by Fiona Gibson
‘Those scallops are almost done,’ Brad remarks, casting a quick glance as I shuffle them around in the pan.
‘Oh yes, I think so too.’ I smile sweetly and add a generous dollop of butter and a scattering of chopped parsley.
‘I’m way behind,’ laments Lottie from the workstation opposite. ‘Look at you, Audrey. Your tarts are finished already!’
‘How did you manage that?’ Hugo remarks, sounding impressed.
‘I’m just taking it step by step,’ I say, looking around at everyone beavering away and realising, finally, that I do belong here. Stevie has gone, nothing terrible appears to have happened at home (Morgan is still living and breathing at least) and – if I say so myself – my clafoutis looks pretty damn perfect.
‘Excellent effort,’ Hugo declares as I transport my finished dishes to the huge oval table.
‘Think so?’ I say.
He grins. ‘Oh, yes. Maybe you are a dessert person after all.’
‘She’s more than that,’ remarks Dylan. ‘Blimey, Audrey, you’ve done yourself proud today …’
‘And don’t you dare say it’s beginner’s luck,’ Hugo laughs, startling me with an unexpected hug.
‘Wow. Thank you.’ Blushing, I pull away and stand back as Lottie brings her finished dishes to the table, followed by Tamara. The room is filled with a palpable air of relief as we all congratulate each other.
The ding of a spoon on a glass causes the hubbub to die down. ‘Everyone!’ calls out Chloe, who greeted us all on our first day. ‘Welcome to our final buffet, a little early in the day to call it a last supper but …’ She chuckles. ‘I think – and I know Brad agrees – that you’ve all done fantastically this week. And I know you’re all dying to try these wonderful dishes …’
‘I certainly am,’ says Brad, not entirely sincerely.
‘So thank you, everyone,’ Chloe adds, ‘for being such great sports and making the most of the opportunity to learn from our brilliant chef …’ Hugo catches my eye and smirks. ‘I hope you’ve all enjoyed …’ She breaks off as Jasper, the male model porter strides in and murmurs something to her. ‘Audrey?’ She turns to me. ‘Jasper says there’s been a call for you at reception.’
‘Oh.’ I frown. ‘Who was it?’
He hands me a small piece of paper torn off a notepad with a single word – Marvin – written on it. ‘Marvin?’ I say, frowning. ‘I don’t know any Marvins. Are you sure it was for me?’
‘He definitely asked for you,’ the young man says. ‘I’m sorry, Genevieve on reception said he wasn’t speaking very clearly. She asked him to repeat it but he rang off without leaving a number. She said he sounded a bit, uh, agitated …’
Something tightens in my chest. ‘Could it have been Morgan?’
He shrugs. ‘No idea. Sorry I can’t be more helpful …’ My blood seems to turn cold. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ he adds, scuttling along beside me as I rush out to the courtyard and fish out my phone from my pocket. Six missed calls, all from Morgan. I’ve been so engrossed in all that fiddly cooking, I haven’t even thought to check.
‘My God,’ I mutter, trying his number. Jasper hovers uncertainly. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I say, grateful when he heads back to the hotel.
Morgan’s phone is off. Where’s the logic in making a panicky call, and then being unavailable? I try our landline as I march in through the main doors to reception. No answer. I picture him burned in some terrible microwave catastrophe and feel sick. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, causing the receptionist to look up from her screen. ‘Er, I’m Audrey Pepper, someone called for me?’
‘Oh, yes. Marvin, I think it was …’
‘Morgan actually, but never mind. Did he say anything else? Did he say why he needed me?’
She purses her lips and frowns. ‘Um, no, I don’t think so …’
‘It’s just, I think it must’ve been pretty urgent.’
‘He just said, um … could you call him please as something’s happened …’
I stare at her. ‘What’s happened?’
She widens her hazel eyes and smiles apologetically at an elderly man who is clearly waiting to check in. ‘Sorry,’ she says, signalling that our exchange is over, ‘he didn’t say.’
I step back outside and pace the grounds, trying his number over and over whilst leaving increasingly agitated texts for him to ring me back. JUST SAY YOU’RE OK, I type frantically. JUST ONE WORD WILL DO. OK! The capable teenage gardener is out here, hoeing a flowerbed ablaze with blush-pink geraniums. Seeing me, he raises a hand in greeting. I nod distractedly back.
It’ll be nothing serious, I try to reassure myself. He’ll have hand-washed his boxers using my coconut bubble bath and is now upset because they whiff of Bounty bar. Christ, there are far worse things pants can smell of … But no, in my heart of hearts I know it’s not that. Calling the hotel means he’d have had to remember its name – or find it out somehow – and Google it for the phone number, which would have amounted to a colossal amount of effort and ingenuity on his part …
I turn and virtually run back to the hotel where, instead of wasting precious time waiting for the lift, I charge upstairs two at a time and fumble in my pocket for my key. The maid has been in, neatening and straightening, making everything smooth and orderly. I perch on the edge of the bed and try Morgan’s mobile again. Still turned off. I try Jenna’s – she doesn’t answer either – and of course I don’t have her mum’s mobile, or their landline. I have never had any reason to call her.
I swallow hard, my mouth bone dry, and try to think of other options. ‘Kim?’ I bark into the phone.
‘Hey you, how’s it going?’
‘It’s been, it’s been … fine but look, Morgan called the hotel in some kind of panic—’
‘He’s probably run out of milk,’ she says, chuckling.
‘No, it wasn’t that. I’m sure it wasn’t. I mean, he tried my mobile six times and when he couldn’t get through he managed to find the hotel number …’
‘It can’t have been hard, Aud.’
‘No, don’t you see? He wouldn’t have bothered unless it was urgent …’
‘Oh, love,’ she cuts in. ‘Please don’t panic …’
‘I’m not,’ I fib, ‘but if you’re around my way today could you just pop by?’
‘I would but I’m on my way to Manchester, I’m nearly there now …’
‘Ah, okay, don’t worry. I’ll come home.’
‘Home?’ she exclaims. ‘But I thought you weren’t due back till tomorrow.’
‘Yes, that was the plan but it doesn’t matter …’
‘It does matter,’ she barks. ‘Christ, Aud, it’s your last night! What on earth could have happened? He’s a perfectly capable young man. Why are you doing this?’
‘Because he needs me,’ I say, rather hotly, as we finish the call.
I fetch my case from the wardrobe and set it on the bed. I’ll never sleep in a bed like this again, I muse, snatching clothes from drawers and hangers. Well, that doesn’t matter. I don’t need four-posters – no one’s going to be tying me up anytime soon – or a mattress the size of a car park. I just need to know that Morgan’s okay.
I throw my clothes into my case on top of the mound of minibar snacks. It’s a squash to jam everything in: I’ve been packing away all the edibles to take home, apart from the ones Stevie scoffed. With a knot of panic in my stomach I grab my bits and pieces – including the book I brought to read in the evenings in case there was no one to hang out with – plus the posh toiletries and the scented candle from the bathroom. The whole operation has taken less than five minutes. I zip up my case and wipe a slick of sweat from my brow.
Picking up my key, I take a last glance through the enormous window onto the sweeping grounds, the vegetable garden and lake, the elegant summerhouses and swathes of yellow blooms. Then I dash out of my room, nearly barging into a chambermaid wheeling a trolley of toiletries along the corridor and take the lift to the gro
und floor.
Focusing determinedly ahead, to minimise the chance of making eye contact with anyone and having to explain, I drop my brass key on the currently unmanned front desk and stride out to my car. The gravy smell seems more pungent than ever, probably due to the fact that I’ve spent the past five days in a heavenly place where there are no horrible smells at all – just aromas.
I make another attempt to contact Morgan: phone still off. I consider calling Vince, but he’s a three-hour drive away and would think I’m panicking over nothing. One thing about being a mother is that it always comes down to you; you’re the one who mops up the mess when things go wrong. It’s all very well Vince declaring that Morgan should be standing on his own two feet by now, but look what happens when I leave him.
I dump my case on the back seat and climb into my car, picturing Brad assessing our dainty dishes and perhaps – I allow myself this small, pleasing thought – conceding that my clafoutis is beautifully textured. I didn’t even get to taste today’s efforts, not that that matters now. I mean, I’ve survived perfectly well to the ripe old age of 44 without ever trying a bloody clafoutis. I do not need a cake in my life that I can’t even pronounce. Nor do I care that everyone will be gathering together tonight in the cosy bar, laughing and gossiping and cementing the friendships we’ve built up over the week. Well, I decide, swiping away a bitter tear from my cheek, I don’t mind much. Morgan needs me, and that’s that.
Wiping my face on my sleeve, I pull out onto the drive. I switch on the radio, and try to conjure up sweet vanilla-ish scents in order to blot out the lingering whiff of gravy in my car. But I can’t.
Chapter Nineteen
Minibar Snacks
Our car can’t be that crappy as it somehow manages to propel me northwards without me having very much to do with it. I am on autopilot, notching up miles as the sky fades from Wilton Grange blue to a watery grey.
As fine rain spits at my windscreen, I try to banish a terrible image of Morgan, screaming in pain from an ironing injury. No, that definitely hasn’t happened. He’s never ironed anything in his life.
I drive on, deciding now that something was bound to happen, and that perhaps I’m just not cut out for a luxurious life. It didn’t feel right, having someone place a proper cloth napkin on my lap when I sat down to dinner, and calling me madam as if it were 1875. No, actually, I’m lying. I loved having my drink brought over on a tray with a little doily! I loved the chocolates on my pillow, and the fact that I only had to take a few sips from my wine glass for a charming waiter to scurry over and top it up. I’ll admit it: I loved the whole damn thing. Not even Brad’s slobbery kiss – or being lashed to the bed with a curtain rope – spoiled it, because nothing could. Nothing except this …
I drive for over two hours before light-headedness sets in. Better eat something, I decide, turning off at a service station. More importantly, I need to try and call Morgan again.
It’s now raining heavily, and my flat shoes slap against the puddled tarmac as I race for the building. Shivering now, I hover by the pinball game as I try Morgan’s mobile, followed by our landline which rings and rings, like some relic from a bygone era.
What the hell has happened to him?
I buy an Americano and a clammy chicken sandwich which embeds itself in my molars. I manage about a quarter of it, and check my phone for missed calls, even though it’s been wedged in my hand the whole time. There must be someone else I can call. I run through terrifying scenarios of Morgan being knocked down in the road, or in a fight – he’s not a fighter, but has someone attacked him? And now I can’t shift the image of terrible injuries from my mind. Yes, he was still capable of finding the hotel number and making a call – but all that tells me is that he could operate his laptop and speak on the phone, in a not entirely intelligible manner …
A wave of dread washes over me as I try to figure out which hospital he’d most likely be in. If there’s been an accident at home – and I’m now assuming there has, as he rarely strays from his natural habitat of sofa/bed – he’d be at Park Vale, which doesn’t have a proper A&E department but then, Morgan wouldn’t know that. And surely, if he managed to propel himself there, they’d at least make some attempt to treat him? I Google the number and call. ‘Hello,’ I start, ‘I wondered if a Morgan Pepper’s been admitted today?’
‘Morgan Pepper?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He’s eighteen, he’s my son, I think he might have had an accident …’
‘Oh, we don’t have A&E here, love. You need Watley General …’
‘Right, of course. I just thought …’ I bat away a tear from my cheek. ‘Thank you.’ I try Watley General where the receptionist puts me through to A&E, and where the line remains unanswered as, clearly, everyone is too busy patching up my darling son to answer it.
Finally someone picks up. ‘A&E?’
I rattle off my concerns.
‘Hang on a minute, please.’ As the minute stretches on and on – more like twenty, it feels like – I become aware of a smart-looking woman at the next table glancing at me with a mixture of sympathy and disdain. Few sights can be more pitiful than a middle-aged woman mopping up her snot in public with a paper napkin.
‘No one of that name, I’m afraid,’ a bored-sounding woman says finally.
Okay, so he’s not at hospital. This fails to reassure me. I fire off a text: Morgan phone me NOW!!, then wait some more, wondering if time has distorted because my coffee, which was lip-burningly hot a few moments ago, is now tepid.
And then my phone rings. ‘Morgan,’ I bark, ‘are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ he mumbles, ‘s’pose so.’
‘You suppose so? What happened? Did you call the hotel?’
He coughs awkwardly. ‘Er, yeah, sorry ’bout that. Just wanted to, y’know … talk to someone.’
‘What about? I’ve been worried sick, darling. What’s going on?’
‘Aww … it’s been pretty bad, Mum …’
‘Are you hurt or what?’
‘Yeah, I was pretty hurt, still am, it’s just …’ His voice wobbles, and the words dissolve. My heart seems to break. I can’t remember the last time he cried.
‘Please, darling, just tell me what happened …’
He sniffs loudly. ‘It’s nothing, Mum. Is nothing, all right? It’s just, Jenna’s dumped me.’
I shouldn’t mind, I tell myself as I drive through torrential rain towards home, that it’s only his heart that’s broken. I mean, there’s no only about it, not at eighteen years old – not at any age in fact. For months it felt as if my own heart was shredded, desiccated, after Vince and I broke up, and I’d been the one to leave. Anyway, all I’ve missed are the goodbye drinks and dinner and a final night in the most enveloping bed I’ve ever had the pleasure to sleep in. I mean, it’s only that, plus the exchanging of contact details which would have been nice – but would we really have kept in touch once we’d all scattered back to our everyday lives?
I left in a panic because Jenna finished with him, is the single thought that loops through my brain as I drive north. And by the time I arrive home they’ll probably be back together again.
It’s still raining when I pull up and let myself into our rather stale-smelling house. ‘Morgan?’ I call out from the hall. ‘Morgan, I’m home, are you in?’ Silence. I dump my suitcase in the hall and dart into the living room. The pants are still there, in precisely the same positions as I left them, as carefully marked by their chalked outlines. Never mind that. In fact, I’m a little embarrassed about that now. In the light of Morgan’s heartbreak, it seems like a terribly petty gesture.
On the coffee table lies a note from my son: Hi Mum gone for a walk. A walk? I don’t like the sound of that. He must be in a pretty poor emotional state to be propelling himself forward, under his own steam, for no particular reason at all.
I investigate the kitchen. There’s a lingering greasy whiff, with a top note of angst, bringing to mind a burger being fried
by a crying boy. Well, at least he’s been eating. The sink piled high with dirty plates and glasses offers further evidence that he’s been nourishing himself. Not on my butterfly cakes, though. They are still sitting there, now hard as grenades, apart from one which appears to have been ground into crumbs and liberally sprinkled across the worktop. Investigation of the freezer reveals that he hasn’t consumed any of my home-cooked offerings either. I peer into the bin where numerous oily Chinese takeaway cartons are jammed on top of the offensive checked shirt. So, he made use of the guilt money I left him, at least.
Up in Morgan’s bedroom the curtains are drawn, and the bed is a tumble of crumpled duvet and sheets. His rather grubby, fat pillows – he insists on six, like a sultan – are lying all over the floor as if flung about in despair. In the bathroom his trainers are lying by the unflushed, pee-splattered loo. They are bright white and vast, like motor yachts moored on our sparkly blue lino. Jenna’s lemon thong is still scrunched up in the corner, near the bottles of Domestos and Cif. At least nothing appears to be broken. Maybe he managed to fix, or replace, whatever it was.
My mobile trills weakly from inside my bag, and I race downstairs to the hall to answer it. ‘Hello, may I speak to Audrey Pepper please?’ It’s a polished female voice.
‘Yes, speaking?’
‘Ah, great, it’s Genevieve from Wilton Grange here. I think you left without checking out?’
‘Yes, sorry. There was, er, something urgent I had to attend to at home.’
‘That’s fine,’ she says, adopting a brisker tone. ‘So if we could just settle your extras …’
‘Extras? What d’you mean?’
She coughs politely. ‘Your minibar bill, madam.’
‘Oh! Yes, of course, I forgot about that.’ Damn, I assumed that stuff was free. Still, it was only a few packets of crisps and biscuits …
‘No problem. We have your debit card details so we can just charge it to that, if that’s okay …’
