‘Thanks. Mimi isn’t here to help her mum, so I thought I should be,’ I said, aware of the familiar pull of sadness tugging at my heart.
Mags gave me a sideways glance. ‘But you are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
I nodded. I’d been going through the motions back at home, just doing enough to get through life, not daring to enjoy myself too much. I’d held back from giving things my all. Perhaps all that stuff with my job and Liam and the pregnancy scare had to happen to jolt me out of my apathy?
‘I feel a bit guilty that my life goes on whereas my friend will be forever stuck at thirty. But yes, I’m enjoying myself,’ I confirmed.
‘Good, because life’s for living, Verity,’ Mags said brightly. ‘Never forget that. And take pleasure where you can.’
‘That sounds like a good policy,’ I said, heartened by the advice.
‘Works for me. I call it my principle of pleasure.’ She popped a crouton in her mouth. ‘Mmm, now that is pleasure.’
‘Ooh, look, some public,’ I whispered as an elderly couple approached. ‘They can be our first customers.’
‘This reminds me of standing in bookshops with my authors, praying someone would come over and talk to us, or even, God forbid, buy a blooming book,’ said Mags out of the side of her mouth. ‘Good morning, lovelies, have you heard about Plumberry’s new cookery school?’
After seeing off a good few of our samples the couple moved on. They didn’t want to come to the cookery school but might pop down on opening day if we’d be handing out more free food. The husband pointed out that his wife’s cooking couldn’t be improved upon, which made us both forgive him for snaffling so much shortbread.
For the next fifteen minutes, we were bombarded with people content to eat our samples in exchange for giving us lots of ideas for cookery courses. Bread-making seemed to be popular, as did learning to make your favourite takeaways. I could imagine how well that last one would go down with Tom . . .
‘Do you miss publishing, Mags?’ I asked, during a lull in the proceedings.
‘Not any more. I did at first, but when I met my partner, Otto, his career was just taking off as a food writer. He was never what you’d call a celebrity, but he was quite in demand at the time. I moved into his flat and it made sense for me to give up work to be his unofficial, unpaid manager. We never married; he’d been married before and still bore the scars, so he joked. We had a good life, but I did miss the hustle and bustle of the publishers. Then one day he died from a heart attack. His kids swooped in like vultures to claim their inheritance and I suddenly found myself homeless.’
‘Even though you’d helped him build up his career?’ I said, outraged on her behalf.
She shrugged. ‘Since then I’ve mostly done freelance editing, but I think I was born for the job at the cookery school. I was made up when Gloria told me about it. We should have brought stools,’ she grumbled, ‘my back is killing me.’
We sat down on the base of the war memorial. Mags set her tray down next to us and I stretched out my legs.
‘Mags,’ I began tentatively, ‘I think Gloria’s new venture is great, but Gabe feels a bit neglected. As if she’s too busy for him and Noah these days.’
She picked up a square of shortbread, broke it in half and handed a piece to me. ‘I think she felt that he wouldn’t want his mother-in-law under his feet. That’s why she keeps her distance. After all, he’ll move on one day, won’t he, find another girl. That would be hard for Gloria, to stand aside and see her daughter’s child being brought up by another woman.’
‘I guess,’ I mumbled.
It would be hard for all of us.
‘She prefers them to come for a week at a time, for a little holiday, and hopefully as Noah grows up he can start to do that on his own. Just him and his granny.’
I sighed. ‘As long as she does invite them.’
I’d make sure they came up to the open day, I decided. Get them all together. At least then Gabe would see that Gloria had time for him and Noah. And perhaps it would reassure him that she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew by opening the cookery school.
‘Verity, get up, get up!’ Mags scrambled to her feet and I did the same. ‘See that man over there?’
I looked across the street to see a slim tall man in his fifties. He wore sandals, had his hands in his loose linen trousers, and his whole demeanour seemed to radiate serenity.
‘Yes.’ I nodded.
I watched in amusement as Mags delved into her pocket, retrieved a red lipstick and reapplied it perfectly without a mirror.
‘That’s Gloria’s accountant, Dave. He is the sexiest man in this village.’ She giggled and nudged me. ‘Cooee! Dave!’
Dave looked over and raised a hand. He crossed the road to join us and Mags bent down to pick up her tray.
He gave her a shy smile. ‘Greetings, Mags. They look delectable.’
‘Dave!’ She pushed his arm playfully and made a show of pulling the front of her blouse up. ‘Naughty.’
Poor Dave didn’t know where to look. ‘I meant the . . .’ he stammered.
I took pity on him. ‘I’m Verity Bloom, a friend of Gloria’s.’ I stuck my hand out. ‘Here to handle the marketing for a few weeks.’
Dave looked relieved at the change of subject and shook my hand. ‘Good to make your acquaintance. Although marketing sounds expensive.’
I smiled; he’d have fitted in nicely at my last company. ‘Not as expensive as having a cookery school with no customers.’
‘Fair enough,’ he conceded, inclining his head. ‘Anything to ameliorate business gets my approval. What are you up to here? Gloria won’t make a profit if she gives everything away for free.’
‘You have to speculate to accumulate,’ I said smoothly. ‘Isn’t that right, Mags?’
‘Oh, it’s only a few titbits, try before you buy,’ said Mags, pushing the tray closer to him. ‘Go on.’
He held his hand up. ‘Looks delicious, Mags, but I’m fasting today.’
‘You look fit, Dave,’ said Mags, squeezing his bicep. ‘Have you been working out?’
He turned a gentle shade of pink. ‘Ashtanga.’
‘Bless you!’ Mags replied.
‘It’s a type of yoga,’ he said solemnly. ‘I practise every morning.’
‘Practice makes perfect, Dave,’ Mags said with a wink. ‘You’ll have to show me your moves.’
Dave shuffled from foot to foot and glanced over his shoulder as if looking for an excuse to make his escape. His rescue came in the form of a group of teenage girls who’d just left the little supermarket armed with cans of fizzy drinks and packets of sweets.
‘Free food!’ one of them shouted, pointing at our trays.
‘An onslaught of rapacious customers,’ Dave said with palpable relief. ‘I’ll see you next week at the opening.’
I watched as he shoved his hands back in his pockets and strode away.
‘He’s very earnest,’ I murmured, trying to associate him with Mags’s description of the sexiest man in the village.
‘Nah, he just hasn’t learned my principle of pleasure yet, I’ll show him. Now gird your loins, chuck.’ Mags eyed up the approaching girls. ‘This lot look hungry.’
An hour later, we had empty trays and a clipboard full of suggestions. Gloria was going to be delighted; most customers fell distinctly into the comfort food market, wanting to learn things their parents or grandparents had made. There were also a few mentions of things like cooking on a budget and entertaining for special occasions to appease Tom and Pixie too.
‘Come on, Mags, let’s head back,’ I said, packing everything away in bags. ‘That was a good morning’s work.’
‘Agreed.’ Mags chuckled. ‘And knowing how quickly news spreads in this village, I doubt there’ll be anyone left who hasn’t heard of the cookery school by this evening.’
‘Then my work here is done.’ I grinned as she dialled Gloria’s number to arrange a lift back.
The people of Plumberry had spoken. There was a definite buzz about the imminent arrival of a cookery school in their village and people were excited. And so, I realized, for the first time in a very long time, was I.
Chapter 8
It happened the following Monday with only four sleeps to go. Just like that, seemingly overnight, the lovely old building transformed itself from a dust-encrusted bomb site into an almost-ready-to-open cookery school.
The breath caught in my throat as I wandered from room to room, marvelling at all that Gloria and her team of workmen had achieved in the last couple of weeks since that teary phone call that had had me racing up the motorway.
The mill still held echoes of its two-hundred-year-old past: the wooden beams upstairs, the rows of deep windows, the brickwork, now painted pristine white, and of course the waterwheel outside. But now there was a bright, modern and welcoming feel to the interior: Mags’s large curved wooden desk complete with computer, telephone switchboard and spacious drawers hugged one entire wall of the reception space (‘Beam me up, Scotty,’ she’d said with a whistle when she saw it). The rows of spotlights in the ceiling lit up even the darkest corner and the huge terracotta tiles, thanks to the builders, would be warm underfoot in winter. Gloria’s homely touches were evident throughout, from the wicker umbrella stand by the doors to the fluffy plum-coloured towels in the cloakroom. There was even a wicker basket for Comfrey and Sage in prime position near the front windows.
On the ground floor, the Aga kitchen had taken delivery of a number of chunky oak dining tables with matching benches and I could already imagine the room full of eager students introducing themselves to each other over coffee and homemade biscuits as they oohed and ahhed over the view of the river.
There were storerooms on both floors as well as prep rooms. They’d been swept and scrubbed and the shelves were now bursting with sugar and spice and all things nice, including umpteen types of flour, pasta in every conceivable shape and size and more varieties of rice than I even knew existed. There was every gadget imaginable, from blenders to brulée blowtorches, mandolins to Moroccan tagines, alongside an assortment of complicated-looking chocolate-making kits. There was nothing, it seemed, that the Plumberry School of Comfort Food lacked in the way of kitchen paraphernalia.
Mimi would have loved it here. I could hear her in my head, gasping over all the lovely new equipment. What I wouldn’t give to spend an afternoon cooking with her at that fabulous new Aga . . .
I carried on upstairs to peep at the teaching kitchen and stopped at the top of the steps to take in the transformation. The large room seemed to fizz with sparkly newness. Twenty immaculately clean workstations set around ten gleaming new ovens were kitted out and ready for action. Inside every cupboard was an identical set of pans and baking trays and on the granite worktops sat pots of cooking utensils in shades of red, green, blue and pink, adding a splash of colour to an otherwise calming palette. It all looked so inviting that I was almost tempted back into the kitchen myself.
But not quite. Tom had made it perfectly clear that the kitchens were well beyond my remit. Even Gloria had barely had a look-in so far.
I spotted Gloria in the office at the far corner of the kitchen and went to join her. She was the picture of casual elegance as usual, dressed in a voluminous cream jumper that complemented her honey-blonde hair. She looked up as I entered the little room and her eyes searched mine with a mix of nerves and pride.
‘Gloria,’ I grinned, ‘you’ve built a cookery school.’
I wrapped my arms round her and the two of us gazed across the teaching kitchen.
‘I have, haven’t I?’ she murmured. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘It makes me want to stick a pinny on and roll up my sleeves,’ I admitted, kissing her soft cheek.
‘Then it’s already a success.’ She smiled back at me and I felt my heart lift with affection for her. ‘Today marks a turning point for us,’ she continued. ‘We’ll be cooking for the first time. Tom and Pixie are baking bread later, getting the ovens on to check they’re all accurate. And I’m testing out the recipes in the Aga downstairs for my One Pot Wonders course on Monday.’
‘So it will smell as well as look wonderful.’
I released Gloria and wandered over to the desk I’d appropriated for my own use. I kept it relatively neat and tidy in contrast with Gloria who I could barely see sometimes behind piles of paperwork. I flicked on the computer and a flurry of emails appeared. I’d sent the first month’s cookery course calendar off to the printer and updated the website with it and the first batch of brochures were due in any minute. It had been a manic time, but I was calmly confident that all was on track.
Gloria remained in the doorway and I heard her sigh softly.
‘The open day will be a triumph, Gloria; half of the village has said they’re coming.’
She turned to face me and sagged against the doorframe.
‘Do you think so? Have we done enough?’
‘Yes!’ I chuckled. ‘I’ve sent press releases out to every newspaper, magazine, radio show and even the local TV news programme. And have you heard the phone in reception?’
Her eyes shone as she nodded. Since the telephone company connected the line for us, it hadn’t stopped ringing. Mags had been glued to her desk answering enquiries for the last two days.
Gloria flicked the kettle on and peered inside two mugs before adding teabags.
‘And the courses?’ she mused. ‘Do you think we’re being a bit optimistic running so many next week? We need at least five people to come to each to cover our costs.’
Hmm, numbers were still low. My priority had been promoting the open day and so far we’d had lots of interest in the courses but precious few actual bookings.
I crossed my fingers behind my back. ‘It’s early days and I’m sure we’ll get people signing up on the spot at the open party.’
The office phone rang just as my mobile beeped with a text message.
Gloria answered the call and I glanced at my phone, hoping it wouldn’t be Liam again. I had to give him ten out of ten for perseverance; he’d been phoning or texting me almost daily since I’d arrived in Plumberry. It was a shame he didn’t score so highly in fidelity or honesty. But it wasn’t Liam, it was my mum wondering if I’d be going over to Canada in the summer to visit (I probably wouldn’t be; I couldn’t afford it for a start), asking if there were any suitable men at the cookery school and wishing us luck for a successful launch from both her and Dad.
‘That was Mags practising her switchboard skills,’ said Gloria. ‘Your boxes have arrived from the printer.’
‘Great. And that was my mum – my parents say good luck for Friday and send their regards.’
‘I’m glad you keep in touch with your mum. Such a shame when she moved abroad, you must have missed her, especially just when you and that chappie split up. What was his name?’
‘Chris,’ I said, focusing on keeping my voice neutral.
‘You know, I got the impression Mimi felt very guilty when he called off your engagement and moved out, as if she was somehow to blame.’
‘She wasn’t,’ I said. ‘Chris and I had irreconcilable differences. He gave me an ultimatum that I wasn’t prepared to give in to. At least it happened while we were only engaged. Better than six months into a marriage.’
She set a mug of tea on my desk and carried one for herself back to her own desk. ‘You were such a godsend to Mimi when she was going through all that fertility treatment. What did you call yourselves?’
‘Team Baby Green,’ I said softly.
Me, Mimi and Gabe. The three of us against the world; at least that was how it had felt at the time.
‘I don’t think she’d have managed half as well without you.’ Gloria sighed.
And now I don’t manage half as well without her.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing the unwanted memories down, deep down where they couldn’t do any damage.
‘Anyone would have done the same and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.’
‘Still—’ Gloria looked determined to discuss it, but I jumped in quickly to nip her in the bud.
‘Mum says why not do a course for men? She’s been married thirty-five years and Dad’s repertoire still only runs to something on toast.’
‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea.’ Gloria tapped her lip with her fingertip thoughtfully.
I thought about Gabe, attempting to cook tasty meals for him and Noah in that little galley kitchen on board The Neptune. I’d spoken to him the other night and he said he’d do his best to come to our open day on Friday. As had Rosie, who sounded like she was having a very stressful time at work. I hoped she’d come; I missed her energetic presence in my life.
I turned back to Gloria, who was mulling over possible course names. ‘Meals for Men? It’s a Man Thing? Meat and Two Veg?’
We both giggled at the last one.
I opened the course calendar on my computer screen and cast my eyes over it for inspiration. There were lots of lovely things on it, but most of them looked a bit daunting.
‘How about Cooking for the Complete Beginner instead?’ I suggested. ‘That way it needn’t just apply to men. I had tons of friends at uni who couldn’t even boil an egg. You could also do Cooking for One, but that might sound a bit lonely, although it could turn into a sort of speed-dating course with the added benefit of learning new skills, I suppose.’
‘Possibly. Let me look in my recipe bible.’ She retrieved a large folder from her top drawer, popped on a pair of reading glasses and began flicking through it. ‘There must be lots of people who suddenly find themselves partnerless or a single parent and struggle to adjust to cooking for one. But you’re right; it does sound a bit grim.’
A summery memory of Mimi, Gloria and I playing a mammoth game of Monopoly and munching our way through bucketfuls of popcorn suddenly sprang to mind. Gloria had been partnerless as long as I’d known her but it had been anything but grim. I knew next to nothing about Mimi’s father, I realized.
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 7
