‘No close-ups, please,’ Mags informed the photographer briskly as she bent down, arms round some children posing with the mixing bowls. ‘Those days are behind me.’
‘You look all right from where I’m standing,’ said Dave the accountant, who promptly turned a charming shade of pink.
‘Oh.’ Mags blinked at him, lost for an innuendo for once.
‘Just in time, Dave,’ said Gloria, handing him a spoonful of rhubarb crumble. (Almost as good as his own, Tom had said, perhaps add a touch of ginger next time?) ‘I’m about to hold forth.’
Gloria made a speech about how thrilled she was to be opening a cookery school in Plumberry and that on Monday her dream would finally come true when she taught her first class. Her voice wavered when she said that sharing her love of food with people had begun when her beloved daughter was born and she’d been doing it ever since. At which point Tom stepped forward and proposed a toast to the Plumberry School of Comfort Food, Gloria kissed him lavishly in gratitude and we all raised our teacups and squash glasses. I hugged everyone, including Dave, who had managed to wedge himself in the corner with Mags, and Tom, who said that my crayfish pastry boats looked delicious but he wouldn’t try one if it was all the same. In fact, he might not be eating seafood again for quite some time.
After a hectic hour, I snaffled one of Pixie’s unadorned gingerbread men, poured myself a cup of coffee and headed to the deck for a breather. A large group of mums had commandeered the table nearest the door – their babies asleep in prams or on knees – and I edged past them to the end of the deck. I leaned on the balustrade nibbling my biscuit and stared up at the cookery school.
I spotted Gloria chatting animatedly in the middle of a crowd through the first-floor window and my heart melted to see her so happy.
I was happy too. Elated, in fact. Today was the most time I’d spent in a kitchen actually cooking since Mimi had died. And it made me feel whole again. I’d been an idiot to cut something out of my life that had made me so happy. Cooking was like therapy: while my hands were busy my mind unravelled its knots and made sense of things. Maybe if I hadn’t abandoned cooking, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to get over Mimi’s death?
I turned away from the building and stared out across the river instead.
My time in Plumberry was nearly up. Although I wasn’t privy to Gloria’s finances, I was pretty sure she’d be glad not to have to pay me a salary for much longer. And she would be fine without me now that the cookery school was open. I’d shown Pixie how to update the website with new courses – she’d picked it up impressively speedily – and I could carry on getting the leaflets printed from Nottingham.
I’d go home. Soon. Perhaps next week. I’d start looking for jobs. And I’d cook every day. For Rosie and for Gabe, perhaps. I’d even start teaching Noah how to bake; it was never too early.
I felt a stirring in the pit of my stomach. There was a new start coming for me, I could feel it, and instead of shying away as I might have done a few weeks ago, I was ready. Bring it on . . .
Would that be OK, Mimi? If I spend more time with Noah? I’d hate you to think I was taking your place.
A flash of vivid blue caught my eye and I looked up to see a small bird on a branch in front of me. He was incredibly beautiful, with a bright orange chest and turquoise wings.
Dave joined me at the balustrade and whistled quietly. ‘A kingfisher. A rare treat.’
I smiled at him and held my breath, watching as the little bird dipped down to the water and then returned to the branch. He repeated it a couple of times and then took flight, swooping low across the water and upstream out of sight.
‘That was beautiful,’ I breathed, turning to face him.
‘Some people say that if you see a kingfisher, it’s time to dive into a new activity or possibly a new love will enter your life.’
‘That’s funny, I was just thinking about a new direction.’ I popped the last of my gingerbread man into my mouth and laughed. ‘Not sure about the new love, though.’
Dave looked at me earnestly. ‘Don’t be afraid of trying the new. You won’t drown.’
There was something other-worldly about Dave, as if he was some sort of guru. Perhaps there was something in that Ashtanga yoga. Whatever it was, I felt deeply touched by his words.
‘Thank you, Dave.’
‘I’ll leave you to your thoughts.’ He patted my arm. ‘Namaste.’
He made to leave but I caught hold of his sleeve. ‘I’ve always wondered what that means.’
He smiled softly. ‘It means the spirit in me salutes the spirit in you. And you have a wonderful spirit, Verity. I can feel that.’
I felt quite emotional after that.
As soon as I’d dealt with the rush of tears that Dave’s lovely words had produced, I wandered back inside and for the next half an hour I supervised the cooking of the homemade sausages next to Pixie’s sausage machine. I flipped and prodded and shook the pan while sausages sizzled and then sliced them into pieces.
‘Wow!’ Pixie’s eyes widened and she nudged me sharply. ‘Girl crush at two o’clock.’
She motioned towards the top of the stairs with her head to where a girl with black hair and a turned-up nose stood poised, scanning the room and shoving her sunglasses up on to her head.
My heart squeezed and I felt my cheeks lift as I smiled my widest smile.
Pixie gasped. ‘She’s like something out of a chocolate advert.’
‘Rosie!’ I pushed the pan off the heat and darted through the crowd to hug her. Pixie followed close behind.
‘Look at you!’ Rosie flung her arms round me. ‘I’ve missed you, oh tiny one.’
‘Not so tiny now,’ I said, pinching an inch from my waist.
‘Rubbish,’ Pixie laughed. ‘As my granddad would say, there’s more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’
Rosie snorted and Pixie beamed with pleasure.
‘So what do you think?’ I extended an arm and waved it round the room. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’
‘Fab,’ agreed Rosie, snaffling some chocolate from a plate. ‘And do you know what’s more fab?’
I shook my head.
‘You.’ She jabbed a finger in my chest. ‘You’ve got your mojo back.’
A lump appeared in my throat so I simply nodded.
‘Yum yum, pig’s bum,’ said Rosie, popping cubes of chocolate into her mouth one after the other like coins into a parking meter.
‘Apple pie and chewing gum,’ chanted Pixie and Rosie together.
‘Twins!’ yelped Pixie, throwing an arm round Rosie’s neck.
At that moment there was a grinding crunch, followed by a howl of disappointment.
Pixie tutted. ‘That soddin’ sausage machine has jammed again,’ she grumbled. ‘Excuse me.’
And she stomped away to sort it out.
I looped my arm through Rosie’s and led her to a couple of spare stools next to Mags’s meatballs and we spent a lovely few minutes having a good catch-up. She told me all about the hush-hush project she’d been selected to head up at work and I admitted that being in Plumberry had worked its magic and I was ready to tackle life again.
‘It was almost as if I’d been afraid to enjoy myself, afraid to be me without her. And that’s wrong, isn’t it?’ I gazed at Rosie, who squeezed my hand encouragingly. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted her to do that, if I’d have been the one to go.’
‘Course you wouldn’t. Oh, hot diggity damn, look at that.’ Rosie nodded her head to where Tom was leading a man with a microphone and another with a TV camera into the room. ‘Sorry, Verity, I’ll have to go: if I get caught on camera, I’ll be fired. Capisce?’
‘Not really,’ I murmured, only half listening.
This was amazing. Where had the TV crew come from? The researcher had said categorically that no one would be able to make it. But who cared why; they had made it! This would put the cookery school on the map.
I grinned at her. ‘This has made my da
y, Rosie. The cherry on my cake.’
‘Not for me it isn’t. I’m supposed to be at a conference in Harrogate. The boss will go crackers if he finds out I didn’t go. Ciao, gorge.’ She planted a kiss on my cheek and then held me at arm’s length. ‘Oh, by the way, I get it now.’
‘Get what?’
‘Your fixation with Gabe.’ She nodded towards where he was chatting to Dave, both of them leaning on the windowsill, deep in conversation. ‘He is very cute.’
Fixation?
‘I do not . . . that’s rubbish!’ I gasped.
She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Verity Bloom, you talk about him all the time.’
But before I could challenge her she kissed my cheek, skirted the room to avoid the TV cameras and made a speedy exit, shouting arrivederci over her shoulder.
By six o’clock, the party was over. The crowds, including Gabe, had gone and only the staff plus Dave remained. It had been a brilliant day – exhausting, but brilliant. We all gathered in the office round Mags’s portable TV, which she’d popped home to fetch (along with Comfrey and Sage, who were now doing a fantastic job of hoovering up crumbs). The regional news crew had promised to squeeze the cookery school piece in at the end of the programme just before the weather report and there was a definite whiff of celebration in the air amongst us.
Gloria popped open a bottle of Prosecco and handed round glasses. ‘While we wait I’d just like to congratulate Verity on securing the press coverage. Really, darling, I didn’t expect TV, well done!’
‘Oh, but it wasn’t me,’ I protested. ‘I got a flat no when I phoned them.’
I noticed a secretive smile on Tom’s face. And then he winked.
Of course! Tom was a Michelin-starred chef. He was bound to have good press contacts. One call from him and the media would come running. Silly of me not to have thought of that myself.
‘It was—’ I began.
‘Shush, everyone, it’s on,’ Tom interrupted.
As many of you know, Plumberry is already a plum destination for epicureans and now a new cookery school in the village is set to raise the bar even higher . . .
The footage only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to show the cookery school looking lovely, the open day in full swing, Pixie sharing a giggle with a group of old ladies as they taught her how to crimp pastry the old-fashioned way, a pale Tom chopping onions at the speed of light and ending with an excited quote from Gloria. And thankfully not a glimpse of Rosie. Gloria burst into tears. Happy tears, she insisted as she topped up everyone’s glass.
We gravitated out of the office and back into the teaching kitchen and I sidled up to Tom who was perched against the teacher’s workstation. He looked a lot better now, his skin was less yellow and the shadows under his eyes had begun to fade.
‘Did you call up the TV people?’
‘Yes. You did my job today, it was only fair I helped with yours,’ he murmured. ‘You can take the credit for that one. On one condition.’ He waggled his eyebrows.
‘Go on.’
‘No more Princess Prick and Ping.’
‘Deal,’ I giggled. ‘Although I do cook a mean fish finger sandwich.’
Tom shuddered. ‘Not fish. Anything but that.’
We shared a laugh and then he leaned closer.
‘Listen. A mate of mine wants me to buy his restaurant from him. I’m spending the weekend with him to take a closer look at the business. And if I can sort . . . things . . . the finances out, I’m sorely tempted. I’d need some help with marketing if you’re interested?’
‘I thought you said my ideas were tacky?’ I grinned at him mischievously. ‘Besides, I know you only planned on staying for a month, but realistically Gloria is going to need help with the teaching more permanently, I reckon.’
He sighed and raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘I totally get what she’s trying to do here, and I admire her for it, but teaching comfort food?’ He exhaled and shook his head. ‘I’m not sure it’s for me. I’m used to fine dining. That’s what I want to get back to.’
I peered at him over the rim of my Prosecco glass. Despite having worked in the same place for the past couple of weeks, we’d scarcely spent any time together alone and I was dying to dig deeper, to find out more about Tom’s restaurant, Salinger’s. Why had he left so suddenly and why did he seem to stumble over his words whenever he mentioned it?
I was just formulating a diplomatic question when Gloria waved another Prosecco bottle in the air.
‘Is anyone in a hurry to get home?’ she cried. ‘Because if not, I’ve got a few more bottles of bubbly downstairs?’
‘Let’s not drink all the profits, though, eh, Gloria,’ Dave joked, holding his palms up in a slow-down motion. At least, I think he was joking.
Gloria stalked towards the staircase in her high heels. ‘It’s a special day, Dave. I’m on a high and I want to celebr—Arrgghh!’
I jumped up helplessly as the sole of Gloria’s shoe slipped on a morsel of food and in awful slow motion I watched in horror, a scream forming on my lips, while she tumbled down the first flight of stairs. She cried out, the bottle smashed as she landed and then there was silence.
Mags, Pixie, Dave, Tom and I raced to the stairs and almost fell down them in our haste.
Gloria lay on her side on the half-landing between the flights of stairs, surrounded by glass, her legs propped up on the lower stairs and her face the colour of uncooked pastry.
‘Gloria!’ Mags cried in a shaky voice. ‘Don’t move, chuck, stay still.’
But there was no response. I felt sick with worry and fell to my knees beside her. How could this happen now, just when everything was looking so rosy for her, for all of us?
Tom pulled his mobile from his pocket and called for an ambulance. Pixie and I began removing shards of glass from her hands and face and Dave gently patted her body to check for broken bones.
‘It’s on its way,’ said Tom grimly.
‘It’s going to be OK, Gloria,’ I whispered, unsure if she could hear me. Sobs choked my throat as I stroked her cheek. ‘Hang on in there.’
Tom squatted beside me and laid a hand on my shoulder. I looked at Gloria lying unconscious and then at him, his dark features pinched with concern.
After the conversation we’d just had, I wondered what was going through his mind. Would he still consider leaving the cookery school now? My stomach churned at the thought. And what about me? I’d just reached the conclusion that I was ready to return to Nottingham and to my own life.
But what would happen on Monday when the cookery school opened for its first day of business? Because there was precious little chance of Gloria being able to see her dreams come true any time soon.
The sound of approaching sirens put a halt to my thoughts. Right now my priority was Gloria and getting her to hospital. There was nothing anyone could have done to save Mimi’s life, but no way was I going to lose someone else precious to me.
Cooking Up A Storm
Chapter 11
Even if I shut my eyes, I can always tell I’m in a hospital. The squeak of shoes along the corridors, the unmistakeable blended aromas of disinfectant and boiled cabbage, and the heat – I’m surprised more patients don’t pass out from heat exhaustion. And then there are the plastic visitors’ chairs, which are always so low that you can barely see the patient in the bed. Having said all that, as hospitals go, the one Gloria was in was relatively nice. It was a cottage hospital fifteen miles from Plumberry, small and friendly, surprisingly modern, and Gloria had been lucky enough to get a private room off the main ward.
The doctor wasn’t overly friendly, though, despite Mags’s best efforts. I sat at Gloria’s bedside holding her hand while the doctor scribbled notes on his clipboard. Mags was arranging a bunch of flowers at the windowsill whilst trying to make conversation with him and was being largely ignored.
‘Flowers do brighten up a lady’s bedroom, don’t they, Doctor?’ she said.
‘Hmm?’ he
grunted.
His badge read ‘Mr Bryant’, so he was a consultant rather than a doctor. Perhaps that was why he was ignoring her. I guessed he was in his late fifties; a tall jowly man with a thatch of white hair, extreme eyebrows and half-moon reading glasses, which he’d frowned over when he’d examined Gloria’s hip.
‘Do you buy your wife flowers? That is, if you’re married?’ she asked slyly.
The consultant exhaled somewhat heavily. ‘No.’
‘No, you’re not married?’ she persisted, with a tinkly hopeful laugh.
‘She’s allergic to pollen.’
‘Shame,’ Mags said flatly, and lifted her eyes heavenwards as if to say ‘typical’.
Gloria and I smiled at each other. Well, I smiled. Gloria just softened her expression slightly.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Mr Bryant opened the door and disappeared down the corridor.
Mags dropped into the other visitor chair and huffed. ‘Talk about Frosty the Snowman. Would it kill him to smile?’
It was the morning after the night before. The night when Gloria had been whizzed through the Yorkshire countryside in an ambulance with sirens blazing.
What a traumatic way for our day to end. After the euphoria of opening the cookery school, watching our slot on the local news and then celebrating our success with a glass of bubbly, we had been brought swiftly back down to earth with a bump. Or in Gloria’s case a broken lower leg and hip.
She had regained consciousness by the time the ambulance arrived. Two paramedics calmly took control and began transferring her to a stretcher to wheel her out to the ambulance. But even moving her from the half-landing between the two flights of stairs had been excruciating for her and poor Gloria had passed out again.
‘My first ride in an ambulance and I can hardly remember a thing!’ she’d said weakly when she’d woken up this morning.
But I could remember it all, and I could honestly say it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.
I squeezed her hand. ‘Let’s hope it’s the last ride too.’
The interior of the ambulance had been dark because of the tinted windows and I had sat to one side, out of the way to let the paramedic do her thing. Gloria had looked so pale and tiny lying there with her eyes shut, and her lifeless body had been so corpselike that I’d been beside myself with worry. At that moment I’d felt Mimi’s absence like a physical pain, a stab beneath my ribs. I would have given anything to have her sunny optimism reassuring Gloria that she’d be all right. Whereas I’d found myself swallowing great gulping sobs for most of the journey.
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 10
