by Fiona Gibson
He blinks at me. ‘A bit of a turn, like an old lady?’
I fiddle with my birthday necklace. ‘Well, I feel like an old lady.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. No one knows, only me …’
‘Hugo, please don’t tell anyone.’
‘Come on,’ he exclaims, ‘how old d’you think I am, nine? Of course I won’t tell anyone! Anyway, I take it that was your on-and-off thing?’
‘Yep, he’s the one,’ I say flatly.
He smiles, and his eyes crinkle kindly. ‘I assume he’s on at the moment?’
I shrug. ‘Yes, I suppose so. He just showed up without any warning. He’s still in my room, annoyed about being left alone, probably …’
Hugo smiles warmly. ‘He’s a grown man. I’m sure he can take care of himself.’
‘Yeah.’ I turn to look at him. ‘I’m just not sure what I’m doing here, Hugo.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well,’ I say, focusing on a blaze of bright yellow roses, ‘I don’t know what the point is. I mean, you’re here because you had that what-the-hell thing, you wanted to do something spontaneous …’
‘Isn’t that why you’re here too?’
I consider this. ‘No, I’m here because I was mad that Morgan threw away the shirt I’d bought him for Christmas.’
Hugo frowns. ‘That was rather ungrateful of him. Was it covered in galloping reindeer?’
‘No, it was a perfectly nice check.’
‘Sounds pretty inoffensive.’ He pauses. ‘I’m glad, though. Not about the wasted shirt,’ he adds quickly, ‘but that you’re here.’
I smile ruefully. ‘Well, at least I’ve provided you with some entertainment …’
He touches my arm again, and now I wish we could just sit here, the two of us, and that Stevie and Brad and the whole cooking malarky would just melt away. ‘How about coming to class now?’
‘I’m really not sure, Hugo …’
‘But it’s brûlée! It’s the classic French dessert. Come on, it’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To learn, to stretch yourself, to do fancy stuff with a few eggs and whatever the heck else goes into it?’
I smile, because he’s right: and aren’t I always on at Morgan, urging him to get out there and make the most out of life? ‘I would like to be able to make a brûlée,’ I say firmly.
‘Come on, then. Let’s do it.’ He beams at me, squinting in the sunshine, as we stride together back to the hotel.
Everyone’s already beavering away at their workstations. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I murmur, silently challenging Brad to make a sarky remark.
‘Another ciggie break?’ He throws me a resigned look.
‘Not exactly, Brad. I actually gave up twenty years ago.’ I smile briefly and take my place next to Hugo who begins to crack eggs into a glass bowl. I pick up the laminated recipe and study it hard: Heat the cream and vanilla in a saucepan. Sounds simple enough. I pour my cream into the pan, aware of Brad making his way over and watching, arms folded, a smirk on his face. ‘You missed the demonstration,’ he adds. Whoah, so he’s actually bothered to do some teaching today. Or maybe the hollandaise girl did it for him?
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I lost track of time.’
‘She was a bit tied up,’ Hugo murmurs, at which I splutter while focusing hard on the laminated sheet of A4.
‘The thing is to heat the cream slowly,’ Brad adds, ‘in the pan.’
Well, I didn’t plan to heat it in an egg cup, smartass. I smile sweetly as he wanders away to lavish praise on Tamara’s perfectly smooth custard – maybe she’s his next target for a dinner date – and try to concentrate on the matter in hand instead of picturing Stevie, growing restless in my room. He’s probably glugging his way through the minibar and making a cack-handed attempt at fixing the curtain rope back in its proper place.
I wrestle my thoughts back to my brûlée and scan the worktop for vanilla. ‘Pretty necklace,’ Brad remarks, arriving back at my side.
Instinctively, I touch the silver chain. ‘Er, thank you.’
‘Although you shouldn’t be wearing jewellery in class.’ I catch Hugo shooting him a look of annoyance, and quickly take it off and place it on the corner of the worktop.
‘Sorry, I forgot.’
‘That’s okay,’ he says with a grin. ‘You haven’t tied your hair back either.’
‘God, no. I’ll go and do it now …’
‘No, no, just get on with the recipe, Audrey. You seem to have a real sense of … determination about you today.’
I inhale deeply, still looking for my missing vanilla. There are only egg yolks, two kinds of sugar and a gnarly old leaf on my bench. Looks like the assistant forgot to set some out for me. I’m reluctant to ask Brad in case he assumes that fetching me some means he’s entitled to a sexual favour. If he reckoned he was due a quickie for a couple of shallots, what would he expect for a glug of vanilla essence?
Brad has now levered himself up and is sitting on the corner of my workbench. ‘Looking for something?’ he asks.
‘Just vanilla,’ I say distractedly.
He picks up the withered brown thing and holds it in front of me. ‘Know what this is?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s a vanilla pod,’ he says slowly, as if addressing a child. ‘We don’t use essence here.’
‘Right, of course …’ I force a smile and take it from him. So what to do now: chop it, boil it or just bung the whole thing in? I glance over at Hugo, who’s charged ahead: his brûlée has already been poured into four ramekins.
‘If you’d been here for my demo,’ Hugo adds, ‘you’d have seen that we prepare it by making a slit along its length, peeling it open and scraping out the sticky paste.’
‘Of course,’ I say, unruffled by his patronising tone as I tackle the pod as directed.
‘Very good. Now bring the cream to boiling point but don’t let it boil.’
‘Okay …’ I’m not illiterate, I can read a recipe …
‘Now beat the egg yolks and caster sugar …’
‘Right-ho,’ I chirp, a phrase I’ve never used in my life.
‘Now pour your flavoured cream into the bowl with your sugar and eggs …’ Oh, I get it. He’s still trying to pay me back for rebuffing his advances. Making fun of my bottom scratching didn’t work, so now he’s opting for the over-attentive approach. What he doesn’t know is that, having been seen tied up with a curtain rope, nothing can ruffle me now.
I stand over my pan, slowly stirring, trying to block out the sound of Brad breathing boozily at the back of my neck. As lumps begin to form, I quicken my stirring in the hope that it’ll smooth everything out … but no.
I turn off the heat and gaze down at the scrambled mess.
‘Ahhh,’ Brad observes, unable to erase the note of triumph from his voice. ‘Looks like you’ve got one hell of a curdled custard there, Audrey.’
*
My heart’s not in the macarons that follow. While Hugo’s are pretty shades of lemon and pink, mine bring to mind those ‘a hint of a tint’ paints that were once so popular as an alternative to white. ‘Macarons are tricky,’ Lottie says generously, although hers, too, are picture perfect.
It’s almost a relief to finish cooking for the day and head up to my room where Stevie is lying diagonally on the bed, leafing idly through the hotel’s glossy magazine. ‘Hey,’ he says, brightening, ‘here at last. So how did it go?’
‘Fine,’ I say flatly, pulling off my shoes and curling up on my side next to him. Not that I’ve forgiven him exactly; I just need a little lie down.
‘Good. Well, babe, I have to say, I can totally see why you chose this trip instead of the cash prize. What a place! They’re working you too hard, though. You look knackered.’ Hmmm, a comment guaranteed to boost a woman’s morale. ‘A girl came in to tidy up,’ he adds, stretching out to his full length. ‘I told her not to bother. She left one of those red foil chocolates, though …’
‘Oh, where is it?’
‘I ate it. Bloody delicious they are.’ He smiles lazily. ‘Come here, darling, give me a cuddle …’ He tries to gather me up in his arms, but I edge away.
‘Not now, Stevie.’ I reach for my phone.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Just texting Morgan …’
‘You’re always prodding at your phone. Always something else on your mind, darling. First your custard, now your son …’ Choosing to ignore this, I tap out my message: Everything ok?
Yeah, comes the illuminating reply. Well, at least he’s replied. I don’t expect an extensive account of everything he’s been up to during my absence. Stevie tuts. ‘C’mon, Aud, put your phone away and give me a shoulder rub. I’m all knotted and stiff from the drive …’ He whips off his T-shirt and positions himself face down, ready for servicing.
I cast a cursory glance over his back. A very attractive back, granted, lightly tanned and just muscly enough, but not one I wish to start working on now. ‘I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Aw, babe. Not still annoyed about that thing, are you?’
‘It’s not that,’ I mutter, sitting up and drawing up my knees to my chin.
He props himself up on an elbow and frowns. ‘So what’s wrong?’
‘Oh, it’s just …’ I sigh loudly. ‘The brûlée. It was supposed to be cooked on a gentle heat, and I thought it was, but it still curdled, looked like bloody rice pudding by the time I’d finished …’
Stevie blinks slowly at me. ‘You’re kidding me, Aud.’
I turn to face him. ‘No, that’s what happens. If you heat it too quickly you’re basically scrambling the eggs.’
He shrinks back slightly. ‘D’you realise what you’re doing here? I’ve driven all this way to be with you—’
‘You said you were in the area!’
‘… and you’re still talking about custard.’
‘Well, it’s important,’ I exclaim. ‘I tried to rectify it, I poured it into ramekins and blowtorched the hell out of their surfaces …’
‘They have blowtorches here? What were you doing, stripping paint?’
‘They’re for caramelising …’
‘Whoo, caramelising,’ he parrots, infuriatingly. I glare at him. ‘C’mon, forget the brûlée, babe. Put it out of your pretty little mind …’
‘Could you be a little more patronising, Stevie?’
‘Aw, don’t be like that. Let’s go downstairs and get something to eat …’
‘We’re too early for dinner. If you’re hungry you can have the rest of those crisps and cookies from the minibar …’
He looks crestfallen. ‘It’s a five-star hotel, Aud. We can have whatever we want, whenever we want it. That’s what they’re here for, to serve us …’
I sense a slight chill as I look at him. ‘The thing is, I can’t really take you down to dinner. We all sit together, there are set menus for the students on the course …’
‘Let’s order a takeaway then, get cosy in here …’
I laugh involuntarily. ‘What were you planning, phoning for a Domino’s pizza?’
‘Ooh, gone all haute cuisine have you now, Aud? Isn’t a pizza good enough for you?’
‘Of course it is. For God’s sake, Stevie. What I mean is, we’re in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t any takeaways around here.’
He flips off the bed and grabs the leather-bound directory from the mahogany desk. ‘Room service, then? Is this included in the prize? I mean, can we have anything we want?’
‘You can choose something if you like, it’s not a problem …’
‘Great, I’m starving. Looking forward to breakfast tomorrow. Bet there’s tons to choose from …’
‘Breakfast?’ I stare at him ‘You mean … you’re planning to stay the night?’
‘Yeah, ’course, unless you’re expecting me to camp in the grounds.’ He reaches for my hand but I back away. ‘What’s wrong with you, Aud? You seem so tense.’
‘No, it’s just … you’re not meant to be staying here. I mean, you’re not officially booked in as a guest.’
He shrugs. ‘No one would know …’
‘But what if everyone smuggled in their boyfriends and girlfriends?’
‘Well, they haven’t, have they? And who cares if they did? Anyway, we’re consenting adults in the honeymoon suite. What d’you think normally goes on in here?’
‘That’s different, they’d be booked in as a couple …’
He snorts. ‘If it bothers you that much, I’ll hide in the bathroom when the room service guy comes up …’
‘That’s not the point!’
He laughs hollowly. ‘I know what it is. You’re embarrassed by me in front of your new posh friends. In front of Hugo …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He studies my face, then his gaze slides a little lower. ‘Where’s your necklace, babe? Don’t say you’ve lost it already.’
Instinctively, my hand goes to my neck. ‘I had to take it off. Jewellery’s not allowed at cook school …’
‘So where d’you put it?’
‘It’s okay,’ I say quickly, ‘I left it on my worktop. I’ll pop down now and see if the stable block’s still open.’
‘Oh, just leave it,’ he says tetchily.
‘No, I don’t want to lose it,’ I say, striding to the door. While it’s true that I’d like to retrieve my present, I am also keen for a breather from Stevie’s demands. Room service, a massage, lashing me to the bed with a rope: it’s all a little too much. Having a boyfriend really is more trouble than it’s worth.
My heart is thumping hard as I travel down in the lift and hurry out towards the courtyard. Stevie, showing up like this: what will the others think if he insists on coming down for breakfast and loading his plate with sausages? I can hardly stop him, if that’s what he wants. I can hardly barricade him in the wardrobe. Maybe I can persuade him to stay in my room and smuggle him up a croissant? It’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen with him. It’s just that he isn’t supposed to be here.
And neither am I, I figure, trying the handle of the stable block door and discovering that it’s unlocked. I creep in and peer around the immaculate workstations where the assistants have put everything away. Everything, that is, apart from my necklace, which is sitting in a small glass bowl on my worktop. I fix it on and perch on a stool for a minute, relishing the sense of calm. This is what I came here for: to get away from it all, and to change my life somehow. But it hasn’t turned out that way. I picture everyone gathering in the hotel bar before dinner, congratulating Tamara on her perfect brûlée. I imagine my new friends creating beautiful dishes tomorrow – our last day of cooking – while Brad makes barbed remarks about mine.
I step out of the stable block and close the door quietly behind me. By the time I return to my room, Stevie’s brown leather bag – and Stevie himself – have gone.
Chapter Eighteen
A Dazzling Array of Canapés
The atmosphere at cook school is different today. There’s a noticeable absence of chatter as everyone gears up for the day’s tasks. Our mission is to create a myriad of small dishes – canapés really – utilising the skills we’ve picked up during the course: pastry making, sautéing, creating the perfect redukssion. I study my laminated recipes:
Tapenade and Aubergine Caviar with tiny toasts
Salmon mousse choux pastries
Scallops with parsley butter
Gruyere tartlets
Tuna rillettes
Baked Camembert with caramelised onions
Cherry clafoutis
Blimey. Just as well I’m hangover-free – having skipped the bar last night – and raring to go. I’ll show him, I decide. Brad can hover over me, gusting nose-breath on the back of my neck, and I will not mess up.
I am also fuelled by simmering anger at Stevie for upping and leaving last night. How dare he, just because sex wasn’t on the cards? I might have been persuaded
, if he hadn’t been quite so demanding. And he had the nerve to call me desperate! I haven’t phoned him for an explanation, and nor has he been in touch to apologise; I sense a no-calling stand-off happening. Well, fine.
‘All ready?’ Brad booms out. There’s a collective murmur of readiness. ‘Remember,’ he goes on, ‘today’s challenge is to work through the recipes in a methodical way. You’ll be working on several dishes at once, switching from one to another and juggling many tasks, so it’s vital to keep a clear head and focus fully …’
Lottie throws me an alarmed look.
‘Don’t panic,’ Brad goes on. ‘Panic is the enemy of, er … well, everything really. So keep your nerve, and when you’re all done we’ll enjoy a buffet lunch so you can all try each other’s dishes. You’ll have the afternoon free, and we’ll gather together at seven for this evening’s farewell drinks before dinner …’ He has an air of relief about him, as if he’ll be glad to see the back of us.
I start by making my pastry for my gruyere tartlets. While they’re baking blind in their fluted tins, I knock together the savoury filling and make yet more pastry, this time choux. Pastry overload, as far as I’m concerned – but this time, everything seems to be going right. I blend tuna, mayonnaise, lemon juice and dill for my tuna rillettes which, I discover, are just little pancakes, or blinis, or whatever you want to call them. These, too, must be made from scratch.
The tapenade and aubergine caviar are easy – dips, basically, although Brad would probably shudder at the term – and, by some miracle, when I check my tartlets in the oven they have just reached peak goldenness. ‘Ooh, they look great,’ Tamara enthuses.
‘Thanks,’ I say quickly, turning my attention to caramelising my onions – slowly, to coax out their sweetness – and popping my camembert in the oven, then whipping up my salmon mousse to wrap up in choux. In fact, preparing so many dishes at once is somehow less stressful than focusing on just one thing. With so much going on, I’ve clicked into sight-reading mode: allowing distractions to fade away as the various components come together like notes on a stave. I whip together the batter for my cherry clafoutis, which I remember Hugo reminiscing about from his idyllic French lunches, and discover it’s basically a fat pancake filled with fruit.
