by Fiona Gibson
‘Sounds great,’ I say, mustering a smile.
‘Fantastic.’ He beams at me. ‘Meet you outside at eight.’
Chapter Thirteen
Pub Grub
I daren’t tell Hugo or Lottie or any of the others who I’m going out with tonight. I mean, we’re not going out out – it’s definitely not a date or anything – and he’ll probably ask Lottie tomorrow and Tamara the day after that. Maybe he just likes to get to know everyone better, and find out what we think of the course. However, I still don’t want to run the risk of anyone thinking I’m thrilled to be asked. God forbid they’d assume I’m secretly hoping to cop off with him just so I can say I’ve done it with a Michelin-starred chef. Anyway, I have a boyfriend. Stevie definitely falls into that category now, rather than being an on-and-off thing. At least, I have no yearnings to meet anyone else.
For this reason – plus the fact that I am not remotely attracted to Brad – getting ready is entirely stress-free. I pull on another charity shop dress; bluey-green squiggles, prim round neck, utterly devoid of sex appeal. To make doubly sure, I pull on a plain black cardigan and flat pumps and let my hair just dry as it is. Before leaving, I try Morgan’s mobile; no answer as usual. ‘Hope all’s okay, love,’ I tell his voicemail, hoping this doesn’t fall into the category of ‘fussing’, and reassure myself that whatever was going on with him and Jenna has probably blown over by now.
Bang on 8 p.m. I step out of the lift to find Hugo, Lottie and Tamara loitering in the foyer. Damn, I was hoping to sneak out unnoticed. ’Oh, Audrey,’ Hugo says. ‘We were wondering if you fancied a quick drink before dinner. It’s been a pretty full-on day. We reckon we deserve a spot of liquid refreshment.’
‘Sorry, I can’t tonight,’ I say.
He gives me a quizzical look, and I realise how much I’d love to sit chatting around the table again, gossiping about Brad and deciding whether boozy breath is just part and parcel of being a chef. ‘Other plans?’ he asks.
‘Um, yes, I’m going out tonight.’
‘Out?’ Lottie splutters. ‘Out where?’
‘Going on a nature walk?’ Hugo sniggers.
‘I’m, er, just meeting a friend for dinner.’ I check my watch. ‘Sorry, better dash.’ I’m aware of the cloud of surprise hovering over their heads as I propel myself towards the revolving doors.
No sign of Brad outside. It occurs to me that, if he whiffed of wine today, being driven by him probably wouldn’t be my smartest move. So it’s a relief when a taxi appears on the driveway and pulls up in front of the hotel. Brad climbs out from the back seat and, rather grandly, beckons me in. ‘Audrey! Sorry to keep you waiting. Hop in.’
I try to affect a casual air as we both settle into the back seat. ‘So where are we going?’
‘Just a little place nearby. You look very nice tonight, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’ I give him a quick smile. He’s wearing a cream linen shirt and new-looking jeans, plus a brown leather jacket in a sort of blouson style, and his hair looks patted down, perhaps with the aid of some kind of product. It’s a little strange, seeing him out of the kitchen environment, and I’m conscious of sweat springing from my palms. Relax, I tell myself. It’s probably lonely being famous. He just wants a pleasant night out with an ordinary woman who’s unintimidated by his celebrity status. Yep, that’s why he asked me instead of any of the others. He knew the minute I arrived that I didn’t have a clue who he was.
‘So, d’you live around here?’ I venture.
‘Yeah, just a couple of miles away.’ We lapse into silence.
‘How long have you been at Wilton Grange?’
‘Three years or so,’ he replies. Christ, he’s not giving away much. I wish the driver would put the radio on.
‘D’you enjoy teaching?’ I rattle on, sensing my underarms prickling disconcertingly.
Brad shrugs. ‘Yep, it’s okay.’ Oh, for goodness’ sake. As conversation falters I study the passing woodland with rapt interest. Maybe, being famous, he’s sick of people firing questions at him. I’d hate him to feel I was interviewing him. Should I fill him in on my fascinating life instead? I’m sure he’d be thrilled to learn about Mrs B’s crossword fixation and my son’s vague notion of being a street performer. Or maybe I could entertain him with hilarious tales from the school canteen?
We meander along country lanes where I study drystone walls and ornamental gates as if gathering information for a project. Finally, we arrive at a quaint, sleepy village, consisting of a cluster of whitewashed cottages huddled around a triangular green, where the driver comes to a halt. ‘Here we are,’ Brad says, adding, ‘Thanks, Martin. I’ll text you when we a need a pick up.’
‘No problem,’ he says as Brad and I climb out of the taxi.
We have stopped outside a picturesque pub adorned with hanging baskets and window boxes bursting with blooms. ‘Is this your local?’ I ask as we make our way in.
‘Sort of,’ Brad offers. ‘It’s cosy and friendly and has a lot of potential, I think.’
I glance at him. What an odd thing to say. He’s right, though, about it being friendly; we are greeted by a cheerful young waitress who hands us enormous laminated menus. ‘This looks great,’ I enthuse, relieved now that he’s chosen somewhere unpretentious. The pub is bustling and filled with the aroma of home cooking.
‘You think so?’ Brad beams at me across the table.
‘Yes, it does. So … what d’you recommend?’
His mouth twitches in amusement as I leaf through page after page of the menu. It’s not that I haven’t appreciated the beautifully presented dishes at Wilton Grange. Sometimes, though, nothing beats simple, un-decorated pub food. We both order steak and chips, plus a bottle of red wine, and I catch Brad giving me amused glances. I’m feeling oddly observed. ‘You’re obviously enjoying the course,’ he remarks.
‘I am, yes. I’m learning such a lot.’
He smiles approvingly. ‘Well, you’re a natural in the kitchen, I’d say. Very instinctive …’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I was a bit disappointed in today’s dishes, to be honest.’
‘No, you did very well, for a novice.’
‘Thank you.’ Our wine arrives and I take a nerve-steadying sip as he focuses me with an intense stare. ‘So, tell me about yourself, Audrey.’
‘Well, er …’ Another big sip. ‘I live just outside York with my son, Morgan, who’s eighteen …’
‘Tell me about you,’ he cuts in.
‘There’s not an awful lot to tell really.’
He exhales through his nose. ‘You have a thing going on, don’t you? A sort of self-deprecation thing …’
‘Do I?’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘It’s not intentional. Anyway, you know I’m a dinner lady. I also work as a carer for an elderly lady …’
‘And before that? What else have you done?’
Now I feel as if I’m the one being interviewed. ‘Um … well, my first job was as a cleaner at a holiday park near Morecambe Bay …’
Brad frowns. ‘I’d have thought you were capable of something more, um …’
‘I just had to find a job,’ I explain. ‘You see, Mum left when I was nine so it was just me and Dad after that. And he died when I was seventeen so it was ideal really, being a live-in job …’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ He tips his head sympathetically and nods for me to carry on. ‘So what did that entail? The holiday park, I mean?’
I smirk. ‘Fishing out rotting tuna sandwiches from under the sofas, mainly. Knickers, socks, the odd pile of vomit to mop up – that kind of thing.’
He chuckles. ‘And worse things than that, I’d imagine.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Like what?’ He beams at me. Christ, he wants to know more? Having already tippled a large glass of wine, he refills it to the brim.
‘Used condoms in the beds,’ I say, pulling a face.
‘Ugh. Poor you. You must’ve been
a tough little cookie, Audrey.’
‘I probably was,’ I say, laughing. ‘Anyway, I stayed there for a few years and …’ I pause and look at him. ‘D’you really want to hear all this?’
‘I do. You’re a very interesting woman.’
I smile, starting to relax a little at last. Can he really find me interesting? Or is he just being kind? ‘Well,’ I continue, ‘I worked there until my early twenties and then I got a better job as a receptionist at a hotel …’
‘Ah, so you’ve worked in hospitality?’
‘Yes, sort of, but I have to tell you it was nothing like Wilton Grange. It was a hen party hotel called The Last Fling. Cheap as chips, no minibars – I’d never even seen one before I came on this course – and definitely no chocolate on the pillow at bedtime … You know the kind of place?’ He gives me a baffled look. Of course he doesn’t. ‘But we did offer chocolate fondue parties,’ I go on, ‘and the odd oiled-up male stripper put in an appearance …’
‘Good lord,’ he says, chuckling. ‘Sounds dreadful. But you’re a very stoical type, Audrey. I’m sure you handled it well.’
I pause, wondering what to make of this. Resourceful, Lottie said. And now stoical. In fact, compared to Sunshine Valley the hotel was a dream of a job. It’s also where I met Vince, who worked there briefly as a security guy; a slightly older, charming man with a shock of red hair, like a fox, and a smile that lifted my heart. ‘I enjoyed it actually,’ I say.
‘Yes, I’m sure you did, because things have just happened to you and you’ve made the best of unpromising situations.’
I frown, unused to being summed up by a man I barely know. ‘Like I said, I haven’t had much choice.’ Enormous platefuls of steak and chips arrive, and I tear open a sachet of ketchup, hoping the conversation will shift away from the matter of my rather shabby CV.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Brad says. I nod and sip my wine. ‘If you’re eating out – with friends, say – what kind of experience are you after?’
‘Well, something like this, I suppose. It reminds me of my local, actually, although that’s not as pretty outside. But it’s friendly, with big helpings …’
‘Big helpings?’ he repeats with a smirk. ‘That’s important to you?’
‘Well, er …’ I falter, suspecting this is an interview … but for what? And I’m sounding as though my top priority on a night out is a horse trough of chips. ‘I like the fact that there’s a lot of choice,’ I add, confidence dwindling.
He arches a brow. ‘You don’t find the menu too … unwieldy? You know, a bit everything-but-the-kitchen-sink?’
I pause, not sure of the correct answer here. ‘I suppose they’re just hoping to please everyone.’
‘Ah,’ he says, leaning towards me across the table, ‘but don’t you think a more focused approach might appeal more?’
Hell, now I’m really out of my depth. ‘Er, maybe,’ I reply vaguely. He drains his glass and adds, in a lowered tone, ‘I’m actually in the process of buying this place.’
‘Really?’ I exclaim. ‘You should! It’s a lovely pub.’
‘Ah, but it won’t be like this. We’re not talking ten-page laminated menus, Audrey. You see, it won’t be a pub at all. At least, not in the old-fashioned boozer sense of the word. I’m talking an experience, a destination, a way of life …’ I nod, although this is as baffling to me as when Stevie talks about mindful time management. What do these terms actually mean? ‘… There’ll be great food of course,’ Brad goes on, ‘all locally sourced, and accommodation upstairs. There are three acres out back, so there’ll be vegetable gardens, a small farm, and I’m looking at producing our own cheeses …’
‘Sounds amazing,’ I exclaim, sawing at my steak.
‘We’ll produce honey,’ Brad continues, clearly on a roll now. ‘We’ll have hives and livestock and grow our own produce: salads, an orchard, our own cider …’ I glance at the wine bottle, noting that, somehow, we’ve downed the lot. Or rather, Brad has. Determined not to start prattling drunkenly, I’ve dawdled over a single glass.
‘So when are you thinking of doing all this?’ I ask.
‘It’s not something you can rush,’ he canters on, summonsing the waitress to bring us another bottle of wine, ‘but then, there has to be a momentum to it. And the time’s right, I just know it. I feel it in here.’ He prods at his chest. ‘We’re not talking fancy or exclusive, you know. It’s just what real people want right now …’
‘When you say real, d’you mean people who’d never be able to afford to eat at Wilton Grange?’
‘Correct!’ he exclaims, rapping the table and knocking over the little basket so the sauce sachets fall out.
‘You mean people who wouldn’t dream of spending £100 on dinner?’
He nods eagerly and fixes me with an intense look. ‘That’s it exactly,’ he says. So I was right: in the normal course of things Brad doesn’t encounter many ordinary types. This is why I’m here: to be his token ‘normal person’, a sounding board to make sure it doesn’t veer away from the kind of place regular, stoical types like me would enjoy. ‘You’re a worldly, unpretentious sort of woman,’ he goes on, ‘and I’d really value your input …’
My stomach flips with excitement. So that’s why he invited me to dinner: he wants to quiz me about the behaviours and eating habits of ordinary people. ‘Forget hollandaise sauce,’ I’ll advise him. ‘I know it tastes good but it’s a little bit fussy and, to be honest, a lot of people are iffy about asparagus …’ Paul gave me a bundle last summer when he’d grown a bumper crop at Mrs B’s. Morgan made it clear he wanted nothing to do with it – ‘makes your pee stink,’ he remarked – and it slowly decomposed in the fridge.
‘I’m looking to build a vibrant, talented team from the very beginning,’ Brad goes on, pausing to drain yet another glass of wine. ‘It’s not a project one can launch into all by oneself …’
‘So,’ I venture hesitantly, ‘what kind of people will you be looking for?’
‘Everyone,’ he says. ‘Front of house, kitchen staff, someone to man the cheese farm and hives, not that hives have to be manned as such, bees are pretty self-sufficient …’ A throaty chuckle. ‘There’ll be the hotel to run, and the bar and farm shop and cider farm …’ He pauses to refill his glass. ‘I’m looking for passion, commitment …’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say eagerly, my heart beating a little faster.
‘… I’m even thinking of taking on youngsters, school leavers – the types who have no direction – and training them up, giving them a chance in life …’
‘That’s such a great thing to do …’
‘I’m looking to mentor raw talent,’ he lurches on, lips blackened by wine now. ‘It’s hugely exciting. So, what d’you think?’
‘Sounds fantastic,’ I enthuse. ‘There aren’t enough opportunities for young people – at least, if they’re not hugely academic and heading straight to university. I mean, my son Morgan, he has notions of being a street performer but—’
‘I’m so glad you think so,’ he barges in, slurring now. ‘I value your input, Audrey. You have something about you, you know.’ With that, he excuses himself and totters off to the gents.
I can hardly contain my excitement while he’s gone. So he thinks I have something about me! He must be planning to ask me to be involved, on some level. Perhaps I could advise from afar, or even take up a live-in position when he gets the thing started? Maybe he wants to mentor me? It’s all falling into place now: his keen interest in my dinner lady and hotel experience, and the fact that he clearly wanted to talk to me alone.
Another thought hits me: this youngsters-with-no-direction thing. Could Morgan be taken on as a trainee chef? While he certainly lacks basic culinary skills, he does have a keen interest in food. Well, he eats, at least. I know he’d miss Jenna but really, would he allow his relationship to get in the way of an amazing opportunity? And it would be far preferable to mucking out pigs at his dad’s. It’s all I can do not
to text him and tell him to prepare for great news.
Having emerged from the loo, Brad catches my eye and waves apologetically; he’s now taking a call on his mobile. Sorry, he mouths, marching towards the main door and stepping outside. I glance down at the remains of my steak and chips. I’m far too excited to eat now. As I gather up the sauce sachets and stuff them back into their basket, I decide to go all out to impress him, to prove that an ordinary dinner lady from Yorkshire is precisely the kind of person he needs to help him get his project off the ground.
I glance back at the door. Still no sign of him. It’s funny, I decide, toying with the vinegar bottle, how people like Brad view people like me. He probably thinks I’d never encountered olive oil before coming on the course – that I cook with lard – and fork spaghetti straight into my mouth from a tin. With a smile, I decide to show him I do know stuff, and quickly Google ‘foodie trends’ on my phone (no calls or texts from Morgan, so I can only assume all is well). From a blog called Fashion Plates I learn that kale is terribly last season and that – amazingly – cauliflower is ‘having a moment’ right now. Other veg on the hot list include chard, celeriac and globe artichokes. I decide not to admit that I haven’t tried any of them.
Brad reappears, faintly sweaty and full of apologies. ‘So rude of me to leave you languishing here …’ He waves the waitress over and pays the bill. ‘Taxi’s outside,’ he adds.
‘Oh.’ I assume the interview’s over, then. ‘I should probably explain that I don’t know much about food,’ I begin, deciding this is my chance to show how eager I am. ‘But while you were taking that call I started looking stuff up on my phone …’
‘What kind of stuff?’ He gives me a bemused smile as we climb into the taxi.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘the kind of food that’s in fashion right now.’ I chuckle. ‘It’s amazing that vegetables go in and out of style, like skinny jeans or boyfriend jeans or whatever the thing of the moment is …’
‘I’m not concerned with fads,’ he says firmly.
