by Janey Lewis
‘But what about opening hours, or my ethos about all local produce, the terroir – the fact that my customers will all taste the food as the air they breathe will have fed it, the soil they walk on will have grown it . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I think that is far too fancy for our readers.’
‘At least take the menus with you!’
Liberty felt she was behaving in a desperate way, but this was ridiculous. They were leaving. Jools hadn’t even taken a pad of paper from his briefcase, let alone a tape recorder. Lexi had taken no photographs of her food, nothing. And all this before she had even opened!
‘Don’t worry, we have quite enough information!’ And with a load belch and a ‘Don’t mind, do you?’, he filled his briefcase with cakes and swept out, followed by Miss Rat-Face, now texting furiously with her perfectly filed nails.
Liberty quietly closed the door behind them and walked back into the kitchen. Did that really just happen? she asked herself as she leant back against the Aga for comfort. Teal ran in and scrabbled at her leg, as if saying, ‘Didn’t I do well? I didn’t even come in and bite those horrid people.’ As Liberty picked her up she saw that Rat Girl had left her camera behind. She picked it up and ran down the path to the BMW parked on the lane by the green. ‘Yes,’ she heard Jools saying, ‘Yes, all went swimmingly.’ Loud laugh. ‘Bloody good grub, though, I have to admit.’ He was speaking into his mobile, a huge grin on his face, which disappeared as Liberty approached. ‘Bye, then.’
‘Your photographer left her camera,’ said Liberty, holding it out to him.
‘Oh. Yes.’ And taking it roughly from her he jumped into his car and sped off.
Liberty stood for a moment. She was still lost in thought when Edmund’s car appeared at the top of his drive. He was meeting up with some old university friends for a jolly, but as he looked to see if the lane was clear, he saw a forlorn beauty standing alone by her gate, gazing into the distance. He turned the car towards Duck End and pulled over. By the time he had turned the engine off and opened his door, the only change in her appearance was her deeply furrowed brow.
‘Is your house on fire?’
Liberty at last seemed to notice his presence, and she moved her head a little to look at him. Her mouth now formed a perfect O.
‘Why are you standing out here?’
Edmund was more than a little concerned, any thoughts of his ridiculous behaviour in France now washed into the Med by worry that she had been attacked, Teal had been stolen or a dragon had just run past her house. Liberty seemed completely dumbstruck.
‘Time for a drink.’ It was a command rather than a question.
Edmund took her arm and led her gently back into the house. She allowed him to guide her to the kitchen and place her on the window seat. There, on the table, were the remains of the disastrous tea, her plate clean and unused, a scattering of crumbs around where Jools had sat, and the vast piece of untouched cake on Lexi’s plate. Teal was the only extra decoration, and at last Liberty made a sound. It started with a hiccup, then a gurgle and then she dissolved into full-blown giggles. Witnessing Teal’s cream-smothered face, sitting proudly on the Emma Bridgewater cake stand, no cake left, just a very fat ball of fur, was exactly the cure needed to shock Liberty out of her comatose state. Edmund let her giggles turn to tears as he put on the coffee machine and busied himself, removing fat dog, plates and dishes, before asking what the hell had happened.
‘Please tell me!’ he was now begging, as she had either gone mad or enjoyed afternoon tea on the table with her dog. OK, that would be mad, but he was meant to be on the M25, and he couldn’t just leave her. He placed a double espresso and a box of tissues in front of her.
Liberty was gradually getting hold of herself, but then realised how often it was that Edmund had mopped her up, all running mascara and blotchy face. No wonder he didn’t love her! Seeing that she was about to start crying again, Edmund tried another tack.
‘Liberty,’ he boomed. His dark hooded eyes seemed to glow with anger. ‘Spit it out or I will have to get your parents!’ It was like being scolded by a very attractive headmaster, and it had the desired effect. Liberty stood, walked over to the sink and poured the coffee away. ‘I need something stronger, and for once not to look like a drowned rat – no, make that a pigeon,’ she added, not wanting to be reminded of rat girl. She ran upstairs, changed into black skinny jeans, long boots and a huge black cashmere jumper that felt like a cuddle. She then used Laura Mercier products to the best of her ability, and returned to the kitchen looking more like Rachel Weisz than Worzel Gummidge.
Edmund had been dressed in a suit and tie, but now the jacket hung companionably on a chair and he had poured them both glasses of Sancerre, after reluctantly calling his friends to say he wouldn’t be making it. As she entered the room he gasped at the vision in front of him. His pale grey shirt glowed against his dark skin. The hair on his arms looked as though it needed stroking, but Liberty resisted as she took the proffered glass and started her long explanation.
‘These magazines are usually over the top with their praise, as they are just meant to advertise local suppliers and products. I thought it would be a no-brainer. Instead, I feel as though I’ve had ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, and lost.’
‘I’ll just make a call,’ replied Edmund. Without further comment he left his wine and a stunned Liberty and walked into the garden. Not for the first time he wondered whether someone was attempting to sabotage Liberty’s efforts to start a successful new life. He called one of Gray’s former secretaries and asked the name and phone number of the editor of Weald Life. He then spoke to the plummy editor herself.
‘Yes, I had heard of a new tea room opening. Very excited, we are. We are sending a group of WI ladies to give their verdict at the fair, thought it might be fun to do a sort of MasterChef judgement – all in good fun, of course. No, I hadn’t phoned to arrange an interview. No, don’t use a journalist by the name of Jools. How lovely to be speaking to you, Mr De Weatherby – charmed, I’m sure.’
Edmund was in a dilemma. He didn’t want to worry Liberty before he had more facts, but he now knew that someone was definitely trying to sabotage her opening, or at the very least unsettle her. Who was this Jools, then? And was he really a journalist? If so, where from? He returned to the kitchen where he found Liberty, empty glass in hand, Teal on lap.
‘I must be overreacting, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘And I did notice that you were dressed up. Are you meant to be somewhere?’ Her voice, which had been growing stronger, wobbled a bit. The tower of strength grinned down at her, warmth suffusing his hawk-like eyes.
‘I don’t want you to dwell on this afternoon.’ Edmund shook his head firmly as Liberty was about to speak. ‘No, not another second. Your food is sublime, the care you take and the love that you pour into it is evident to anyone worthy of commenting on such things, and it will sell, literally like hot cakes. I’m going to take you home and Mrs Goodman will be delighted to cook for you. Bring Teal – it’ll be good for you both to get out of here.’
Privately, Edmund had always wondered about the time he had found Liberty’s front door open at Christmas. There was something suspicious going on, and he was going to find out what. First things first, though. Get Liberty out of the house.
Once he had Liberty ensconced in the Denhelm kitchen, chattering to Mrs Goodman, who was full of the joys of spring, placing pots of hyacinths and narcissi around the windowsills to fill the rooms with heady scent (‘Gets rid of wet dog smell,’ she explained), he made a few phone calls and laid his trap.
49
A delicious supper of shepherd’s pie, carrots and spring greens was followed by rhubarb crumble and lashings of custard. This expression always made Liberty smile, as it was why her mother had called her pug Custard. She got so fed up with the little creature weeing on her slippers in the early days, she promised her lashings most mornings.
Liberty was feeling much restored. She and Edmund sat in the kitchen playing Scrabb
le while Mrs Goodman cleared up around them. They finished their wine while they played and then Edmund poured them a glass of his father’s excellent port, saying, ‘We may as well enjoy the perks.’
She was beginning to relax, especially as both she and Edmund seemed as competitive as each other, both determined to win, by cheating if necessary. So they were soon in fits of giggles as Liberty spelled out journophobia, a fear of journalists, only for Edmund to beat her with teddicide, to murder one’s teddy bear.
Edmund’s phone rang. He waited a moment before answering, trying to quell his laughter; he knew it wasn’t going to be a humorous conversation. Liberty could only hear his side, but it was obviously very serious. ‘Right, have you removed the items? Keep them safe. Did you touch them? No? Good. Hopefully there will be fingerprints. Good work, and thanks for doing it at such short notice.’
He turned to Liberty. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That explains some things.’
‘What things?’ she asked.
‘Nothing you need to know now. We must hope that Sarah isn’t as scrupulous with her cleaning as she seems.’
Liberty looked at him as though he had gone mad. ‘Have you . . .?’
‘Have I what?’ asked Edmund, looking distracted but pleased with himself.
‘Gone mad. What about Sarah? What has she got to do with anything? Are you trying to distract me so I don’t beat you at Scrabble? I may take your word and go and murder your teddy bear if you don’t explain!’
Edmund looked quizzically over to where Mrs Goodman was folding sheets before laying them on the Aga.
‘Aha!’ exclaimed Liberty. ‘So you do still have a teddy bear! I shall get him now and torture him until you tell me what is going on!’ Laughing, she made a lunge for the kitchen door. Edmund caught her by the backs of her arms, his strong grip surprising and exciting her.
‘No you don’t, little lady,’ he said, smiling while enjoying their close proximity. As he inhaled the scent of her hair, he wondered if she had indeed driven him close to insanity. Mrs Goodman couldn’t bear the flying hormones and excused herself for the evening.
‘Thank you again for supper,’ said Liberty as Edmund reluctantly let go of her so the elderly housekeeper could make her exit.
The moment broken, Edmund remembered why Liberty was there, and the phone call he had received. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I have just taken the liberty – ha ha – of having your locks changed. Just a precaution, after having such strange people in the house today. I’d better take you back now. There is someone waiting with your keys.’
‘Isn’t that a little over the top?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied her earnest friend, knowing it was just the opposite. Edmund had contacted the security firm who had worked at the wind farms he’d had dealings with a while back, when angry Nimbys were attempting to sabotage them, and they had been through Duck End with a fine-tooth comb. Three listening devices were found, including one in the chimney, and one small camera. Terrifying, but at least he had an idea of what had been going on. He didn’t want to tell Liberty and unsettle her until he had all the facts, but he was determined she should be able to live securely and safely, and be able to open her café with no further hitches.
Unfortunately for Liberty, one hitch couldn’t be undone. The Saturday Telegraph magazine restaurant review. Jools turned out to be Julian Middleton, the Jeremy Clarkson of financial journalism, apparently standing in for their regular restaurant critic. He had written the following:
Gastric Bandit!
By Jools Middleton
I may only be a financial journalist, but I think that many years of being wined and dined in the best restaurants by eager managing directors hot for a positive write-up places me in good stead to know a great restaurant from a good one, and a good one from a bad one. This brings me to my latest challenge – foolish to flimsy: LIBERTEAS, a new café opening on 27th March.
It should have a head start. At the helm, Liberty James, daughter of the great foodies Alain James, triple Michelin star holder for the past twenty-five years, and his ex-wife – but soon to be wife again, if rumours are to be believed – Deirdre, baker extraordinaire, TV dynamo, Mediterranean food expert, and, in recent years, a cookery teacher.
Thus forewarned, I delighted in the prospect of a pretty and relaxing journey into the wilds of Sussex to work up my appetite, drooling with thoughts of what this young lady might have learned at her parents’ apron strings.
Liberty previously worked in public relations in her ex-husband’s family bank, and was very good at it, from what I hear. Perhaps that is where she should have stayed. As her ‘café-cum-patisserie-cum-tea room’ is not yet open we were invited into her own home to sample what she will be serving. Perhaps a PR stunt? The gloriously named Duck End House is breathtaking, straight out of Homes & Gardens. Huge Aga in the kitchen, expensive hangings at the windows, and the furniture . . . she obviously had a good divorce lawyer!
Taken into the kitchen, a film set had been prepared for us. The table groaned with fabulous dainty china, silverware and tiered cake stands, which drowned in cakes, pastries and tarts, from tiny Cornish (‘ Sussex!’ shouted Liberty at the paper) pastries to miniature cream buns and a vast – what Ms James calls her special – walnut poppy seed cake smothered in cream and cherries (‘Damsons,’ groaned Liberty). All very twee and maybe what the American tourist will be looking for, but a tall hungry man and his photographer wished for beef and Yorkshires after hurtling through all that country air. (‘That must have been gulped through your car window!’ cried Liberty to a startled Teal.)
All very pretty, but no substance. That a lady of remarkable breeding can try to rely on her admittedly sexy looks and parents’ names saddens me. Sausages and mash and a pint of beer surely will bring smiles to the country yokels who live in such a godforsaken place, but they will have to satisfy their wish for a stiff drink at the local pub, as not only has Ms James forgotten that people might be hungry when they turn up to have ‘lunch’, but she has been forbidden a drinks licence.
LIBERTEAS by name, Liberty taken. I think this journo will stick to London and decent portions, thank you very much. The entire family will turn out to welcome you at a free bash on the village green on 25th March, but I will forgo that one. I’ll leave the ugly and muddy-booted locals to their own disappointment.
Liberty was trembling as she put the magazine down. Why had he lied about who he was writing for? How could her career as a chef be over before it had begun? How could she ever show her face in the village?
A loud hammering at the door and simultaneous ringing of the telephone woke her from her dumbstruck stupor. Picking up the phone on the way to the front door she managed a croaked ‘Hello?’
‘Darling!’ It was J-T. ‘Great press coverage. How did you get into the Telegraph before you have even opened?’
‘Shut up, J-T, you obviously haven’t even read it yet. Now hold on while I get the door.’ Her mother, father and Edmund crowded in. ‘I thought it would be you. I’ve got J-T on the phone – mix yourselves drinks.’
‘Hi, still there?’ shouted J-T. ‘Of course I’ve read it – what an arsehole! But it’s still publicity, and that is what you need. Edmund has been on the phone, and Jools is one of Percy’s friends, you know. Chat to Ed, he will fill you in. Call you later. Bye!’
Now thoroughly confused, Liberty looked at Edmund, who was sipping whisky with Alain and Deirdre. ‘Ed?’ was all she could think of saying.
‘He seems to insist on calling me by that name,’ said Edmund with a smile as he handed her a drink.
‘Come and sit down darling,’ said Deirdre, patting the sofa. ‘Edmund has some news. Forget yours for the moment. Have you read the Telegraph magazine?’
‘Have I read the Telegraph? Of course I have, and I am bloody done for! How could this have happened? He criticised my food, the locals, me. He claimed to be from the local press. I don’t get it,’ sobbed Liberty, and she slumped into a
chair, head in hands. Edmund’s heart went out to her, but he was far too full of news to wallow.
‘Listen, I have discovered something that will probably make you even angrier, but it might explain a few things,’ began Edmund. Alain removed Liberty’s glass of wine, in case it got hurled, and replaced it with a brandied coffee on the table beside her chair. ‘Brace yourself, darling,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a shock, and you are about to have another one.’
Taking a scalding gulp of the sweet hot liquid, Liberty was able to stop weeping and look up at Edmund. Would anything surprise her now? ‘Go on.’
‘You remember when I rode past here on Christmas Day and found your front door open?’
‘Yes, of course, but what does that have to do with anything? I probably forgot to close it.’
‘Wait a minute. It just seemed odd, the open door, and how news seemed to leak out about you applying for a licence and then being refused, and now this journalist . . . Well, I got a team in here to check your place out. They found some listening devices.’
‘What!’ Liberty jumped up. Deirdre caught her cup and Teal started to bark, picking up unhappy vibes. Liberty gathered up the dog for comfort and started to pace the room, feeling horribly uncomfortable in her own home. ‘And I thought someone had been in after I returned from France, but who, and why? Something to do with the previous owners?’
‘No, darling, stay calm and listen. Come and sit down, please,’ said her mother, worried at how her little girl was going to respond to the news. She had tried to get Alain and Edmund to keep quiet, to sort it out themselves, but they had told her in no uncertain terms that she was going to find out whether she was able to cope or not.
‘It’s Percy.’ Edmund let the statement hang in the air.
‘Percy?’ asked Liberty, loudly. She set Teal down on the floor. ‘Why?’
‘We think he has been trying to sabotage you. Correction, we KNOW he has been trying to sabotage your new career. He contacted the licensing board after getting a chum of his to forge documents indicating you had a criminal record, thus preventing them from even considering your application. He has been trying to find out about everything you are up to, even getting a photographer to follow J-T on New Year’s Eve to try to discredit your friends and business contacts. I bet even he was shocked with the results of that bit of skulduggery! He has also sent letters to associates down here telling them to stay away from your café, stating that you have been stealing money from his family while his father is ill and that he has been unable to keep control of the family accounts.’