“She’s excellent,” Meg says nudging me with her elbow. “She used to cook all the time when we lived together. Now she barely cooks at all. I have lost weight though. I can’t cook for toffee. Well not unless you count heating up some Ambrosia rice pudding in the microwave.”
I giggle at Meg. She’s right. I used to cook her all kinds of treats. The one time she cooked dinner for me, she served up burned jacket potato with a processed cheese slice artfully arranged on the top.
“But… you could help?” Riley asks.
“No. I’m not sure how long I’m here for. I’ve got to go back and track down Brian. And I'm supposed to be babysitting my sister’s dog tonight.”
I wave my mobile at them; it’s been beeping away with frantic texts from Dionne since this morning.
“Babysitting a dog?” Riley asks incredulously before sniggering annoyingly.
“Yup,” I say. “A poodle. It doesn’t like being on its own.”
“Cancel it,” Meg says rolling her eyes at the very thought of Dionne. “She can miss one night out,”
“No,” I say shaking my head. “I promised I’d be there. And I really need to see Olly.”
“Well…you’ve still got a good few hours before Dionne’s expecting you,” Meg says, looking at a grandfather clock standing against the back wall of the pub.
Riley grins at me. “If you’ve got a little time, I’d love for you to teach me just one dish. One teeny tiny little dish.”
His face is all pleading and lovely. I puff out my cheeks. I suppose I have got a few hours. And I haven’t cooked anything in ages…
“Ah, all right then. Just one dish.”
I'm such a weakling.
Riley nods once as if he knew along that I was going to say yes. Cocky git.
“Come on then.” He holds out his huge bear like hand to lead me to the kitchen. Blushing, I studiously ignore the hand and turn to Meg.
“Will you be all right here on your own?”
“Oh yes,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll be fab, lady. I need to check my emails anyway.” She digs her BlackBerry out of her bag. “Go on then,” she says when she notices I’m still standing there. “Go cook up a storm!”
I fold my arms and follow Riley into the pub kitchen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TEXT FROM: MUM
Where r u? When will you be back? Why haven’t you rung?
Pub kitchen is not quite how you would describe this room. World’s Most Gorgeous, Spectacular Kitchen may be more apt.
I amble in behind Riley and do a little squeak of pleasure.
The room is large and light with three huge bay windows lined across the back wall. The units are not the expanses of cold steel you find in most service kitchens, but cream painted oak, topped with a silvery grey marble. Almost the exact same colour of Riley’s eyes, in fact.
Each cupboard is glass fronted and filled to the brim with both everyday and out-of-this-world ingredients. A huge side by side fridge is indiscreet in the corner and - joy of joys - a Lacanche range cooker in Prussian Blue stands proudly on the left.
Be still my beating heart.
I stand in the centre of the room, by a gigantic Victorian pine farmhouse table, expecting a band of angels to appear and sing a rousing chorus of Hallelujah.
If I were to design a room to live in for all my days, then this room would be it. Nancy Meyer. Eat your heart out.
“Wow…Just wowee,” I breathe, taking in every inch of this beautiful room.
“It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” Riley smiles, running his hands over the worktops.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“My mum designed it. A year before she died. She loved to cook. She was ace.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That must have been awful.”
He hesitates for a moment. “It was. But life goes on. It must.”
He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it with a complete stranger, so I don’t push the subject.
“If you like this,” Riley is saying more brightly now, “then you’ll love the greenhouse.”
Whaaaaaaat?
“You have a greenhouse?”
“Yep. Just outside. Alan looks after it. Do you want to -”
“Yes,” I answer before he can even finish the sentence.
He lumbers to the faded blue back door of the kitchen and pulls it open, beckoning for me to follow.
We step lightly through a narrow bramble lined garden path, being careful not to slip on the icy trail until we reach a huge glass outbuilding.
Riley thrusts open the door and I gasp again.
The harsh winter sun streams in through the glass ceiling illuminating row upon row of fresh fruit, vegetables and herbs, all lined up in precise, even queues. The colours are wonderful. The smell is incredible. I cannot believe they have all of this here. Right here behind the pub!
Without even thinking, I grab a floppy wicker basket from a small table beside me.
“I’m going to show you how to make a Ratatouille,” I say suddenly. “It’s a brill place to start, I think. Simple and zingy and tasty. And it won’t take long at all!”
Riley follows me as I stride through the greenhouse. He gives a little cough before speaking.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but, Ratatouille isn’t really the kind of dish people will travel far and wide to eat,” he says carefully. “Perhaps you can show me, I don’t know, a tartlet of quail, or a confit ravioli or something with dry ice, you know… more impressive?”
“Something poncy, you mean?” I scoff, pausing by a plot of carrots and feeling a rush of exasperation. “People don’t always travel far and wide to eat food made up of fancy names and endangered species. Sometimes they just want fresh, simple produce, cooked well not fricking sun magicked pink grapes hand peeled by baby orangutans.”
“But -”
“And seeing as you can barely knock together a tomato and mozzarella tart, I think, no. No, I can’t show you a tartlet of quail.”
I lift my head a little higher.
Riley is frowning, clearly not used to being told the truth. Serves him right.
“Look,” I say more kindly. “It’s probably best for you to start with the basics. Trust me.”
Riley reluctantly nods his assent and I continue my journey of discovery through the greenhouse.
I can feel the excitement bubbling through my body as I make my way, row by row, around the glasshouse. I pick out juicy plum tomatoes, and golden onions and smooth skinned, burgundy aubergines, plonking them haphazardly in the basket.
Meanwhile Riley straddles an upturned crate and, watches me with a peculiar expression on his face. It occurs to me to feel awkward, but I really am too excited to care very much. I want to cook. My gosh, I want to cook. I want to take these beautiful ingredients and I want to cook them into something brilliant.
I smile to myself and gather sprigs of thyme from the terracotta pot in which they’re growing. I bury my head into a large basil plant and inhale deeply before plucking a handful of leaves.
When I’ve finished my spree, I march back into the kitchen, Riley strolling behind.
“Right,” I say with a burst of confidence, the likes of which I haven’t felt in a long while. “Hands washed. Apron on.”
“Yes ma’am!” Riley laughs, doing a silly little salute.
We soap our hands side by side at the huge Belfast sink and Riley digs out a couple of starchy white aprons from a bottom drawer.
I practically dance my way around the kitchen, pulling out all the utensils and ingredients I need and lining them up on the oak table.
“So, the trick with Ratatouille is this..,” I say, handing Riley an onion to slice. “You must cook each vegetable separately. People think Ratatouille is like a stew, you just bung all the ingredients in, cook it for a bit and hey presto. But that’s wrong. We’re not looking for one flavour. We’re looking for layers of flavour. Loads more interesting
.”
“Layers of flavour. Got it,” nods Riley, sliding a huge knife through the onion.
As we stand side by side chopping up vegetables, I find my mind wandering away from the worry of Brian and Olly and the hypnotism. It’s a welcome relief.
We sauté off the aubergines and the courgettes, and I instruct Riley on how to season the food correctly, and how he should make sure that each ingredient is cooked until it becomes a golden colour before being transferred to the cooking pot. While we’re bustling about Riley chats away about the pub and his efforts to keep it open.
As he speaks about it, I begin to understand why it’s so very important to him. The Old Whimsy isn’t just a pub. It’s his heritage. The last link to his mother and really, the heart of the Little Trooley community. He tells me about the entire village getting involved in the cause. Mrs Grimes has even organised a fundraising barn dance for next weekend. A real live barn dance!
“You should come,” he says casually. “It’s going to be fun. And I’m sure the locals would love to see you again. Last night was a hoot for them. They've not had that much excitement in years.”
A barn dance sounds so unlike anything I’ve ever been to before, and one of those strange villagey type things that I ought to see at least once in my lifetime. But I’ve already done enough skipping off from real life.
“That sounds lovely,” I say. “But I’ve got lots to do at home. The wedding, and fixing things with Olly… and in the absence of Brian, finding another hypnotist to sort out my muddled brain.”
“Fair enough,” Riley shrugs. “Thought it was worth a mention.”
“Well, thanks for the invite.”
“No problemo.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“It's no problemo at all.”
“Who says problemo?”
“Me.”
“Right.”
And with that the conversation ends. The ensuing silence is a tad awkward, so I take my mind back to the task in hand.
After about ten minutes Riley’s deep voice bursts through the soothing sound of sizzling and stirring.
“What’s that song?” he asks, watching as I transfer each cooked vegetable to a large teal casserole dish.
“What song?”
“That song you’re humming.”
Huh? I’m humming. I didn’t even realise.
“Oh…I don’t know,” I say absently.
“Sounds like… wait… it sounded like a Phil Collins song.”
My face goes ruby because I realise that he’s right. That’s exactly what I was humming.
“Hmmm,” I mutter, focusing my gaze on the ratatouille dish.
“Natalie,” Riley says with affected nonchalance. “Was that a Phil Collins song you were humming?”
Stupid questions! Stupid truth-telling.
“Fine,” I hiss. “Yes. Yes, it was. It was Easy Lover from the album Serious Hits… Live.”
So excruciating! I pride myself on a pretty much impeccable music taste and somehow an errant cheesy song makes its way into my brain. Damn you, Phil Collins and your beguiling melodies.
Riley gives a sharp bark of laughter, it’s so sudden that it makes me jump. I scowl at him but he doesn’t even notice. His eyes are closed and he’s grabbing onto his stomach as if he’s afraid that the raucous chuckles are about to explode right on out of his belly.
Well.
It’s not that funny...
Okay, it’s a little bit amusing, I suppose.
I keep a determinedly serious face but as I hear him heartily ho-hoing with laughter, a giggle escapes.
“Shut up!” I say chuckling reluctantly. “It’s actually a really good song. You know, I think it reached number one in the UK and American charts.”
“Oh, no doubt,” he laughs. And out of nowhere he starts to sing in a surprisingly tuneful voice.
“She’s an easy lovah. She’ll get a hold on you belieeeeeve it,” he pauses, face scrunched up. “That’s actually all I know.”
“Shame. I was so enjoying that.” I shake my head, dropping a few sprigs of thyme into the casserole dish and taking it over to the stove of dreams. “So, anyway, you put this in for about forty to forty-five minutes. About gas mark four, I’d say.”
I fiddle with the dials until I get the right settings, before rinsing some basil leaves at the sink.
“You know you might want to write that down,” I say as I notice Riley, peering off into the distance, not really paying any attention to what I’m saying.
I tut and continue to wash and then chop the basil.
“Natalie?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know all the words?”
“Excuse me?”
“To Easy Lover. Do you know the words? Can you sing them for me?”
To my absolute horror, his questions flood into my brain and before I know it, my mouth begins to move, once more without permission, and I… Oh shit… I start to sing Easy Lover. Making sure to enunciate every lyric for clarity.
Oh no. Gad.
It wouldn’t be half as bad if I had a reasonable singing voice, but I really, truly don’t. Modesty aside, I sound like Mr Bean. Mr Bean in a world of pain.
I croon away, red faced and as quickly as possible so that I can get to the end of the song. But there are a million different verses my brain wants me to get out and I know all of them.
Riley is staring at me, mouth wide open in horror and oh, no, he’s putting his hands over his ears. He tries doing it surreptitiously by leaning his elbows on the table and casually positioning his palms at the side of his head, but I know. I know he’s trying to block out the sound of my foghorn voice.
And then, as the humiliation takes over my concentration on chopping the basil, I accidentally slice down onto the tip of my little finger.
The upside is that it shocks me out of the singing. Oh great. All I have to do to get the hypnosis to stop is injure myself?
“Ow, piss it!” I yell as my finger immediately starts to bleed. I dash back over to the sink, turn on the cold tap and run it over the wound.
Riley, fast as a bullet - given his bear-like size - rifles through a drawer, retrieving a packet of plasters.
“Are you okay?” he says, peering down at my bloody finger.
“No I’m not. Holy Focaccia, it hurts. That was your fault.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. It won’t stop bleeding!”
I pull my hand away from the tap and inspect the cut. It’s only shallow, but it stings like crazy. And it won’t stop bleeding!
Ugh. I feel all faint.
“You need to suck it,” Riley says matter of factly.
“What? That‘s rude.”
“You should suck your finger to stop it bleeding. Then I can put the plaster on.”
“No. Ew. I’m not… Dracula, you know.”
“Just…”
Riley takes hold of my hand and eyes fastened upon mine, guides my finger into my mouth. My heart begins to gallop. This should not be sexy. It should so not be sexy.
But it kind of is. In a weird vampirish kind of a way.
When the bleeding stops, he wraps the plaster around the wound, but doesn’t let go of my hand.
It’s not uncomfortable at all. It should be but it isn’t. Our eyes are locked onto each other’s. I look up at his really rather outstanding mouth, and feel a dart of lust go through my tummy.
He runs his thumb softly over the palm of my hand, studying me with a weird, greedy look in his eyes. He smiles and shrugs slowly.
I. Want. To. Kiss. Him.
Olly!
“I must go!” I blurt suddenly and much too loudly, pulling my hand away and clutching it to my chest. “I’m so late. I’ve got to babysit a dog! I have to get married! I’ll miss America’s Next Top Model if I don’t get back at once! Thanks for the plaster. Don’t forget, basil on the ratatouille in forty minutes!”
“Natalie, I -”
“Must dash. Haha, mo
ustache! Yep. Bye now. Fabulous to meet you. All the best.”
With the thump of my heart pounding in my ears, I leave Riley behind and dart into the pub, where Meg is laughing with a handsome, important looking man in a navy suit.
“Meg!” I yell in a wacky, overly cheery, sing-song voice. “Time to go!”
“Whaaaat?” Meg blinks. “But, I’m just -”
“Time to go home now. Really.” I grab her hand and march her towards the door.
“Goodbye Jaaaassssper!” she cries out to the navy suited man at the table as I drag her out of the pub.
And just like that, we flee the village Little Trooley.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What the buggering bugger was that about, Natty?”
I’d like to say we’re zooming down the motorway headed for home, but the roads are spectacularly icy so it’s more of a leisurely trundle than a zoom.
Either way, I’m glad to be out of that bizarre place. What was I thinking? Getting all lusty and dangerous with a stranger in a kitchen. Maybe it was the kitchen. Maybe magnificent interior design is a real turn on for me.
Oh dear.
I feel awful. Like a bad, terrible, hideous person. Olly’s probably sat at home in his pants watching Dave Ja Vu and eating spaghetti hoops straight from the tin; a sad and lonely vision of handsomeness and heartbreak. And here I am almost… well… almost kissing another man.
What is wrong with me? I haven’t felt lust like that since the first time I saw Patrick Dempsey going shirtless in Grey’s Anatomy (Season One Episode One about five minutes in). And now… now I can’t stop thinking about that look in Riley’s silver eyes. Like he wanted to take me roughly in the barn…
Meg’s question filters through.
“I’m sorry. We had to leave… I - I’ve been unfaithful.” My voice is all wibbly.
“What? Whaaaat?”
Meg makes a bizarre yelping noise and swerves over onto the hard shoulder, attracting the anger and beeping horns of her fellow drivers. She flips them the V’s and once we’re safely at the side of the road, unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to me, eyes shining like they always do when she’s about to receive some really good gossip.
Yours Truly Page 10
