The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 8

  ‘Ah, here we go. Easy Entertaining, Simple Solo Suppers . . . I’ve got recipes for every occasion.’

  ‘You were a one-parent family,’ I began tentatively, watching as she separated out some sheets of paper and set them on her desk.

  ‘Yes, although it was by choice. So no struggling involved.’

  ‘Really?’ I grinned at her.

  She was such a feisty, independent character. Mind you, two weeks ago I was facing the prospect of being pregnant and had instinctively known I’d go it alone if necessary. Maybe I had more in common with her than I realized.

  ‘I hit thirty and decided the time was right to have a baby. I was single at the time, but that didn’t put me off. I persuaded a friend of mine to, you know, do the honours.’ She mouthed the last part and I bit back a chuckle. ‘Mimi saw him a few times when she was little. He was a cameraman at the studios when I met him; he runs a diving school in Thailand now. It wasn’t a turkey-baster job but not far off.’

  I choked on my tea and wondered whether she’d ever had this conversation with Mimi; it was certainly news to me. ‘People really do that?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Gloria nodded airily, twisting her bangles round on her wrist. ‘We got there in the end with help from a couple of mucky mags. Fortunately, I turned out to be pretty fertile so it didn’t take us many attempts. First and only time I’ve bought porn.’

  My jaw dropped.

  ‘Porn?’ Tom appeared at the door to the office and startled us both. I hadn’t seen him in his chef whites before. His sleeves were rolled up and his arms looked sinewy and strong and primed to debone a whole cow or something. He raised an amused eyebrow at me. ‘Did I just hear that Gloria’s been buying porn?’

  ‘Er . . .’ But before I had a chance to formulate an answer, Gloria flapped a hand at him.

  ‘Prawns,’ she said with a tinkly laugh. ‘I was telling Verity about a monstrous seafood centrepiece I did for the Beeb set on a bed of ice. It took me three years to face a winkle after that.’ She gave me a sideways glance and winked.

  I bit back a snort.

  Tom looked a bit confused but thankfully didn’t ask any more questions.

  ‘Right.’ He stroked his stubbly jawline and nodded. ‘Talking of fish, I’ve been invited to a taster evening on Wednesday with Fresh from the Sea, a new seafood supplier in York. The invitation was sent to me when I was still at my . . . the . . . you know, the old place, but I thought I’d still go; they might be useful contacts for the cookery school. Would you like to come with me, Gloria?’

  Her shoulders sagged. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t spare the time this week. Verity could go, perhaps?’

  ‘Would you?’ He turned to me. ‘According to the invitation, their seafood sounds amazing. They’ve got lobster, langoustines, oysters and there’ll be a sashimi chef there too. Tempted?’

  I hesitated. I still hadn’t made up my mind about Tom. He was very attractive and my first impressions of him when he’d caught the dogs for me had been good. But he took his food so seriously that I wasn’t sure an evening spent gargling oysters would be much fun at all.

  ‘I’ll pass if you don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I’m more of a fish-finger girl myself. Having to coax something out of its shell before you can engage with it is not for me.’

  ‘Really?’ He tilted his chin. ‘Personally, I like that sort of challenge. Never mind. I’ll, er, go on my own.’

  On his own? Now I felt bad. And hot. Why was I going red? We were only talking about crustaceans.

  ‘Is it me,’ I got to my feet and opened a window, ‘or is it getting warm in here?’

  ‘It’ll be even warmer soon: I’m turning the ovens up to full temperature any minute.’ He grinned.

  Tom and Gloria began to discuss their schedule of last-minute jobs for the day and I retrieved my own to-do list. There wasn’t much more I could do in the office. The website was ready, all the advertising was done and I’d booked an official photographer to take lots of shots of smiling people. I had some phone calls to make at some point but with Mags still answering the reception phone and Gloria and Tom debating the merits of flaky over puff pastry I couldn’t concentrate in here.

  ‘I’m popping out,’ I announced. It was a warm sunny day – I could collect the leaflets from Mags and go and drop them off at shops, hair salons and local offices, starting at the little businesses nearby. ‘I’m going to drum up business. Bye, Gloria. Enjoy the seafood tasting, I’ll see you both later.’

  ‘Bye.’ Tom raised a hand and then clicked his fingers. ‘Oh, while I remember! Just a date for your diary: we’re having a run-through on Wednesday afternoon, trying out some of the canapés for the open day and testing a few dishes.’

  ‘Will we get to taste the famous lime foam?’ I teased.

  ‘My food,’ he said earnestly, ‘will blow your mind.’

  On Wednesday afternoon, Gloria, Mags, Pixie and I gathered in the Aga kitchen for our (certainly mine and Pixie’s) first taste of Michelin-standard food. The aroma alone was making my mouth water. And after two days of solid promotion, either with the phone stuck to my ear or pacing the streets of Plumberry, I was really looking forward to this. The dogs had sneaked under the table, but Tom shot me a warning look as I began to lift Sage on to my knee.

  ‘Sorry, doggy,’ I whispered, pushing his little paws down to the floor.

  Tom set a selection of platters on the table in front of us wordlessly. His forehead was creased with concentration and when I smiled to give him some encouragement, he didn’t smile back. He certainly took this tasting business very seriously. I’d been anticipating a fun afternoon.

  ‘This is all very grand,’ exclaimed Mags, reaching for a pastry boat containing something fishy-looking. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘Not until I’ve talked you through the food,’ said Tom briskly, whipping the platter away.

  Mags tutted. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘So we have pear and gorgonzola crostini, venison meatballs with a plum sauce, asparagus mousse and crayfish pastry boats with lemon mayo,’ said Tom, introducing each dish in turn. He leaned back against the front of the Aga. ‘I’ve used local ingredients as much as possible.’

  ‘Can we dig in now?’ Mags asked.

  Tom nodded and she launched herself at the crostini.

  ‘Now,’ she paused to pat the crumbs from her mouth, ‘that is up there with my scouse recipe.’

  His nostrils flared slightly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m not really into posh food.’ Pixie took her glasses off and polished them on the bottom of her T-shirt. ‘What’s the point as long as it’s tasty?’

  ‘We eat with our eyes, Pixie,’ Gloria explained.

  The dogs were clamouring to climb on her knee and she pushed them away. ‘When I worked in television, I learned to make the most of that. Presentation is very important. All right, all right, boys, I’ll find something for you.’

  She rummaged in her handbag for dog food.

  ‘Hmm.’ Pixie looked unconvinced as she picked up a meatball and wrinkled her nose. She shrugged. ‘It all looks the same when it comes out the other end, as my granddad would say. God love him.’

  Mags, who had been reaching for a tiny china spoon filled with asparagus mousse, pulled a face and took a sip of water instead. As if Pixie’s image wasn’t vivid enough Gloria chose that moment to tear the top off a sachet of meaty chunks in gravy and tip it into the dogs’ bowl.

  I swallowed hard and even Tom looked pale.

  ‘It all looks amazing, Tom, well done,’ exclaimed Gloria, turning her attention back to the canapés. After washing her hands she lifted a pastry boat to her mouth and then hesitated. ‘Although . . .’

  Tom raked a hand through his hair and exhaled impatiently. ‘Although . . .?’

  She squirmed under his stare. ‘I’m just wondering whether it might be too . . . cheffy. Does it really say comfort food?’

  Tom threw up his hands. ‘Fine, let’s serve everyone chees
e straws, shall we? That will certainly impress them. Come to The Plumberry School of Comfort Food and learn how to open packets. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’

  He marched over to the Aga, muttering to himself, and the rest of us exchanged awkward glances. He opened the oven door and slammed another tray of food on to the cooling rack. I caught the words ‘why do I bother’ and my heart squeezed for him.

  ‘I think this is exactly what we should be serving, and that’s coming from Princess Prick and Ping,’ I said softly, hoping to thaw the atmosphere. ‘Tom, I’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s edible art. And whether people who come to our open day ever cook like this at home or not, the food that they taste when they’re here will probably stay with them for ever.’

  ‘That’s true, Verity,’ said Gloria humbly. ‘I’m over-thinking it. Forgive me, Tom.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive,’ he assured her, placing a new plate in front of her. He sprinkled chopped parsley over it from a height. The way really cheffy types do. ‘Goose and chestnut chipolatas. Enjoy.’

  ‘Well, it gets my vote.’ Mags speared a piece and ate it. ‘Posh. In a nice way,’ she added hastily.

  ‘I’m inspired,’ I continued, dipping a venison meatball into the fruity sauce. ‘You make me want to be a better cook, Tom.’

  My stomach flipped as I was speaking. I’d started off with the aim of mollifying our highly strung chef, but now I realized that there was a kernel of truth in my words.

  His dark eyes softened and he nodded.

  ‘Me too,’ said Pixie in a small voice.

  ‘Tom’s performed his magic on these ingredients, transforming them into something incredible, just like you’ve done with this old mill, Gloria.’ I looked at her and then at Tom. ‘I think your dishes are the perfect way to welcome visitors into the cookery school on Friday.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ cried Mags, giving him a round of applause.

  ‘Just as well,’ he said gruffly, but I could see he was pleased, ‘because there are enough supplies to make two hundred of each canapé in the larder. And Pixie, I’m expecting you to help me.’

  ‘Two hundred!’ Pixie gasped. ‘Well, that ought to sharpen my knife skills.’

  Tom’s eyes met mine. Thank you, he mouthed across the table when no one was looking. He looked at his watch and winced. ‘Right, final call for the seafood tasting in York. Any takers?’

  We all shook our heads so Tom left alone.

  ‘Don’t eat anything dodgy,’ I called after him. ‘We need you in tip-top condition for the rest of the week!’

  Chapter 9

  At eight o’clock the following morning, the landline at the cottage rang. Gloria was out walking the dogs, so I picked up the phone.

  ‘Uhuhuf,’ said a muffled voice, followed by a long moan.

  ‘Pervert,’ I replied briskly and replaced the receiver with a tut. I had enough to do today without listening to heavy breathers.

  It rang again almost immediately. Right, this time I was ready for him. I picked it up and inhaled ready to emit a piercing squeal when the person on the other end spoke.

  ‘Verity, don’t hang up,’ croaked a man, sounding less pervy this time.

  ‘Who is this?’ I frowned.

  ‘I must have eaten something dodgy at the Fresh from the Sea party.’

  This time I recognized the Irish accent, even if it was barely above a whisper. It was Tom. And he brought me bad news.

  Half an hour later I pulled into the car park. Stay calm, I reminded myself. We had over twenty-four hours until the start of the open day. Surely Tom would have recovered by then? Of course he would; it probably wasn’t food poisoning at all, maybe he’d just overdone it with the free drinks last night.

  My phone beeped as I climbed out of the car and I glanced at the text.

  I’ve called the doc because I’ve just coughed up blood.

  Poor Tom. OK, maybe it wasn’t the booze.

  All but one of the tradesmen’s vans had gone from the car park and only Neil was still here, hanging a beautiful plum and cream sign bearing the cookery school’s name above the doors. We exchanged our hellos and I ducked underneath the ladders and went inside. Mags was already sitting in reception going through emails and Pixie was practising her barista skills on the new coffee machine.

  ‘I prefer instant really,’ she admitted, placing a tray of frothy lattes on Mags’s desk. ‘But don’t tell Tom. I had to listen to a lecture about the world’s best coffee beans yesterday. Panama, in case you’re interested.’

  ‘Have you got plenty to be getting on with, Pixie?’ I asked, blowing the top of my steaming latte.

  ‘Loads.’ She nodded. ‘Gloria wants the cheese-making equipment set up upstairs to do demos tomorrow and Tom left me a list as long as his face yesterday and I’m only halfway through it. Why?’

  ‘Because Tom’s going to be late in.’

  I explained that he could barely crawl away from the bathroom, he was vomiting so much. Which must have been rather unpleasant for the friend whose flat Tom was staying at. I left out the bit about the blood.

  ‘Hell’s teeth,’ Mags grumbled, tipping an Everest-sized mountain of brown sugar crystals into her latte. ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell Gloria, she’s a bag of nerves. She’s already asked me twice this morning how many are booked on to the One Pot Wonders course on Monday. Only four so far and she’s panicking that someone will drop out. She’s also convinced that everything has been going too well and something was bound to go wrong at the last minute.’

  We stared at each other ominously. The last thing she needed to hear was that her chef was indisposed for the foreseeable future.

  ‘What if he doesn’t come back in time to make all those canopies?’ Pixie frowned so hard that her drawn-on eyebrows joined up.

  ‘Canapés. He’ll be back.’ Hopefully. I gulped. ‘Where’s Gloria now?’

  ‘Practising her garnishes.’ Mags inclined her head to the staircase. ‘She’s been carving turtles out of melons since I arrived.’

  ‘OK.’ I nodded, racking my brains to think how we could prevent her panicking. ‘We need to keep her out of the way until Tom gets back. Perhaps we could suggest she goes home for a few hours?’

  Mags gave a bark of laughter then held out her perfectly painted nails and examined them.

  ‘No chance. She won’t relax until the cookery school is well and truly open at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Then we’ve got to make her relax.’ My eyes glittered as a bright idea occurred to me. ‘Let’s tell her that as a surprise we’ve organized some pampering for her at the beauty salon in Plumberry.’

  ‘My mate works there,’ Pixie put in. She took off her glasses and breathed on them, polishing them on her T-shirt. ‘She’ll fit Gloria in as a favour.’

  ‘She could have a lavender massage and a manicure,’ Mags suggested. ‘I always have those when I’m feeling low or tense.’

  I flicked a curious glance at Mags; I couldn’t imagine her ever being low.

  ‘And what about a hair-do tomorrow morning before we open?’ I added. ‘We can tell her she needs to look her best for the photos.’

  Mags blew me a kiss. ‘Brilliant. She’ll be made up. Who’s going to tell her?’

  ‘You!’ Pixie and I chanted together.

  Our plan worked, although Gloria took some considerable persuading to take the rest of the day off. But I was glad we’d done what we’d done. Tom rang me at lunchtime, full of apologies for letting the side down, but he was still too ill to leave the house.

  ‘We’ll cope,’ I’d said staunchly and wished him a speedy recovery.

  And for the next three hours I’d sat glued to my desk, doing my best to whip up a media frenzy in advance of tomorrow’s launch.

  Late in the afternoon, Pixie came to bring me a mochaccino. ‘I’m getting the hang of this machine. As long as I only have to churn out one drink every ten minutes, we’ll be fine.’

  I inhaled the chocolatey aroma and t
ook a sip. ‘Mmm, I needed that, thank you.’ I sighed.

  She flopped down at Gloria’s desk. ‘You look like you’ve lost your winning lottery ticket.’

  ‘I’ve just been chasing the press to see who’s covering our open day.’ I gave her a weary smile.

  ‘And?’

  ‘No one.’

  She grimaced. ‘No way? I’d have thought they’d be clamouring to come and have a look. Especially with Tom working here.’

  I sat back in my chair and glanced down at my list. ‘Yorkshire FM says they might do something next week if we can give them a juicy prize. I can’t get a reply from the news desk at the regional TV station. The business journalist for the York Mail is at a meeting with the council about inward investment . . .’

  We shared a how-boring-is-that look.

  ‘And the entertainment person is at a press conference with Meryl Streep of all people.’

  ‘There must be a food journo, can’t he or she come?’ Pixie frowned.

  ‘He. And unfortunately not because he was at a tasting in York last night and has been tossing his cockles all night.’

  ‘Isn’t it supposed to be “tossing his cookies”?’

  My lips twitched with a smile. ‘Not when you’ve been to the Fresh from the Sea party.’

  ‘Euwww.’ Pixie leaned her elbows on the desk and grinned wickedly. ‘I bet Tom’s gutted. Gutted.’

  I giggled. ‘At least he’ll be lighter when he gets on the scales.’

  ‘Yeah and more crabby than usual tomorrow,’ she countered.

  ‘Or perhaps he’ll still be tossing his cockles . . .’

  And then both of us realized just how terrible that would be and the thought instantly wiped the smirks off our faces.

  I awoke the next morning to a text from Tom. He was a dried husk of a man with nothing else to throw up, he said; however, he thought the worst was over. He’d be at the opening at noon, but didn’t think he could manage to face food let alone prepare canapés. He was very, very sorry.

  So was I.

  My fingers trembled as I texted back ‘OK’. We were expecting around one hundred people to turn up to taste the delights of the Plumberry School of Comfort Food in five hours. My mind flitted back to the canapés that Tom had presented to us on Wednesday. Somehow I was going to have to produce those with Mags and Pixie’s help. And what about Gloria? If I admitted to her that Tom was ill and that I’d known about it yesterday, she’d probably start throwing up herself.