The Woman Who Upped and Left

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘I love it,’ I enthuse. ‘We’ve just done our first cooking thing and Brad – he’s our teacher – reckoned I made the best soupe à l’oignon …’

  ‘Oooh, soupe à l’oignon. You’re already sounding a little bit French!’

  ‘I feel it. I really do. Well, I feel different anyway. I know it’s no big deal – it’s not like I’ve won the Nobel Peace prize – but still …’

  ‘It is a big deal,’ she insists, with a hint of impatience. ‘You won it for being completely brilliant and you need to stop shrugging it off as if you don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, opening my mouth like a fish as I daub on my most lash-lengthening mascara, ‘it’s already making me feel better about cooking generally. I mean, maybe it’s not my soup that’s faulty. Maybe, when you reach 84 like Mrs B, your tastebuds don’t function like they used to …’

  ‘Probably,’ she chuckles. ‘So what are the others like? The other students, I mean?’

  ‘All way younger but they seem lovely. Actually, no, there is someone around my age – Hugo, quite posh, one of those rich, confident voices …’

  ‘Single?’

  ‘No idea,’ I say, laughing, and knowing where this is leading because she’s made it pretty clear that she’s not wholly approving of Stevie and his service station ways. ‘I haven’t quizzed him about his love life yet,’ I add. ‘We’ve only had a quick chat at the buffet and, anyway, I’m here to cook, you know …’

  ‘Gay or straight?’

  ‘Kim, I don’t know!’

  She sniggers. ‘You’re hopeless. So what does he do? Have you found that out, at least?’

  ‘For a job, you mean?’ Kim has this thing of always wanting to know what people do. ‘He hasn’t said, actually. But he’s funny and—’

  ‘Good looking?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say, applying lipstick at the dressing table mirror.

  ‘Oh, right, you suppose so.’ She’s still chuckling as we finish the call.

  As I’m a little apprehensive as I head down to dinner, it’s a relief to see that Hugo, Tamara and Lottie have saved a place at their table for me. The first thing that strikes me at dinner is that food here is so tidy, so neatly arranged, as if nudged into position with tweezers. While I didn’t expect to see oily discs of salami tossed onto the table, I’m impressed to see that the meaty components of my charcuterie platter – again, so French! – have been carefully folded into dainty cones. I keep wanting to take pictures with my phone. It seems almost criminal to be presented with such beauty and not photograph it to show everyone at home. However, I’m also aware that everyone else is just tucking into their starters as if all of this is normal, so I pretend it’s normal too. I’ll just have to make do with staring hard at my plate and imprinting a mental image on my brain.

  There is wine, of course, and it’s free – steady on Audrey! – plus four types of bread which are wafted in front of me in their basket. I am almost frozen with indecision, partly because I’m also wondering whether Morgan has had the forethought to defrost a burger in good time for dinner. Christ, I really should have left defrosting and reheating instructions. I know from my food safety course that e-coli is only properly killed off at 155 degrees, and how is a hapless teenager meant to know that? No, no, I must stop this. Anyway, it won’t kill him if he resorts to the chippy every night …

  ‘That soup you made,’ Lottie remarks. ‘I watched you, Audrey. I don’t know how you managed to concentrate with Brad hanging over you like that.’ She wrinkles her tiny nose. ‘Brad said mine lacked depth. I really did my best to get it right. I’ve even made it before, at home …’

  ‘I just tried to blot him out,’ I explain. ‘I was focusing on trying to catch up with you lot …’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara adds, ‘there you were, casually wandering back after your ciggie break and getting stuck straight in …’

  ‘I didn’t go out for a smoke,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Oh, I just assumed—’

  ‘Just a bit of drama at home,’ I add.

  ‘Everything okay, I hope?’ Hugo asks with a frown.

  I pause, on the verge of regaling everyone with the tale of the boiled T-shirt, but decide not to. Hugo already knows about the washing machine drama and I don’t want him thinking my life revolves entirely around laundry. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks,’ I say lightly.

  ‘Of course it is,’ he says with a big, warm smile. ‘You’ve left an eighteen-year-old boy in a nice comfortable house. He’s hardly traversing the Alpine Tundra on a yak.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re right, of course you are …’

  ‘So what do you do, Hugo?’ Lottie asks with a smile that can only be described as flirtatious. ‘You didn’t say during the introductions.’

  ‘Me?’ He looks taken aback. ‘Oh, er, I’m looking to set up something new. It’s early stages. I’m sort of looking at opportunities …’ He pauses. ‘Sorry if that sounds evasive. I don’t mean it to be. Honestly, I’m really not sure what’s next.’

  ‘So what made you come on the course?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, um … there’s been quite a bit happening over the past year …’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Lottie asks, wide eyed.

  He nods. ‘Like divorce, actually. A real stinker. Polly and I have been wrangling over the details for months …’ He looks around at all of us as if unsure whether to go on.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. Ask away.’ He smiles and sips his wine. ‘Anyway, when the dust settled I just had an urge, you know, to do something. A sort of oh-sod-it thing. And I’ve always loved French food. I know it seems a bit old-fashioned these days but it’s what I remember from my holidays, when I was a child – a great gang of us: uncles, aunties, grannies, tons of kids … we’d all drive over to someone’s crumbly old house in Burgundy …’

  I listen, transfixed, picturing hordes of people all talking over each other and doing relaxed, Frenchy things like smoking filterless cigs from soft packets and giving the babies wine. Dad and I had just one holiday together after Mum’s abrupt departure with Brian Bazalgette: a spectacularly terrible canal trip where it soon became apparent that my father should never have been allowed to take the helm of a narrowboat. A dead rat floated by, inflated by its internal gases like a football, and we collided with a partly-submerged shopping trolley. We chugged along in gloomy silence by day and practised long division at night. Unbeknown to Dad, I was utilising the mental arithmetic part of my brain by calculating how many hours we had left before we could go home. I missed Mum so much during that holiday, it caused an actual ache.

  ‘The sun shone every day,’ Hugo goes on, ‘and these amazing lunches were set out by various aunties at the huge garden table and drifted on all afternoon …’

  Briefly, I recall deciding that Dad and I should eat something, and heating up a tin of beans and chipolata sausages in the dank galley kitchen. I couldn’t get the grill to work to make toast so we had them on slices of bread.

  ‘… Endless plates of food,’ Hugo continues, ‘and then desserts, God, the heavenly desserts: clafoutis and tarte tatin and pots du crème …’ I’m virtually inhaling all these French words. I don’t know what these puddings are exactly, but I do know I want to eat them. Plus, Hugo has a lovely voice. Posh, yes, but not gratingly so: the kind of warm, reassuring tones you’d enjoy listening to on the radio – no, the wireless – late in the evenings. ‘Sorry for going on.’ He laughs, catching himself.

  ‘Oh, I love hearing about this,’ I say eagerly. ‘Tell us more …’

  ‘Sounds like I’m showing off,’ he blusters.

  ‘You’re not, honestly …’ A piece of halibut quivers on the end of my fork.

  ‘Well,’ Lottie says, ‘I think coming here, in honour of those holidays, is a terrific thing to do.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say firmly.

  She sweeps her fine blonde hair back from her fac
e. ‘I’m sort of here because of a break-up thing too.’ She breaks off and glances at Tamara. ‘Well, Ben and I were still together when I booked it, and he went on and on, “Oh, it’s so indulgent, a total waste of money, what’s the point, blah-blah …”’

  ‘… That was kind of the trigger, wasn’t it?’ Tamara cuts in. ‘For you to leave him, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She laughs. ‘He’s only 30 – same as me – but so bloody middle-aged. Obsessed with investments and pensions and the future.’ She shudders and turns to me. ‘How about you, Audrey? Are you with anyone?’

  I bite into a tiny fondant potato. ‘There’s a thing, a sort of on-and-off thing …’ A pause settles over the table. ‘It’s nothing really,’ I add, wishing I was still picturing Hugo’s jolly posh types and their tarte tatins, and not Stevie with his meat feast slices.

  ‘Just a casual thing?’ Tamara asks, spearing a stem of asparagus.

  ‘Guess so,’ I say quickly, aware that I am ridiculously keen to play down any attachment whatsoever, not that I’m trying to portray myself as single exactly – I mean, what would be the point? It’s just that, obviously, I’m a bit of a novelty to them and they’d want to know all about it. Would I tell them about the champagne glasses stashed in his case, and the post-coital Pringles? ‘I meant to ask,’ I say quickly, ‘has someone tidied your room and put a red foil chocolate on your pillow?’

  ‘Er, I think so,’ Tamara says vaguely, as if she didn’t pay proper attention.

  I place my fork on my empty plate. ‘Well, I had one. It’s so thoughtful of them to do that.’

  Lottie gives me a fond look. ‘Not really. It’s just turndown. Lots of hotels offer that service.’

  ‘What’s turndown?’

  ‘Oh, Audrey,’ she exclaims, touching my wrist, ‘haven’t you ever had that before? It’s when the maid turns back your covers …’

  ‘But why?’ I ask.

  ‘Well …’ She shrugs. ‘To make it more inviting, I guess, so you can just slip straight in.’

  I picture my bed at home and laugh. ‘It’s the most inviting bed I’ve ever slept in. It doesn’t need to be turned down.’

  ‘No,’ Hugo says, clearly trying to suppress a smile, ‘but it’s a nice touch, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘It’s so sweet that you appreciate these things,’ Lottie adds warmly, ‘like the way you were at the buffet today, really enjoying it, tucking into those quails’ eggs’ – aha! – ‘instead of taking it all for granted …’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara adds, ‘it’s lovely to meet someone so … unjaded by life.’

  Full of delicious food and a touch too much wine, we all drift out of the restaurant a little while later and settle ourselves into burgundy velvet sofas in a dimly lit corner of the bar. A waiter wearing a bow tie glides over to take our drinks order. As Lottie and Tamara chat away gaily, I sort of settle into the background, enjoying being a part of it, without actually having to take part. The unjaded thing could, I decide, be interpreted as patronising. But I decide to take it as a compliment. I know they find me amusing, photographing my pecans and not knowing about truffles or turndown time. But that’s okay. They just find me interesting and different, like the way Morgan was fascinated by the giant tortoises at Flamingo Land. Granted, they’re not the most attractive creatures at the zoo. But they have their own, gnarly charm, and people seem to enjoy watching to see what they’ll do next.

  Oh, it is lovely here, this hermetically sealed world where the food is carefully organised to give immense pleasure without making you feel like a bloated seal. Where you can lounge in a bar surrounded by attractive, rich-looking people – just like the ones on the hotel website – and your drink is placed before you on a little paper doily.

  My reverie is briefly interrupted by the trilling of my phone. I fish it from my bag: Stevie. Taking a sip of my G&T, I leave it to go to voicemail.

  Chapter Twelve

  De-bearding Mussels

  I assumed the teenage gardener was brought up properly because he knew how to prune a climbing shrub and now I’m thinking, wow, the children here seem incredibly well raised too. Miles of fruit, cereals, hams, cheeses and exquisite-looking pastries have been set out for breakfast; it’s like an extravagant harvest festival display. However, the immaculate young guests aren’t snatching at muffins and stuffing them into their mouths. Instead, a little boy with chestnut curls selects a boiled egg and a sliver of ham. A strawberry blonde girl has merely chosen a yoghurt and a pear. And it’s making me think, perhaps these polite youngsters are the norm – i.e. they’re just behaving in a socially acceptable manner, and it’s my parenting that’s fallen short of the mark. Ever the ‘live wire’, as the other mums politely put it, Morgan could barely sit on his bottom for five minutes until he was about nine years old. Ironic, really, seeing as he now spends roughly 90% of his time sitting/lying down.

  ‘Eggs with asparagus and hollandaise, moules marinière, poulet en cocotte bonne femme, tarte au citron and madeleines …’ Tamara looks up from a typed sheet of paper as I join the table with my own (modest) selection from the buffet.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Today’s schedule.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any schedule,’ I say, panic rising in my chest.

  ‘Don’t worry, no one has. I just saw it lying about in the stable block yesterday and stuffed it in my pocket …’

  ‘We wanted to know what we were in for,’ Lottie says with a smile.

  Hugo, who’s ploughing into a full English breakfast, looks up. ‘Good thinking. We can give the dishes some thought and research them if necessary.’ He turns and beams at me. ‘Can’t have Audrey outdoing us all again,’ he adds.

  Lottie sips her coffee. ‘Sounds like an awful lot for one day.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I hear myself saying. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to be thrown to the lions, and Brad’s here to help us …’

  ‘But he doesn’t really help,’ she points out. ‘I mean, yesterday all he did was chop an onion and leave us to get on with the recipe.’

  Tamara nods. ‘He’s not what I expected. I hoped he’d be a bit more, you know, interactive …’

  Hugo sniggers. ‘I got the impression he’d like to be interactive with Audrey.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ I choke on a fragment of Danish pastry, and am almost relieved when my mobile rings: Stevie again. ‘Excuse me a sec,’ I say, jumping up from the table and striding away.

  ‘Hey, babe,’ Stevie says. ‘So what’s all this, eh? Elusive lady …’

  He’s one to talk. ‘Hi, darling. Look, I know I should have explained but it all happened in such a hurry. I won this thing, this work thing, and I’m away for a few days—’

  ‘Only teasing,’ he chuckles. ‘I know where you are and what you’re up to. Couldn’t get hold of you last night so I called your landline first thing this morning. Morgan answered. Sounded a bit startled, like he didn’t quite know how to take a call.’

  I sink into a leather armchair at the fireplace in the foyer. Hugo, Lottie and Tamara emerge from the restaurant and head straight for the lift. ‘I’m amazed he was even awake,’ I murmur.

  ‘Well, he was definitely conscious. Told me you’d won some prize, some award … to do with school, was it?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ I decide not to elaborate further; Stevie has shown zero interest in my work, not that I’d expect him to be fascinated about the correct way to dish out lasagne.

  ‘… Said you were in some hotel learning to make cakes or whatever,’ he goes on. ‘So where are you exactly?’

  ‘Um, the hotel’s called Wilton Grange. It’s in Buckinghamshire. It’s incredibly posh, we’re being taught by a Michelin-starred chef …’

  ‘Michelin? Aren’t they the tyre people?’

  I laugh. ‘They do food as well, Stevie. They award stars to the best restaurants …’

  ‘Ah, you’re my star, babe. I miss you. So, how long
are you there for?’

  ‘Four more days. The course finishes on Friday but there’s a drinks do on Friday night. So I’ll be home Saturday afternoon …’

  He sighs. ‘Wish I could see you. I’m missing you like crazy, you know.’

  ‘I miss you too,’ I say as other students leave the restaurant – Ruth and Dylan are talking animatedly about wine – ‘but I’d really better go. Class starts at 9.30 and I need to fetch my apron …’

  ‘Your apron!’ He chuckles throatily. ‘Hmmm, I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Jesus, Stevie.’

  ‘Will you wear it for me next time I see you?’

  I snort. ‘I don’t actually know if we’re allowed to bring them home.’

  ‘Aw, shame. I was hoping you’d model it for me tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ I splutter. ‘You know I’m away—’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re not keeping you prisoner, are they? I mean, they don’t chain you to the cooker 24 hours a day?’

  ‘No, of course not …’

  ‘Well then, come and meet me tonight. I know you’re way down south but you could sneak out later, make it to Knutsford services by, I dunno, about ten …’

  I laugh loudly. ‘Are you joking? I’m not driving to Knutsford services tonight, Stevie. I’m staying here. This is quite important to me, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not cooking at night, surely? Unless it’s a midnight feast?’

  ‘No, as far as I know we’re not doing midnight feasts.’

  He sniggers suggestively. ‘We could have a midnight feast, babe. You could serve me some, er, delicacies, in your apron …’

  A waitress glides by with a silver tray laden with profiteroles. ‘Stevie, I really have to go.’