The Woman Who Upped and Left Page 13

  ‘No, I understand that – your new place is for ordinary people. It’s just, I thought it might be useful for me to know that cauliflower’s the thing now, did you know that? Well, obviously you do, being in the position you’re in …’

  He casts me a confused glance as we pull away from the pub. ‘I was vaguely aware, yes …’

  ‘But never boiled to oblivion,’ I go on, thinking: don’t blow this, Audrey. You have about fifteen minutes to impress him enough for him to offer you a job … ‘It’s meant to be roasted,’ I continue, ‘like potatoes …’

  ‘Really?’ Brad smirks.

  ‘Yes, so it keeps its, er, texture …’ I tail off. ‘Anyway, I’m going on about cauliflower.’ I laugh awkwardly.

  ‘You’re very charming,’ Brad says, patting my leg and adding, ‘how about a little nightcap at my place before we whisk you back to the hotel? It’s not too far out of the way.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kirsch Kiss

  I say yes because I’m thrilled about this mentoring thing, about being involved with Brad’s new venture right from the beginning. To think, being offered this chance at 44 years old! Oh, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself here but, God, it’s exciting. Opportunities like this just don’t happen to me.

  The taxi takes us past the gated entrance to Wilton Grange and along a narrow lane which winds its way through dense, dark woodland. A rogue thought flutters through my mind that Brad might not be planning to talk business but to lure me to a dilapidated shack where he’ll proceed to dismember me and package my various parts in sturdy black polythene. At what point, I wonder, would Morgan start to worry? When the cash and the freezer meals ran out, probably. Or when he reaches the end of his rope with hand laundering and decides he really needs to brave the washing machine. I give myself a mental shake and decide I’m being ridiculous as we arrive at a small, red-brick cottage bordered by a clearly neglected garden and a flimsy-looking white fence. It’s not quite what I’d expected for a celebrity chef.

  Brad thanks the driver and lets us in. The low-ceilinged living room is poky and dark, the well-worn grey corduroy sofa strewn with paperwork and CDs all spilt from their boxes. The shelves are crammed haphazardly with books, and a couple of bobbly old sweaters are strewn over the back of a chair. There is a slight odour of bin. Disconcertingly, it reminds me of Morgan’s room. ‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ Brad says, switching on a wobbly standard lamp and clicking off the main light, as if that’ll improve the atmosphere.

  ‘Oh, it’s very cosy,’ I say quickly. ‘So, d’you live here by yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, these past couple of years, since the divorce …’ He grunts. ‘You probably read all about that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t actually.’ I smile tightly. ‘I don’t really bother with celebrity gossip.’

  ‘Well, that’s refreshing to hear.’ He pauses. ‘D’you mind me asking how old you are, Audrey?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m 44 …’

  ‘How old d’you think I am?’ He grins squiffily.

  ‘Er …’ Oh God, I hate this game. It’s even more stressful than crossword clues. ‘40?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Yeah. You’re right.’ He doesn’t look entirely pleased by this. ‘People usually have me down for mid-thirties,’ he adds, ‘but then they’re used to seeing all those photos in the food mags and such, airbrushed to fuck, most of them …’

  ‘I could do with a bit of that myself,’ I laugh.

  ‘Not a bit of it. Sorry, I’m being rude. I haven’t even offered you a drink. Red wine, is it?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I say, turning to inspect a bookshelf – mainly tatty thrillers and ancient-looking cookbooks – while he hurries off to the kitchen. I do hope we’ll get around to discussing his job offer soon as I’m keen to get back to the hotel. It’s not that Brad is terrible company exactly, but I’m looking forward to hanging out with the others, and I can’t wait to call Kim to tell her about the latest developments. While I’m at it, I’ll also remind her to drop in on Morgan next time she’s passing. It’s her house, so I’m not hugely keen on her seeing whatever it is he’s broken. But it’s probably something of ours, I reassure myself, rather than the actual fabric of the building …

  Brad returns with two large glasses of red wine. He hands one to me, then gathers up all the paperwork from the sofa and, rather unsteadily, dumps it on a desk in the corner of the room. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he says, landing heavily on the sofa and patting the space beside him.

  Obediently, I perch beside him. I hope my body language is conveying the message that I’m not really in the mood for lengthy chats, and that I’d appreciate it if he could lay out the terms of his offer as quickly as possible so I can jump into the taxi and get back to the hotel. I’d also love to rub that red wine off his lips with a wet flannel, in the manner of cleaning the mouth of a small child. It’s always puzzled me why it goes black on the lips, when the wine itself is dark red. ‘So,’ he says, clutching his glass, ‘tell me about you.’

  Not this again. I was hoping this part of the interview would focus more on my skills. I’m already trying to figure out how to make giving Mrs B her nightly shower sound relevant to the nurturing of bees. ‘Well,’ I start, ‘I told you about the holiday park and the hotel …’

  ‘I mean you,’ he slurs. A fleck of white spit shoots out of his mouth. ‘What are you all about, Audrey?’

  ‘I don’t really know what you mean,’ I say. Agh, how not to answer an interview question. I picture Brad’s other potential candidates – shiny, bright hockey types like Lottie and Tamara – and mentally pull myself together. ‘I should probably explain that I didn’t set out to be a dinner lady,’ I add.

  ‘So what did you want to be?’

  I twiddle with my glass. ‘A musician. Well, a clarinetist specifically.’

  ‘So you play?’ He widens his rather bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Yes. At least, I did until the age of fifteen.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, grinning, ‘and then other distractions got in the way …’

  ‘You mean boys?’ I say with a small laugh, relaxing a little now. ‘No, it wasn’t quite like that …’ Brad slugs more wine and nods for me to go on.

  ‘My dad broke my clarinet,’ I say with a shrug.

  He frowns. ‘Accidentally, you mean?’

  I pause, realising how bizarre this is, sitting in a world-famous chef’s scruffy cottage whilst talking about my clarinet. I glance around the room. How sad, I decide, to have a Michelin star but live in such dismal surroundings. My place isn’t exactly salubrious but at least it doesn’t feel soulless like this. ‘No, it wasn’t an accident,’ I murmur. ‘He, er … wasn’t in a terribly good state at that stage of his life. It was my birthday, and I’d assumed he’d be out – he spent most evenings in the pub. So I invited some friends round and we made punch, you know – a little slug from all of the bottles in the cupboard, topped up with lemonade …’

  Brad sniggers. ‘You stole his booze, naughty girl.’

  ‘Yes, just a bit of this and that so he wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  I glance at him. Is this the kind of thing he wants to know? This isn’t like my dinner lady interview when all I had to do was chat about my experience and show them the certificates for my food hygiene courses. ‘He came back early,’ I continue, ‘and everyone was, well, not drunk exactly but kind of tipsy and he threw a fit.’ I pause while he tops up my glass. I don’t really want to drink any more, not while I’m trying to convey the impression of being the perfect addition to his passionate team. But nor do I want him to think I’m an uptight sort who won’t be fun to have around. ‘And he threw everyone out,’ I go on, ‘and when they’d gone he was kind of mad – you know, drunk, falling about. And my clarinet was sitting on its stand – I’d brought it downstairs to practise – and he grabbed it and smashed it against the wall—’

  ‘Oh, Audrey,’ he gasps, ‘that’
s terrible! Did it break?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I focus hard on a pair of matted grey slippers sitting by the dusty TV. ‘But … y’know. It was just a thing.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it was your thing. Did he get you another?’

  ‘No.’ I laugh dryly. ‘It was a school instrument and we couldn’t afford another. In fact, I never asked.’

  He looks perplexed at this, and glances around the room as if he might have a spare clarinet lying about somewhere. My steak and chips swirl unsettlingly in my stomach. I wish we could get around to talking about his plans for me as it’s gone eleven, and I’m now thinking I might skip drinks with the others and just head straight up to my room. That four-poster bed is immensely alluring right now. I wish I hadn’t allocated my minibar treats to Morgan, Mrs B and everyone else. Having only been able to manage half of my dinner I could do with something to soak up the wine, like those posh crisps.

  ‘That’s a desperately sad story, Audrey,’ Brad murmurs, his hand brushing against mine.

  ‘Yes, it is, but it was a long time ago.’ I clear my throat and edge away. ‘Brad, um, I really should be getting back pretty soon. I wondered if we could get down to business and maybe the taxi driver could—’ My words are stopped by his mouth, wet and jamming hard against my lips, and whiffing of steak and onion rings. ‘What are you doing?’ I push him off and leap to my feet.

  His stares up, startled. ‘But I thought you wanted—’

  ‘You thought I wanted to kiss you?’ I exclaim. His cheeks are florid, his blond curls fluffed up as whatever product he used has obviously worn off.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says again, gathering himself up. ‘I thought, well, you’re good fun, you’re very attractive and when you said you wanted to get down to business …’

  ‘Not that kind of business,’ I snap. ‘I mean, I thought we were discussing your new venture …’

  He shrugs. ‘We have, and your input’s been very helpful.’

  ‘I mean,’ I go on, cheeks burning, ‘how I could be involved. I thought, you know, I could somehow be a part of the thing – the cider and the cheese farm and bees …’

  He fixes me with a steady stare. ‘Bees?’

  ‘Well, not bees specifically. I mean, I like them, I know they’re important in, er, nature and stuff but I’d be happy to …’ I tail off.

  ‘I … I’m sorry, Audrey … did you think I was going to offer you a job?’

  I clear my throat, feeling oddly tearful. ‘Well, you seemed keen to tell me all about your project …’

  ‘Well, it’s my next big thing,’ he exclaims, shaking his head, ‘and it’s been great, talking it over with you but, er … I think we might be at cross purposes here.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say dully.

  He pats my arm and I shrink away. ‘I thought we were getting along, and I just assumed …’ He laughs awkwardly. ‘You know, I did you a favour today, getting you those extra shallots …’

  I stare at the blob of saliva that’s settled in the corner of his mouth. ‘What do shallots have to do with anything?’

  He is chuckling now, raking at his hair with his fingers and still clutching his glass. ‘Well, we don’t normally do that, you know. It just doesn’t work if students are constantly saying, “Oh, I need extra eggs, I’ve messed up this chicken, can I have another couple of thighs …”’

  ‘So,’ I say carefully, ‘you thought, just because you gave me those extra shallots – I mean, you only had to ask one of the assistants to fetch them, it’s not as if you went out and dug them up from the garden and brushed off the soil …’

  ‘Well, no,’ he blusters.

  ‘… You assumed I’d be up for it with you just because you gave me a couple of little onions?’

  ‘No!’ he exclaims, clamping a hand on my forearm. ‘God, Audrey, that was a joke. I thought you’d find it funny …’

  ‘I mean,’ I cut in sharply, pulling away, ‘maybe if it’d been an aubergine or, what are those other things – Jerusalem artichokes …’

  He stares at me. ‘You’d go to bed with me for a Jerusalem artichoke?’

  ‘No, I’m joking, Brad.’ I glare at him. ‘I thought you wanted to, I don’t know, mentor me as part of your new business …’

  He stares at me, his mouth hanging ajar. I glance out of the window where the taxi is waiting. Maybe it’s been there the whole time. Or perhaps Brad texted the driver while he was in the kitchen, fetching our drinks, so he’d be able to whisk me back to the hotel as soon as business was concluded. ‘I’m going now,’ I add, making for the door.

  ‘Please don’t be offended, Audrey,’ he says, scuttling after me as I step outside. ‘You’re a lovely person and I’m sure you have a lot to offer. But to tell you the truth, the people I’m looking to mentor are, well … young.’

  *

  The driver doesn’t attempt to chat as we head back to the hotel. Maybe this is a regular thing, ferrying Brad’s chosen women from the cottage back to Wilton Grange. I simmer silently in the back seat, studying my hands – unlovely dinner lady hands – wondering what on earth made me think he wanted to involve me in his venture. Things haven’t changed since those awful netball selections at school. I’m never picked for teams.

  Christ, I reflect, I should have taken the money instead of this stupid prize. Never mind a new sofa or kitchen table or any of that practical shit. I could’ve blown it on a holiday for me and Kim, and even asked Morgan along – he’d have agreed, if Jenna could’ve come too. That’s what I should have done, instead of getting carried away and assuming our celebrated teacher planned to appoint me as Head of Cider Pressing when all he wanted was a quick shag. God, how am I going to get through the rest of this week?

  I pull out my phone and call Morgan, amazed when he answers. ‘Hey, Mum, all right?’ He sounds a little tipsy for an ordinary Tuesday night, but then, every day’s the weekend as far as Morgan’s concerned.

  ‘Yeah, I’m having a great time,’ I fib, wondering how my incredible prize has descended into a night of mortification. ‘So, um … is everything okay with you? You sounded a bit out of sorts when we last spoke.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says firmly. ‘We’re fine. We’re just, um … hanging out.’

  I wonder whether to quiz him about whatever he’s broken, but decide I can’t face a tetchy exchange after the horror of Brad’s kiss. ‘I miss you, love,’ I murmur.

  ‘I miss you too,’ he says, and I’m overcome by a rush of love for my son, a fine young man who, for all his faults, at least respects women. At least, I’m sure he’d never expect sex in exchange for two shallots.

  ‘Well, darling, I just wanted to say hi.’

  He sniffs. ‘That’s nice. Glad you’re having fun. You deserve it, you know.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Now I feel quite choked.

  ‘Yeah, you work hard, Mum. Can’t remember the last time you had a break.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, darling. That’s a lovely thing to say.’ It is, of course, but I also sense that he wants to get off the phone. My heart twists with a longing to see him as we say our goodbyes.

  I pull out my purse as the driver parks in front of the hotel. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he says, ‘it’s on account.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile stiffly and make my way through the hotel’s main doors. To hell with it, I decide, heading for the bar instead of the lift. The whole Brad thing is starting to seem pretty funny and, as I spot Hugo, Lottie and Tamara clustered around a corner table, I can’t resist sharing it with them.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Lottie shrieks as I fill them in on our dinner, the shallots and the forceful kiss.

  ‘They were just normal shallots too,’ Hugo offers with a smirk. ‘Not even the more exotic banana kind.’

  ‘Oh, if it had been the banana kind she’d definitely have put out,’ Tamara hoots, and we all dissolve into raucous laughter.

  ‘He was obviously expecting you to stay the night,’ Hugo observes.

  ‘No,
I don’t think so. In fact, I suspect the taxi was waiting outside the whole time …’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Lottie giggles. ‘What on earth made you go back anyway?’

  I shrug and sip the gin and tonic that’s been deposited in front of me. ‘Well, it was kind of interesting. We’d been talking about a new business he’s planning – a kind of restaurant and farm – and he’d been quizzing me about the sort of experience ordinary people might enjoy …’ I tail off, deciding to omit the part about me deciding I’d pretty much nailed the position of head keeper of bees.

  ‘You were having a good time,’ Hugo adds kindly.

  ‘Not really,’ I laugh. I’d much rather have been here, I decide, as the night continues extremely pleasantly and we are joined by Ruth, Dylan and Jenny who have come in search of a nightcap. ‘Another G&T?’ Hugo suggests.

  ‘God, I shouldn’t really, not with our early start tomorrow …’ I turn to Tamara. ‘What are we making? D’you have that schedule?’

  ‘Lost it,’ she giggles, ‘and who cares anyway? Come on, let’s have another round.’

  It’s gone 1.30 by the time I finally totter off to the top floor, accompanied by Hugo, whose room is two doors down from mine. ‘Sure you can manage?’ he asks as I fumble with the hefty brass key.

  ‘Yep, I’m sure.’ I turn and smile. ‘What a great night.’

  He laughs. ‘It’s not often you’re accosted by a famous chef.’

  ‘No, not that bit.’ I pause. ‘I mean … just being here. It’s great, you know. I love us all hanging out.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says, as I finally manage to open my door. He seems to hesitate, as if wanting to say something else. In fact, for just a moment, I wish it had been Hugo – my kind, gentlemanly new mate – who’d asked me to dinner, and not a lecherous chef. Which is ridiculous, of course, as Lottie’s sparkle seems all the brighter when he’s around, and of course I’m not his type, and anyway, I-have-a-boyfriend I-have-a-boyfriend I-have-a-boyfriend …

  ‘Well, goodnight then,’ I say with a smile.