The Plumberry School of Comfort Food
Page 14
The weather the next morning was as unsettled as me. I gave up trying to sleep at six and decided to make an early start at the cookery school. I had quite a challenge on my hands if I was to be Plumberry’s bread-making expert in front of a TV camera in three days. It was only flour and water and a bit of yeast, though, I thought, as I dropped bread into the toaster. I was sure I could get the hang of it before then.
I poured a mug of tea while I waited for my toast to brown and thought about Rosie. She had phoned me last night just as I arrived home from the hospital.
‘I miss you,’ she’d complained. ‘There’s no one to eat toast mountains with and I miss the ping of the microwave.’
‘I miss you too,’ I’d said, letting myself into Gloria’s cottage.
Mags had left a dish of chicken curry keeping warm in the oven for me and the kitchen hummed with the aromas of garlic, ginger and garam masala.
‘Although there’s much less pinging going on these days. I’m a changed woman. I’m a bigger woman, come to that,’ I said, undoing the button on my jeans as I sat down to eat.
Both Mags and Gloria had pointed out that I was looking much healthier now that I had regained my appetite. I felt healthier, too; I had more energy, more of a spring in my step, and with that came a certain contentment. But sometimes I had a crisis of conscience and instantly felt bad that my life was moving on and I was leaving Mimi behind. I’d get there eventually, I knew I would, but it was hard not to feel guilty when I was beginning to feel so at home in Plumberry.
‘By the way, Liam came round yesterday.’ Rosie had snorted with laughter at the memory. ‘He wouldn’t believe me when I told him you were still away; he even came into the house to check for himself. Not a happy bunny. I thought he was actually going to cry when I said you weren’t coming back for ages.’
‘Really?’ Not that I wanted him back. I could never trust him again. But I was flattered that he was missing me.
‘When are you coming back?’ Rosie had asked. ‘It’s the middle of May already. Summer is on its way.’
‘Not sure,’ I’d replied. ‘But summer might arrive in Nottingham before me, that’s all I can say.’
Summer didn’t look like it was on its way to me, I thought, peering out at the charcoal sky over the back garden as I sipped my morning tea. I’d packed an optimistic suitcase full of lightweight clothes, assuming I’d be here for a month, and now it looked like I’d be here for the entire summer – a cold and wet summer. Today I had borrowed one of Gloria’s jumpers, goodness knows what I was going to wear for the filming of Challenge Chester.
The toast popped out of the toaster and I felt a wave of nostalgia for a cosy catch-up with Rosie.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I said, scooping up the dogs for a cuddle. ‘Or I’d feel very lonely indeed.’
Comfrey and Sage licked their lips and eyed up my toast hopefully.
‘OK, just this once.’
I set them down on a chair at the table and shared my toast with them, cheered by their comforting presence.
‘This can be our little secret, don’t tell a soul,’ I added with a wink.
There were no courses on today, which meant that Mags and Pixie had the day off and in theory Tom didn’t need to be in either. But when I arrived with the dogs, the lights were on and the smell of fresh coffee drifted down the stairwell to greet me.
Comfrey and Sage scampered on ahead of me and had burrowed their way under the blanket I kept under my desk until only their noses were poking out by the time I’d reached the office.
Tom was sitting in front of the computer screen at Gloria’s desk, scribbling notes on a pad with one hand and nursing a mug in his other.
‘Wasn’t expecting you to be in at all, let alone this early,’ I said brightly.
‘Just watching MasterChef on catch-up TV. Now that’s the sort of thing I’d like to see going on here.’ He stretched his arms up above his head and rolled his neck from side to side like a boxer. His denim shirt rose up to reveal a taut stomach and a line of hair, shockingly dark against his pale skin.
I dragged my eyes back to his as he lowered his arms. ‘Sorry? What?’
‘A course for serious foodies, who want to take their amateur skills to another level. What do you think?’
I shucked off my dripping raincoat and pulled a face. ‘They always look so stressed on that show. I prefer The Great British Bake Off; it’s more light-hearted somehow, even though it’s very competitive. I don’t know,’ I finished with a shrug, ‘it just looks more—’
‘Fun?’ Tom finished wryly.
‘Quite.’ I exhaled, refusing to get drawn into that debate again. Besides, I had other fish to fry this morning, or should I say, dough to knead.
Tom chuckled to himself as he refilled his coffee cup from the ancient percolator that Mags had donated to the office. The fancy Italian machine downstairs made the best coffee, but we all agreed it was a bit of a faff for every day.
‘You’re in early too,’ he said, ‘seeing as we don’t have any courses today. Coffee?’
I nodded and he took a clean mug from the shelf and poured some for me.
‘I thought I’d get some practice in for Saturday,’ I cleared my throat, ‘making bread.’
‘Oh yes, your TV debut,’ he said with a slight snigger.
‘Only because you won’t do it,’ I retorted crossly. ‘Gloria is over the moon about it.’
He fetched the milk from the fridge with a grunt and muttered something under his breath about not all publicity being good publicity.
Thank goodness I’d had something exciting to talk to Gloria about when I visited her last night; she had needed a distraction from thinking about her injuries. She was thoroughly fed up with being in hospital and her leg was very painful. She’d been allowed out of bed in the afternoon, but she’d found using the crutches very tiring and admitted that ordering a taxi and trying to discharge herself had been foolish.
On a lighter note, the nurses had raved about the cakes Dave had taken in, which had gone some way to repairing her relations with the ward staff. The only downside was that Gloria had been so thrilled to hear about the Challenge Chester programme that I hadn’t had the heart to admit that it would be me rather than Tom joining Chester Fulwood in front of the camera. And that meant I couldn’t pick her brains about baking bread. Instead, I’d stayed up half the night watching ‘How to Bake Bread’ videos on YouTube, so now I knew the theory, I just had zero experience.
And as much as I didn’t like to admit any weakness to him, I was going to have to ask Tom for help.
I cleared my throat. ‘Tom, don’t laugh but—’
He looked at me, an amused frown playing across his face.
‘I’ve never actually made bread,’ I confessed with a gulp.
Chapter 15
‘Haven’t you? Oh. Oh!’ His eyes widened as the implications of my admission formed furrows across his forehead. ‘So why offer to do it?’
I shrugged. ‘I couldn’t let the opportunity pass the cookery school by.’
Tom was still staring at me. ‘I don’t know whether you’re brave . . . or mad.’
‘Can you teach me?’ I said, opting to ignore that comment. ‘Before the film crew turn up.’
He handed me a piping-hot mug of coffee. ‘Smell that.’
My eyes closed and I inhaled the rich sweet aroma. ‘Very zingy.’
Tom’s face flickered with pleasure. ‘Made with my secret stash of coffee beans from Panama. Quite floral, isn’t it? The beans are grown slowly at high altitude—’
‘Tom, the coffee is great,’ I interrupted with a smile. He was such a food-geek. ‘Now, about the bread?’
He swept an arm towards the beautifully appointed kitchen with its twenty student workstations gleaming under the halogen spotlights.
‘Choose your spot.’
We washed our hands and gathered bowls, whisks, flour and yeast, sugar and salt in efficient and companionable
silence. I hoped I wouldn’t live to regret this; there was no doubting Tom’s bread-making skills – I’d tasted his bread before – but wherever food was concerned he and I always seemed to clash.
However, needs must. I’d just have to be ultra-diplomatic and avoid getting into a row whatever the cost.
‘OK, what next?’ I asked.
He whacked the oven up to full heat and smiled. ‘When I give an order, you say . . .?’
My stomach fizzed dangerously.
I looked at him. ‘Not in this life, Mister.’
We stared at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing and then got down to work. He showed me how much yeast and sugar to add to hot water, judging the temperature with the tip of his finger. He handed me a whisk and I whipped the cloudy water until it was frothy and then while I stirred until I thought my arm would drop off, Tom poured the yeasty liquid into the bowl until the mixture had formed a sticky beige ball which left the sides of the bowl clean.
He flicked a pinch of flour expertly over the work surface and indicated for me to tip the bowl up. The dough landed with a pleasing ‘bouf’ sound.
‘And now you knead it.’
‘OK.’ I nodded confidently, thinking back to the YouTube tutorials I’d watched last night. Push, pull, quarter turn, lift and fold. Simple.
I plunged my hands into the dough and . . .
‘Eww, it’s clinging to me,’ I said, looking down at my fingers covered in sticky goo.
I heard him huff and I glared at him. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘Put your body weight into it. You can’t over-knead. And find a rhythm. Like this.’
He positioned himself behind me and reached round to place my hands on the dough. My pulse leapt; he smelled lovely: spicy and sweet like toasted teacakes.
‘Now let me do all the work,’ he said, adding in a lower voice, ‘shouldn’t be too hard.’
I could have retorted. I could have said something really witty. But the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck and the feel of his fingers against mine were doing amazing things to my insides. I hadn’t expected that. So I kept my mouth firmly shut.
His hands covered mine and he pushed down with the heel of his left palm and curled my fingertips around the edge of the dough to pull it back to the centre. We changed hands and did it again on the right, pushing away and bringing it back. Left, right, left, right . . . our bodies swaying slightly with each turn of the dough.
‘This is fun,’ I said, surprised.
Actually, it was more than fun; it was mesmerizing. And soporific and mildly sensual. Feeling the fluid movement of our arms, our fingers intertwined as we pushed back and forth, back and forth. My eyes were beginning to close when suddenly a vivid image popped into my head of that scene in Ghost with Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore and a potter’s wheel. That really erotic one . . .
I let out a gasp and jumped, stepping back on to Tom’s toe in the process.
‘What did you do that for?’ Tom grunted, releasing my hands.
‘Sorry. It’s done,’ I said breathily, shaking my hands from the dough. ‘I think.’
I was used to giggling my way through recipes, laughing at my mistakes, to cheering my achievements, not getting all hot under the collar and quivery. Exciting though it was.
‘It’s not.’ He smoothed a loose strand of my hair behind my ear.
I swallowed. ‘Isn’t it?’
He shook his head. ‘We’re looking for silk. When you feel silk between your fingers, smooth and cool to the touch, then and only then is it ready to rise. Feel it.’
My head flipped to thoughts of ‘Fifty Shades of Dough’ and my pulse began to race. I swallowed and patted the soft smooth ball of dough gently. Like a bottom.
‘Now whip it into shape, on your own this time.’
Stop with the innuendos now, please. I pressed a hand to my hot face and blew out a breath.
He moved to the other side of the kitchen worktop to watch. ‘There’s flour all over your nose.’
‘I know.’
‘You look quite cute.’
‘Shush.’ I circled my shoulders round, followed by my wrists and prepared to start again.
‘Quite a workout, isn’t it?’ he chuckled.
I nodded and wiped my forehead, aware that that probably meant I was even more floury. I dropped my gaze and began to knead until I was perspiring and my breath was coming in short pants. Finally, the dough was deemed ‘silky’ enough. Tom chopped off a piece of it and, following instructions, I popped the rest in a bowl and covered it with a clean cloth.
‘An hour to prove,’ said Tom, stretching his small lump of dough into a rough triangle. ‘But in the meantime, we can enjoy a little fougasse. If you fancy it?’
‘Sure.’ I shrugged, not wanting to admit I’d never heard of it.
He flipped the triangle on to a baking sheet, slashed it several times and fanned it out into a leaf shape.
‘Et voilà.’ He held out the baking sheet to show me before slipping it into a hot oven. ‘It doesn’t need any proving so it’s great to make with kids.’
I nodded. ‘Noah would love to have a go: all that kneading and stretching it into shapes.’
‘I was thinking it was something we could make in a kids’ class, actually.’ Tom peered sideways at me. ‘Noah is Gloria’s grandson, isn’t he? Are you close to him?’
‘Very. He’s my godson,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat. ‘His mum, Mimi, and I shared everything. And now she’s gone, he’s all I’ve got left of her. Well, him and Gloria.’
We began to clear up, Tom scooping the excess flour from the surfaces while I filled the sink with hot water.
‘You must miss him, being so far away?’
I nodded. ‘We speak on the phone and I love hearing his little voice but it’s not the same. Plus, conversation is a bit limited with a three-year-old.’
‘I’m the same with my goddaughter, Saoirse. Whenever I go home to Ireland, she’s doubled in size.’
‘Like our bread dough?’ I caught his eye and he nodded.
‘Exactly.’
We smiled at each other and then went back to our cleaning. He was easy company today, more like the man I’d met on my first day in Plumberry, and I felt like I was getting to know the real Tom.
‘And Gabe?’ he asked a minute or so later as he carried the ingredients we’d finished with back to the store cupboard. ‘Are you close to him?’
The question made my skin tingle.
Were we close?
How did I even begin to answer that? Gabe and I were bound eternally; we had been through so much together, shared and lost so much. The only other person I’d ever been closer to was Mimi.
‘Mimi met him when we were sixteen.’ I plunged my hands into the washing-up water, scrubbing the sticky dough from the utensils, conscious of the tremor in my voice. ‘We’ve grown up together, I suppose.’
‘Gloria said you and Mimi were never out of the kitchen when you were growing up?’
‘Nor as adults,’ I said, shaking my head softly as memories zipped through my brain. ‘We always hung out in the kitchen; it was our favourite place.’
I remembered back to when I’d bought my house in Heron Drive with Chris, my fiancé; it had been Mimi who’d come with me for a second viewing, pointing out what a lovely light kitchen it had, perfect for cooking up a storm in. And it had been at that kitchen table a couple of years later that Mimi had doled out tea and sympathy when Chris called off our engagement, stating in a defeated voice that I’d never put him first and I probably never would.
Tom touched my arm. ‘Tell me to mind my own business if I’m being nosy.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s fine. Happy memories, most of them.’
‘And yet you arrived in Plumberry as Princess Prick and Ping?’ He grinned, picking up a clean tea towel.
‘Yes, well,’ I said primly, ‘I lost my passion for cooking for a while.’
Tom began
to dry the wet things on the draining board.
‘If I lost that, then . . .’ A shadow of vulnerability passed across his face. I could have hugged him. But then he shook himself and smiled again. ‘But that’ll never happen to me. Losing someone you love makes us do odd things, though.’
I nodded. ‘A hole opened up in my life when Mimi died and instead of filling it in, I tiptoed round it until it got bigger and bigger and then I found I was cutting out bits of my life that I loved just because it reminded me of her. I forced myself to see Gabe and Noah, even though it hurt to do so, because . . . well, because I suppose they need me. And I need them.’
I felt shy all of a sudden; I’d never said that out loud before. And now I’d told Tom. I hoped I hadn’t gone too far.
‘But now you’re cooking again, so you must be moving on?’ he said softly.
‘Slowly,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve rediscovered my love of food, but the other side to my grief – that twist of guilt, as real as a sharp pain between the ribs – is still there. Even this, preparing for the TV show, despite my nerves, deep down I’m excited about it and it’s exactly the sort of thing she’d have loved doing. That makes me feel sad.’
And there were lots of things like that.
Icing cupcakes, trips to the park, bedtime stories . . . All the things Mimi had dreamed of doing with her own little boy would be done by me instead. And now that I was so involved with Gloria’s life – living in her home, helping run her business – the feelings of guilt were always there under the surface.
‘Now, me,’ he grinned, lightening the mood, ‘when things don’t go my way, I become more determined than ever to improve, to cook better, be more competitive . . .’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I said, cocking an eyebrow.
‘Ha ha. Talking of which . . .’ Tom checked his watch and pulled the piping-hot fougasse out of the oven. ‘This crusty little number will take some beating, I promise you.’
The bread smelled so good my mouth watered and as soon as it was cool enough to touch, Tom broke it into pieces, piled it on to a bread board with a bowl of extra virgin olive oil and a pile of sea salt.
‘Here,’ he said, pulling up a stool and shoving the bread board towards me. ‘Sit and enjoy.’