Фиона Гибсон – The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step! (страница 15)

I laugh, sensing myself relaxing. ‘Sounds good to me.’

He reaches to shake my hand. ‘I’m Hugo. Hugo Fairchurch …’

‘I’m Audrey, Audrey Pepper.’

‘What a lovely, unusual name.’

I smile, taken aback by his enthusiasm. ‘Thank you. I must admit, no one’s ever said that before.’

‘It’s charming. Very memorable. See you at the welcome reception then,’ he says as the ridiculously buff young porter takes my suitcase and escorts me towards the lift. We wait in stilted silence. No one takes you to your room in the kind of places I usually stay at. But then, I have every right to be here, brassy highlights and charity shop dress and all. I can’t cook anything fancy but then neither can Hugo, who’s bantering away in jovial tones with the glossy receptionist. The lift arrives, and his voice rings out as I step in: ‘A dinner lady on a classic French cookery course. Isn’t that just so sweet?’

Chapter Nine

Fungal Popcorn

He didn’t mean to be patronising, I tell myself as I gaze around my suite. It’s just funny, to someone like him. He probably thinks we still dish up Spam fritters and disgusting mince with a tidemark of orangey grease floating around the edge. Anyway, never mind Hugo; I’m far too excited to feel annoyed about an offhand remark. I managed the tipping scenario by pressing a fiver into the porter’s hand (he looked faintly surprised; was it too little? Too much?) and, more importantly, this place is gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling brocade curtains are held back with tasselled golden ropes, and the enormous four-poster bed is strewn with sumptuous furry cushions and throws. It is, I decide, unable to suppress a ridiculous grin, very Audrey.

Oh, she probably wouldn’t fling herself onto the bed with a whoop of delight – and with her shoes still on – like I do. But who’s watching? I stretch out like a giant starfish, relishing the bed’s vastness with the baby-soft covers billowing all around me. It feels like a continent compared to my bed at home. Thank God Stevie’s not here. It’s not that I don’t appreciate champagne, great sex and a Ginsters pasty. But if he were here he’d be pawing at me already and right now, I just want to be.

Scrambling up into a cross-legged position, I scan the room for a laminated card advertising the £5 all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. Of course there isn’t one. No hum of motorway traffic either, or a crappy chipped desk. There’s a polished oval table and two plump armchairs upholstered in pink brocade which look as if no human bottom has ever parked itself on them. There’s a huge, velvety sofa – how much furniture does one person need? – and from here I can see there’s another sofa in my other room (two rooms, just for me!) perfectly positioned for gazing down at the walled garden below. The bathroom is dazzlingly bright, with white mosaic tiles, a vast oval bath and a shower that’s easily roomy enough for four. The elaborate chrome knobs and dials have settings to replicate various weather conditions: fine drizzle, summer rain, downpour. I’ll try them all, first chance I get. I’ll experience multiple climatic conditions.

Feeling peckish now, I bound off the bed and burrow in my bag for the remaining motorway muffins. They’re squashed flat in their cellophane wrappers. While I’d normally scoff them anyway, it doesn’t feel right in such beautiful surroundings. Instead, I select a plump nectarine from the fruit bowl which has been thoughtfully put out for me, and feel as if I am almost sullying the room by dropping the stone into the waste paper bin.

Further explorations reveal that a gleaming dark wooden cupboard is in fact a fridge filled with booze, plus a multitude of snacks: three types of nuts, including pecans! Packets of thyme and shallot-flavoured crisps! A crinkly bag of truffle popcorn, several biscuit varieties including stem ginger, and a box of red foil-wrapped Kirsch Kisses, whatever they might be! There’s even a glass dish with a lid, filled with tiny slices of lemon. At Charnock Richard you don’t even get a bourbon biscuit.

I check the time – still half an hour until the welcome reception – and remove all the edibles from the cupboard and set them out carefully on the table. Grabbing my phone, I take pictures of the pleasing arrangement from all angles to show everyone back home. I also take a selfie, my grinning face poking in from the side in front of the swanky snacks. Kim, Cheryl and Ellie won’t believe what you get here. Neither will Paul. He eats like a horse; I often spot him marching about Mrs B’s garden clutching an enormous doorstep of a sandwich. He never seems to stop to eat lunch. So I stash all three packets of crisps into my case for him – handy to eat while he works – plus the pecans for Morgan as, to my knowledge, he’s never tried them. That boy needs to be educated in the world of posh nuts. The Kirsch Kisses will do nicely for Mrs B – nuts get jammed in her dentures – and the ginger cookies will be handy for home. It occurs to me that there’s not an awful lot left to last me the rest of the week, but I want to take a few presents home.

To quell my pre-reception nerves – and make use of the lemon slices – I pour myself a gin and tonic, discovering that the fridge has a tiny freezer section at the top, with ice cubes. Can life get any better than this? I prowl around my suite, clinking my glass and taking pictures of the pink chairs, the bed and the sweeping view of the manicured gardens below. In the bathroom I photograph the basket of Molton Brown toiletries and the scented candle in its glass and chrome jar. I try on the fluffy white bathrobe over my dress, then carefully hang it back in the wardrobe. I pop open the bag of truffle popcorn and recoil at the earthy whiff. I’d expected chocolate. It smells like soil and the popcorns are flecked with black bits as if they’ve been swept up off the pavement. I try a single piece, crunching tentatively; it’s sort of fungal, bringing to mind Morgan’s athlete’s foot. I spit it into a wad of super-soft loo roll and drop it into the bathroom bin.

Ping! I snatch my phone from my bag: three missed texts from Morgan. They read Mum?, then MUM?!, then, Hand wash T shirt how???? I sip my gin and reply: Fill sink with warm sudsy water, squish about with your hands and rinse clean. As I picture my boy, dutifully laundering away at the kitchen sink, my heart swells with love for him. Okay, he’s an idiot, but we don’t do too badly, I reflect, just the two of us. Well, the three of us now Jenna’s virtually a permanent fixture at our place.

Feeling all warm and, admittedly, a little tipsy now, I inhale my room’s sweet scent. As there’s no obvious source of the smell – no dusty old pot pourri – I can only assume it’s being piped in from some secret source. However, while it’s lovely here, inhaling vanilla and gin, I’d better get downstairs for the welcome reception. I redo my make-up – or rather, apply another layer on top – and clean my teeth extra thoroughly so no one knows I hurled myself at the booze.

Just before leaving, I check my reflection in the full-length mirror. The vivid orange floral print of my dress seems to have faded to a doleful peach. Never mind, people will probably assume it’s properly vintage – and vintage is meant to be faded – rather than merely second-hand. Remembering that long hair should be tied back, I rummage in vain through my toilet bag for a hair band or scrunchie. Damn, must’ve forgotten. I’ve got to find something. I plunder my case and find the sole pair of tights I brought with me. Using my nail scissors I hack off a leg and use it to secure a sort of casual topknot. Then, giving my room one last lustful glance, I glide towards the lift.

Wilton Grange Cookery School is housed in a stable block behind the main hotel. I cross the gravelled courtyard, conscious of a fungally gin taste lurking at the back of my throat. The huge barn-style doors are wide open, and the sound of chatter and laughter drifts out. Sounds like a party’s going on. A party where everyone – at least, everyone except Hugo – is capable of creating beautiful French lemon tarts as casually as if they were sticking fish fingers under the grill.

A young woman with flushed pink cheeks and a demure blonde plait spots me from the doorway. ‘Hi, are you on the course?’ she asks brightly.

‘Yes, I’m Audrey …’ I make my way towards her.

‘Hello, Audrey. Do come in.’ She flashes a warm smile. More perfect teeth. ‘I’m Chloe and I’m here to help with any queries you have. Let me get you your apron and badge …’ The stable block is already milling with what I assume are my fellow guests, or students, or whatever we’re called. I fix on what I hope is a confident smile as Chloe hands me my apron: dazzling white and emblazoned with Wilton Grange Cookery school in swirly blue letters on the bib. As Chloe swishes off, I pin on my circular ‘Audrey’ badge and glance around at the gaggle of women – and one man – who are all chatting animatedly. The women exude breezy confidence. They remind me of the popular set at school; the sporty girls, whom the boys would buzz around like wasps. Not one of them appears to be wearing a scrap of make-up. My lipstick feels claggy in the heat, and I discreetly wipe it off onto the back of my hand.