Everyone nodded.
‘Good. Tom –’ she cast a withering glance at her husband. ‘– will hopefully cope with any other questions. I shall return, ready to go live on air dead on eight o’clock, at seven-thirty. By that time, you –’ she turned the withering glance on the rest of them ‘– will have everything – and I do mean everything – you need laid out ready to go. Your oven will be on – never mind the heat – your utensils will be to hand, your ingredients will be there, laid out on your work station, for the viewers to see. There must be no fumbling or bumbling or searching for things. If you haven’t got it you do without it. Understood?’
They all nodded again.
The producer and director waited until, followed by the remains of the entourage, Gabby had swept out of the kitchen. Then they let out a collective sigh of relief and looked at Tom.
‘Fancy a cold beer from the chuck wagon, Tom? And a sarnie or two? There’s a very nice garden out the back. I think we all need a bit of R & R.’
‘Er, does that include us?’ Poll, still cuddling a wide-eyed George, asked shakily. ‘I’m feeling a bit strange. I couldn’t eat a thing but I’m absolutely parched.’
‘No beer.’ Tom smiled warmly at them. ‘Sorry. Can’t risk any of you being pie-eyed. That’s a cookery joke, by the way… But iced drinks, yes. And an hour of relaxing before we hit the ground running. We’ll all need to come inside and have our hair and make-up retouched before the final countdown, but in the meantime, let’s just chill out and enjoy ourselves.’
Was he completely mad? Ella thought. Relax? Chill out? Enjoy? When she was already gibbering with stomach-churning nerves? When Billy had sunk into a sort of terrified torpor? When Ash had suddenly stopped smiling and looked like he was about to have anaesthetic-free root canal work? And Poll…
She frowned. Poll was nowhere to be seen.
She nudged Ash. ‘Where’s Poll?’
‘She’s gone to be sick,’ Ash muttered. ‘And I think I might just be going to join her.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
At 7.30 precisely, Gabby swept into the kitchen again. All dressed in gold, her curls teased and burnished, teetering on her Louboutins, and with more make-up than a drag queen, she gazed around.
Hideaway’s kitchen was completely transformed.
The lights blazed from every angle. The cameras were poised. The monitors were rolling. The crew were in position. Everything the Hideaway contingent could possibly need to produce their best ever three-course meal had been placed artistically by the runner boy on the vast scrubbed kitchen table. Fans whirred everywhere, attempting to reduce the rapidly rising temperature.
Gabby, ignoring Tom, flicked at things here and moved things infinitesimally there. Then she nodded. ‘Good. Very good. Right, let’s get a move on here.’
Oooh, Lordy… Ella, who, with Billy, had earlier joined Tom and the crew in the garden, felt hot, sweaty, dizzy and very, very frightened. Tom, smiling benignly over his iced beer, had regaled them all with horror stories of what could – and probably would – go wrong during a live television show.
But, Ella thought now, he’d seemed like a genuinely nice man. Warm, gentle and funny – not at all starry. And not once had he mentioned Gabby or their seemingly caustic relationship. And he’d only had the minimum amount of powdering and fussing from the slap and hair girls. And, even more to his credit, he’d chatted with them as equals and friends. She wondered where the heck Ash and Poll were.
Gabby clapped her tiny hands. Diamonds glittered, showering rainbow prisms across the kitchen. ‘Come on! Let’s get mic’d up then and have the sound checks.’
Getting mic’d up apparently involved the sound man clipping microphones to their necklines and threading wires down inside their tops, and attaching more wires and a little black pack to the back of their waistbands. And all the time, apologising and laughing, he’d told them that come eight o’clock, every single word would be broadcast to the nation and therefore to remember at all times not to say anything they didn’t want the viewing public to hear.
‘Sorry.’ Ash appeared in the doorway. ‘Am I late?’
‘Not at all, sweetie,’ Gabby gushed, fluttering her gull’s wing eyelashes. ‘Just in time for sound – oh, would you like me to fix your mic for you?’
‘Say no,’ Ella advised softly. ‘Unless you want to be pawed to death by her, of course.’
Ash chuckled as the sound engineer wriggled the wires down his Ben Sherman. ‘No thanks, Mrs Dewberry. I do appreciate the offer, of course.’
‘Gabby to you, sweetie.’ The eyelashes batted again. ‘And if you change your mind at anytime, sweetie, just say the word… Now, are we all here and all mic’d-up? Oh, where’s Polly?’
‘It’s Poll – and I’m here.’ Poll drifted into the kitchen, looking far more serene than she had all day. ‘I’m sorry, too. I was explaining things to my son and making sure that Trixie keeps him out of the way. Are we all ready to go?’
‘Has she been drinking?’ Ash whispered to Ella as Poll happily submitted to be wired up. ‘Or is she on Diazepam?’
‘Probably both,’ Ella whispered back, indicating the microphones, ‘and I don’t think we should say that in case we can be heard.’
‘Ooops, forgot.’ Ash grinned. ‘God, it’s hot in here.’
‘Boiling. Where did you go?’
‘Just to check on Poll, but she was with Trixie and said she was fine, then to make sure Roy was OK, then I phoned Onyx.’
‘And?’
‘Roy’s fine, too.’
‘I meant Onyx.’
‘On her way. She’ll be here before we go on air. She’s going to stay in the garden until it’s all over.’
Oh, goody…
Ella looked at Poll and mouthed, ‘OK?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Poll smiled dreamily. ‘I was feeling pretty awful, but Trixie gave me one of her little herbal tinctures and I feel absolutely wonderful now.’
Holy shit, Ella thought, that’s all we need.
Then, before she had time to panic about anything else, the director was ushering them into position behind the table, the producer was marshalling his troops, Tom and Gabby were standing in front of the railway camera, loads of little multicoloured flashes jumped and flickered on the banks of electronic equipment, and the lights were notched up to midday in the Sahara levels.
Someone shouted, ‘Rolling,’ and the familiar Dewberrys’ Dinners theme tune – the jaunty ‘Pickin’ a Chicken’ by Eve Boswell – boomed out around Hideaway Farm’s kitchen.
Billy tapped his feet.
Jesus Christ, Ella thought in total panic, this is bloody it!
‘Hello, everyone!’ Gabby beamed at the camera. ‘I’m Gabby Dewberry, and welcome to day three of the first heat in the new series of Dewberrys’ Dinners.’
‘Hi, and I’m Tom Dewberry, and on a scorching and glorious Midsummer’s Day –’ Tom beamed a matching beam – ‘we’re in rural Berkshire for our third southern area heat. And heat –’ he grinned wolfishly ‘– is just the word for today. We’re all baking in here. Or should I say, cooking?’
Gabby glared at him. ‘Another one of Tom’s pathetic jokes… Well, yes, today as you can see, we’re in a gorgeous old farmhouse kitchen for a – hopefully – scrumptious three-course dinner, prepared and cooked for us, in front of you, by a lovely team of rustic wannabe chefs.’
The camera swung round and ran along in front of the table.
‘From the left,’ Tom said cheerfully, ‘we have Ash and Billy who will be doing the starter; Poll who is cooking the main course; and Ella who is making the pudding.’
Ella knew her smile was a rictus. Her lips had gummed themselves to her teeth. Her tongue was anchored to the roof of her mouth.
‘I shall be chatting to them as they cook.’ Gabby moved effortlessly up and down in front of the camera, completely at ease. ‘So, as we go along you and I will discover what it is they’re going to tempt us with tonight. And y
ou and I will also discover if they’re good enough –’ a pause and a stage wink to camera ‘– to become our Weekly Winner.’
Tom turned and smiled encouragingly at them all. ‘So, off you go, chums. You have forty-five minutes to wow us with your culinary expertise, starting from – now!’
They froze.
Ella, at the far right-hand end of the table, glanced across at Billy and Ash. Neither of them moved. Beside her, Poll, was standing, grinning inanely at the camera, her hands by her sides.
‘Right –’ Gabby was clearly used to this sort of imminent disaster ‘– now as we get started, Tom and I will get you all to introduce yourselves, tell us a little bit about yourselves, and explain to us all what you’re doing.’
Tom leaned over the table towards Poll and gave her a ‘you can do it’ smile. ‘Let’s start with you, shall we? You’re Poll Andrews? And this lovely Berkshire farmhouse is your home – so what’s your menu called?’
Poll, her eyes still fixed on the camera, swallowed. ‘A Feasthouse Farm.’
‘A Farmhouse Feast!’ Tom corrected kindly. ‘How smashing! And what’s so special about it?’
Poll clearly couldn’t remember. ‘It’s retro,’ Ash ventured, huskily. ‘All the recipes are at least fifty years old.’
‘Like Tom!’ Gabby shrilled.
‘Er, and vegetarian,’ Ella put in, her lips still gummed to her teeth, and not sure if anyone could hear her. Then she remembered the really important thing about their menu and took a deep breath. Her words came out in a rushed monotone, but at least they came out. ‘And we’re not only using the old-time ingredients but also the original farmhouse kitchen implements to prepare and, um, cook with.’
‘So I see!’ Tom enthused, nodding encouragingly. ‘It’s all graters and hand-whisks and sieves! Not a blender or a food processor in sight! Just like the good old days, eh?’
‘Which –’ Gabby gave a stage wink to the camera ‘– Tom remembers only too well.’
Tom flushed and nodded at Ella. ‘And now tell us a bit about yourself – no, you don’t need to stop.’
Ella, who suddenly couldn’t even remember her own name, gulped. ‘Oh, er, yes. I’m Ella and I live at Hideaway and I’m a sort of mother’s help.’
‘Lovely!’
‘And,’ Billy said gruffly, clearly forgetting the ‘speak when you’re spoken to’ rule, ‘if you’re interested, the ingredients for today’s meal are all locally, er, sourced, and grown, most of them here on the farm, and seasonal.’
Annoyed at being pre-empted, Gabby’s eyes glittered in competition with her diamonds. ‘Really? Well, it all sounds very retro and very exciting and very different, which is what we love on Dewberrys’ Dinners – so let’s get cracking!’
Slowly, very slowly, they started to move. Started to prepare their food. Slid, albeit shakily, into the routine they’d practised over and over again.
‘So –’ Gabby shimmied behind the long table and pushed herself very close to Ash ‘– you and Billy are doing the starter? What is it?’
‘Nettle soup.’ Ash stopped slicing onions and garlic and had to stare down into Gabby’s cleavage. ‘From an original wartime recipe, but with my own additional herbs to give it a twist.’
‘Nettle soup! Well, that’s a first for Dewberrys’ Dinners! And did you pick the nettles yourself?’
‘Yes. Just fresh young nettles or the tops of the older plants. From the fields and hedgerows in and around the farm. Very, very carefully.’
Gabby trilled with laughter. ‘I can imagine. And the rest of your starter?’
‘Ballater scones,’ Billy chipped in from the other side. ‘A recipe from the nineteen thirties and something I used to make with my old mum. Ash’ll do the soup and I’ll make the scones to go with it.’
‘Mmm!’ Gabby murmured falsely, again clearly annoyed at being diverted from Ash. ‘Delish! And you are?’
‘Billy Booker and retired baker, love.’ Billy sifted flour and cream of tartar into a basin and started to rub in huge chunks of butter with consummate dexterity. ‘Not much interesting about me. Ah, if you’d just mind yourself, I need to get to the baking soda.’
Gabby gave Ash a kittenish smile, trotting behind him to the cooker as he melted butter and fried the onion and garlic. ‘Oooh, that smells good! So, Ash, let’s know a little about you. Have you always cooked, and what do you do at the moment?’
‘I’ve always enjoyed cooking. I was a professional chef, and now I’m an ice-cream man.’
‘Nooo!’ Gabby shrilled, turning to the camera. ‘Oh, ladies, wouldn’t you stop him and buy one any time at all?’
Ash, Ella noted, blushed furiously.
Tom sidled in between her and Poll.
‘So, Poll, you’re doing the main course. Which is?’
Poll shook her head. ‘Er…’
‘Jerusalem artichoke pudding,’ Ella prompted, looking anxiously at Poll.
‘Ah, yes. That’s right. I grow my own artichokes in the little greenhouse in the garden.’ Poll suddenly beamed, removing the halved artichokes from their vinegary bowl and putting them in a saucepan with half a pint of milk. ‘A much maligned vegetable these days. But this recipe comes from an old Berkshire farmhouse favourite and –’
Gabby was making ‘cut’ motions with her hands behind Poll’s back.
Tom turned to Ella. ‘And you’re Ella and you do desserts? So what are you going to show us today?’
Ella ignored Tom and stared at the camera. She attempted to unpeel her lips, but was horribly aware of doing a bit of an Elvis thing with the side of her mouth. ‘Um, Athole pudding… with a white wine sauce.’
‘That’s a new one on me!’ Tom laughed loudly. ‘Athole pudding!’
‘Again,’ Ella said, even more loudly, ‘it’s a popular country recipe from the nineteen thirties. It’s unusual because it’s cooked in a mould and is turned out while it’s still hot. And it’s something my gran taught me when I was a kid, um, child.’
Gabby and Tom moved together in front of the table and started exchanging snippy comments.
Ella, wiping the sweat from her upper lip and beginning to relax, somehow forgot that there might just be gazillions of people watching her, and beat butter and eggs together and grated lemon as she had done for more years than she could remember.
Beside her, Poll was also getting into her stride, and Billy was rolling out the dough for his scones. The non-stop practising had paid off: they were working as well and smoothly together as they had all through their trial runs, and were moving from the table to the cooker and back again with all the grace of synchronised swimmers.
It was going to be OK.
‘Right, now we’re really cooking! And believe me it all smells absolutely gorgeous in here,’ Gabby simpered, shimmying back to the cooker and casting hungry eyes on Ash. ‘Now, don’t you all wish you had one of these in your kitchen, ladies? And how I wish my Tom could look as good as this when he’s in the kitchen – or anywhere else for that matter!’
Ash, testing his cubed potatoes as they glooped with the nettles in his home-made vegetable stock, gripped the knife handle very, very tightly.
‘Oooh, yes,’ Gabby gushed again. ‘Simply superb. That looks and smells good enough to eat! Which I’m sure it will be very, very soon. You certainly have a lovely touch, Ash.’
Tom watched Poll layering sieved artichokes, creamy potatoes and herbs. ‘And if Gabby could cook as well as you, my dear, then it would make me a very happy man. You’ve also got a lovely touch, especially with that mash.’
‘And Tom,’ Gabby purred, ‘should know. Seeing as sausage and mash is about his culinary limit these days.’
‘Fanny!’ Billy shouted.
Ella dropped the brush she was using to butter her pudding mould.
‘Rude word alert!’ Gabby shrieked.
‘Not at all, love.’ Billy expertly flipped his scones on to a baking tray and crossed to the oven. ‘I meant you’re just like Fanny Cr
adock. She was always giving her old man gyp, too, while they was cooking on the telly. I knew you reminded me of someone, and it’s just come to me.’ He slid the baking tray into the oven and stood up. ‘And you must be about my age, love, so don’t tell me you don’t remember.’
Gabby, her eyes blazing, her pouty lips turning rapidly inwards, shook her head. ‘I have no idea at all what you’re talking about. I don’t remember any television cookery shows prior to Keith Floyd. Oh, dear me – men,’ she teased at the camera, ‘useless creatures, aren’t they, ladies? Well –’ she fluttered at Ash ‘– with some very notable exceptions, of course.’
Ella chuckled, poured her pudding mixture into the mould, and managed to get it into the oven without disaster. Now, just the wine sauce to make…
‘Right.’ Gabby clapped her tiny hands. ‘It’s all going very well. I’m very impressed with the way you’ve worked. And all on time… So, Tom,’ she bridled, ‘shall we find out a little more about our contestants as they clear their work stations and prepare to serve? Tom? Tom… ? TOM!’
Ella stopped and stared in the middle of stirring white wine into her beaten egg yolks and sugar.
Poll stopped and stared in the preparation of her baby carrots and asparagus.
Ash stopped and stared as he tasted and seasoned his soup with black pepper.
Billy stopped and stared as he prepared pats of butter for his Ballater scones.
Tom just stared. Open-mouthed.
Onyx, wearing a silver bikini top and the little white shorts, had just undulated – out of camera shot – into the kitchen garden doorway.
Chapter Thirty
Gabby, clearly mistress of the unforeseen circumstance, didn’t miss a beat.
‘Oh, dear, Tom’s gone into one of his catatonic trances again. It looks as if it’ll be down to me to carry on here in the kitchen.’
Onyx, behind the cameras, waved to everyone. Poll waved back. Tom still stared.
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