by Fiona Gibson
‘Goodnight, Audrey.’ He grins awkwardly, then turns and lollops off down the corridor.
In my room now, I realise the turndown person has been busy again. Everything is neatened, straightened, made just so. It’s also apparent that I need something to eat to soak up the booze. I flop onto the bed, visualising the minibar snacks stashed in my suitcase: the fancy crisps and ginger cookies and, hell, even the soily popcorn would go down a treat right now. But I can’t guzzle them, not when they’re allocated as presents. Another Kirsch Kiss has been placed on one of the pillows. That, too, will be taken home as a gift. It’s too special to be used as blotting paper for booze.
Gathering myself up, I wonder if there’s anything left in the minibar, maybe a packet of cookies or a soft drink: that’d be sensible. A bottle of water or a Coke. I slip off the bed and throw open the polished wooden door.
My heat soars. A miracle has happened. The minibar has been refilled.
Chapter Fifteen
Droopy Soufflé
I don’t quite know what happened last night. I remember the pub, of course, and somehow convincing myself that Brad had me earmarked as Queen of Hives, and then that terrible, wet-mouthed kiss … then a far happier time in the hotel bar with the others. And gin – I remember that too, if only vaguely. My eyes are still closed and my mouth feels disgusting: dry and not terribly fragrant. On a positive note, I am naked. This means I was at least capable of taking off my dress and shoes and even my underwear which in turn suggests that I wasn’t that far gone. Which also suggests that, once I rouse myself, my hangover won’t be too awful and I’ll still be capable of cooking.
On a less positive note, I seem to be lying on gravel which suggests that I am outside.
Holy Christ. I scramble up, awash with relief on seeing the sturdy four-poster and the soft purple covers of my heavenly bed. So it’s not gravel I’m lying on. It’s a scattering of truffle popcorn which seems to have embedded itself in my skin. I pick it off my bottom and thighs, examining the dimples it’s left behind. The effect is of extreme cellulite, coupled with light exfoliation from the salt.
I slip out of bed and check the time. Class starts in ten minutes so no time for a shower. However, as I’m not the kind of woman who’d be happy for the chambermaid to see a popcorn-strewn bed, I rake it together with my hands and dump it in the bin. I’m pulling on jeans and a top when there’s a tap on the door.
‘Just a minute,’ I say, raking a brush through my hair.
I open the door to see an eerily un-hungover-looking Hugo. ‘Was just a bit worried you’d slept in,’ he explains, ‘seeing as you didn’t show up for breakfast.’
‘I did oversleep actually,’ I say with a grimace. ‘Forgot to set my alarm.’
‘I thought you might have.’ He raises a brow in amusement and, from behind his back, produces a blueberry muffin from the buffet.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have! But thanks – I could probably do with some carbs. Come in while I get ready …’ I nibble the muffin feebly and wash it down with a glass of water. ‘Hope I wasn’t awful last night,’ I add, pulling on my apron and tying up my hair in its now customary manner with tights.
‘You weren’t awful at all,’ he says, glancing around. ‘Oh, your room’s lovely. A suite! Mine’s a broom cupboard compared to this.’
‘No, really?’
He grins. ‘Not quite. But seriously, this is palatial …’
We leave my room and, as we travel down in the lift, I try to quell my hangover-fuelled sense of unease. ‘Don’t know if I can face Brad today,’ I mutter. ‘I mean, it seemed funny last night but now – I don’t know – it’s going to be so awkward …’
‘Nonsense,’ Hugo exclaims. ‘He’s the one who should be embarrassed, pouncing on you like that. He should offer you a full apology.’
‘You’re right,’ I say as we step out into the foyer. ‘He’s the one who lured me to his house with the promise of cider and cheese when he just wanted sex …’
Hugo gives me a quizzical look. ‘He offered you cider and cheese?’
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ I say quickly, sensing my paranoia bubbling up again. ‘I got the wrong end of the stick, really. It’s fine, though,’ I add breezily. ‘I’m just going to work through today’s recipes in a totally professional way. I mean, we only have three more days of cooking. I really want to get the most out of this.’
‘Good girl,’ Hugo says with a chuckle. ‘Cook your socks off and show him you’re not remotely fazed.’ I smile, feeling better already as we make our way across the sun-filled courtyard and into the stable block.
As if remotely controlled, I make my way straight to my workstation without making eye contact with Brad and check today’s recipes. Brad doesn’t seem to be bothering to do a demonstration, or even welcoming us this morning; he is too busy making idle banter with the assistants. This is good. The less interaction the better, as far as I’m concerned.
Everyone is getting stuck in with the first recipe: boudin noir aux pommes – that’s blood sausage with apple, I have now discovered – which seems a little cruel considering my fragile condition. But then, no one strapped me to a chair in the bar last night and poured gin down my throat. I have no one to blame but myself, I decide, trying to breathe my way through a wave of queasiness as I sauté my pungent sausages, then transfer them onto a plate. Calvados – alcohol, ugh – is sloshed into the pan, along with sliced shiny red apples and a glug of cream. By now, I’m aware of a prickly sensation on my bottom and legs, and decide it’s another hangover symptom: quite reasonably, my skin is protesting against me getting hammered last night. Scratching – I hope discreetly – at my bottom, I catch Brad’s amused glance across the room.
I turn away and finish the dish, moving swiftly onwards to duck liver pâté, which involves the sautéing of offal, obviously, plus another slosh of booze – cognac in this case – by which time the entire lower half of my body is prickling unbearably. I nip to the loo to check out my legs and bottom; as I feared, they are worryingly blotchy. Perhaps it’s the presence of Brad – and visions of his wet, wine-stained lips looming towards me last night – that’s bringing me out in a rash …
I’m still itchy at lunchtime, and poke half-heartedly at my pâté at a table in the sun-filled gardens. I simply can’t face my boudin noir. ‘This is delicious,’ Hugo enthuses, forking in chunks of sausage while I recall Jenna’s short-lived vegetarian phase earlier this year. Really, it didn’t impact her dietary habits that much: she just picked the pepperoni off her pizza. Yet now, as everyone discusses the next dish to be cooked, I wonder if I may follow suit.
‘Rabbit casserole,’ Tamara muses. ‘That sounds okay. Just like chicken, really …’
‘No, it’s not,’ I cut in. ‘Morgan’s favourite film was Watership Down, he watched it over and over for months …’
‘But these aren’t the ones in the movie,’ Hugo points out. ‘They’re just random, nameless bunnies.’
‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t seem right, eating something you’d normally see in a hutch.’
‘Why not?’ he asks, looking genuinely perplexed.
I want to explain that it’s a small step from sautéing a guinea pig, but don’t want to seem pathetically un-French. ‘Well,’ I say, shrugging, ‘they’re furry …’
‘Cows are furry,’ Lottie points out.
‘Well, sort of fuzzy,’ Tamara corrects her.
‘They’re small, then,’ I add. ‘I mean, a rabbit can fit in a handbag …’
‘And you have a personal rule,’ Hugo remarks, ‘to never eat anything you could fit in your handbag …’ I laugh, realising how ridiculous I’m being. Something about being around Hugo lifts my spirits; even the itching has subsided a little now. By the time we’re back at our workstations, jointing our rabbits – ‘chop them at the elbows and knees,’ Brad commands – I’m too busy grappling with bones and sinew and God knows what else to even think about my traumatised skin.
In fact, the rabbit ca
sserole is delicious, as long as I can banish thoughts of seven-year-old Morgan, weeping quietly to the strains of Bright Eyes in front of his beloved DVD. But by the time we move on to our sweet vanilla soufflés, my confidence has begun to wane.
‘Rise, for Christ’s sake,’ I murmur, peering at my creation through the glass oven door. I will it to puff up, to be beautifully cloud-like and prove that I am a capable cook – Frenchie style – and that Brad is crazy not to consider me for his team.
‘Staring at it won’t help,’ he remarks, having arrived at my side.
‘I’m just keeping an eye on it,’ I say. I glance up at him, expecting him to at least look a little embarrassed, and to whisper, ‘Sorry about last night. I was rat-arsed and my behaviour was completely disrespectful.’ But instead he just stands there, hands on hips, gaze fixed upon my soufflé as I lift it from the oven. Rather than rising obediently it has slumped dolefully in the middle.
‘It’s not too bad,’ Hugo says, glancing over.
‘It’s a disaster,’ I groan. Brad is giving it a pitiful look, as if it’s a pet with virtually no chance of survival. In fact, he’s clearly delighted with my failure on the soufflé front. Serves her right, I bet he’s thinking, for shoving me off her last night.
‘Desserts really aren’t your thing, are they?’ he asks with a smirk.
‘No, clearly not,’ I say dryly.
‘I was watching you,’ he adds, far louder than is necessary, ‘and you didn’t gently fold in the egg whites. You sort of muddled it all together …’
I cough. ‘Yes, um, I realise I went a bit wrong there …’
‘You seemed distracted,’ he continues, waggling his pale brows, ‘as if your mind wasn’t really on the job in hand … would that be a correct assumption?’
Catching Lottie and Hugo throwing him irritated glances, I turn to look Brad directly in the eye. ‘I’m actually not feeling too good today.’
‘Really?’ He flashes a teasing grin. ‘Not been … bitten, have you?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I exclaim, aware now of Dylan and Jenny tuning into our exchange.
‘The scratching, Audrey. You seem terribly itchy today. Don’t tell me there are bedbugs in the honeymoon suite …’
‘I’m sure there aren’t,’ I bluster. ‘It’s just … a bit hot in here. In fact, excuse me, I’m going to step outside for a minute …’ I dart out to the courtyard where, not caring that anyone might glance through the stable block windows and see me, I claw at my bottom and legs. It’s not enough. I need to be naked, sluiced with cool water.
It’s an unforgettable experience, isn’t it? Shirley, the competition organiser, had enthused. Possibly even life-changing. It sure is, I decide, raking at my rear and wondering if I’m having an allergic reaction to all the rich dishes I’ve been sampling here. Maybe fancy French food isn’t for me. Damn Brad, humiliating me just because I wouldn’t shag him last night.
Itching slightly subsided, I make my way back into the stable block where I tackle my washing up at lightning speed. ‘We’re going to the spa after this,’ Tamara remarks. ‘Fancy coming along?’
I shake my head. ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll just have a lie down in my room. It’s been a bit of a trying day.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Lottie chides me, ‘it’s just what you need. We’ve checked it out already and it’s amazing. Grab your swimsuit and meet us there.’
*
Up in my room, I strip naked and examine my mottled body, then pull on my undies plus a loose cotton dress: kind to stressed skin. Grabbing my swimsuit and robe, I make my way downstairs and across the grounds to the spa – it’s a modern, low-level glass structure, cunningly disguised by trees – where Lottie, Tamara and Hugo are already reclining in robes on loungers by the side of the indoor pool. ‘Poor you,’ Lottie says sympathetically as I join them. ‘Brad didn’t need to pick on you like that.’
‘He’s just a pisshead,’ Tamara mutters. ‘I mean, what’s he taught us all week? How to chop an onion and whip up a hollandaise?’
‘The assistant did that,’ Lottie reminds her.
‘Anyway,’ Hugo adds, looking up from his phone, ‘you rose above it, Audrey, like the lightest of soufflés. So, well done you.’
‘Thanks, Hugo.’ I perch on a lounger and glimpse his screen: it’s a shot of a beautiful, raven-haired teenage girl.
He catches me looking. ‘That’s Emily,’ he says, holding it up so I can get a better look.
‘Emily?’
‘My daughter,’ he adds with a grin.
‘Really? I didn’t know you had any kids. How old is she?’
‘Fourteen,’ he replies.
I take a moment to process this. How strange to not have mentioned her over the past three days. ‘She’s your only one?’
‘Yep,’ he replies, showing me another picture, this time of the two of them, arms around each other in a garden filled with roses.
‘She’s lovely, Hugo. A real beauty. She looks like you, actually, very much …’
‘So everyone says,’ he says with a smile.
‘So, um … does she live with her mum?’ I ask.
‘Well, yes, in the holidays. She’s at boarding school the rest of the time.’
‘Oh.’
He smiles. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘It’s just, I don’t know anyone whose children go to boarding school. I guess you had your reasons, though—’
‘She loves it,’ he says firmly. ‘It’s a real community, the opportunities they have are amazing. There are incredible trips and career guidance, they all do the Duke of Edinburgh award …’ Would Morgan still be lying on the sofa, prodding at his laptop, if I’d had the money to offer him that kind of education? I’d have missed him, though. In fact, I realise, scratching my ankle, I’m missing him now.
‘I went to boarding school too,’ Tamara offers.
‘Really?’ I turn to her. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Christ, no, I bloody hated it.’ She guffaws. ‘Terrible bullying and a whole load of bulimia thrown in.’ She glances at Hugo. ‘Sorry. I’m sure Emily’s having a far better experience …’
‘She’s fine,’ he says, a little defensively now. ‘She’s getting an excellent education.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ I offer, my head buzzing with questions: but don’t you miss her? Don’t you wonder what she’s doing, every day? But then, maybe it’s me who’s overly involved in my son’s life: leaving him frozen meals and butterfly cakes, for God’s sake.
‘Anyone fancy a dip?’ Hugo asks, whipping off his robe to reveal an impressively toned body clad in boxer-style trunks. He leaps in with a splash.
‘I do,’ Tamara calls after him, casting off her own robe and striding in a cut-away black swimsuit to the deep end. She dives in a graceful arc, followed by Lottie in a polka dot bikini: gorgeous, the pair of them, their bodies unmottled and devoid of the ravages of time. Hugo is already ploughing energetically along the length of the pool. I catch myself watching him, trying to figure out why he hadn’t thought to mention his daughter before.
‘Come on in!’ he commands with a wave. I grimace, not sure that I’m up to exposing my mottled body in such attractive company.
‘Hurry up,’ Tamara adds. ‘It’s lovely in here …’ I shrug off my robe and itch at my hip, then absent-mindedly bite at my nail. Salt. My fingertip tastes of salt, from my hip – from the popcorn. ‘I’m all salty!’ I announce, springing up from the lounger. ‘I’ve been itching all day and I couldn’t work out what it was …’
‘I thought you seemed a bit distracted,’ Lottie exclaims. ‘I didn’t like to say … so, what happened?’
‘Oh, I know,’ Tamara remarks. ‘You managed to fit in a salt scrub before class …’
‘So that’s why you didn’t show up for breakfast,’ Lottie adds. ‘You’re supposed to shower it off, you know.’
‘It wasn’t a salt scrub,’ I say, laughing now as I gather myself up and plunge feet first into the co
ol, soothing water. Ah: instant relief.
‘What was it, then?’ Hugo asks, splashing towards me as I come up for air.
‘It was the popcorn I lay on all night.’
‘You slept on popcorn?’ He blinks at me, uncomprehending. ‘What is this, some kind of weird new beauty treatment?’
‘No, it wasn’t deliberate,’ I chuckle. ‘I sort of, er, spilt it in bed. But yeah, I guess I’ve had a salt scrub.’
‘Oh, Audrey,’ Lottie giggles, ‘you are adorable. People pay good money for that.’
Chapter Sixteen
Champagne in Bed
My son is uncontactable next morning. That’s fine, it’s only just gone eleven – he’s probably still resting – and I’ve only popped out of class to say hi and check all’s okay on the home front. However I imagine that, in my absence, he has slipped into an entirely nocturnal schedule, like a mole. I can’t understand it. Would any adult human choose to work night shifts and sleep all day, if they could possibly avoid it? Of course they wouldn’t. Yet Morgan seems to actively desire this kind of life.
After rustling up a decent wild garlic soup – can’t imagine that going down a storm with Mrs B – I set about tackling a boeuf bourguignon, with a cow’s actual cheeks, plus lashings of red wine and with no direction from Brad whatsoever. In fact he spends the whole time blathering away on his mobile, which is rich, considering how disapproving he is of us prodding at our phones. Still, rather that than him hovering around me. Left in peace to cook, and with my rash now disappeared, I tackle the relatively simple task of knocking together leeks vinaigrette (vegetables, sweet relief!).
Our bourguignons are ready in time for lunch. ‘I’m not sure about eating an animal’s actual face,’ Lottie remarks, frowning at her dish in the dappled sunshine.
Instantly, I feel better about making such a fuss about sautéing rabbit yesterday. ‘I suppose it’s no different to a thigh really,’ I remark. Having polished off a bowl of soup, I am now savouring my own bourguignon with a glass of red wine.