The Woman Who Upped and Left Read online

  ‘Ooh, you’re being all brisk! I quite like it. Sure you don’t fancy Knutsford?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ I say firmly. ‘Class starts in ten minutes and I really don’t want to be late.’

  He sounds huffy as we say goodbye, as well he might: it’s the first time I have declined the offer of an overnighter. Back in my room, I decide this could definitely benefit what I loosely term our ‘relationship’: me being not quite so readily available. The nerve of it, expecting me to drop everything and drive God knows how many miles – in fact, I don’t know where Knutsford even is, maybe my motorway knowledge is patchier than I’d thought – instead of enjoying another evening with my fellow students.

  It was lovely last night, I reflect, pulling on my apron and tying back my hair (chopped tights again: resourceful). I didn’t make a fool of myself, I didn’t get drunk and start ranting about Morgan and his pants, and no one went on about me being a dinner lady, which suggests they have almost forgotten. While they’re not the usual types I come across, Lottie and Tamara are so friendly and lovely and I’m thinking maybe they could teach me some ways of the world (the truffle thing) which would help me to handle myself better in all kinds of company. Like Mrs B, for instance. I mean, she’s from posh stock; perhaps, if I dropped in the odd mention of quails’ eggs, she might warm to me a little more …

  Back in the stable block, Brad is giving us pointers on how to make the perfect hollandaise. ‘We’re looking for a silken texture,’ he drawls, ‘and we begin by making a reduction, this is very important, it’s a cornerstone of classic French cuisine …’ We all watch intently as not Brad but a young assistant bounds towards the hob, and proceeds to add vinegar and twists of salt and pepper to a small pan of simmering water. ‘Making a reduction,’ Brad continues – he says it very Frenchly: re-duuukssion – ‘is about creating a concentration of flavours …’ The assistant transfers the liquid to a glass bowl and places it on a pan of bubbling water. Into the bowl go egg yolks and melted butter, at which point Brad yawns and checks his watch, while the girl whisks and whisks until a perfectly silken sauce is achieved.

  ‘What you want,’ Brad says, snatching the bowl from her now all the hard work’s been done, ‘is a perfectly light and creamy hollandaise like mine.’

  ‘Like his,’ Tamara hisses, and the two of us splutter with stifled laughter.

  Now it’s our turn. While I follow the recipe to the letter, my hollandaise turns out rather insipid and thin. Instead of concentrating the flavours, I seem to have frightened them away. And although I keep prodding at my asparagus as it simmers, it’s a touch overdone, in my opinion. I poach my eggs, lay the asparagus beside them and dribble sauce on top and, thankfully, the whole thing looks better when all the components are put together. It’s like when you have a crappy haircut and the stylist manages to make it look presentable by giving it a big, bouffy blow-dry. But you know it’s still crappy underneath.

  Next we have to de-beard our mussels, which means effectively ripping off their hairy bits. ‘It’s like doing a Brazilian,’ I whisper to Lottie, who’s working directly behind me, when Hugo’s out of earshot at the sink.

  ‘Have you, then?’ she asks with a quick smile.

  ‘Well, I haven’t done one, but I have had one done.’ Hell, what am I saying? I only meant it as a throwaway comment. I glance over at Brad, who’s yacking away loudly to the assistants.

  ‘The more often you have it done, the less awkward and painful it is,’ she says cheerfully. Of course, she’s a young person. Having her lady hair ripped off is as normal to her as flossing her teeth.

  ‘I’ve only actually had it done once,’ I admit.

  ‘Had what done?’ Hugo has reappeared at my side.

  ‘We’re talking Brazilians,’ Lottie explains with a grin as I focus my attention on chopping my shallots – knife skills, Audrey! – and throwing them into a pan.

  ‘I imagine it’s not the most relaxing experience,’ Hugo remarks.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I say, laughing off my embarrassment. ‘It’s bloody awful actually.’

  ‘So what happens?’ he asks, seeming genuinely curious. I look at him as he pours oil into his pan. Whereas Stevie loads virtually anything – an apron, for God’s sake – with suggestive undertones, there’s a straightforwardness about Hugo that’s so refreshing.

  ‘Well,’ I explain, ‘first you have to lie on your back with your legs kind of elevated, and then you have to turn over and kneel on a plinth.’

  ‘A plinth?’ he exclaims. ‘Like the ones in Trafalgar Square?’ I blink at him. ‘You know, the ones with the lions on, although the fourth one doesn’t have a lion, it’s sometimes used for art …’

  ‘Yes, like the blue rooster,’ Lottie cuts in. I chuckle above the sizzle of my shallots hitting the hot oil. Probably best not to admit that I have never been to London, let alone heard of any blue rooster on a plinth.

  ‘I mean a little thing to rest your knees on,’ I explain, ‘so your bottom’s in the air.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hugo gives me a grave look. ‘Sounds rather degrading, Audrey. Is there really any need for that sort of thing?’

  ‘It was degrading,’ I say, experiencing a belated tinge of resentment at having subjected myself to such pain – all for Stevie, with him being such a youngster and therefore probably allergic to a woman’s natural fuzziness, not that I was prepared to repeat the experience – ‘but mostly because it’s so weird, you know, wearing a jumper with nothing on your bottom half …’

  ‘Ugh, I can imagine,’ Hugo says, looking genuinely concerned.

  ‘I mean,’ I go on, giving the contents of my pan a cursory prod with a wooden spoon, ‘we’re used to seeing people topless, but bottomless is a whole different thing …’

  Lottie peals with laughter.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I mutter, glancing into my pan. ‘I think my shallots are burning.’

  Hugo peers at them. ‘They do look rather well browned,’ he offers.

  ‘I know. I wasn’t concentrating.’

  ‘Too busy thinking about plinths,’ he adds with a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Yes. Oh, hell …’ I scrape at the pan, wondering if the burnt bits might obediently merge in when everything’s thrown in the pan, but now Brad is at my side, breathing fiercely against my neck whilst assessing the damage.

  ‘Oh dear. Bit overdone there.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ I detect booze on his breath, or maybe it’s coming from the little pots of wine sitting around on everyone’s worktops?

  He smirks. ‘Your mind was on … other matters.’

  ‘Well, er … I lost concentration for a moment and I think I need to start again. Could I have a few more shallots, d’you think?’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know about that,’ he murmurs. I stop jabbing away at my pan and look at him. I’m pretty sure it’s not recently quaffed drink I can smell. More like old booze, lacing his breath.

  ‘Just a couple?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Sorry, we’re all out,’ he says, teasingly, then gives me a slow, undeniably suggestive wink. ‘But maybe,’ he adds, leaning over so as to gust his alcoholic breath directly into my left ear, ‘I might be able to find you some.’

  ‘That would be brilliant,’ I say levelly. ‘Thank you.’

  He beams, exposing large, slightly protruding teeth. ‘I mean, I might have some kicking around …’

  I frown. This isn’t my kitchen at home, where things – the odd withered lettuce or flaccid cucumber – do, admittedly, ‘kick around’. It’s a highly professional organisation. ‘Tasha!’ he calls out, at which the sauce-making assistant beetles over. ‘Fetch Audrey some shallots please.’ Said vegetables are duly brought, and Brad wanders away as I set about chopping and sautéing all over again. Mussels go in next, along with garlic and a bouquet garni, then I plonk on the lid and wait a few moments until my molluscs have opened, and the wine and cream are sloshed in.

  That’s the thing with recipes, I decide: follow the instru
ctions and you won’t go far wrong. At least, no disaster will occur. I’m realising belatedly that what I’ve needed all along is a recipe for the raising of a son.

  As we’re allowed to eat everything we make here, we all take our moules to the tables behind the stable block for lunch. They have been set with white tablecloths, plus vases of delicate flowers from the gardens; the warm summer’s air fills with chatter as we tuck in. Although Brad doesn’t join us, we are tended to by bustling assistants who bring us wine and freshly baked bread. ‘This is lovely,’ Lottie enthuses, gazing around at the undulating grounds.

  ‘It really is,’ I murmur. ‘It’s like, I don’t know, being at a beautiful outdoor restaurant, only we’ve done the cooking ourselves.’ I beam round at everyone, unable to conceal my pride at having produced something so delicious.

  ‘You’re right,’ Hugo says. ‘Well done us, I say.’

  ‘Yes, well done, all of you!’ announces Chloe, who greeted us yesterday, and has now swept into the gardens in a chic turquoise shift. ‘I have to say, you’re a remarkably talented bunch.’ As we all clink glasses, I’m overcome by a surge of happiness: at having made the decision to come here, and somehow fitting in, and cooking – not to mention eating – mussels for the first time in my life. What would Morgan make of them, I wonder? Would he prod at them warily with a fork? Perhaps, if I try hard enough, I can learn to create the kind of lunches Hugo was enthusing about, and even start cooking beautiful (sorry, beaudiful) French food back at home. Maybe I could give Morgan wonderful memories of delicious, home-cooked food that he’ll reminisce about fondly, the way Hugo did about his idyllic holidays in Burgundy.

  Life is so ordinary at home, I decide, dipping bread into my wine-scented sauce. Somehow, as well as the posh crisps and Kirsch Kisses, I need to bring a little Wilton Grange magic back to Yorkshire with me.

  When we’ve finished our lunch – our bowls are whisked away by the kitchen assistants – I take myself off to the path that winds around the lake’s edge and call Morgan. It’s another beautiful day, as if Wilton Grange insists on bright blue skies, and nothing less will do. ‘Yeah-am-all-right,’ he mutters once he finally picks up. Clearly not in the mood to hear about yesterday’s onion soup triumph.

  ‘So, what are you up to, darling?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Is Jenna there?’

  ‘Er, yeah?’ There’s a defensive edge to his voice.

  ‘I was only wondering,’ I say, focusing on the dazzling pink blooms shrouding the summerhouse. ‘I’m just making polite conversation, love.’

  He sniffs. ‘We’re all right, Mum. We’re fine.’

  ‘Yeah, you might be fine,’ comes Jenna’s withering voice in the background, ‘but I’m not!’ And she says something else, something I don’t catch as the others have emerged from the stable block, including Hugo and Lottie who are laughing loudly.

  ‘You’re so awful!’ Lottie giggles in an unmistakably flirtatious tone, distracting me from our phone call. ‘God, Hugo. That’s unbelievable …’ I glimpse the two of them sniggering together in the corner of the courtyard.

  I turn away. ‘Morgan, is Jenna okay? She sounds …’

  ‘She’s fine, stop going on.’

  ‘Is she drunk?’

  He groans. ‘Of course she’s not drunk, it’s half one in the afternoon …’

  I frown. Something’s definitely not right; I’ve never heard them exchange a cross word before. ‘Um … have you and Jenna been … doing something?’

  ‘’Course we haven’t been doing nothing!’

  ‘You haven’t been … doing drugs, have you?’

  ‘God, Mum. Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘Because …’ I tail off. Of course I’ve done the drugs talk, having swotted up on the kinds of stuff kids enjoy stuffing into their bodies these days. I studied legal highs and all manner of chemical substances in the way that Tamara has clearly studied Brad’s career. ‘The trouble with drugs,’ I said gravely, while Morgan used my car keys to ease out some gunky stuff from between his toes, ‘is you never know how you’ll react to them, and the effects can go on and on for ages.’ Which, I realised, made them sound like terrific fun.

  ‘Have you and Jenna had a row?’ I ask.

  He exhales loudly. ‘No, we haven’t.’

  ‘Well, has something happened, then? Is the house okay?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, I’m telling you …’

  ‘Has there been some kind of disaster, love? Please tell me. I need to know.’

  ‘No, there hasn’t been any disaster …’

  ‘Well, there has, actually!’ Jenna shrieks.

  Morgan clears his throat. ‘It’s all right, Mum, everything’s fine. Just get on with your cooking thing, all right? And stop worrying.’ And with that, he rings off.

  *

  As I fry bacon for my chicken dish, I run through as many hypothetical disasters as my mind can dredge up. Something’s obviously been trashed in my absence. TV, lamps, windows? The cooker or washing machine? Nothing irreplaceable, I suppose. But still, annoying (and costly) to put right. Maybe, I reflect, scooping out the bacon and dumping my chicken thighs into the hot oil, Morgan should go and live with his dad for a while in the wilds of Northumberland. I have mollycoddled him, I decide, cooking his meals, tending to his laundry and replacing his toothbrush the minute I notice it looking a bit splayed. Vince wouldn’t have the patience for any of that, and maybe the change of scene would jolt Morgan into action. He’d miss Jenna, of course, but mucking out his dad’s pigs might toughen him up a bit. It’s not that I’m desperate to palm him off. But I’m out at work a lot and he’s often left to his own devices, and I worry that there are only so many YouTube juggling tutorials a person can watch without losing a grip on reality.

  Pushing such thoughts from my mind, I focus on what’s happening on the hob in front of me. The chicken dish involves boiling potatoes and onions, then placing them in a pot along with the chicken and bacon, basting the whole lot with an insane amount of butter and whacking it in the oven. While that’s cooking, I set to with my lemon tart, which involves making pastry – from scratch – which Hugo murmurs is ‘quite soothing really’ (my sole previous experience, for mince pies last Christmas, was less than successful. ‘Maybe buy them next year,’ Morgan remarked, ‘like you usually do’). Anyway, after my conversation with Morgan I am feeling far from soothed. At least he can’t have trashed the car, because I have it with me.

  ‘Hmmm, interesting,’ is Brad’s summation of my finished lemon tart which, granted, looks a little lunar in appearance.

  ‘It wouldn’t win any beauty contests,’ I murmur, still detecting booze on his breath.

  ‘No, I can see that. So how’s your main course looking?’

  Christ, I’d forgotten about my casserole. I whip it out of the oven and remove the lid. ‘It looks anaemic,’ I remark.

  ‘I think it looks great,’ Lottie says, loyally, peering over.

  I shrug. ‘I seem to have a knack for taking a classic French recipe and turning it into …’

  Brad arches a brow. ‘A school dinner?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, forcing a smile.

  ‘Come on, you’re being too hard on yourself. I’d say it’s a pretty decent poulet en cocotte bonne femme …’

  ‘What does that mean, out of interest?’

  Brad smiles. ‘It means made by a good woman, a beaudiful woman …’

  I blink at him. ‘No, I meant what does the cocotte bit mean.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks taken aback. ‘It’s, er, a casserole. It means cooked in a pot.’

  I spot Tamara try to quell a snort as he wanders off to get in the way of the sauce girl again, who’s busily stacking a dishwasher. ‘Better watch out, Audrey,’ Lottie whispers. ‘He’s coming on to you.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I exclaim. ‘Don’t be ridiculous …’

  ‘No, he definitely is,’ Hugo observes. ‘And d’you know, Audrey, that beautiful woman thing
– which you are, of course – actually translates as housewife’s chicken.’ We’re both sniggering away, and I hope he doesn’t resister my reddening cheeks as I turn my attention to my madeleines. Beautiful woman indeed! A jokey remark but still, I have a ridiculous grin on my face as I brush my madeleine tray with melted butter.

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying that,’ Brad drawls across the room.

  ‘I am, thank you,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

  ‘Remember that baking is a slow, sensuous process,’ he adds. ‘It’s one of life’s simple pleasures, never to be rushed.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I say, focusing hard on the recipe. Yet something still goes awry, and my madeleines turn out less pleasing than the ones you’d find in a supermarket.

  ‘A little lumpen,’ Brad remarks as he glides by.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  He turns back and pops one into his mouth. ‘Um … not too bad, actually. You’ve done well, you know, throwing yourself into this thing. You’re showing great care and determination and I admire that.’

  I smile, buoyed up by the unexpected compliment. ‘Thank you. It’s just lovely to be doing something for myself, to be honest.’

  He watches with interest as I start to clear my worktop. ‘So, um … any plans for tonight?’

  ‘Just having dinner with the others and a couple of drinks in the bar, I’d imagine. But I’ll probably have an early night.’

  I glance over and wave as Lottie, Tamara and Hugo make their way to the door. Only Ruth and Kate are left, washing up their own utensils at the far end of the room. ‘Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’ Brad asks.

  I turn to look at him. ‘You mean, you’ll join us in the restaurant?’

  ‘No, no, I mean with me. Me and you, out for dinner.’ His silvery eyelashes flutter up and down.

  My mind whirrs, swiftly throwing up the conclusion that I mustn’t read anything into this. Of course it doesn’t mean anything; he’s just being friendly and God knows, there’s probably not much to do in the evenings around here. Maybe it’s just a thing he does, asking his students out for a meal? Course includes dinner with celebrity chef Brad Miller: it was probably mentioned in the small print.