The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  I went really hot all of a sudden. This wasn’t a work-related conversation at all, was it?

  I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the stick.

  Ninety seconds left.

  ‘I’d never dip my chips in another girl’s gravy. But now that Liam’s not your gravy,’ she said with a giggle, ‘let’s just say that last night I double-dipped. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I think I do, yes.’ I swallowed hard. Unfortunately, the image was only too clear.

  One minute.

  ‘I must say, you kept very quiet about splitting up. I mean, are you OK?’

  So Liam and I had split up? My heart thundered against my ribs. Nice of him to let me know. I will not let on how much this hurts, I vowed, pressing a finger to the tears welling in my eyes.

  ‘Er, yes, fine.’

  ‘Only I’d hate us to fall out, now that me and Liam are an item,’ Melanie continued.

  So forty-five seconds before I learn if Liam is going to be the father of my child, I discover I’m dumped. Great.

  I thought back to last night, when I lay in bed waiting for him, my eyes darting from my phone to the pregnancy test on my bedside table . . . What an idiot. All those texts I sent him about keeping the bed warm for him and what I was (or wasn’t) wearing . . . Oh, the embarrassment. How could he have gone behind my back like this? I thought our relationship meant as much to him as it did to me. OK, we might never have won romantic couple of the year, but even so. I checked my watch.

  Thirty seconds to go.

  Whatever the result, it looked like it was too late to be sharing the news with Liam. That gravy boat had sailed . . .

  ‘Vee-Vee?’

  I dropped my head into my hands and groaned, ‘No.’

  ‘Whew!’ she sighed. ‘Muchos reliefos! By the way, Rod wants to see you at nine . . . oops, sorry, it’s already ten past. You’d better get your skates on.’

  ‘Nine?’ I gulped. ‘Our meeting’s not until eleven.’

  I heard Melanie’s heels scrape towards the door. ‘Uh-huh, he deffo said nine. To get it over with, he said. I’d better go. Good luck!’

  The door banged shut and I looked at my watch. The three minutes were up. I scrutinized the little white stick. No matter how hard I stared and how many times I twisted it to check it at different angles for a clear blue line, the little plastic window remained clear. It was definitely negative.

  I dropped it into the waste bin and bit back my disappointment as I splashed cold water on my face.

  I wasn’t pregnant and my boyfriend was someone else’s gravy. I might be being over-sensitive, but perhaps today was really not my lucky day?

  Dashing back to the marketing office to collect my presentation, I spotted Liam’s laptop case on his desk. The man himself was nowhere to be seen. I was glad about that; the mood I was in, I might have punched him. Or burst into tears. He was probably pressing himself against Melanie at the fire escape doors or something. There was a knot of tension in my stomach and I could feel a pulse beating at the side of my temple as I jogged along the corridor to Rod’s office. I paused and forced myself to take a few calming breaths before knocking.

  Rosie’s words suddenly came back to me: You are the better candidate, Verity Bloom. Make it happen. Make that job yours.

  I bloody well intend to, I thought, straightening my spine. Rod was standing at the window staring down at the street, jingling coins in his trouser pockets.

  ‘Sit,’ he bellowed, throwing himself down into a huge black leather chair. He folded one leg over the other and proceeded to jiggle his ankle.

  I’d barely warmed the visitor’s chair in Rod’s office when he delivered his news.

  ‘Verity,’ he announced, with a slap to the desk, ‘this gives me no pleasure, no pleasure at all.’

  One sentence.

  It told me all I needed to know. But I had to listen to him for a further ten minutes while he blathered on about difficult choices, lean times and creating a business fit for the future. A future that I was clearly not to be a part of. And to add insult to injury, Liam was, Rod informed me.

  I glanced at the two copies of the One, Two, Three Plan still squarely on the desk in front of me. He hadn’t even asked to see my profit-improving proposal.

  As he lectured on, I felt myself getting more and more annoyed. I’d spent hours working on this; it wasn’t fair of him not to even let me fight for my job. Finally, when he stopped to draw breath, I jumped in.

  ‘Rod, I’ve been at Solomon Insurance for five years, I know the business inside out and—’

  ‘Exactly!’ Rod stuck his hands out. ‘You’ve let the bad times drag you down. I get that. It’s understandable. You need to get out there, Verity.’ He flung an arm towards the window. ‘Find something new to excite you. Get the old juices flowing.’

  ‘But, Rod,’ I countered, pushing my presentation towards him, ‘I assure you my juices are in full flow.’

  I regretted that particular turn of phrase but ploughed on, ignoring the heat that had risen to my face. ‘Look at this. I believe my One, Two, Three Plan will deliver long-term profits.’

  Rod’s eyes flew to the front page of my document. ‘Ah, Verity.’

  I wriggled forward in my seat. Fantastic, I had his attention.

  ‘It will incentivize our existing customers and—’

  ‘Whoa.’ Rod held up a hand. I closed my mouth.

  ‘This is awkward.’ He fixed me with a steely stare, looking anything but awkward. ‘The word on the street is that you and Liam were, er, close . . .?’ He raised a leery eyebrow. ‘But I have to draw the line at presenting his idea as your own.’

  Liam’s idea? Rod must have got confused. I shook my head firmly. ‘No, this idea was mine, I assure you.’

  ‘OK, OK. This one’s yours,’ he drawled. This time the eyebrow was more bemused. ‘Just very, very similar to the Three, Two, One Plan that Liam told me about last night. Great party, by the way. We had fun; shame you couldn’t be there.’

  ‘Liam told you last night?’ I gasped.

  Not content with sleeping with someone else, last night my ex-boyfriend had also stolen my ideas, thus stealing my job.

  The absolute git.

  I didn’t believe it; how could Liam do that to me? I felt sick suddenly and there was an ache deep in the pit of my stomach. Actually, that might be the late arrival of my period. Great.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Rod nodded.

  I blinked at him. I wanted to defend myself, to deny that I’d stolen anyone’s ideas, but my throat had closed up and I was completely speechless.

  ‘Go and see personnel, they’ve got all the paperwork and details of your redundancy package.’

  With that, he tossed the document back to me and stood up, extending a hand to signal the end of our meeting.

  ‘Try to see this as a positive move, Verity. As the saying goes, “When life gives you lemons . . .”’

  ‘Rub them in your cheating, thieving boyfriend’s eyeballs?’ I said, squeezing his hand as hard as I could.

  And on that fleeting note of triumph, I flounced out of his office and slammed the door behind me.

  After spending a few minutes with personnel, who told me I was on immediate gardening leave and that I’d receive a redundancy payment in the post, I was back at my desk, shoving my personal belongings into a plastic bag. I couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. I’d spotted Liam in Rod’s office looking all smiley and relaxed and I wanted to make my exit before he returned to our office. I planned to have it out with the slimeball at some point, but not here; I didn’t trust myself not to make a scene. I shoved the last item, an unopened box of Cup-a-Soup, in my bag and shut my desk drawer.

  ‘Verity?’

  Too late.

  Liam was standing in the doorway, arms outstretched, his brow furrowed with penitence. He was tall and wide-shouldered with coppery hair, hazel eyes and a permanent look of dishevelled schoolboy about him that I’d always found cute. Until now
. Now I found it annoying.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He blinked at me forlornly.

  ‘How about, “I am a dishonest, deceitful, unfaithful knob”?’ I said, folding my arms and glaring at him. His eyes were set too close together, I realized. A sure sign of dodginess. Why had I never noticed this before?

  ‘Rod backed me into a corner last night, Verity. Literally. You know how forceful he can be. He asked me what my big idea was for today’s meeting. I panicked.’

  There was a photo frame on Liam’s desk that I’d bought him. He’d put a picture of Katy Perry in it instead of me and I’d pretended not to be hurt at the time. I should have known then. The git. I swiped it off the desk and dropped it into my bag.

  I exhaled with frustration. ‘Why not just tell him your idea?’

  He shrugged and took a step towards me. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Are we still talking about the intellectual theft of my One, Two, Three Plan or you acquainting yourself with Melanie’s white bits while I was at home waiting to take a pregnancy test?’

  ‘What? Er . . .’ The colour drained from his face and he tugged at his shirt collar to loosen it.

  I couldn’t deny a glimmer of satisfaction at his display of panic. I hefted my bag over my shoulder and caught a whiff of the aftershave I’d bought him for Valentine’s Day as I scooted past him to the door. A wave of sadness hit me then as I remembered the good times we’d had.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.’ I sighed.

  Liam slapped a hand to his chest. ‘Oh, thank God . . .’ His voice trailed off when he caught sight of my sharp stare. ‘Well, it is probably for the best,’ he added sheepishly.

  And to think this morning I was contemplating starting a family with this man; I could have been pregnant with his child right now. I deserved better. My future children deserved better. And now I had an answer to my own question: did I truly love him with all my heart?

  No.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said, mustering a defiant smile. ‘I think I’ve had a very lucky escape. And good luck with the job; you’ll need it.’

  And with that I marched out of Solomon Insurance for the last time.

  Verity Bloom had left the building.

  Chapter 4

  A couple of hours later I was consoling myself with lunch in front of some blissfully unchallenging TV when my mobile rang from the depths of my handbag. I sighed and set down my Bounty bar. I was at a critical stage: I’d nibbled all the chocolate from the sides and base and I was about to attempt the removal of the thick bit on the top without snapping it.

  But the interruption was worth it: it was Mimi’s mum Gloria on the phone.

  ‘Darling, have you got a mo? I’m not disturbing you in a meeting, am I?’

  I sank back on to the sofa and refused to look at the chocolate. ‘Not at all. I’m only having lunch. At home.’

  ‘But that’s terrible!’ exclaimed Gloria after I’d outlined the events of the morning. ‘Never mind; his – their – loss is someone else’s gain, I’m sure.’

  Gloria was very well-spoken, with a voice like double cream: all rich and luxurious. She had elegant looks to match, too. A dainty elfin face dominated by startling blue eyes like Mimi’s had been and chunky golden highlights in her cropped hair. I could hear her signature armful of bangles jingling down the phone.

  ‘Thanks, Gloria,’ I said quietly. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  At the moment it felt like solely my loss. My life had fallen apart when Mimi died. I’d been cast adrift without her after all we’d been through together and it had taken me two years to get back on my feet. Now I felt like I was back at square one.

  ‘Have you any idea what you’re going to do?’ she asked.

  I’d been asking myself the same question all morning. I had enough money to tide me over for a few months and I was sure Rosie would stay on as my lodger if I needed her to, but what was I actually going to do?

  ‘Not yet.’ I sighed. ‘I knew redundancy was a possibility, but I didn’t expect to lose Liam at the same time. I just feel . . . totally rejected.’

  ‘Oh, darling girl, you’ve had a rough day but try to think of it as redirected, rather than rejected.’

  ‘OK.’ I sniffed, unconvinced. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t call me to hear all my woes?’

  ‘No.’ Gloria paused.

  I glanced up at the TV screen to catch the tail end of a nappy commercial and fumbled for the remote to turn off the TV. I’d passed approximately three thousand pregnant women and pram-pushing mums on the way home and I’d had enough reminders about my unpregnant status for one day.

  ‘I feel wretched for not coming down for Mimi’s bluebell walk. I thought about her all day and you and Gabe, of course, and mostly little Noah. But I just couldn’t get away. The cookery school – or bomb site, as I ought to call it – was in chaos and I didn’t dare leave the workmen to it, especially as they’d come into work on a Sunday at my behest. Did it go well? I mean, you know . . .’

  The breath caught in my throat as I thought back to yesterday and our pilgrimage through the woods, the three of us bound together by the person who’d loved us the most.

  ‘It was . . . calming, Gloria. I think of her all the time, too. But somehow being there amongst the bluebells makes me feel closer to her. We all missed you, though,’ I admitted. ‘Noah’s growing up; he even talks about his mum now and he’s such a clever little chap.’

  I recounted the comment he’d made about Mimi’s batteries running out.

  ‘Oh, the darling little mite,’ cried Gloria, her voice suddenly wobbly. ‘I’ll call Gabe and invite them up to stay. Although, perhaps not at the moment, I can’t cope . . . Oh heavens, what a poor excuse for a grandmother I am.’

  I heard a sob in her voice and felt a sudden wave of anxiety for her; she was normally so unflappable, so in control, just like Mimi had been. ‘Gloria, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m a fool, that’s what’s wrong. Whatever possessed me? I’m a food stylist – a retired food stylist. I cook, I make things look beautiful, but I’m not a project manager or a businesswoman. I’m not even a teacher, for goodness’ sake. What was I thinking?’

  Gabe had said that his mother-in-law had bitten off more than she could chew; perhaps he was right.

  ‘Then maybe you need to have a rethink. Perhaps starting this venture isn’t right for you?’ At your age, I added mentally. I kept that to myself; Gloria might be sixty-five but she probably thought she’d outlive us all. She’d certainly outlived her only daughter . . .

  ‘I’m committed now.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve signed a five-year lease, sorted out a business loan, which I’ve spent. But I’m completely out of my depth, wading through problem after problem and in too deep to back out. And I’m so close to it that I can’t see the wood for the trees.’

  My heart squeezed for her.

  It was at times like this that I missed Mimi’s presence the most. She had been so good at talking people out of their gloom. She could point out the silver lining in any situation and had always been the light to my shade. I had a sudden flashback to the time I’d refused to come out of my bedroom after a disastrous fringe incident at the hairdresser’s, aged fourteen. She had been the one to convince me that I could pass for eighteen with my new look and had chopped off her own fringe in solidarity.

  I didn’t know what I could say to make things any better for Gloria, so I just listened while she explained about the half-finished website and the full-page advert she’d booked to publicize the open day that she now suspected wouldn’t happen and the health and safety inspector who kept phoning for an appointment and the granite worktops that had cracked . . . The list was endless.

  No wonder she was stressed; I was exhausted just listening to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, finally stopping to draw breath, ‘you’ve got enough on your plate without listening to the mess I’ve got myself into. I’d better let you get back to your
lunch.’

  I looked at my nibbled chocolate bar; she’d be appalled if she knew how badly I was eating these days. She sighed so deeply down the phone that my heart ached for her.

  ‘Gloria, don’t apologize. I’m happy to be your sounding board any time. And if you need ideas for your opening day, let me know. I’ve spent the last ten years working in marketing and I’m sure I could come up with something. It’s not like I’ll be busy with work for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Thank you, darling, I will. I don’t suppose . . .?’ She hesitated. ‘No . . . I couldn’t ask.’

  ‘Ask!’ I admonished her with a laugh. ‘The worst that can happen is that I can’t help.’

  ‘OK.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Would you come to Plumberry and work for me? A month, say, just to get the cookery school up and running?’

  My heart plummeted to somewhere close to my knees. Me and my big mouth.

  ‘You look like death,’ declared Rosie, getting to the point as usual when she arrived home around seven.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I was in my bedroom, arranging my clothes in piles on my bed. She launched herself on to the mattress, dispersing my carefully folded selection of cardigans, and tipped out the contents of her plastic bag on my bed.

  ‘Mocha, oatmeal or toast?’ she said, lining up three miniature pots of paint for me to see. ‘For the hall, stairs and landing in the new house.’

  Toast. My stomach rumbled. Left to go cold. With real butter. That sounded comforting. It had been a long time since my chocolate bar. Sometimes when I couldn’t be bothered to cook (i.e. a lot) Rosie and I would make a toast mountain and plough our way through it while the soaps were on. I could feel one coming on tonight.

  ‘That one,’ I said, pointing at the pot of oatmeal. I dumped two pairs of jeans on the floor and joined her on the bed. ‘I’ve done a rash thing.’

  Rosie’s eyes lit up and she rolled on to her side to face me.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve slashed Liam’s tyres?’