The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  Thank you to my lovely, lovely editor, Harriet Bourton, who never so much as turned a hair when the manuscript arrived bearing no resemblance to the agreed synopsis. Thank you to Francesca Best who arrived late to the Plumberry party, but nonetheless donned her pinny and got stuck in.

  Thank you to the people who helped me get the details right: Lynn Gibbins and Elaine Fearnley for coming up with village names, Rachel Woolley and Dan the Boat Man for knowing EXACTLY how long it takes to get to York. A special thank you to Marie Ward for your expert knowledge of falls and Dr Gina McLachlan for your in-depth knowledge of drugs. Any errors are entirely mine!

  A huge thank you to my lovely friend Lucy Nicholson, owner of the wonderful Lucy Cooks cookery school without whom I wouldn’t have had the idea for this book at all. Thank you for inspiring me on all sorts of levels. Thanks too to the marvellous Linda Lawler who introduced me to a ‘pan of scouse’ and who kindly shared her recipe with me for this book.

  To my agent and friend, Hannah Ferguson, thank you for all the extra love and support this year. On that note, there are three authors, each with their own busy schedules who have checked in with me regularly this year to make sure all is well. Thank you Rachael Lucas, Sam Tonge and Sue Watson; you ladies are the best.

  Thank you to my amazing daughters, Phoebe and Isabel, who contribute to my books in all sorts of ways, from character names, locations and plot ideas and who rearrange my books prominently in shops.

  Love and heartfelt thanks as always to my wonderful husband, Mr B, who is my cheerful cheerleader. You’re the bee’s knees.

  Finally, to my best friends, Lisa and Alison, to whom I’ve dedicated this book. Thank you for always being there for us. xxx

  Cathy Bramley’s sparkling new story of friendship and dreams come true is:

  White Lies and Wishes

  What happens when what you wish for is only half the story . . . ?

  Flirtatious, straight-talking Jo Gold says she’s got no time for love; she’s determined to save her family’s failing footwear business.

  New mother Sarah Hudson has cut short her maternity leave to return to work. She says she’ll do whatever it takes to make partner at the accountancy firm.

  Bored, over-eating housewife Carrie Radley says she just wants to shift the pounds – she’d love to finally wear a bikini in public.

  The unlikely trio meet by chance one winter’s day, and in a moment of ‘Carpe Diem’ madness, embark on a mission to make their wishes come true by September.

  Easy. At least it would be, if they hadn’t been just the teensiest bit stingy with the truth . . .

  With hidden issues, hidden talents, and hidden demons to overcome, new friends Jo, Carrie and Sarah must admit to what they really, really want, if they are ever to get their happy endings.

  Coming in January 2017 in paperback and ebook

  Read on for an early extract!

  Chapter 1

  It was the last Monday in January. ‘Blue Monday’ according to the newspapers. The most miserable day of the year. The sky was miserable too; charcoal clouds scudded angrily across the horizon and a mean wind rattled at window frames and snapped weak branches from trees.

  How apt, thought Jo rubbing her hands together for warmth.

  Frédéric Lafleur’s funeral had already cast a shadow over the day but now, at three o‘clock, the thin light was fading from the afternoon and the little village of Woodby in rural Nottinghamshire was descending into gloom. Jo shuddered, dragged her gaze away from the steamed-up window of the village hall and blinked away tears that had been gathering since before the service.

  Coffee. She needed coffee. It would warm her up and give her something to do. She pushed her way through the crowd towards the refreshments and was vaguely aware of a petite young woman with a cloud of pretty red curls attempting to hang a brightly coloured coat on a peg which was too high for her to reach.

  The room was muggy and Jo felt hot and restricted in her tight black skirt suit. She undid the button of her jacket and grimaced at the noise around her. The conversation, at first a respectful whisper, had risen to a more sociable hum as the mourners, with pinched faces and frozen fingers thawed over tea and sandwiches.

  A searing flash of fury gripped her and she had a sudden urge to scream.

  For God’s sake, it’s not a bloody tea party.

  She took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was how people dealt with death in England; a nice cup of tea and a muted chuckle over shared memories. The hall was packed; tons of people had come to see him off, there was bound to be noise. Besides, Fréd had been a noisy bugger; he’d have hated a quiet wake.

  She braced herself as Abi stumbled blindly into her arms.

  ‘Hello, you,’ said Jo, returning the hug. Abi had lost so much weight this past year; Jo could feel every knot in her spine.

  If anyone were to ask her how she was, Jo would probably smile through gritted teeth and reply that she was fine. She wasn’t though. Jo was angry. So furious in fact that she wanted to punch something or someone really hard. God, probably.

  This was all wrong. Funerals were for old people. Abi and Frédéric were still young, she told herself for the umpteenth time. Or was, in Fréd’s case. They should be popping out more babies left, right and centre, enjoying life, planning for their future. Fréd should be here, arm draped round his beautiful wife, knocking back the red wine and making jokes about English food.

  Jo could feel her breath rattling against her ribcage, her throat burning with the effort of keeping her own emotions in check. Jo kissed Abi’s hair and released her, dabbing the tears from her friend’s face with a tissue that had seen better days. What do you say to your thirty-four-year-old friend who has just lost her husband to cancer?

  ‘Thanks for doing the reading in French, Jo,’ murmured Abi.

  ‘Yeah, cheers for that,’ said Jo, twisting her mouth into a smile. ‘As if I wasn’t stressed enough, you make me wheel out my rusty old French.’

  At least now the service was over she could start to breathe normally again.

  ‘It was brilliant; you still sound fluent.’

  Jo shook her head slightly. Abi was amazing, even now she managed to see beyond her own pain. ‘Old Maman Lafleur didn’t think so, she was giving me daggers.’

  Abi winced. ‘Sorry about my mother-in-law, she still blames you for introducing us at Uni. If it’s any consolation, she looks at me like that all the time.’

  ‘Poor you.’ Jo smiled in sympathy. Her eyes roamed the room until she located Frédéric’s parents queuing at the buffet table. ‘Fréd’s dad, Henri, is lovely though. Obviously where Fréd got his looks from.’

  Abi’s face crumpled.

  Shit, wrong thing to say. Jo pulled her friend close again, cursing her own stupidity as Abi sobbed hot tears into her neck. The French relatives were examining a pork pie as if it were a suspicious parcel; curiosity and distrust on their faces. Henri picked up a slice, sniffed it then nibbled the edge. Showing every bit of his Gallic origins, he shrugged and pulled the corners of his mouth down. The others shook their heads and moved along.

  Abi pulled away and gave Jo a wan smile. ‘Anyway, it meant a lot to me. You read at our wedding and Fréd would have liked the poem.’

  Jo nodded. A sudden longing for the day to end, to leave all this sadness behind, sent guilty shivers through her body. She ran a hand through her short, wavy blonde hair distractedly. At times like these it was so much easier being single, no ties, none of this heartache.

  Abi looked round the hall. ‘I suppose I’d better go and mingle.’

  Jo gripped her arms. ‘Bollocks to them. You do exactly as you like. People don’t expect you to make polite conversation. Get yourself a coffee and let them come to you. And make sure you eat something.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Jo wrinkled her nose and pulled a single, slightly bent cigarette out of her bag. ‘Not hungry. I’m going out for a fag.’

&nb
sp; ‘Thought you’d given up?’

  Jo shook her head, gave Abi a swift kiss and wiped away a smear of red lipstick on her cheek with her thumb. ‘Not today.’

  Carrie set down the heavy teapot, shook out her arm and wiped the sheen of perspiration from her brow. It was going well so far. If that was the right thing to say.

  She bit her lip, flushing in case people could hear her thoughts. What she meant was that everyone had had a hot drink, and no one had asked for something she didn’t have. In theory, they could help themselves from now on. She supposed she would have to come out from behind the table at some point, go and offer her condolences to the family. But not yet. She felt safer behind the table.

  Goodness, her mouth was watering! She’d only had one sausage roll all afternoon and she was starving. Her eyes scanned the trestle tables. There had been plenty of food in the end; she needn’t have worried. Not very French though, unless you counted vol-au-vents. And quiche, maybe. That sounded French. Doing the catering on her own had been hard work, but it had been the least she could do for poor Abi, plus, if she was honest with herself, she had enjoyed being busy, feeling useful for once. Was that really self-centred?

  A blonde middle-aged woman in a long navy coat touched Carrie’s arm. ‘Lovely spread, Carrie. Did you do the altar flowers too?’

  Carrie blushed, batted the compliment away with her hand and glanced at her chest. How did those crumbs get there? ‘Oh gosh! Thanks, Linda. Tesco’s finest!’

  ‘Oh?’ Linda pulled the corners of her mouth down in surprise.

  Damn! Linda believed her. Carrie could have kicked herself. Why did she always make a joke of things? Of course she had done the flowers. She had been to the wholesalers at five this morning to collect those flowers. Long-stemmed roses, masses of them: white for youth, red for courage and pink for love. Not chrysanthemums. She shuddered. She hated them: the symbol of death.

  Linda leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I think you’ve got jam on your chin.’

  ‘Oh? Thanks.’

  How did that get there?

  Carrie was still scrubbing at her face with a napkin as Frédéric’s mother approached the table and handed Carrie her paper plate.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the elegant Frenchwoman, ashen-faced and stooped under the weight of her grief. Carrie’s heart sank as she took in the abandoned, barely-touched food. Fréd’s mum had hated it. She should have listened to Alex, perhaps she should never have offered to do this at all; her cooking wasn’t up to catering standard.

  ‘I’m so sorry. For your loss. And for the food,’ she stammered.

  Madame Lafleur didn’t smile, but inclined her head and swept away off to re-join her husband.

  Carrie regarded the remains of the buffet with dismay. It struck her as rather macabre now; chicken drumsticks, sandwiches, cake . . . like some sort of sick joke. It looked like birthday party food, or a wedding anniversary.

  Strange how you had a wedding breakfast but a funeral tea. Or was it? If your whole life were to be crammed into one day, you’d want your wedding in the morning, save the funeral for the end of the day.

  But some people didn’t make it to the end of the day, did they? And some had their lives taken before they had even begun.

  A massive lump threatened to block Carrie’s throat. She shook her head to get rid of her maudlin thoughts, selected the largest slice of quiche and took a bite.

  Oh my Lord! She had died and woken up in savoury pie heaven.

  She took a second bite. The salty bacon, crumbly pastry and creamy custard disappeared in seconds.

  She closed her eyes and then snapped them open, automatically checking to see where her husband was. He was easy to spot; Alex was one of the tallest men here. And the most handsome. As she brushed more crumbs from her bosom, he looked over and caught her eye. Damn. Heat rose to her face; she felt guilty enough for eating without him catching her raiding the buffet. She couldn’t stick to her diet today. Today she was too het up.

  Patches of sweat prickled under her arms and her face felt hot, it would be as red as a beetroot. Her dark hair would be a mess too; the steam from the hot water urn would have turned it to frizz. Fresh air was called for. She grabbed a couple of chicken drumsticks and made for the door.

  After eventually managing to hang her coat up on a peg that was ridiculously high, Sarah had stayed in the corner of the village hall waiting for her blushing face to return to a more normal colour. She pressed a hand to her cheek – still warm – and groaned inwardly. That was possibly one of her worst foot-in-mouth fiascos ever: ‘I’d kill my husband if he did that,’ Sarah had said, trying to make conversation with two women who were moaning about their other halves. Only to find Abi standing right beside her. Everyone had glared at her, Abi had burst into tears and run off and now Sarah felt like a social outcast, like a rabbit with MixyMcwhatsit.

  She glanced at her nails for something to do and noticed that she had burst a button on her emerald green blouse. Great. That would just about top it off if she flashed her boobs at a funeral. She was never going to make any friends in this village at this rate.

  Had anyone seen? She whipped her head round to check. No, thank goodness. Shame Dave wasn’t here to appreciate a peek at her bra. Not that it was a racy number; feeding bras, she had learned, were built for smooth operations, not to make the wearer feel the least bit alluring.

  It was nerves; that was what she put her blabby mouth down to. She was normally quite comfortable in other people’s company, but today she felt awkward and isolated and conscious that she really needed to be in two places at once. Sarah sighed.

  Story of my life these days.

  Supporting Abi and showing respect for Frédéric was the ‘good neighbour’ thing to do, she told herself firmly, pushing aside the fact that she had inadvertently made Abi cry. But Sarah couldn’t help remembering her boss Eleanor’s sucked-in cheeks when she had asked for the time off so soon after coming back to work at the accountancy firm after her maternity leave. It was a massive day for the company; Sarah understood that, a big meeting with a new client. She sighed, twirled a lock of red hair round her finger and looked round for any familiar faces.

  The funeral was just such bad timing.

  NO! No, no! She didn’t mean it! That made her sound like a monster! She almost gasped aloud with shame, took a deep breath and rearranged her thoughts. But try as she might she couldn’t stop thinking about work.

  Finch and Partners’ new golden boy, Ben, would probably be given that client to manage now, even though Sarah had done all the preliminary work. And she needed a biggie like that if she was going to make partner. At this rate Ben would be promoted before her even though he had only been there five minutes and wasn’t even thirty. But instead of furthering her career, she was standing in a village hall like a lemon, in a shirt which was still far too tight, with no one to talk to.

  But she was doing the right thing. Definitely. Very neighbourly.

  Food. That would give her something to do. Sarah approached the buffet table and picked up a paper plate. Her hand hovered over the egg and cress sandwiches as an idea occurred to her. She chewed on her lip and mulled it over. What if she jumped into the car now? She could make it back to the office before the new client left, and at least say hello. Stake her claim before Ben got in there first.

  But what about Zac? Her stomach flipped. She had promised to get home early to feed him and when was the last time she had done that on a Monday? Time with her six-month old baby was so precious, early finishes so rare. Her heart swelled with love for her darling little boy.

  Sod the office. She’d stay here. She plonked the sandwich on her plate. Decision made.

  There were about a hundred people here she reckoned. Black, black, black. Why did everyone insist on wearing black at a funeral? Sarah didn’t even own anything black. She liked happy colours. Her boss had once said that she would look more at home in the circus than in the boardroom. She’
d thought it was a compliment at first until she had noticed two of the junior accountants sniggering.

  She might as well try and meet people while she was here, assuming she could avoid any more social gaffs. She and Dave were still new to Woodby and with one thing and another: short winter days and dark nights, Zac arriving early and a new house needing a lot of attention, she hadn’t made any friends yet. Except Abi.

  Sarah felt the heat rise to her cheeks. How selfish to be worrying about her own trivial work issues with everything that poor Abi was going through!

  There was no one manning the tea pot so Sarah helped herself. She would drink this and then go and apologise to Abi for her faux pas earlier. She scanned the room but couldn’t see where she was. She’d spotted her a few minutes ago hugging the elegant platinum blonde woman who had done the French reading in church. Sarah recalled the woman’s immaculate suit, endless slim legs and flat stomach and ran a hand through her own corkscrew curls and got a finger stuck. It could do with a wash really. God, she was a scruff bag, there never seemed to be enough time to see to her own appearance these days.

  Sarah noticed a group of women her own age gathered at the stage end of the hall. One of them had even brought her baby, for heaven’s sake! How awful for the poor little mite to be at a funeral in the midst of such misery! He could be scarred for life. A few of the faces were familiar from the mother and baby group and her heart sank. She had only managed to go a couple of times and although they’d been friendly at first, they had all stared at her like she had two heads when she announced that she was going back to work full-time. Still, no harm in trying again. She attempted her best friendly smile and began to cross the hall.

  At that moment, the baby started to wail. Oh no! Sarah cringed and pressed an arm to her chest.

  It was as if she had pulled the toggle on an emergency life vest. She only had to hear a baby cry, even if it wasn’t Zac, and her boobs inflated, ready to leap into action. She felt warmth flood her bra and hardly dared glance down. The sensation was ten times worse than needing a wee. She normally expressed milk at lunchtime if she wasn’t with Zac, but with the service starting at one o’clock, somehow she had got out of sync.