The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  That was the other thing; some of them had brought their own equipment, from leather rolls containing flashy knives to complicated grinding machines, and those that hadn’t were demanding we supply them with things I hadn’t even heard of. I was completely out of my depth.

  No wonder my head was already throbbing.

  ‘Have they all got name badges?’ I asked and Pixie nodded.

  ‘OK, here goes,’ I murmured.

  I shook my hands out to release the tension, plastered on a bright smile and cleared my throat. The room fell silent, the contestants staring at me with anticipation, and I felt my palms go clammy.

  ‘On behalf of the Plumberry School of Comfort Food, I’d like to welcome everyone to our very first Signature Dish competition. I’m Verity Bloom, marketing manager; this is Mags, a former cookery book publisher, and Pixie, our—’

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ shouted the man with the bandana.

  ‘I knew he’d be trouble,’ Pixie muttered from behind her hand.

  Suddenly all heads swivelled towards the corner of the room at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps as the man himself came into view at the top of the staircase.

  Tom did up the last popper on his chef’s tunic and grinned as he caught my eye. I nearly fainted with relief. His hair was more wild-looking and windswept than normal and his neatly trimmed beard was not quite so neat but he was here. Thank heavens.

  ‘Last but not least, I’m delighted to introduce the immensely talented Tom MacDonald.’

  I stared pointedly at him and hoped nobody noticed I was gritting my teeth.

  ‘Tom has worked at top-class restaurants all over the world and what he doesn’t know about fine dining isn’t worth knowing. He will be presiding over today’s competition, which judging by the atmosphere in this room is going to be pretty fierce.’

  Everyone in the room erupted into applause. Except me. I might be relieved to see him, but he had some explaining to do before I’d be fanning his already monstrous ego.

  ‘Thank you.’ Tom held his hands up modestly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your job here today is – if you’ll pardon the pun – a piece of cake. All you have to do is impress me.’

  He paused while the contestants laughed.

  ‘This is about your signature dish, your very best cooking. I’ll be looking carefully to see what your food says about you.’

  He checked his watch and then looked at me. I nodded.

  ‘OK, the boss says you can start,’ Tom continued. ‘You have two hours. Off you go, I’m expecting some great plates of food!’

  He clapped his hands and the contestants leapt into action. Saucepans clattered, machines whirred, knives chopped and sliced, and Jack the butcher whipped out a whole rabbit complete with fur, which made Pixie squeak.

  As soon as I could, I marched across the teaching kitchen, down the stairs and out on to the deck.

  I stood at the balustrade, staring down at the water as it sparkled in the sunlight, my chest heaving as I caught my breath. How could he just breeze in and grin at me like that? The MasterChef-style competition had been his baby, not mine, and yet I’d been the one running round like a headless poussin until he swanned in at the last second like . . . like a flippin’ swan.

  He was so infuriating . . .

  I heard a soft laugh behind me. ‘Verity, did you just growl?’

  I turned to see him standing in the doorway, a nervous smile playing at his lips.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Why didn’t you ring? The cookery school is full with your contestants,’ I demanded, a sob catching in my throat. ‘I’ve been so—’

  Worried, I was going to say, but before I could even get the words out, he’d covered the distance between us and scooped me up in his arms so tightly that all my protests were literally silenced. I could hardly breathe let alone talk.

  I closed my eyes for a second and forced back the tears and the exhaustion that had threatened to engulf me over the weekend. It would have been so easy to relax against him and it did feel good to be held again.

  But I mustered all my indignation instead and struggled out of his arms. I needed to show him how mad I was, how hurt that he had disappeared and not even thought to get in touch. Now was not the time to go all gooey.

  He looked blankly at me. ‘Why are you mad? You knew where I was.’

  The thoughtless, selfish lump . . . Right now I’d cheerfully tip him over the balustrade into the river.

  ‘When I didn’t hear from you, I thought . . . I thought you might not come back,’ I managed to croak.

  He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry. I left Plumberry with just the clothes I stood up in and nothing else. My phone had died by the time we reached Manchester and Rebecca has got some Sony thing so I couldn’t use her charger. I couldn’t even turn my phone on to find your number. I left a billion messages on the cookery school line, didn’t you get them?’

  I shook my head. That made me feel better at least. I wanted to ask where he’d been staying; he didn’t look like he’d had much sleep. But I didn’t like to; it wasn’t any of my business and I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t like the answer.

  The last seventy-two hours had been awful. This weekend, looking after Gloria, not just providing meals and drinks but supporting her while she did her exercises, making sure she had everything she needed, helping her to wash and dress . . . being at her total beck and call, in fact, had been non-stop. And much as I loved her, it had niggled a little bit when the district nurse had phoned offering assistance and Gloria had refused, saying that I could give her all the help she needed.

  As well as my nursing duties, there had been the cookery school to deal with: sorting out the aftermath of the power cut and answering the emails and website enquiries that our Challenge Chester stunt had generated. On top of that I’d had to wash thirty large paella pans. For the first time since I’d been in Plumberry things had begun to get on top of me and I had felt lonely and taken for granted.

  Something Tom had said to me on Saturday had been playing on my mind too: I’ve never seen you put yourself first.

  Well, that was going to change. Tom clearly wasn’t afraid to put himself first. He might be apologizing now, but look how quickly he’d left me on Saturday. Even Mags had been conspicuous by her absence over the bank holiday weekend, going to visit her sister in Liverpool. So why shouldn’t I start looking after number one a bit too?

  ‘That explains a lot,’ he said. ‘I repeat, I am sorry. Come here.’

  He held out his arms and this time I stepped into them. I didn’t return the hug, but rested my cheek against the crisp cotton of his chef whites.

  ‘We don’t normally do this,’ I said grudgingly.

  ‘No.’ He placed my arms around his waist and forced me to hold him. ‘It feels good, though.’

  I didn’t reply. But yes, it did.

  Seconds later, he released me and took a step back.

  ‘You’ve got great eyes.’

  Not pretty, or beautiful, but great. It was such a ‘Tom’ compliment. I blinked self-consciously. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘They’re as green as summer grass, but there are amazing tiny specks of amber in them that flash like fire when you’re angry.’ He leaned forward to examine them. ‘And I seem to make them flash quite often.’

  And he had two tiny creases between his eyebrows that met when he frowned and long, long eyelashes that swept his brow bone when he blinked. I held my breath, not sure what to say, but liking the sensation his words were having on my stomach. Like sipping brandy, I thought absentmindedly. Intoxicating and fiery and definitely something worth getting used to.

  ‘Whose fault is that, I wonder,’ I replied finally.

  ‘Verity, this weekend . . . Being away from Plumberry has given me time to think.’

  He stared at me, his watchful eyes registering every flicker of emotion that passed across my face.

  ‘Me too.’

  I glanced up a
t him again; he didn’t need to tell me what he’d been thinking about. This was exactly what had been going through my head on and off all weekend. It was obvious; he was going to leave the cookery school. Rebecca and his posh restaurant had won him back. Part of me wasn’t surprised; the other part was heartbroken.

  ‘Will you give me a chance to explain?’

  I took a deep shuddering breath; I wasn’t ready to hear this. Not yet.

  ‘You should get back upstairs,’ I said. ‘There are eighteen chefs up there, all trying to impress you.’

  Maybe they could succeed where I had clearly failed.

  He nodded. ‘You’re right. But can we talk later? Out here again once all their food is in the ovens?’

  I blinked at him and swallowed, my mouth dry. ‘Of course.’

  Chapter 22

  Tom strode away and disappeared from view. I stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh late-spring air and listening to the burble of the river and the song from the birds in the trees and eventually the gentle rhythms of nature calmed my thumping heart.

  I went back inside, determined not to panic. Tom hadn’t left yet. What was the use in worrying about how I’d manage without him or about how we were going to cope without anyone to teach the courses? There’d be plenty of time to panic later . . .

  I stopped off at the fancy coffee machine, made two lattes for Mags and me and meandered into reception where she was hunched over her desk.

  ‘Ooh, thanks,’ she said as I set a mug on a coaster near her keyboard. ‘Look at all these.’

  She swivelled her computer screen so that I could see her email inbox.

  ‘Lots of lovely enquiries?’ I said, blowing the froth on my coffee.

  Mags nodded. ‘And these, look.’

  She tapped her pad to where she’d made a list of the messages that had been left on the answerphone since I’d checked it on Sunday.

  ‘Including five messages from Tom asking you to ring him on this Manchester number.’

  So he had tried to get in touch. Good. My heart gave a little bounce.

  ‘Word is getting round about our cookery school,’ I said, scanning through the other messages. ‘Just imagine what it will be like once our episode of Challenge Chester has gone out; we’ll be swamped!’

  ‘We’re already doing well.’ She took out several sugar packets from her drawer and tipped them into her mug. ‘Gloria will be thrilled to see that bookings are up.’

  ‘She will. Goodness, is that the bookings list for Perfect Pasta?’ I gasped, looking at the computer. ‘Nineteen students?’

  Mags chuckled. ‘It’s because people are trying to register for the Plumberry Bake Off competition. I’ve managed to persuade a few of them on to a course instead; the Cakes and Bakes course is getting close to fully booked too. I think we might have struck gold with the competitive element, I’ve been turning people away in their droves today.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘We just need to find a way to make money from competitions.’

  ‘We could advertise to companies to run their own competitions for staff,’ she suggested. ‘Dave said that cooking could be the new paintballing, you know, team building, that sort of thing.’

  He might have a point there. I for one would much rather spend a day at a cookery school learning a new skill with my colleagues than chasing each other round a muddy field with camouflage paint plastered across my face.

  ‘Good idea. And?’ I probed, nudging her with my elbow. ‘How did you get on with him? I left you alone as requested on Saturday after Challenge Chester.’

  She flapped her hand. ‘Nothing to report on that front,’ she said gloomily. ‘Once he’d helped me get Gloria inside he scuttled off home.’

  Odd; I was sure there was a spark there on both sides. ‘Did you actually invite him in?’

  A flush rose to her neck. ‘I wanted to . . .’ She swallowed. ‘But when push came to shove, I lost my bottle.’

  I blinked at her. ‘This is not the brave and bold Mags that I know and love.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ She began to fuss with her hair. ‘That’s all a front. I’m actually quite shy when it comes to men.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Are you having me on?’

  To my horror, her lip began to wobble. ‘I’m my own worst enemy, Verity. Scared of being on my own for ever, but too scared to do anything about it. And then I spent the rest of the weekend at my sister’s, worried that I’ve missed the boat.’ She sighed and my heart went out to her.

  ‘Oh, Mags, I’m sure you haven’t,’ I said, giving her shoulders a squeeze.

  She produced a tissue out of her drawer. ‘Don’t listen to me. You’re far too young to worry about missing any boats.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom jogging down the stairs towards us, a determined look in his eye.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ I murmured.

  Tom grinned as he approached, and for a moment I felt my heart stop.

  ‘Have you got time for that chat now?’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  Mags raised a curious eyebrow as I followed Tom back through the Aga kitchen and out on to the deck. The sun was higher now and the air smelled fresh and bursting with life after all the rain over the last few days. I rested my elbows on the wooden ledge overlooking the river and watched as a tawny mallard leading three fluffy ducklings bobbed past on the river. Tom joined me, mirroring my body language.

  ‘So how’s Rebecca?’ I blurted out. ‘Good, I’m guessing, seeing as you stayed so long?’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’s happy, I think. I had originally planned to come back on Sunday night but we spent the day locked behind closed doors yesterday. Exhausting but worthwhile.’

  I closed my eyes, to shut out the image of him and Rebecca . . . together. Oh God, this was going to be worse than I thought.

  I swallowed. ‘So you’re back together?’

  Tom looked at me sharply. ‘Jesus. Not. A. Chance.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said in a neutral tone and resisted punching the air.

  He stared down at his hands and twisted the leather strap round his wrist.

  ‘I’ll be honest, when I left with her on Saturday my heart was beating like the clappers. I was angry with her, but I was flattered too, and she always did have the power to bend me to her will. As we drove out of Plumberry, I wondered whether I’d been too hasty to walk away from her in April. Maybe I should have fought harder for her. For the restaurant.’

  ‘What happened to change your mind?’

  ‘We hadn’t gone far when she reached for my hand. I thought, this is the moment. Do I want this?’

  ‘And?’ I prompted, swallowing hard.

  ‘I realized I didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘When something so fundamental has been broken it can never be fixed. Like my trust in her.’

  I nodded. I knew exactly how he felt. I remembered the first time I’d seen my fiancé Chris after we’d split up. We had hugged and I’d told him how much I missed him and he’d said the same. But when he’d tried to kiss me, I’d hesitated and the opportunity to make up had slipped away. And although it was sad, I had no regrets because deep down I realized that we didn’t love each other enough to accept each other’s choices. And if we couldn’t do that before we were married, what chance did we have for a happy future?

  ‘I didn’t take her hand and the moment passed.’ He shook his head and gave a hollow laugh. ‘You can imagine the atmosphere in the car after that. And before we’d even reached Manchester I knew I’d made the right decision. You heard her apologize, right?’

  I nodded. Rebecca had vowed that her affair with Ryan had been a silly mistake.

  ‘That didn’t last long; she started reeling off all the ways I’d pushed her into being unfaithful, which included – I’m not kidding – the time I’d not come out to say hello to a table of her old teacher colleagues. We were full that night, and short staffed . . .’

  I shot him a quizzical look. ‘She was unfaithf
ul because you were busy in the kitchen?’

  ‘That and several hundred other alleged misdemeanours on my part,’ he said in disgust.

  ‘So why did you stay away so long? What have you been doing all this time?’ I asked.

  He left here on Saturday. It was now Tuesday. That was three days. And three nights.

  ‘I remembered what you said about helping Liam. So I decided to help her and Ryan out.’

  ‘So they are still together?’ I exclaimed.

  He nodded. ‘She hadn’t ended it with him, just in case I turned her down.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Part of me wanted to gloat and leave them to it. But I kept thinking, What would Verity do?’ he said with a shy grin.

  ‘Me?’ I stared at him. Inside I glowed with pride.

  ‘You said that you’d sent that marketing plan in to your last place to help your ex out even though no one would ever know it was your work.’ He gazed at me unwaveringly and I felt my cheeks go a bit warm. ‘That really stuck with me. And when I saw the mess they’d made of the restaurant I decided to try to do something kind and selfless. Like you would.’

  I was flattered beyond measure. And blushing like mad.

  ‘Excuse me while I polish my halo,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

  He grinned and looked away over the water.

  ‘Whether I like it or not, I’ll always be associated with Salinger’s. Even though it might not have my name over the door, it received that Michelin star under my leadership, my menu. It would be a crime to let that reputation go to waste.’

  I studied him surreptitiously. He’d changed since I’d first met him when he’d said that his food was about him; he’d started to lose that hard edge and I liked him all the more for it.

  ‘So what did you do?’

  He lifted one shoulder casually. ‘I simplified the menu. Took out a couple of my signature dishes.’

  ‘No more scallops with lime foam? Shock horror.’

  He laughed. ‘No. Although I left them with a minted pea purée.’