Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Romantic Novelist's Association

  Nick shifts a bit and I look at him, thinking of all that hassle we’ve gone to over those days, the T-shirt and the cat-wrapping and the holding and the teeth.

  ‘Er…sorry. I just…um, you know…’ He shrugs and smiles guiltily, looking delightfully shy. ‘OK, I was enjoying the company.’

  ‘You actually knew all the time that Princess would do that?’ I ask him, as some kind of penny drops slowly and very, very pleasingly in my brain.

  ‘Bang to rights. Polly did actually tell me the cat was fine with pills. Thinks they’re treats,’ he admits. ‘So…er…yes, I did know.’

  I don’t tell him, but so did I.

  Life of Pies

  Kate Harrison

  Kate Harrison

  KATE HARRISON writes fiction and non-fiction for adults and teenagers, including the bestselling Secret Shopper series, The Boot Camp and a trilogy of thrillers: Soul Beach, Soul Fire and Soul Storm. She also writes non-fiction, including Sunday Times bestseller, The 5:2 Diet Book, and a cookbook, The Ultimate 5:2 Diet Recipe Book. Her books have been translated into fifteen languages.

  Before becoming a novelist, she was a BBC correspondent and producer, working in news, consumer programmes and documentaries. She loves cooking, writing and beaches, and lives not far from the sea in Brighton with her partner. Find out more at www.kate-harrison.com and www.the5-2dietbook.com She also tweets (now and then) @katewritesbooks

  Life of Pies was inspired by a fantastic trip behind the scenes at Sussex-based pie experts, Higgidy Pies, though the flavours and strange goings on in the story are definitely not based on reality!

  Life Of Pies

  I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

  Ron ‘Mr Storage’ Brown was crystal clear at the interview. ‘It’s quite a boring job, and the opportunities for promotion are non-existent. But there are compensations.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He raised a flamboyantly bushy eyebrow. ‘Take the job, you might find out. You look like you need feeding up.’

  I took the job. I didn’t have much choice. Since I got back from travelling, I’ve had doors slamming in my face, phone lines going mysteriously dead –the average internet spammer gets more responses to their speculative emails than I do.

  I really thought I’d come back from my round-the-world-trip with a CV-full of transferable skills. The plan was…well, there was no plan. Dad’s will made it clear that he was leaving me ‘mad money’ so I could leave my tedious accountancy job and see life without spread-sheets.

  I booked a one-way ticket to Bangkok and figured I’d make the rest up as I went along. Mum wasn’t thrilled. ‘You’ll fall in love with someone from the Outback, or the Congo, and I’ll never see you again.’

  I can’t pretend that my trip was entirely man-free. But I didn’t fall in love with the world’s men –I fell in love with its menus. I spent fourteen months on a gastro-tour of the globe. But now most employers are underwhelmed by those new transferable skills: Vietnamese spring-rolling, bagel-boiling, whipping up the perfect crème Chantilly.

  OK. I took a chance, to see where life would take me. And life has dumped me unceremoniously on a trading estate two miles from where I grew up.

  Day one is going OK. I’ve had an extensive tour of Ron’s storage containers, and now know all there is to know about the different grades of bubble wrap. Ron’s wife Brenda has been telling me their life history, from humble beginnings in cardboard boxes. The two of them had hoped to spend their twilight years on ocean cruises, but the bottom has now fallen out of the container market and no one wants to buy the business off them, so they’re stuck.

  ‘But the recession’s gotta end soon, hasn’t it?’ Brenda says, squeezing her husband’s meaty hand. I can imagine her on an ocean cruise, with her bird-of-paradise earrings and turbo-charged hair.

  The Browns are lovely people, but there is no escape. There’s nowhere to buy lunch or a paper. Even the brick unit opposite is empty. I wait all day for the ‘compensations’ to make themselves known, but nothing happens. I go home feeling so depressed that Mum skips the ‘you’ve wasted your life’ speech she’s given me every other day since I got back.

  On Tuesday, the unit opposite comes to life. There are cars and vans and people wearing blue overalls and unflattering hairnets. When I ask Brenda what they do there, she just gives me a mysterious smile.

  It’s not till after lunch –cling-filmed ham sandwiches, made by Mum, which catapult me twenty years back in time to Springhill Juniors, and not in a good way –that I catch my first whiff. Ron and Brenda are watching me expectantly.

  I sniff once, twice. It’s yeasty. Toasty.

  ‘Pastry?’

  Brenda nods conspiratorially. ‘Do you like pies, Rachel?’

  ‘Um. I suppose so.’ But not British pies: I don’t rate sturdy steak-and-kidney, or soggy-bottomed chicken. No, I’m thinking crisp quiche Lorraine, fresh from a Parisian pâtisserie. Or the velvety pumpkin pie I was served at Thanksgiving in the heart of Texas. Spicy and sweet and…‘Why?’

  ‘The factory opposite?’ Brenda says. ‘It’s the HQ for Life of Pie. Best gourmet pies in the country. Super-expensive if you have to pay full price. Luckily we don’t.’

  She points out of the window. In the pie factory car park, a stall has appeared, as though it’s been picked up by hurricane from a village fete and dropped onto the concrete. Already people are emerging from all corners of the estate, following their noses, like the kids in the Bisto gravy ads.

  ‘Compensations, remember?’ Ron says, and I know I should have taken that call centre job. Discounted re-heatable pies are not my idea of a perk.

  But still, I follow them downstairs, because it gives me a break from comparing masking tape suppliers.

  Outside the sun beats down and heat rises from the tarmac, and I sweat like a New York corn-dog sandwiched between two hotplates. I look up at the blue sky and think about all the other places I’d rather be.

  The queue’s already twenty strong: there are mechanics, a big guy in overalls covered in sawdust, a gaggle of women who smell of perm solution. Brenda pushes in.

  ‘Rachel, come and meet Anton, the head chef. He’s from Paris, you know.’

  He looks familiar, but it’s only because he is straight from central casting. Checked blue trousers, chef’s whites, a stupid tall hat, with black curls escaping along the hairline. Tall? Yes. Dark? Yes. Handsome? Depends on whether you like Gallic arrogance, pouty lips and a large Roman nose.

  Brenda’s a fan, her cheeks have gone all pink. Anton turns to me. ‘Enchanté,’ he says, and holds out his hand. When I go to shake it, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.

  I blush, even though what he just did strikes me as ridiculously OTT. And not awfully hygienic, when he’s handling food.

  ‘Which of my pies would you like to try?’ he asks, in a voice as unctuous as oven-baked camembert. ‘They all taste good, but ze appearance is not parfait, which is why we give zem away to our charming neighbours.’

  There are two piles of wide, flat boxes on the table in front of him. The packaging is classier than I expected, with Life of Pies created by Chef Anton written across the front in a swirly design. There are vintage-style photos on the boxes, too: the left hand one has a blonde woman in a low-cut, forties blouse and the right features a farmer with a gappy smile, chewing straw.

  ‘Ploughman Pete and Tarty Lorraine,’ Ron says. ‘Anton names his pies after people from the estate. Pete works in the plumbers’ merchants, and then Lorraine—’

  ‘Is our marketing manager and ze one who gives ze pies stupid English names,’ Anton says, pouting. ‘I am responsible only for ze recipes. Which remain authentically French.’

  I almost don’t take one, because he’s so full of himself. But then I catch sight of the pie through the steamed up plastic window. It’s more like a quiche, golden brown with flecks of pink and white.

  I take a Tarty Lorraine and as I walk back to the office, I remember one of t
he many things I discovered in Paris: that I might love French food, but I am less enchanté by the French.

  Mum and I are in pie heaven.

  From the crisp short crust, to the custardy filling, Lorraine is spectacular. Even Mum, who normally thinks ready meals are a travesty, is won over. ‘Try to keep that job long enough to fill the chest freezer with free pies, eh, Rach?’

  Next morning, I sniff the air when I get off the bus but there’s nothing yet. The smell of baking doesn’t waft in our direction till just after twelve. This time, there’s a garlicky top note above the pastry aroma.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mickey’s Mushroom Medley today,’ Brenda says. ‘Named after their fork lift truck driver, who goes mushroom hunting at weekends.’

  I think back to the glorious autumn day I spent foraging in Tuscany. It was there, picking finest fungi with a grizzled old guide, and then cooking them over a wood fire, that I dreamed of a different life, leading gourmet tours around the world.

  A lorry thunders past, making my desk shake. So much for that different life…I glance across the road towards the pie factory, and glimpse a chef’s hat silhouetted against a window on the second floor. Is Chef Anton thinking the same thing –how did we end up here?

  The hat disappears, and ten minutes later, the stall is set up.

  When I get to the front of the line, Anton immediately interrogates me about last night’s meal. ‘So. Ze Lorraine? You liked it?’

  I hate it when people fish for compliments. ‘It was OK,’ I say, watching his eyes narrow. ‘But there could have been more ham, so you get some in every mouthful.’

  ‘More ham?’ He looks cross. ‘Try champignon.’ He thrusts a box into my hands. ‘Ze browning is a little uneven but I think of it as jolie laide. Which is what we French call something so ugly it is almost pretty.’

  Is that a comment aimed at me? It is true that I’m looking ropey at the moment. My tan’s faded to a yellowy hue, though my freckles are as prominent as ever, and I’m way too skinny. Nothing has tasted right since I got back.

  Though when I heat up the mushroom pie at home, it certainly smells right. And I wish I’d asked him for two.

  On Thursday the air smells like a brewery –thanks to Bulldog Bill’s Beef and Ale Pie.

  When the stall pops up at two o’clock, I’m first in the queue.

  ‘Your ugly mushrooms were pretty good,’ I tell Anton.

  His lips turn up very slightly at the edges. ‘Praise indeed. Perhaps you would care to bring your very sophisticated palate to our special tasting next Tuesday. When we develop new pies, we like to try zem out on our most loyal customers.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  As Brenda and I carry our Bulldog pies back to the office, she looks like she’s about to explode from excitement. ‘He promised he’d consider naming his next pie after me, Rachel. This time next week, I could be immortalised in pastry!’

  I spend the weekend with old school friends who have great jobs, handsome husbands and bonny babies.

  It’s almost a relief to get back to the ordinariness of Mr Storage, though my heart sinks when Brenda reminds me that Life of Pies doesn’t bake on a Monday. ‘But we have tomorrow’s tasting to look forward to!’

  We’re all counting down the hours till Tuesday evening. As we finally cross the road at six, I feel like Charlie approaching the chocolate factory, though Anton is not Willy Wonka and there are no oompah-loompahs on the factory floor. The offices themselves are as boring as ours, but the famous tarty Lorraine leads us through the corridors and upstairs to the ‘tasting room’ where Ron, Brenda and I sit at a long bench, alongside a couple of lads from the injection moulding firm next door.

  Lorraine explains she’ll be recording our reactions, while Anton broods in the background. An alarm pings and he pulls a freshly-baked pie out of the oven.

  ‘I present the first in our range of dessert pies for the winter, this is Brenda’s Blackberry Clafoutis!’

  Brenda shrieks so loud you’d think he’d suggested actually baking her in the pie itself. But she’s beside herself with delight. ‘Oh, Anton. It’s an honour. A privilege.’

  You haven’t tasted it yet, I think.

  But it certainly looks the part, with a bouffant golden brown topping that’s every bit as bouncy as Brenda’s blow-dry. The pastry has big circular gaps, which remind me of Brenda’s favourite polka dot blouse, and underneath there’s a deep purple fruity base that matches her lipstick.

  We’re each given a slice and heat rises from the jammy middle. Not the ideal pud for a steamy August day, but it does smell seriously good. Just before I taste the first forkful, I look up. Anton is staring at me. I smile but he doesn’t. Surly so and so.

  But then I look again: his face is crossed with tension. It might just be a pie to me, but it matters to him.

  Ron, Brenda and the moulders are already getting stuck in, and are making funny little contented noises, but Anton is still waiting for my response. I lift the fork to my mouth and close my eyes.

  The fruit bursts on my tongue, richer than wine, and the batter is light and airy, with a satisfying crunch at the top. And yet…

  Lorraine’s ready with her tape recorder, though the others are struggling to move on from Mmm and Ahh.

  ‘I think there’s something missing,’ I say.

  Lorraine’s jaw drops. My fellow testers gawp at me. Anton raises a Gallic eyebrow. ‘Missing?’ he says.

  I take another mouthful, and keep a neutral face as I swallow. ‘It’s not quite as…luscious as I’d hoped. Not nearly as much personality as Brenda has.’

  ‘It’s one of France’s classic desserts,’ Anton snaps.

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ I say. ‘All your other pies have an English element. The pickle and the ale and the—’

  ‘Ze blackberries are British!’

  ‘Cobblers!’ I say.

  ‘Blimey,’ Ron says, ‘bit harsh, Rachel.’

  ‘You should make cobblers,’ I repeat. ‘Not clafoutis, but blackberry cobblers. Same basic idea, but a bit heartier for the British taste.’

  Anton is frowning. ‘Lorraine, make a note.’

  ‘So long as it’s still named after me,’ Brenda says, giving me a slightly dirty look.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, realising that pissing off my new employer so soon might not be the smartest move. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  Wednesday smells of chicken and tarragon, but the ugly pie stall doesn’t make an appearance and I can tell Ron and Brenda think it’s my fault.

  On Thursday I think I catch a glimpse of Anton’s hat through the window opposite but then someone pulls down the blinds so I can’t see. And on Friday, I get a call from a head-hunter offering a temp job in London, at half the rate I used to get before I went travelling. I tell him I’ll think about it. I know it’ll be a one-way ticket to my old life.

  It would have been Dad’s birthday on the Sunday, so Mum and I take a walk along Seven Sisters. The last time we came, Dad was in a wheelchair, and we sat together for more than an hour, as the sun bounced off the sea. It looked like the sisters were dancing.

  ‘Bet you didn’t see anything that beautiful on your travels, did you, Rach?’

  Right now, I can’t think of anywhere nicer. ‘Was it a mistake, Mum? Leaving my job like that, and ending up back here flogging cardboard boxes?’

  ‘If you want to go back to London, love, you know I’ll manage.’

  I haven’t mentioned the job offer, but she’s always been able to see through me. ‘If I go back, I’ll never escape again, will I?’

  Mum turns round. In the sunlight, the greys in her hair shine like platinum and her eyes are periwinkle blue. ‘The fact you call it escaping tells me all I need to know. Take your time, Rachel. That’s all me and your dad ever wanted.’

  On Monday when I get to work, the estate smells of beer, which makes zero sense as Life of Pies doesn’t bake today.

  As I let myself into the depot –Ron and B
renda are on a mini-cruise to the Hook of Holland –I realise the smell emanates from closer to home. Beer is oozing out under the metal doors of the biggest container. When I open it with the master key, it’s carnage.

  Some scumbag tenant has set up a micro-brewery, but one of the kegs must have exploded, setting them all off. His mobile’s ringing out, so it’s going to be down to me to clear up. It’s going to take me all day –assuming I don’t sever an artery on the shards of glass or slip on the beer and drown in a barrel.

  If the head-hunter calls me right now, as I wade through a tidal wave of IPA and sticky cherry beer, I’m accepting his offer.

  I’ve been working for twenty minutes when someone starts banging on the shutter at the front of the building.

  ‘Didn’t you see the sign?’ I call out. ‘We’re closed due to an emergency?’ But the banging continues. My trainers make a slurping noise as I walk to the control panel and raise the shutter.

  I see the legs, first, clad in blue chequered cotton.

  Anton.

  I try to pull the lank hair back off my face, because I am a beer-sodden, sweaty mess. But he’s already limboing underneath the shutter.

  ‘Mind your hat!’ I shout out, and when he twists his body straight again, he’s clinging onto the thing like his life depends on it.

  He looks at me, then the scene behind me. ‘What the hell…?’

  ‘A minor explosion, I think.’

  He walks ahead of me. ‘Shit…I mean, merde. See, I am so bilingual I swear in two languages, non?’

  ‘Impressive.’ I wish he’d leave me to it.

  ‘We will have this fixed in no time.’ Before I can argue, he’s grabbed the mop and bucket I’d found in stores and is beginning to soak up the spillage like a pro.

  ‘There’s no need,’ I say, but I don’t really mean it.