The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
anyway, it doesn’t feel right in such beautiful surroundings. Instead, I select a plump nectarine from the fruit bowl which has been thoughtfully put out for me, and feel as if I am almost sullying the room by dropping the stone into the waste paper bin.
Further explorations reveal that a gleaming dark wooden cupboard is in fact a fridge filled with booze, plus a multitude of snacks: three types of nuts, including pecans! Packets of thyme and shallot-flavoured crisps! A crinkly bag of truffle popcorn, several biscuit varieties including stem ginger, and a box of red foil-wrapped Kirsch Kisses, whatever they might be! There’s even a glass dish with a lid, filled with tiny slices of lemon. At Charnock Richard you don’t even get a bourbon biscuit.
I check the time – still half an hour until the welcome reception – and remove all the edibles from the cupboard and set them out carefully on the table. Grabbing my phone, I take pictures of the pleasing arrangement from all angles to show everyone back home. I also take a selfie, my grinning face poking in from the side in front of the swanky snacks. Kim, Cheryl and Ellie won’t believe what you get here. Neither will Paul. He eats like a horse; I often spot him marching about Mrs B’s garden clutching an enormous doorstep of a sandwich. He never seems to stop to eat lunch. So I stash all three packets of crisps into my case for him – handy to eat while he works – plus the pecans for Morgan as, to my knowledge, he’s never tried them. That boy needs to be educated in the world of posh nuts. The Kirsch Kisses will do nicely for Mrs B – nuts get jammed in her dentures – and the ginger cookies will be handy for home. It occurs to me that there’s not an awful lot left to last me the rest of the week, but I want to take a few presents home.
To quell my pre-reception nerves – and make use of the lemon slices – I pour myself a gin and tonic, discovering that the fridge has a tiny freezer section at the top, with ice cubes. Can life get any better than this? I prowl around my suite, clinking my glass and taking pictures of the pink chairs, the bed and the sweeping view of the manicured gardens below. In the bathroom I photograph the basket of Molton Brown toiletries and the scented candle in its glass and chrome jar. I try on the fluffy white bathrobe over my dress, then carefully hang it back in the wardrobe. I pop open the bag of truffle popcorn and recoil at the earthy whiff. I’d expected chocolate. It smells like soil and the popcorns are flecked with black bits as if they’ve been swept up off the pavement. I try a single piece, crunching tentatively; it’s sort of fungal, bringing to mind Morgan’s athlete’s foot. I spit it into a wad of super-soft loo roll and drop it into the bathroom bin.
Ping! I snatch my phone from my bag: three missed texts from Morgan. They read Mum?, then MUM?!, then, Hand wash T shirt how???? I sip my gin and reply: Fill sink with warm sudsy water, squish about with your hands and rinse clean. As I picture my boy, dutifully laundering away at the kitchen sink, my heart swells with love for him. Okay, he’s an idiot, but we don’t do too badly, I reflect, just the two of us. Well, the three of us now Jenna’s virtually a permanent fixture at our place.
Feeling all warm and, admittedly, a little tipsy now, I inhale my room’s sweet scent. As there’s no obvious source of the smell – no dusty old pot pourri – I can only assume it’s being piped in from some secret source. However, while it’s lovely here, inhaling vanilla and gin, I’d better get downstairs for the welcome reception. I redo my make-up – or rather, apply another layer on top – and clean my teeth extra thoroughly so no one knows I hurled myself at the booze.
Just before leaving, I check my reflection in the full-length mirror. The vivid orange floral print of my dress seems to have faded to a doleful peach. Never mind, people will probably assume it’s properly vintage – and vintage is meant to be faded – rather than merely second-hand. Remembering that long hair should be tied back, I rummage in vain through my toilet bag for a hair band or scrunchie. Damn, must’ve forgotten. I’ve got to find something. I plunder my case and find the sole pair of tights I brought with me. Using my nail scissors I hack off a leg and use it to secure a sort of casual topknot. Then, giving my room one last lustful glance, I glide towards the lift.
Wilton Grange Cookery School is housed in a stable block behind the main hotel. I cross the gravelled courtyard, conscious of a fungally gin taste lurking at the back of my throat. The huge barn-style doors are wide open, and the sound of chatter and laughter drifts out. Sounds like a party’s going on. A party where everyone – at least, everyone except Hugo – is capable of creating beautiful French lemon tarts as casually as if they were sticking fish fingers under the grill.
A young woman with flushed pink cheeks and a demure blonde plait spots me from the doorway. ‘Hi, are you on the course?’ she asks brightly.
‘Yes, I’m Audrey …’ I make my way towards her.
‘Hello, Audrey. Do come in.’ She flashes a warm smile. More perfect teeth. ‘I’m Chloe and I’m here to help with any queries you have. Let me get you your apron and badge …’ The stable block is already milling with what I assume are my fellow guests, or students, or whatever we’re called. I fix on what I hope is a confident smile as Chloe hands me my apron: dazzling white and emblazoned with Wilton Grange Cookery school in swirly blue letters on the bib. As Chloe swishes off, I pin on my circular ‘Audrey’ badge and glance around at the gaggle of women – and one man – who are all chatting animatedly. The women exude breezy confidence. They remind me of the popular set at school; the sporty girls, whom the boys would buzz around like wasps. Not one of them appears to be wearing a scrap of make-up. My lipstick feels claggy in the heat, and I discreetly wipe it off onto the back of my hand.
Whilst the women are definitely younger than I am, the sole male student present is ridiculously youthful: he has the carefree air of a gap year boy, complete with a mop of long dark hair, messily ponytailed, and an extravagant sleeve tattoo. How on earth am I going to fit in here? I mean, what will we talk about? I sense that flurry of apprehension starting up again.
The room is split into several cooking areas, each with its own worktop, oven and sink. The walls are whitewashed brickwork and shelves bear numerous stainless steel containers and bottles of various oils. Clumps of fresh herbs and garlic bulbs dangle from silver hooks, and several women in white overalls are buzzing around efficiently. Heck, I’ll just throw myself into the cooking. It’s always appealed to me, the idea of being able to rustle up proper, grown-up meals rather than the teen-friendly fare I consume daily. I could start inviting friends round more: maybe even Stevie. Yep, I sense my oven chip days are over …
Chloe reappears with a tray of shimmering glasses. ‘Would you like a drink, Audrey?’
‘Oh, thank you.’
She smiles briskly. ‘Wine, sparkling water or elderflower cordial?’
‘Cordial please,’ I say, hoping it’ll mask any lingering scent of Tanqueray.
A burst of deep, barking laughter rattles down the room. ‘That’s Brad,’ Chloe adds with a wry smile, indicating the huge bear of a man who’s just strolled in. ‘He’s your teacher. He’s an amazingly talented chef, but then, you’ll know all about him already …’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say quickly, assessing his broad, ruddy face topped off with a mop of cherubic pale blond curls. Several women have gathered around and are gazing at him reverentially while he holds court.
‘The plan is to have a bite to eat and get to know each other,’ Chloe continues cheerfully, ‘then you’ll start cooking …’
‘Really? We’re cooking today?’
She nods. ‘Didn’t you receive your itinerary when you booked?’
‘Um … no. It was a sort of last-minute thing.’
‘Well,’ she says kindly, ‘don’t worry. Just go with the flow and I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.’ With that, she scampers away to greet another new arrival.
It’s Hugo, thank goodness. He’s all jovial smiles as he pulls on his apron, pins on his badge and takes a glass from Chloe’s tray. ‘Do help yourselves to the buffet, everyone,’ she calls out, and we all drift towards the enormous