‘Tough morning at work?’ I asked. Rosie was never averse to a bit of drama. She blamed it on Nonna whose motto was ‘sing when you’re winning and wail when you’re not’.
‘You have no idea.’ She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands. ‘My place is having to make redundancies and my boss has asked me to draw up a list of candidates for the chop.’
My heart went out to her; after escaping from Solomon’s only a month ago, I knew how stressful the workplace could become when jobs were under threat.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I laid my hand on hers. ‘How awful to be put in that position.’
She shrugged wearily. ‘Let’s just say I’m about as popular in the office as the Grim Reaper at the moment. Anyway,’ she waved a hand, ‘let’s talk about something happier.’
Pixie approached, carefully carrying a tall latte glass with four caramel biscuits balanced on the saucer. We normally served it with one.
‘I’ve added extra caramel syrup,’ said Pixie, blushing as Rosie crossed her legs, revealing a lean thigh and a flash of gold ankle chain.
Rosie picked up the tall glass and slurped. ‘Oh, sweet Madonna, this is better than sex.’
Pixie beamed and I thought for a second she was going to curtsey. ‘You looked like you needed a sugar hit.’
‘Spot on.’ She grinned, sticking her thumb up as Pixie made her way inside. ‘Unlike Verity Bloom who looks like she’s won the lottery.’
My turn to grin like a loon. ‘I’ve got loads to tell you, Rosie, but—’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mags usher two women into the Aga kitchen.
‘The other students have begun to arrive for your course. I’d better go and see if Tom is back. You can let off some steam punching pasta dough and we’ll catch up later.’
Rosie dunked one of the biscuits in her latte. ‘Can’t wait. And Nonna will be so proud of me for finally learning how to be a proper Italian.’
‘Don’t eat too much, though.’ I stood and gave her a quick hug. ‘We’re going for an early dinner.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t mind where we go as long as there’s alcohol.’
‘There will be,’ I laughed. ‘After dinner we’re going home for cocktails; Mags has invented a cocktail called the Plumberry Pucker. You have to try it.’
Rosie gave a hoot. ‘Thank the Lord you don’t live in Flumberry.’
I could still hear her laughing at her own joke when I reached the office upstairs.
Chapter 30
‘Would Nonna approve of Tom, your tutor, do you think?’ I asked as we settled ourselves into the back of a cab on the way to Platform Six later that afternoon. I maintained a neutral expression for as long as I could, but my eyes were already beginning to crinkle at the corners.
‘Who cares?’ Rosie pretended to fan her face. ‘I very much approve. He looks as dark as an Italian from the back and then he turns and does that cheeky Irish smile. Phwoar. I wouldn’t mind a trip to the Emerald Isle if they all look like that.’
‘He’s delicious, isn’t he?’ I fidgeted in my seat, like Noah when he’s too excited to contain himself.
She stared at me. ‘Are you and he . . .? Is that the reason for the I’ve-won-the-jackpot sparkly eyes?’
‘It’s still very new,’ I said, trying to keep a lid on my glee. ‘Less than twenty-four hours. We haven’t even been on a date. In fact . . .’
I stopped short of telling her that tonight was to have been mine and Tom’s first date. I didn’t want Rosie to feel guilty. Our first date would be on Sunday instead. Sometimes looking forward to something can be just as spine-tinglingly exciting as the thing itself.
I allowed my mind to flash back to our goodnight kiss yesterday when Tom had asked me out to dinner at Platform Six. When I’d explained that I couldn’t, he insisted on me taking Rosie in his place. We’d changed the booking to make it earlier, though, because I didn’t want to leave Gloria on her own for another evening.
Hence the reason that we were trundling through Plumberry at half past five.
‘In fact,’ I said, changing tack, ‘I haven’t even told Gloria yet.’
‘Wow.’ She flashed her dark eyes and gave me a sly sideways glance. ‘You know, I really thought . . .’
‘What?’
‘Don’t bite my head off.’
‘Spit it out,’ I ordered, laughing.
‘I really thought you and Gabe might . . .’ Her voice petered off, allowing me to fill in the gaps.
Not her as well. I rolled my eyes.
‘Stop. Seriously. Just – stop.’ I folded my arms. ‘Gabe Green is a no-go zone. End of. Imagine what Mimi would think?’
Rosie huffed softly. ‘I’ll tell you what I think. She’d see two people who care about each other. And I don’t see how she could be anything but pleased?’
‘Rosie,’ I said sharply, ‘you don’t understand.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ she retorted.
‘Just drop it. Please,’ I said through clenched teeth.
She held her hands up. ‘OK. Dropped.’
There were very few people who knew the truth about what happened four years ago. Rosie knew that Chris and I had ended our engagement over it and that Mum and I had rowed about it too. And although I knew it hurt Rosie’s feelings that I’d never confided in her, I always thought she understood my reasons. Now, it seemed, Rosie was siding with Gloria and hoping Gabe and I would become an item . . .
As much as I adored him, that was unthinkable for both of us.
I sneaked a look at her. Her hands were clenched in her lap and her eyes were closed.
I suppressed a sigh. How had we even got into this conversation? This was supposed to be a girlie chat about me and Tom. I looked out of the window, racking my brains for a less controversial topic of conversation.
Luckily the taxi pulled into the car park of Platform Six only a few minutes later.
‘Here you go, ladies. Fifteen pounds please.’
‘Cute,’ said Rosie, peering out of the window at the converted Victorian railway station.
I took my purse out of my bag to pay and Rosie climbed out, dragging my bag with her.
‘Sweet Jesus, Verity, what have you got in here, rocks?’ she said, pretending to stagger under the weight of it.
The bad atmosphere between us evaporated instantly. It was Friday, I had hours of fun ahead with my completely mad friend and a glass of chilled Prosecco with my name on it at the bar.
‘A jar of marmalade and two packets of biscuits,’ I said with a giggle.
‘Who’s joining us for dinner,’ Rosie snorted, ‘Paddington Bear?’
A smiley waiter showed us to our table, pulled out chairs, handed round menus and the wine list and poured us each a glass of iced water from a carafe. Rosie and I were the only diners apart from two men in suits who looked like they were in a meeting.
Platform Six was not at all like the dark Victorian Gothic interior I’d imagined. It was kitsch and quirky with lots of bright colours: a fused glass wall behind the bar, mismatched velvet dining chairs in jewel shades and a collection of eclectic art above our table, including a lime green stag’s head. I loved it and felt a warm rush of tenderness towards Tom for wanting to bring me here.
‘We have our resident mixologist ready to make your bespoke cocktails at the bar,’ said the waiter, extending an arm to where a barman paused from polishing a glass to give us a smile.
Rosie jumped up straight away. ‘I love it here already.’
‘Does everyone get a bespoke cocktail?’ I asked, tucking my bag safely under my seat.
The waiter shook his head and smiled more broadly. ‘Somebody rang to include it in your booking. Your dinner is also paid for, madam.’
Rosie’s eyes widened and my heart swooped; it could only be Tom. She looped her arm through mine as we approached the bar.
‘Has Tom got any single brothers, by any chance?’
I glowed with
happiness. I had a good feeling about Tom and me. I was independent enough not to need my girlfriend’s approval on my choice of men, but it was nice to have it all the same.
The barman – or mixologist, as he liked to be called – was from Brazil and his name was Luis. He had dimples to die for and sparkling white teeth. He gave us the cocktail list and instructed us to choose one or if we’d prefer, he’d make one for us.
‘I read the body,’ he said in heavily accented English. He ran his eyes over Rosie appreciatively. ‘I know exactly what are the flavours that will excite your mouth.’
‘That is a challenge that no woman could refuse,’ said Rosie, batting her eyelashes. ‘Surprise us.’
We settled ourselves on bar stools and watched as Luis crushed ice, squeezed fruit, plucked fresh herbs and shook and stirred our drinks elaborately. It took him a while, but it was worth the wait. Our cocktails were as different as our personalities and we both loved what he’d made for us.
Ten minutes later and halfway down our cocktails, we thanked Luis for the entertainment and returned to our seats at our table.
Rosie raised her eyebrows as she sucked on her straw. ‘This is mouth-puckeringly sour, but I love it.’
Luis had made her his own version of a Brazilian caipirinha but I preferred mine. I’d already forgotten what it was called but it had a big sprig of rosemary in it and tasted fresh and exciting and I could feel the alcohol zipping through my bloodstream.
I shimmied with happiness. That was my life at the moment: fresh and exciting. I felt like a bubble, all shiny and light and iridescent with joy.
‘Let’s take a selfie and send it to Tom!’
I scooped up my bag and found my phone. And at that moment the bubble popped.
I stared at the screen in disbelief: in the fifteen minutes or so that we’d been at the bar I’d received a slew of calls, voicemails and texts. The cookery school, Tom, Mags and Gabe . . .
My heart turned to lead as I read Gabe’s text:
I’ll meet you at the hospital
And Tom’s:
I’m on my way to fetch you
My first thought was that Noah had had an accident and my blood ran cold, but then I realized who hadn’t called me: Gloria. It had to be . . .
‘Oh my God,’ I whispered. I’d known there was something wrong. I’d never forgive myself if . . .
‘Verity? You’ve gone chalk-white.’ Rosie’s eyes searched mine.
‘I think Gloria might be ill.’ I gripped her hand as I called Tom back.
‘Tom?’ I gasped as he answered the phone. There was the sound of an engine and road noise in the background.
‘Stay calm, I’m on my way.’ I shut my eyes and suppressed a sob; how could I possibly be calm?
‘What’s happened?’ I stammered.
‘I’m afraid Gloria has been taken into hospital. The physiotherapist arrived, took one look at her and called an ambulance.’
‘Is it serious?’ I said, barely louder than a whisper.
There was a beat of silence before he spoke.
‘The paramedics informed next of kin from Gloria’s cottage. That’s all I know.’
Gabe. And he called me. My heart thumped. While I was laughing over cocktails.
‘We’ll get a taxi,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘It’ll be quicker.’
I couldn’t sit here waiting, I needed to do something.
‘No need. I’m almost there, come straight out.’
With cries of apology to the restaurant staff, Rosie and I ran outside just as Tom pulled up to the entrance. I jumped into the front and Rosie dived on to the back seat. I met Tom’s eyes and my heart bounced at his grim expression. We didn’t waste time with words; as soon as our doors were shut, Tom put the car into gear and drove.
As we sped out of the car park, Tom’s mobile rang. He chucked it into my lap without reading the display.
‘No hands-free in this car, put it on speaker phone, would you?’
I touched the screen to accept the call, a York number by the look of the code. The hospital? I held my breath.
‘Tom MacDonald,’ Tom said loudly. He pulled on to the main road towards York. I couldn’t see the speedometer, but the G-force thrust me back against my seat.
‘It’s Nige,’ came the gravelly voice of a man who sounded like he gargled whisky for breakfast.
Tom shot me an anxious look and groaned softly under his breath. ‘Can we do this later, Nige? Only I’m on my way to hospital.’
‘No,’ said Nige blithely. ‘You chefs might be masters of your own destiny, but us journos are on deadline. I’ll keep it quick. OK. Got the email and the pic. Looks like you’ve fallen on your feet there, mate. Especially after the Rebecca fiasco.’
‘Er, I think so,’ said Tom. His eyes slid briefly towards mine and then back to the road. His eyebrows had scrunched together to form one long one and if I wasn’t mistaken there was a flush to his cheeks; was this Nige person talking about me?
‘I have to say, it’s a great idea. I was in Liverpool recently and went to a Supper Club there. Packed out it was.’
I sat up straighter and stared at Tom who muttered something rude that I didn’t quite catch.
He cleared his throat. ‘So you’ve got everything you need, Nige?’
‘Just the date, mate. When’s your first one?’
Tom looked utterly uncomfortable. ‘Um, Verity, when’s the first Plumberry Supper Club event?’
I held his gaze unflinchingly. ‘June the twenty-sixth.’
‘Did you get that, Nige?’
‘Sure did, mate. It’ll be in next week, don’t forget you owe me a—’
Tom grabbed the phone out of my hand and ended the call before the journalist could finish. He grimaced.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t want you to hear that.’
‘I can’t think why.’ I turned and faced the window. We passed a road sign for York. Ten miles to go.
‘It’s not as bad as it sounds, trust me.’ He reached a hand towards my thigh but I inched away.
‘Can we go any faster?’ I asked.
Rosie’s hand snaked through from the back seat and squeezed my arm. She wouldn’t have a clue what that whole conversation had been about. She didn’t need to; you could cut the atmosphere in the car with a knife.
Tom sighed. ‘Verity—’
‘Just drive, Tom. Now’s not the time.’
He nodded grimly and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.
It was obvious what had happened. He’d called a contact of his at the York newspapers and was passing off the Supper Club idea as his own before I had had a chance to do so. My heart thudded angrily against my ribs.
Why would he do that to me? And after that text he’d sent me this morning about being trustworthy. He was just as bad as Liam. No – worse, because at least Liam had always been upfront about pinching my ideas, whether I approved or not.
What it all boiled down to was this: Tom’s ego was bigger than his promise to me and that made my stomach curdle.
I pushed thoughts of him aside for now. All that mattered was getting to the hospital. Poor Gloria. My hands twisted in my lap. Please, please, let her be all right . . .
The journey to the accident and emergency department of York’s major hospital seemed to take for ever, although in reality it was probably only half an hour.
Thankfully, Tom didn’t speak again and I spent the entire trip dialling numbers – Gabe, the cookery school, Mags, even Gloria’s cottage . . . I was desperate for information but no one picked up.
Tom pulled up outside a pair of double glass doors just as a trolley was unloaded from an ambulance. It was instantly surrounded by an army of medics in blue uniforms and whisked inside.
Rosie and I jumped out and Tom drove away to find the car park.
Rosie exhaled sharply and grabbed my hand. ‘OK?’
I couldn’t answer; I felt like I’d got a lump of fudge lodged in my throat. So I s
imply shook my head and together we made a dash for the entrance.
A receptionist checked her computer before giving us directions to the ward in which we’d find Gloria. The pleasantly fuzzy sensation that my cocktail had given me had evaporated. In its place was one of cold terror; it tightened around my lungs and left me gulping for air.
‘This way,’ I said, pulling Rosie behind me.
The hospital was busy; there were visitors milling around, patients being wheeled about with tubes and drips attached, cleaners emptying bins, people at vending machines . . . Rosie and I ran blindly past, looking for the ward number we’d been given.
Finally, we rounded a corner, pushed through double swing doors and there they were in the corridor immediately in front us: Noah crouched on the floor playing with dinosaur toys and Gabe, a hand pressed to his mouth, talking, or rather listening, to a doctor. By his side was another woman in a navy uniform, tears staining her cheeks, an envelope in her hands.
‘Gabe,’ I yelled.
I released Rosie’s hand. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Noah jump to his feet and spring towards me.
‘How is she?’ I cried.
Gabe turned his face towards me, both hands caught in his hair. He looked distraught. A rush of nausea rose up in my throat and I forced it down.
Every aspect of the scene in front of me screamed the news: Gabe holding his arms out to me, his face creased in pain; the doctor shaking his head; the woman’s shoulders trembling. But even so I couldn’t take it in. This was not – could not – be happening.
‘No! No!’ I stumbled forward into Gabe’s arms.
‘Aunty Verity, are you sad?’ Noah wrapped himself round my legs, his sandy hair standing in soft peaks, his green eyes curious.
Verity. He’d pronounced Verity properly. I gazed down at him and blinked away my tears.
I stroked his hair and nodded, forcing a smile. I couldn’t speak. Not yet, not until I’d heard it for myself.
I looked up into Gabe’s face, vaguely aware of Rosie hovering behind me. ‘Gabe?’
‘Gloria, she—’ He broke down, his shoulders racked with grief.
The doctor stepped forward, a softly spoken Indian man with kind eyes.
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 29