by Fiona Gibson
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.
‘It all looks delicious,’ I agree. ‘Mmm, I like these pancakes.’
‘Blinis,’ he corrects me, adding quickly, ‘At least, I think that’s what they’re called. You know, the little Russian things …’
‘Oh yes,’ I say as he expertly shells one of the tiny eggs. I want to ask him what kind of bird might have laid it – a pigeon perhaps? – as he seems approachable and I’m warming to him already. At least he’s around my age.
‘Hang on a sec,’ he says, putting down his plate and reaching for my badge. ‘It’s the wrong way up,’ he adds with a grin.
‘Oh!’ I laugh as he repositions it. ‘So, um, how are you feeling about the course?’
‘A bit apprehensive, I suppose, but who cares if we mess up? I’m just regarding it as a bit of fun.’
‘Me too. I didn’t think we’d be thrown into cooking today, though. I thought, you know, we’d be broken in gently …’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he insists. ‘You seem like a very capable person, Audrey.’
‘Really?’ I ask with a smile.
‘Yes, um … I’m sorry …’ He flushes endearingly. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop when we were arriving but I couldn’t help overhearing …’
I sip my cordial, genuinely uncomprehending.
‘… It’s just,’ Hugo goes on, ‘I gather things don’t go too well at home in your absence. And I thought, ah, she’s one of those women who runs everything brilliantly, like a well-oiled machine, and whenever she’s not on hand it all falls apart …’
I peer at him, fascinated by his observation. ‘Like a well-oiled machine? Whatever makes you think that?’
‘Well,’ he explains, ‘you’re certainly very tolerant, telling your other half how to use the washing machine.’
I watch as he pops the egg into his mouth. ‘You thought I was on the phone to my husband?’
‘Well, er, I just assumed …’
I laugh loudly. ‘That wasn’t my husband. I don’t actually have one. It was my son.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see …’ He chuckles awkwardly. ‘Sorry, Audrey
. It’s just the way it sounded …’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, grinning at the thought of my non-existent, appliance-phobic husband. ‘It’s ridiculous anyway. I mean, Morgan’s not a baby. He’s eighteen and he should be able to cope on his own.’
‘I’m sure he can,’ Hugo says firmly.
‘You’re right. In fact, I suspect he could be perfectly capable. He just botches things up – I mean, if I ask him to hoover I can guarantee he’ll choke the tube with a sock …’
‘… Smart move,’ Hugo remarks.
‘Exactly. It’s his way of getting out of doing stuff …’
‘Phoney ineptitude,’ he adds with a smirk.
‘Phoney ineptitude?’ repeats the slender blonde woman who’s arrived at our side.
‘It means pretending you can’t do something when you’re perfectly capable,’ I explain, checking her name badge: Lottie.
‘Oh, I don’t need to pretend,’ she exclaims, widening her blue eyes. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before …’
‘Neither have I,’ I say, flooded with relief. ‘This hotel … it’s amazing. There’s even a fridge in my room!’
Lottie and Hugo exchange a quick glance. ‘You mean a minibar?’ Hugo asks, raising a brow.
‘Yes, with miniature spirits and crisps and stuff …’ I turn to Lottie. ‘Does your room have one?’
‘I expect so,’ she says with a tinkly laugh.
‘You should check when you go up later.’ I whip my phone from my bag. There’s a text from Morgan – what you mean sudsy water?? – but instead of replying I show them the photos detailing various aspects of my room. ‘Look at that lot,’ I enthuse. ‘Pecans, cookies, some kind of chocolate liqueurs …’
Lottie’s lips twitch with amusement. ‘You took pictures of them all!’
‘Well, yes, to show everyone at home …’
‘There’s even a photo of the toiletries,’ she observes, peering at the screen.
‘And you did a selfie with snacks!’ Hugo exclaims.
I look around at their bemused faces, unsure whether they’re taking the mickey or not. ‘Yes,’ I say, more cautiously now, ‘to prove I was here in case I get home and worry that, you know, it wasn’t real …’
Lottie smiles warmly and beckons a statuesque woman with a bouncy, flame-red ponytail to join us. ‘Audrey, Hugo – this is Tamara, my best friend. We always wanted to come here so we thought we’d do it together.’
There are hellos all around, and Lottie insists that Tamara views all my pics. I have to say I’m especially pleased with the oval table composition, bathed as it is in golden sunlight. It’s a marked improvement on our coffee table at home, strewn with sweaty salami.
‘You’re so sweet,’ Tamara announces, twitching her freckled nose, ‘being so excited about a minibar …’
I clear my throat. ‘Well, it’s just …’
‘I don’t mean to be patronising,’ she adds quickly.
‘That’s okay.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘I wasn’t sure about that truffle popcorn, though. It’s not what you’d think. You’d expect it to be chocolate, right?’
Hugo shrugs. ‘Er, I guess so.’
‘Well, it’s not. It actually tastes of soil.’
Tamara chuckles. ‘That’s because truffles have that kind of taste.’
I look at her blankly.
‘You know when you have truffle oil on a pizza or pasta?’
‘Um, I don’t think I’ve ever—’
‘That’s what they taste like,’ Lottie explains. ‘The fungi, I mean. The ones little piggies snuffle out in French forests … have you never had them?’
‘No. Well, I’ve had the chocolatey ball-type truffles of course. My son gave me some last Christmas from Marks & Spencer …’
Tamara laughs indulgently. ‘I do love your accent, Audrey. Where are you from?’
‘I live just outside York …’
‘So do my parents,’ offers Hugo. ‘It’s where I was brought up.’
‘Really?’ You don’t have an accent, I want to point out, but then with people like Hugo it’s impossible to tell where they’re from. I’m not sure whether their accents are ironed out, or if they never had one in the first place.
‘Well, you’ll know we don’t have many truffle-snuffling pigs up there,’ I say with a smile.
Hugo grins. ‘You’re right. There’s a complete absence of truffle snufflers …’
‘Oh, I love northerners,’ Lottie announces. ‘So down to earth. And, ooh, is that tights in your hair?’
‘Erm, yes, I forgot to bring anything to tie it back with,’ I say, reddening.
I catch Hugo peering at my makeshift scrunchie. ‘That’s very resourceful of you. God, it’s refreshing to find someone like you on this course, Audrey. Not knowing blinis, calling them little pancakes …’
‘And the minibar thing,’ Tamara adds, ‘that’s just adorable!’
I put down my plate and smile unsteadily as I try to work out whether or not that was meant as a compliment. Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t ask what sort of bird laid those little eggs.
Chapter Ten
The Right Way to Chop an Onion
The ting of a teaspoon against glass cuts through the hubbub of the room. ‘Everyone,’ Chloe calls out, ‘could you please make your way over to the demonstration area and take your seats? Brad’s ready to give his introductory talk.’
We all drift towards the row of chairs set out in a horseshoe shape at the far end of the room. Brad sits before us behind a worktop with a built-in hob. He is tall and broad chested, clad in chef’s whites, his blond curls illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. ‘Welcome, everyone,’ he says in a deep transatlantic tone. ‘I’m Brad Miller, executive chef here at Wilton Grange and your teacher for the week.’ He pauses and scans the row of students. There are eight of us – six women, two men – and everyone is gazing at Brad with rapt attention. I also note that everyone apart from me is wearing jeans or casual skirts, plus T-shirts. I feel ridiculously overdressed, which I wouldn’t have believed would be possible in a frock that cost £2.49 and with tights in my hair.
‘As you know,’ Brad goes on, ‘we’ll be looking at the basic principles of classic French cookery.’ He offers a brisk, tight smile. ‘French cuisine can seem intimidating but in fact, as long as you grasp the basic methods and processes, it’s a beautiful way to cook …’ Beaudiful is the way he says it, despite being obviously English. ‘It’s precise,’ he goes on. ‘That’s the beaudy of it. We’ll be using quality ingredients and preparing them simply and precisely. That’s what it’s about – patience, letting flavours evolve – and I know that, as competent cooks, you’ll all be flying by the end of the course …’
I throw Hugo a quick look of alarm. Whilst I’m capable of feeding my son, I worry now that I’m not of the standard that Brad clearly expects. Mrs B certainly wouldn’t call me competent (‘bland soup!’). Hugo flashes a reassuring smile. ‘In fact,’ Brad goes on, ‘I recognise lots of you from the beginner’s course we ran before Christmas …’
‘Beginner’s course?’ I hiss. ‘Did you go on that?’
‘Nope,’ Hugo whispers as Brad runs through some of the dishes we’ll create: moules marinière, boudin noir aux pommes, poulet en cocotte bonne femme … Every time he uses a French word, he says it properly Frenchly with the throaty ‘r’ thing, and obviously I haven’t a clue what anything is. I mean, I’d never heard of underground truffles until about ten minutes ago, and I’m still wondering about those little eggs.
I glance along the row of students. With her porcelain skin and fair hair secured now in bunches, Lottie looks like a golden fairy. Tamara, with her ruddy glow and determined chin, has the air of a girl who’s just bounded off the hockey pitch. Brad and Hugo aside, I realise now that, without exception, the girls can be no more than late twenties. Their lives are obviously unhampered by festering teenage underwear. They’ve never had to nag an eighteen-year-old boy to get the Mycil ointment
right between his toes.
Brad is fixing me with a quizzical stare. I sit bolt upright. ‘So,’ he drawls, ‘as I was saying, I hope you’ve all got to know each other a little during the welcome reception. Just to help things along, perhaps you could all say a few words about yourselves, and why you decided to do the course?’ An expectant silence settles over the room. ‘Shall we start here?’ he says, indicating Lottie.
‘Erm …’ She colours slightly. ‘I’m Lottie and I work in property letting and I’m here because, er …’ She turns to Tamara. ‘Well, we just thought it’d be a bit of fun, didn’t we?’ A bit of fun that costs thousands. I know plenty of people have tons of money and it’s not something I think of normally (I mean, Mrs B is seriously posh. Her house might look shabby but she owns vast swathes of Yorkshire, according to Paul). It’s just, I have never met people who are so casual about luxury.
Tamara’s clear voice rings out. ‘… I’m an interior designer and I love having dinner parties but don’t feel I’ve ever learnt the proper classic techniques …’
Brad’s gaze turns approving.
‘… And, to be honest,’ she laughs bashfully, ‘I’ve always wanted the chance to study with you.’
‘Wow, thank you,’ he says grandly.
She beams at him. ‘I’ve followed you since you worked at La Scala in Paris and then when you moved on to Maison Bertrand in St Tropez …’ Everyone swivels towards her. ‘… and then you were at Howard’s in New York, then The Dorrington in Chelsea …’ Blimey, she’s studied him like a project. Should I have read up on his background, or Googled him at the very least? The only chefs I’ve heard of are the ones on TV.
Brad chuckles – ‘I’m immensely flattered, Tamara!’ – and now it’s the turn of the tattooed young man.
‘I’m Dylan, I’ve worked in kitchens since I was fifteen, starting as a porter, then a line cook and a commis …’ So much experience crammed into his tender years. ‘And now I’m a soo …’ he adds airily.
