Finding an umbrella in a stand, she braved the English rain. As she walked down the wet footpath, she wondered what London had to recommend it. So far it was wet, grey, dull and cold.
An icy wind blew straight through her thin, light clothes. She shivered. It was the first day of autumn. She’d need a coat. But coats cost money.
Cash. She needed cash.
She turned the corner into a street packed with market stalls. She stared around in amazement. Glancing up, the street sign announced Portobello Road. At least this place had some colour.
She made her way along the street between the stalls. The pungent bouquet of cheese enticed her taste buds. A few paces further on, a stall stacked high with cheeses, meats and antipasto captivated her. A hundred ideas for dinner whizzed through her mind. At least Gabe loved her food. Perhaps during dinner he might not regret his decision to invite her to stay.
A few hours later, Charlie was back in Gabe’s kitchen frying up onions, mushrooms and pancetta for a quick spaghetti carbonara. The rich aroma slowly warmed her after her walk in the dismal London afternoon.
‘I’ve got First-Class Chefs all mapped out.’
She jumped. It was as if a tornado had spun into the room. Gabe grinned as he flourished a sheaf of typed pages in the air.
‘What?’ Charlie said, dropping the spoon into the pasta sauce.
‘I’ve nailed the concept. The judges, the format, right down to the live grand final.’
He thrust the papers into her hand. She held them aloft while she fished the spoon from the sauce, but he just kept talking.
‘Each week, regional finalists compete against each other. They’re given all sorts of challenges. The show is designed so the audience learns about the contestants from the meals they prepare. Sort of gastronomic profiling.’
‘Wait, wait,’ she said, trying to listen and read at the same time.
‘I’ve developed the whole concept based on you!’
‘Me?’
‘Absolutely. Your obsession with food. It’s so important to you.’ He began walking around the room. His infectious energy bubbled through the room. The gloom of the afternoon evaporated.
‘The way you have such an affinity with ingredients,’ he continued, coming close and turning the full power of those dazzling blue eyes upon her. ‘How you find that extra something that makes food taste amazing, different, special. As if . . .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘As though it were an extension of you – your personality, your soul.’
She blinked in amazement. Did he know her better than she knew herself?
‘I had no idea I did any of that,’ she said slightly breathlessly. Warmth flushed her cheeks and she quickly dropped her eyes to the sheets of paper. His proximity made it hard to concentrate, but once she’d found the flow of the words, she raced through the pages. Charlie didn’t know what made successful television, but Gabe’s concept had to be a winner. As she read, ideas multiplied in her mind.
‘How about one week each contestant brings one special ingredient and the rest must be selected from a pre-prepared list?’
Gabe snatched the pages from her hands and sat down at the table. He scribbled notes in the margin. He looked up expectantly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Um, you could ask the contestant to make a dish from their childhood. You know, one that really makes them feel at home.’
She thought of the chocolate brownies she’d cooked when her parents were out. She’d take them into the garden and eat them in secret.
He wrote that down too and threw the pen onto the table.
‘You’re a genius.’ He leaped up from his seat, caught her about the waist and twirled her around. ‘You know, it was fate meeting you.’ He kissed her on the forehead and let her go.
‘ITV is already interested and I have a call into BBC One. I’m starting pre-production in the morning,’ he said, striding to the kitchen door. ‘Just got to make a couple of calls.’
He left the room, muttering to himself.
Although heavy rain was hammering on the roof, Charlie glowed as if she’d been hugged by the sun.
Maybe London’s not so bad after all.
Charlie filled the Italian percolator with fresh ground coffee and set it to simmer on the stove. She gazed out the kitchen window. The feeble morning sun peeped through the clouds – not a patch on home: the sun in Australia was bold and bright like a showgirl; here it seemed to apologise for existing.
She’d woken early and pottered around the kitchen, wondering what time Gabe would be down for breakfast. She dropped a teaspoon of pancake batter into the frypan to test it. The batter sizzled satisfyingly.
She flipped the test batter from the pan. She’d barely seen Gabe for the past four weeks. He’d leave early for work and didn’t arrive back until late. When they did cross paths, he chatted excitedly about the planning for the new series. He’d sold the concept to a major TV station, so the series was in full production. He’d shown her an artist’s impression of the set design. They’d started building it already at Pinewood Studios.
Her wedding date had come and gone. She read online that the wedding had been cancelled due to her ill health. She smiled. I’m sure they considered me insane. She didn’t want to imagine the arguments between Paul and her father.
She dropped spoonfuls of batter into the pan as she flipped the pancakes. Another day of job hunting faced her after breakfast. She had secured a job at a sandwich shop down the road, but the wage wasn’t enough to live on long term. Not if she was going to afford somewhere to rent. She wasn’t going home until she’d achieved something on her own terms. Shown her family that she didn’t need them to survive, to flourish. She shook with rage every time she thought about Paul clearing out her bank accounts. Had she been so starved of love she hadn’t seen Paul for the bastard he was or was he just a master of deceit? Probably lashings of both.
She turned another pancake but splattered half of it onto the side of the pan, ruining it.
‘Damn.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Gabe’s voice cut through her malaise. She tried to wipe up the mess quickly.
‘Nothing.’
He walked to the stove to view the damage.
‘Ah, no need to cry over spilt pancakes,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. He poured himself a coffee, leaned against the kitchen counter and scooped up the newspaper.
As she cleaned, Charlie stole a glance at his body. He looked as though he’d stepped from a billboard. His designer jeans hung perfectly on his slim hips and his cool urban shirt highlighted his broad shoulders. She busied herself with the pancakes, easing a couple onto a plate.
‘Focus on this instead.’ He flung the paper down on the counter and pointed to an ad.
Wanted. Amateur cooks for new reality TV show.
‘You’re advertising for contestants already?’ she asked as she skimmed the ad.
‘Yes and we’ll be conducting regional finals for the next few weeks to find the top ten contestants for the show.’
She handed him a plate of pancakes and he took a seat at the table.
‘It’ll be great,’ he continued. ‘We’re running regional competitions across the country. The ten finalists will compete each week in a televised knockout. The winner receives the opportunity to attend the top British cooking school and do an apprenticeship at Alexander’s under the direction of Jasper Donovan.’
‘Sounds amazing.’ She looked down at the ad again.
‘And you’re going to try out,’ he said, his eyes bright with mischief.
‘What?’
‘I want you to audition.’
She smiled indulgently. ‘There’s no way I am going on national TV.’ It didn’t really fit with keeping a low profile.
‘Perhaps not, but you are going to give it a go.’
‘No way.’
‘If you make the finals, you receive a seven hundred and fifty pound stipend per episode. That’s more than twice what you’re earni
ng now.’
She stared at him.
With that much, she could stay in London for longer. That would show the men in her life she wasn’t so easy to control. She read the ad again. Why not? There was nothing in Australia to go back to and everything in London to stay for – she flicked a glance at Gabe. This could be the difference between success or returning home with her tail between her legs.
‘Aren’t there rules about friends of the director being involved?’ she asked, moving back to the stove.
‘As far as I know, you are not an employee of my company, or any associated companies, or a relative. So, according to the rules, you’re eligible.’ He cut off a slice of pancake. ‘Unless of course we front up to the altar in the next few months.’
Another pancake died on the side of the pan.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, thankfully not noticing her loss of composure, ‘I have nothing to do with the judging. I might be good at developing reality TV shows, but I wouldn’t know a ramekin from a rissole. I’ve lined up three of the best foodies in the country – Terry Fletcher, the London Times food critic; Susan Watson, the director of Olivio’s cooking school; and Jasper Donovan.’
‘Wow.’ Their names alone sounded intimidating.
‘And VIP passengers and the audience also vote. Their votes count for fifty percent of the overall weekly score,” Gabe forked some pancake into his mouth.
Why not give it a go? It wasn’t as if she were going to reach the finals and be on TV. She’d have some fun and Gabe would still be in her life. It would be fun to see the concept come to life.
‘So, I exert no undue influence,’ he said. ‘Trials start next week at the London Exhibition Centre and you’re going to be there.’
She’d nearly convinced herself when reality pounced. What was she thinking? There were so many reasons not to do it, most pressing being her lack of money.
‘I can’t do it. I have to get home. There’s that little problem of my lack of funds and I really don’t think it would look good to have a contestant living with the director.’
Gabe rubbed his chin and sat back in his chair. ‘You know what, I have never been so well looked after in my life.’ He pointed to the plate in front of him. ‘Cooked breakfast each morning, house immaculate and gourmet dinner each night. I have friends who pay a fortune for housekeepers who don’t do half the work you’ve been doing around here.’
‘It’s the least I can do considering I’ve been staying in your house for over a month.’ She picked up his coffee cup and refilled it.
‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘how about I pay you to be my housekeeper and then you’d be free to stay here and try out for the competition.’
‘Wouldn’t that make me your employee? I’d be ineligible? And there’s still that little issue of me living here.’
‘Mmm. Excellent point.’
His fingers drummed the table. His face screwed up in concentration.
‘All right,’ he said looking up suddenly, his eyes bright. ‘How about this? Emma’s been struggling since the chemo. It’s totally wiped her out. We were thinking of looking for someone to live in the cottage out the back rent-free and give her a hand. She’s been reluctant as she doesn’t want a stranger around the kids, especially as they are all feeling a little vulnerable, but the kids love you.’
She should resist. She should go home and sort out the mess that was her life. But this! This might just be the big break she was looking for. Show all the doubters back at home that she could make something of herself. And if it all came to nothing, well, she would have spent more time with Gabe and that was not a hardship. It was a long shot but she’d vowed to take more risks, live life . . .
‘It’s a deal.’
Gabe pulled into the morning peak-hour traffic and drove towards his production office in Hammersmith. What was he doing inviting Charlie to be potentially part of the show? He’d barely managed to keep his hands off her and now he’d invited her into his work life.
He was breaking his own rules. Since the Sophie episode, he’d become expert at keeping contestants at a distance. Now he’d invited the gorgeous, bewitching, sweet Charlie onto the set.
He shifted in his seat and hit the accelerator a little too hard, forcing him to brake immediately. A horn blasted behind him. He looked in the rear-view mirror and waved his apology.
At least he’d quashed the temptation of having her at home. But Charlie had insisted on keeping a key and planned to still manage his housekeeping. Then it struck him.
He’d solved his problem without even realising it. Charlie was auditioning for First-Class Chef, which meant she was now ‘business’.
So Charlie was off limits. Completely and absolutely. Never mix business and pleasure.
He relaxed back into the leather seat, but the relief felt strangely hollow.
Chapter Six
Charlie looked around the enormous exhibition space and knew instantly she didn’t have a chance. Hundreds of people milling about. No way would she make it onto the show. She spied a banner: First-Class Chef – Registration South-East England Regional Trials.
She smiled to herself. At least it would be a bit of fun.
A long queue stretched across the room. She joined it, the clamour and chatter engulfing her. But the closer she moved towards the registration desk, the more anxiety tightened its grip on her nerves.
What if, by some crazy twist of fate, she were chosen for the show? Sure, it’d be a dream come true, but her father or Paul would be here in a flash to drag her home. If high-street clothes were ‘common’, she couldn’t imagine the expletives her parents would use if she appeared on reality television.
She glimpsed Gabe across the hall. He was directing a small group of people surrounding him. Even at this distance she could tell he held their absolute attention. She understood immediately. Gabe had the power to enthral. A smile crept across her lips.
She sighed. She wasn’t ready to go home yet, but the risk of being discovered was too great. She picked up her backpack and turned towards the exit.
‘Can you believe it?’ The guy behind her was dressed in a dark suit and spotted tie. He was probably nudging forty.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘This,’ he said, spreading his arms wide to take in the whole room.
‘Yeah. Incredible.’
‘Imagine making it through.’ The wistfulness in his voice didn’t match his proper executive image.
‘Mmm.’ She nodded, anxious now she’d made her decision to leave.
‘Imagine living your dream. I mean, I’m an accountant.’ The man pointed to his suit as if it explained everything. ‘But cooking’s my real passion.’
She cocked her head and looked at him intently. ‘Then why are you an accountant?’
He laughed, the sound heavy with irony. ‘Father.’
She raised her eyebrows in a query.
‘A chef’s not an acceptable occupation for an Etonian.’ The sneering, clipped British tone was obviously designed to mimic his father.
‘Oh.’ She nodded. ‘I have one of those too.’Harry Andrew Wentworth. He’d predetermined almost every step of her life.
‘Hey, we’re moving,’ her companion said.
She turned back and took a large, deliberate step closer to the registration desk. For the first time in her life she could see what her own dreams might be. She glanced over at Gabe. And cooking was only part of them.
Finally Charlie reached the head of the queue.
‘Name?’
‘Charlotte We— Brown. Charlie Brown.’
The young woman behind the desk looked up at her. ‘Cute.’
She held out her hand. ‘Registration form?’
Charlie handed over the document signed with her newly practised signature. She’d skimmed the document but hadn’t wanted to read it too closely. She didn’t want to see a rule about not falsifying your identity.
The woman glanced at the form. ‘We’re processing peop
le in batches of twenty. The trial consists of two parts. First there’s a two-minute interview. If you’re successful, you then have twenty minutes to cook something from the ingredients provided.’
The registrar handed over an ingredient list. ‘The top ten candidates for this region will be selected today.’
Charlie skimmed the list. Immediately ideas swirled in front of her.
‘Take a seat and listen for your name. Good luck, Charlie Brown.’ The woman shot Charlie a big grin.
‘Thanks.’
Charlie loved the sound of her new name. Each time she said it, someone smiled.
Finding a seat, she extracted a pen and paper from her bag. She needed something really distinctive. She began making notes on the various dishes she could make from the limited list. Everything she thought of was good, but not really special.
She needed an edge.
Charlie leaned back and scanned the room. The mix of people was vast. Teenagers to grannies. Conservatively dressed to outrageously alternative. Food certainly united people.
‘Charlie Brown.’
Charlie jerked her head up. She glanced at her notes one more time and headed towards the interview area.
A lone chair sat within an array of bright stage lights. A television camera trained its lens on the chair. A woman sat outside the lit area. She looked so cool in her head-to-toe black outfit. Charlie glanced at her own clothes and suddenly felt very conservative.
The woman pointed to the seat.
Slightly blinded, Charlie sat down. She squinted under the heat and intensity of the lights.
‘Charlie Brown?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Charlie replied. Her stomach muscles clenched tightly as nerves threatened to render her speechless.
‘I’m Abigail, assistant director. I’m just going to ask a few questions. Ready?’
A red light on the camera blinked on. Charlie’s breath caught in her throat and she suddenly wanted to drink a reservoir of water. She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
Seducing the Secret Heiress Page 6