The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Whoops,’ I said with a sharp intake of breath. ‘I feel awful for not taking better care of her. She could have got sunstroke sitting there. I hope she hasn’t passed out from drinking in the sun.’

  No,’ Mags chuckled. ‘Rick only gave her one low-alcohol beer. And this has been the best tonic for her; seeing her cookery school – well, the car park, at least – being part of Plumberry. She’s had a lovely day. And those china-blue eyes of hers sparkled for the first time in days. Before they closed.’

  ‘I’m pleased.’ I hugged Mags. ‘I only came to help her fulfil her dream of opening the cookery school and so far it seems she’s the only one who hasn’t been able to enjoy it properly.’

  Mags leaned closer. ‘I had my reservations about letting her come today too, but I’m made up that she did. She said it’s been one of the best days of her life.’

  I looked over at Gloria again and I felt a surge of love for her. Mimi would have loved it too. I felt a bit emotional so I simply nodded at Mags.

  ‘Can you manage Gloria on your own?’ Tom asked her.

  ‘Dave’s coming home with me to help,’ she said, her hand fluttering to the gold chain round her neck. ‘So if you pop round later, Verity, don’t forget to knock.’

  And with a final salacious wink, she scampered off.

  ‘What are you doing later?’ asked Tom nonchalantly.

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied equally casually.

  ‘We could, er, go somewhere?’

  ‘We could,’ I agreed, focusing on keeping my cheeks under control as my smile threatened to take over my whole face.

  Within a couple of hours, all thirty trays of paella had been hoovered up by the good folks of Plumberry and Annabel’s free wine samples had run out. I’d remembered to put a portion aside for Pixie’s granddad but had had to protect it several times from Dave, who also thought his mum might like it. The Challenge Chester crew had packed away and were kicking back outside the brewery with the three beards, listening to Chester boasting about the time he had got stuck in the lift with film star Emma Stone at the Oscars. Judging from everyone’s expressions, no one believed him but they were enjoying the tale nonetheless.

  ‘Cheryl’s coming with me to take Granddad his food. I’ve phoned ahead and checked he’s got his teeth in,’ said Pixie.

  Cheryl giggled as Pixie helped her up on to the handlebars of her bike. Wait – Cheryl giggling? Wonders would never cease.

  I packed Granddad’s paella into the pannier on the back of the bike and watched Pixie steer the wobbling bike towards the exit of the car park with both of the girls squealing with laughter.

  From nowhere a smart, low-slung white car sped into the car park, taking Pixie by surprise. She panicked and the bike tipped over and crashed to the ground. The girls screamed, landed in a tangle of limbs and were showered with chicken and rice from an exploding tub of paella.

  The car screeched to a halt and a woman jumped out and ran to them. Goggles, Jonno and I did the same. Tom either hadn’t noticed or had decided enough of us had gone to their rescue.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ cried the woman in a trembling voice, ‘I am so, so sorry.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ I panted.

  Cheryl rubbed her leg and Pixie gripped her arm. Both of them moaned, but they were still smiling.

  Goggles and Jonno picked up the bike. One of the wheels looked a bit skew-whiff.

  ‘Totally my fault; I was trying to turn the satnav off,’ said the woman, pressing both hands to her cheeks. ‘I’ll pay for the damage to the bike and to you. Oh, this is not at all how I planned it.’

  ‘Planned what?’ I frowned at her.

  ‘My grand entrance. What an idiot.’ She sighed.

  Perhaps she was from the media? Perhaps Yorkshire FM had sent her down for an ‘at the scene’ report?

  The woman knelt beside the two girls and began a futile attempt to pick paella out of their hair.

  ‘What is this?’ she said with a sniff.

  ‘Granddad’s Meals on Wheels,’ Pixie murmured.

  I regarded the woman surreptitiously. Her hair was a deep glossy auburn and with bouncing curls at the end of her pony tail. She had a striped Breton T-shirt under a navy blazer and her skin was so luscious she oozed healthiness. I’d got beer down my dress and my glow was more of the sweaty kind from the barbecue, and I also ponged of woodsmoke.

  ‘Pixie, Cheryl, are you OK?’ I repeated.

  Cheryl staggered to her feet and nodded; Goggles put an arm round her and led her away to sit down.

  ‘I’m fine. I think. Ouch,’ said Pixie, circling her shoulder.

  ‘Am I too late; are you still open?’ the woman said, peering across the car park towards the cookery school. She was still kneeling on the ground and grains of rice had stuck to her jeans.

  ‘Yes, the paella’s all gone, I’m afraid,’ I said, assuming she’d come for a free lunch, ‘but if you’re hungry I could always find you something in the kitchen.’

  She blinked at me.

  ‘I’m not here to eat. I’ve come to see Tom.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A cold finger of fear traced a line down my spine and I sensed Tom’s presence beside me even before I heard him.

  ‘Rebecca?’ he growled. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh baby!’ She leapt to her feet and flung her arms round his neck, pressing kiss after kiss on his face as tears sprang from her eyes.

  Tom strained away from her, but she tightened her grip. I stared, aghast yet riveted to the spot.

  ‘Tom, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ve missed you so much. Salinger’s is nothing without you. I’m nothing without you.’

  Tom peeled himself away and then wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. It was such a tender gesture that I had to look away. For about a millisecond, and then I stared at them again. There was an ache in the pit of my stomach at the sight of Tom with another woman.

  ‘I thought you were Ryan’s girlfriend without me?’ he said, folding his arms, his dark eyes blazing as they bore into hers. ‘There’s a well-known saying about too many cooks, you know.’

  Rebecca licked her lips nervously and reached her hands out to touch his arms. He took a step back and shook his head.

  I should really have tiptoed away, but my feet were glued to the spot.

  ‘I’ll leave you in private,’ I said half-heartedly.

  ‘No need,’ said Tom. ‘This won’t take long.’

  ‘OK.’ I shrugged, inwardly gladdened by that.

  Rebecca flicked a look in my direction and then focused on Tom.

  ‘Forget Ryan,’ she pleaded. ‘That was a silly mistake. A very silly mistake. Please, Tom, give me a second chance. Salinger’s can’t manage without you. Bookings are down already.’

  A flash of annoyance passed over Tom’s face. I felt dreadfully sorry for him, knowing how hard he had worked to build up the restaurant’s reputation. I was intrigued too; only a few minutes ago he’d said he wouldn’t – ahem – pee on Salinger’s if it was on fire. I wondered whether he’d really meant that. I guessed I’d soon find out.

  ‘Define “bookings are down”,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Last night we only had four tables in. On a Friday. Imagine that. When you were there we were full every night. You and me, we were invincible.’

  ‘Until you had an affair with Ryan.’

  ‘If you come back, I’ll sack Ryan,’ she promised.

  ‘Oh, so he’s still there?’ Tom looked livid.

  ‘Of course.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘I need a head chef.’

  I sucked in a breath; she truly was a piece of work.

  Tom shook his head in disgust. ‘All those hours I put in to earn that Michelin star.’

  ‘I know.’ She stared at her feet. ‘And you should read what they’re saying on Trip Advisor.’

  ‘Oh God.’ He covered his face with his hand.

  ‘Then help me?’ she pleaded, gathering the front of
his shirt between her fingertips. ‘If not for me then for Salinger’s, for the rest of the staff.’

  He removed her hands from his chest and gazed at me.

  ‘Verity, what do you think?’

  He wanted my advice. My heart swelled; I was torn. Rebecca didn’t deserve a second chance, not with the restaurant and certainly not with Tom. But after the conversation we had just had about me helping Liam, it would be hypocritical of me to say that, wouldn’t it? Oh hell, I wished right now I hadn’t been so . . . nice.

  Rebecca whipped her head round and stared, studying me properly for the first time. She looked from me to Tom, incredulity etched into her pretty face.

  ‘Are you two . . .?’

  ‘Excuse us.’ I tilted my chin up, grabbed Tom’s arm and led him a few steps away out of earshot and tried to assemble some answers.

  Tom’s face was grey. ‘I was moving on. I’d got over her. Now what?’

  I could see the turmoil in his eyes. I didn’t like the way this was heading one bit. If I asked him to stay then I was making him choose between Rebecca and me, between Salinger’s and the cookery school. And the thing was, I wasn’t confident that I’d be on the winning side and after my recent humiliation with Liam, I had no desire to put myself in that position again.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ I whispered.

  ‘Kill her. I am so mad with her. That restaurant was the best in Manchester a month ago,’ he hissed. ‘But . . .’

  But. The word hung between us for a long moment.

  Rebecca jingled her keys.

  ‘A few hours ago you said you were done with the place,’ I reminded him, unable to resist a little dig.

  ‘I know, I know; I said I wouldn’t piss on it. Jesus.’ He exhaled and rubbed a hand through his hair, making it stand in wild peaks. ‘We have never had a bad review. Never. And even though I’m not in charge of the kitchen any more, people will think I might have been when these reviews were written. I’m still associated with the place.’

  ‘Then I think you should go,’ I said briskly.

  He looked taken aback. ‘You do?’

  ‘Obviously I want you to stay here,’ I murmured pragmatically. ‘The cookery school needs you. But ask yourself this: would you regret it if you didn’t go and help her out?’

  ‘You are lovely.’

  He took my hand and squeezed it and I heard Rebecca gasp. The gesture took my breath away too.

  I watched as he walked over to her and outlined his conditions. He’d go back, sort the kitchen out and get the restaurant on an even keel.

  ‘But as far as you and me are concerned—’ he began.

  ‘Baby!’ she squealed and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Thank you, thank you. Come on, we need to hurry if we’re going to make it in time for service tonight.’

  She dashed to the car and jumped into the driver’s seat, revving up the engine, ready to depart without giving me a second glance.

  I felt a lump form in my throat.

  What if he fell in love with her all over again? What if he didn’t come back? What about me?

  I was dying to yell that I didn’t mean it, that I didn’t want him to leave, but I was too stubborn, too scared to face the possibility of rejection. Besides, my throat felt tight and I couldn’t say a word now if I’d wanted to.

  ‘I’m sorry about later,’ Tom said as he reached the passenger door. ‘We were going to do something.’

  ‘Oh that.’ I laughed gaily, lying through my teeth. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll probably be too tired after I’ve finished here anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’ He blinked. ‘Right then. Bye.’

  Tom folded himself into Rebecca’s car and waved as she put the car into reverse. I stood and watched them leave with a heavy heart.

  What was that phrase, if you love someone let them go . . .? I swallowed my own sadness and felt mounting panic take its place.

  Had I done the right thing, giving him my blessing to go, or had I just made the biggest mistake of my life?

  Taking Stock

  Chapter 21

  It was the last week in May, the Tuesday after the bank holiday, and the teaching kitchen was bathed in spring sunshine and bursting with activity. Unfortunately, my mood wasn’t quite so sunny. Maintaining a welcoming smile was proving so difficult that my cheeks ached and I was worried about rigor mortis setting in to my face. I performed another circuit of the room, pausing in front of the row of windows to scan the car park. Again.

  Sometimes you just get out of bed the wrong side and you have no one to blame for your own grumpiness. At other times, the blame can be very justifiably placed at the feet of others.

  In my case, Tom’s.

  A wave of panic swelled inside me; how were we going to get through today without him? Where on earth was he?

  He had disappeared with Rebecca on Saturday afternoon, like a knight in shining armour dashing off to save the restaurant he’d claimed not to care about any more, and no one had seen him since. I’d even called the friend whose flat he was staying in but he was none the wiser either.

  Not a word from Tom. Not one.

  And even though I’d given him my blessing at the time, now I was an uncomfortable mix of livid and nervous.

  I mean, of all the days he could have chosen to leave me in the lurch, he had to pick the day when a room full of keen-as-mustard amateur chefs had gathered to compete for the Plumberry Signature Dish competition.

  So much for ‘shall we do something later?’, which he’d murmured to me after the Challenge Chester crew had finished filming. The only things I’d done all weekend were look after Gloria and answer cookery school queries while he was presumably getting his feet back under the table at Salinger’s.

  The giant paella that we’d fed the entire village with on Saturday had created a flurry of publicity. Which was amazing, of course, but a little bit overwhelming to deal with singlehandedly.

  Not only had the York Mail sent a photographer over yesterday, bank holiday Monday, but there had been huge interest in the two competitions Tom and I had organized. There were eighteen contestants for today’s amateur chef competition and we would be at capacity for the Plumberry Bake Off competition tomorrow.

  But even the fact that more people had applied for my competition than Tom’s failed to raise a smile this morning.

  I worried a tiny loose piece of skin on my lower lip until I made it sore. What if he didn’t come back? What if the ‘everydayness’ of the Plumberry School of Comfort Food proved no match for the lure of fine dining and the love of the absolutely gorgeous Rebecca Salinger . . .?

  Oh God. Don’t torture yourself.

  I cast my eye round the room and looked at the amateur chefs. They were a mixed bunch: I recognized Annabel from Plumberry Wine Merchants and Jack from the village butcher’s, along with Pixie’s boss, Harriet, from the cheese-monger’s. Pixie had also introduced me to Merrin, who she worked with behind the bar at the pub, but the others were all new faces to me.

  Normal routine had flown out of the window this morning; none of the contestants were interested in idle chitchat over coffee and pastries in the Aga kitchen. As one man put it to Mags, ‘I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win.’

  They had all arrived early, had spent the last hour stressing and generally driving Mags, Pixie and me round the twist with their queries and questions, and now they were chomping at the bit to get cooking.

  It was a shame Gloria didn’t feel well enough to come in this morning and see her cookery school so packed. As a former food stylist, she would appreciate the standard of today’s cooking. Although at this rate – I glanced at the large clock on the wall – she might have no choice, aching hip or not, because unless our esteemed Michelin-starred chef turned up, we were without a judge. And when he did arrive he was going to wish he hadn’t because when I got my hands on him I’d . . .

  Ouch. I looked down at the red marks on my palms; I’d been digging my nails into them again.r />
  Mags caught my eye and came bustling over. She was dressed for summer today in a fuchsia dress with lipstick to match. Her cheeks were also a flustered shade of pink and some of her hair had already escaped from its chignon.

  ‘I think we’ll have to start soon,’ she hissed out of the side of her mouth, ‘or we’ll have a riot on our hands.’

  I nodded. ‘They’re taking it so earnestly. And Mr Serious Chef himself isn’t even here to witness it. He’ll be kicking himself. After I’ve kicked him, that is,’ I added in a low mutter.

  ‘Still no word from him?’

  I slipped my phone out of my apron pocket and checked it again. ‘Not a peep. Anything on the answerphone?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Not had a chance to check, this lot were queuing up outside when I arrived to open up at eight o’clock. It’s been non-stop demands ever since.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry, chuck.’ She patted my arm. ‘If push comes to shove, I’ll be the judge. I might not be able to tell my partridge from my pigeon, but I went to a lot of cookery book photo shoots, so I know what looks nice and I’m more than happy to test everything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I managed a smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. This lot had come to be judged by Tom, not Mags, who as far as they were concerned was just the receptionist.

  ‘I feel such a fraud,’ I continued. ‘The contestants are far more knowledgeable about food than me, and yet here I am asking them questions about what they’re cooking and nodding away as if I’ve got a clue what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Ditto,’ breathed Pixie. She stood between us, a hand on both of our shoulders. ‘That bloke over there with the black-and-white bandana just freaked out when he realized he’d forgotten to bring his boning knife and could I please find him one or he’d have to withdraw. I mean, what the hell does a boning knife look like?’

  ‘What did you do?’ I asked her.

  She shrugged. ‘I opened the knife drawer and told him he could borrow anything he wanted. Let him find his own.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Mags grumbled. ‘One woman had a meltdown when she found out we didn’t have a blast chiller and I thought the young lad with bright pink ears was going to cry when he couldn’t find any truffle oil in the store cupboard.’