a bored air.
‘Rhiannon!’ interrupted Gordon desperately, almost running in from the hall. ‘There you are. I wondered where you had got to.’ He placed his arm around her waist with little enthusiasm. ‘There’s plenty of time for a proper tour later.’ With an apologetic grimace, he steered Leopard Lady out of Thistles.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked Morven, whose carefully plucked eyebrows had arched almost into her hairline. ‘Rhiannon Kincaid, did she say?’
‘Yeah,’ confirmed Morven darkly. ‘Haven’t you heard of her?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘You’d know her if you read all the celebrity magazines. She’s the daughter of Royston Kincaid of the Kincaid Shoes empire.’
‘She’s never out of the gossip pages. The sort that would go to the opening of an envelope, you know?’
I nodded absently. Morven had just got back to her idea about staging a bake-off contest when a tall, thin man in a crisp navy suit knocked on the patio doors, a briefcase under his arm.
Oh for pity’s sake. It was like a shopping centre on Christmas Eve and the day hadn’t even properly started yet.
‘I’m looking for Lara McDonald.’
‘That’s me,’ I smiled, from behind the counter. ‘What can I do for you?’
The man’s slicked-back dark hair reminded me of a crow’s feathers. ‘I’m Fraser Doyle from Environmental Health.’ He swung a laminated badge in front of me. ‘We’ve had a complaint about the cleanliness of your establishment that needs to be investigated.’
Twenty-four
Morven and I swapped more confused stares.
‘Environmental Health?’ repeated Morven in an incredulous tone. ‘This place is spotless.’
My mind reeled. Who on earth could have done such a thing? And why? I looked around at the swept floorboards, polished tables and sparkling cutlery. We were fastidious about cleanliness. This didn’t make sense.
‘Who complained?’ I bit out, not really expecting him to divulge such information.
Back in the kitchen, the mixer’s whirring stopped. Perhaps noticing the sharp edge in my voice, Becky and Jess popped their heads round the kitchen door.
Mr Doyle’s lips rose officiously. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘We’re due to open soon but, please, do what you need to do. Becky, Jess—take a minute while Mr Doyle has a look at our kitchen.’ My fingers gripped the edge of the counter as I turned back to him. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.’
Mr Doyle simply cocked a challenging eyebrow.
Becky stepped in, ‘Would you like a coffee, Mr Doyle? And perhaps a slice of cake?’
The man took a step forwards and peered into the cake display. ‘A cappuccino would be very nice. Oh, and a slice of your Persian tea loaf, please.’ He made his way past us and into the kitchen.
‘He obviously isn’t worried about food poisoning from our cakes then,’ I muttered as I came out from behind the counter. ‘Who the hell has reported us to Environmental Health?�
�
Morven raised her hands helplessly, her neatly manicured nails flashing. ‘Some malicious bugger with too much time on their hands.’ She sidled closer. ‘Don’t worry. This place is like a palace. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘Yoo-hoo! Surprise, darling!’
No way. No way. It couldn’t be.
I turned my head in slow motion, away from Morven’s open, confident expression.
‘Mum,’ I whispered in a papery voice.
‘Your mum reported us?’ blinked Becky.
‘No. I mean that’s my mum,’ I replied, jabbing a disbelieving finger at my mother where she stood framed in the patio doors, arm in arm with a young hipster bloke.
I stood, rigid with shock as she swept towards me in a cloud of orange and red fringed kaftan, her silvery hair snaking down her back. She planted two theatrical kisses airily on either side of my face before rewarding Morven with an excited squeal and two identical ‘mwah!’s and taking a step backwards in a pair of elaborately jewelled sandals.
‘You’ve filled out,’ she said to me in her fruity burr. ‘Must be all those cakes.’
Becky and Jess appeared hypnotised by the bizarre scene unfolding in front of them.
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘what are you doing here? You said you might come over at Christmas.’
My panic zoomed into overdrive when I spied a pile of luggage channelling the height of Mount Vesuvius perched precariously in the doorway.
Mum’s green eyes danced with mischief. ‘Wolf and I decided to surprise you!’
‘Oh, you’ve done that, alright—sorry, did you just say “Wolf”?’ I studied the young man beside her, all tie-dyed blue T-shirt, beige combats and cropped brown hair. ‘I thought you said his name was Alvar?’
Going by the narrow-eyed glare my mother was shooting me from her sun-tanned face, that was obviously a faux pas. ‘No,’ she growled through gritted teeth. ‘This is Wolf. My new partner.’
‘Another one bites the dust then,’ I muttered to a bemused Morven.
As Wolf wandered over to inspect Lydia’s artwork, Mum squared her shoulders. ‘Alvar never understood me.’
A Room at the Manor Page 13
