Читать книгу The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step! - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 13

I should feel euphoric as I drive south. After all, I deserve this. I should be zipping along, music blaring and a huge smile on my face, like a woman in a movie about to embark on a life-changing adventure. The fact that I’m not is due to one horrible dark thought, currently flooding my senses: I didn’t leave defrosting/reheating instructions. Yes, I’m still angry – but more at myself now for being unable to switch off my maternal concern. Surely Morgan is savvy enough to cope with a Tupperware carton of frozen bolognaise? He’s a bright boy, when he chooses to engage his brain. He’s hardly going to hack away at it with an ice pick. Even so, I keep picturing his crestfallen face as he reads my note, and another alarming thought engulfs me: what the hell am I playing at?

I pull off at a service station – one we haven’t stayed at, I must alert Stevie to this – and buy an Americano and three muffins, one for now and two for later, in case the hotel restaurant’s portions really are as tiddly as they looked on the website. From a small, greasy table by the window I fish out my phone and try Morgan’s mobile. It’s only 9 a.m., of course he’ll still be asleep, I remind myself as it goes to voicemail. ‘Could you call me?’ I say, aware that there’s little chance of him even playing the message. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I add before ringing off.

Next I try Stevie, who doesn’t answer either. ‘It’s me, love,’ I inform his voicemail. ‘Look, er, I’m …’ I tail off. It’s not the kind of thing I want to explain via a message, especially with my voice sounding terribly loud in the almost deserted café. ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ I explain quickly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when we speak.’

Feeling marginally better, I pick at one of the muffins and call Kim. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this!’ she exclaims.

‘I know, I really should have told him last night …’

‘No, not that part.’ She chuckles. ‘I mean being spontaneous like this. It’s so unlike you!’

‘Thanks,’ I say with a dry laugh, although she’s right.

‘Well, good for you, Aud. It sounds amazing. It’ll be good for Morgan too, force him to stand on his own two feet …’

I bite my lip. ‘Um … if you’re passing the house, would you mind popping in to check he’s okay?’

Small pause. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Oh, you know, just to make sure everything’s all right. I mean, it’s your place, I don’t want it burnt to the ground …’ I am only half-joking.

She laughs loudly. ‘Aud, he’s not a baby. Just go away and enjoy yourself, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, dabbing at the muffin crumbs on the plate with a wet finger. ‘I will, promise.’

‘Good. So repeat after me: “Nothing’s going to happen. Everything is going to be fine.”’

She’s right: my boy is old enough to get married, to fight for his country or be sent to a proper adult jail. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ I repeat, crossing my fingers firmly under the table, ‘and everything is going to be fine.’

*

It’s terribly picturesque, this part of the world. I see no litter or graffiti as I pass through pretty villages, the kind that still have a proper village store, with a tray of penny sweets, I’d imagine, and a kindly lady serving behind the counter. Then the villages fall behind and it’s just winding country lanes for miles until, finally, I round a bend and spot the elegant sign on a high, moss-covered wall:

Wilton Grange Hotel

Luxury accommodation * Michelin-starred restaurant * World-renowned cookery school

My heartbeat quickens as I turn in through the gate. The gravelled drive curves between gnarled ancient trees, and a few moments later the hotel comes into view. Peaceful is the word that springs to mind. Sunlight quivers on the lake. The hotel is swathed in some kind of dense, climbing shrub and the undulating grounds are dotted with summerhouses and those dinky little shelter things, where a refined lady might enjoy some shade while sipping her gin.

I pull up in the car park, nosing my way in between a Bentley and a Merc. A terribly chic woman in a grey trouser suit gives my car a surprised look before climbing into the Merc and driving away. I wipe my sweaty hands on the front of my crumpled dress. Another car arrives to take the Merc’s place: a Saab I think, possibly vintage, although its cream paintwork is so gleamingly perfect it could have purred out of the factory just moments ago. I slide my gaze towards the driver. He is flicking through some papers, making no move to get out.

My phone bleeps in my bag, and I snatch it from the passenger seat. A text from Morgan: when u back?? I glance at the man again and he smiles briefly. He has a kind face, I decide. He’s not looking at me as if thinking, What’s she doing here? Maybe he thinks I’m staff. I smile back, hoping to convey the message that, despite the state of my vehicle, I actually come to places like this all the time. I belong here, I hope my smile says, just like you do. Message transmitted, I reply to Morgan’s text: Saturday.

His reply pings back instantly: WHAT?? Oh, so he misses me after all. In fact, this is the longest period we’ll have ever spent apart. While Morgan’s had numerous long weekends with his dad, in recent times the livestock aspect of Vince’s smallholding has put him off (‘There’s so much crap everywhere, Mum! It bloody stinks!’) and he always seems pretty relieved to come home. I’ve never managed to fund school trips to France or Austria, and his main summer holidays were usually camping trips to Cornwall with me, then with a friend and me, because the idea of being trapped alone in a tent with his mother was clearly appalling.

Another text: Need grey T shirt washing wanna wear tonight!!

Ahh … right. So it’s the interruption in laundry services he’s concerned about. No, ‘Where are you, Mum? Is everything okay?’ I mean, if I were him – and I frequently do try to see things from his point of view – I’d be thinking, ‘It’s not like her to just bugger off. Maybe I should be concerned about her mental health?’ But then, Morgan isn’t the type to worry about anything. I could be lying dead on the kitchen floor and he’d step over my corpse to fetch a can of Coke from the fridge.

I stab out my reply – use washing machine – and climb out of my car, trying to quell the anxiety that’s rising inside me. The man from the Saab gets out too. He is tall, well-groomed and handsome; dapper, you’d call him, with his neatly clipped short dark hair and a light tan. His navy blue linen jacket and casual dark grey trousers look expensive. ‘Hi,’ he says with a smile.

‘Hi,’ I reply.

‘Lovely day.’

‘Yes, it is …’

He stands for a moment, taking in the surroundings: the sweeping lawns, the well-tended borders filled with pale pink roses, the beautiful building itself. Then he checks his watch and, with a breezy confidence that suggests he is unintimidated by poshness – because to people like him this place isn’t posh, it’s just normal – he opens the boot of his car and lifts out a brown leather bag.

I start making my way towards the hotel, dragging my wheeled case along the gravel and trying not to churn it up too much. When I glance back, the man is strolling a few metres behind. He flashes another broad smile. I smile back, briefly, and snatch my phone from my shoulder bag as it rings. ‘Hi, Morgan,’ I say distractedly.

‘What d’you mean, you’re back next Saturday? What’re you doing?’

I clear my throat, aware of the crunch of the man’s footsteps behind me. ‘I explained in my note, I’ve gone away for a bit.’

‘A bit? That’s not a bit. It’s a week! For fuck’s sake, Mum!’

‘Don’t swear at me, Morgan.’

‘All right, sorry, it’s just … I thought you’d just gone to the Spar or something …’

‘I go there,’ I correct him. ‘I don’t go away there, Morgan. It’s not a holiday destination …’

‘You’ve gone on holiday without telling me?’ he gasps. ‘Like, where?’

‘Well, it’s a sort of holiday. I’m in Buckinghamshire …’ A peacock struts haughtily across the path, its breast shimmering sapphire blue in the sunshine.

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in the south of England.’

‘I mean, what’s there? Why’re you there?’

‘I’m doing the cookery course,’ I explain, keeping my voice low.

Morgan makes a choking noise. ‘You mean that dinner lady thing?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But I thought you were taking the money! The cash prize. That’s what you said …’

‘Well, I changed my mind.’ I’ve slowed my pace in the hope that the man will understand that I want him to march ahead so I can conduct this conversation in private.

‘You chose a baking course,’ Morgan laments, ‘over five thousand quid? What use is that gonna be?’

‘Probably none,’ I reply tersely, ‘and it’s not a baking course. It’s classic French cookery—’

‘You’ve gone mad,’ he mutters.

‘Yes, I probably have.’

He pauses. ‘So anyway, what about my T-shirt?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t operate the washing machine from here. It’s not remote controlled. Much as I’d love to keep on top of all our domestic concerns from 200 miles away, it’s not actually possible to …’ I break off as the man catches up with me and we fall into step.

‘Mum?’

‘Just a minute,’ I hiss.

‘But I don’t know how …’

‘For God’s sake, Morgan. There’s a door at the front. You know the round bit you can see through? Open it and put your T-shirt in. Then open the little drawer at the top and put in some powder …’

‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear—’

‘I’m not whispering …’

‘Speak up!’

‘Put-powder-in-the-little-drawer,’ I bark, at which the man raises a brow in amusement.

‘Where is it?’

‘For goodness’ sake! It’s the big white appliance, the one that’s not the freezer, the one that doesn’t have peas in it …’

‘I mean the powder—’

‘Cupboard under the sink,’ I growl. There’s some urgent rummaging, then the machine door is slammed shut. Hope he hasn’t broken it.

‘Now what?’ Morgan huffs.

‘Select the programme,’ I instruct him as, mercifully, the man seems to understand that I require privacy and strides ahead. ‘That’s the round dial with numbers on at the top,’ I add. ‘30 degrees is probably best. Nothing bad ever happens at that temperature. Okay now?’

I hear clicking noises. ‘Nothing’s happening.’

‘Have you turned it on?’

‘God, Mum, why does it have to be so complicated …’

‘There’s an on button,’ I snap. ‘It’s not complicated. Just press the damn thing …’

‘How am I s’posed to know …’

‘You should know,’ I retort, far too loudly for the tranquil surroundings, ‘because I gave you that washing machine tutorial, remember? I showed you the dial and the little drawer but you wouldn’t pay attention. You wandered off to get ice cream …’

‘It really wasn’t that interesting,’ Morgan mutters.

‘No, I suppose it wasn’t, but what if I’d been teaching you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and you’d wandered off then, more interested in stuffing your face full of Ben & Jerry’s than saving a life?’

He splutters. ‘All right, all right! No need to go off on one. I was only asking …’ Now he sounds genuinely upset. I stop on the path, breathing slowly, and watch a squirrel scampering up a tree.

‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sound so snappy.’

‘Yeah, well, I was only asking for a bit of help.’

Guilt niggles in my stomach. ‘Yes, I know. Look, I suppose I’m just a bit nervous about this whole hotel thing, okay? And I know I shouldn’t have just left like that, without saying goodbye …’ I trot up the wide stone steps and enter the hotel’s revolving doors. In the enormous foyer, the posh car man is waiting to be attended to at reception.

‘S’all right,’ Morgan mumbles.

‘I love you, darling.’

‘Love you too,’ he says grudgingly.

‘Did you enjoy the cakes?’

‘Haven’t tried them yet, had other stuff on my mind …’

I smile. ‘Like your T-shirt.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you managed to start the washing machine yet?’

‘Nah. Think something’s wrong with it …’

I inhale deeply and murmur, ‘Just hand-wash it, darling,’ and finish the call.

An elderly couple drift away from the desk, and the receptionist beams expectantly. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Erm, I think this man was first …’ I indicate the stranger, noting his soft grey eyes and the dark lashes around them. He has that bone structure thing going on: strong nose, defined jawline and chin. Bet he’s the sort who knows about wine and whirls it around and sniffs it instead of tipping it straight down his neck.

‘No, no, after you,’ he says graciously.

‘Oh, thank you.’ I pull my case towards the desk.

‘Do you have a reservation?’ The receptionist’s glossy black hair is tucked behind her dainty ears, and she has the kind of bright, white teeth that make ordinary un-veneered ones – the kind everyone used to have, perfectly serviceable teeth – look like trowels in comparison.

‘I’m Audrey Pepper,’ I say. ‘I’m here for the cookery course …’

She blinks at me. ‘The residential?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

There’s an almost imperceptible frown as she starts tapping away at her keyboard, still seeming unsure and perhaps suspecting that I’m trying to sneak my way in. ‘Ah, yes.’ Her pencilled brows shoot up. ‘Here you are. Oh, you’re in the honeymoon suite! It’s beautiful. I do hope you like it …’

‘I’m sure I will.’

‘If you could just complete this form …’

‘Yes, of course …’ I fill in my details and hand it back to her.

‘And if I could just take an imprint of a credit or debit card please …’ A wave of panic rushes over me as I rummage through my purse.

‘It is paid for, the room? The suite, I mean?’ I haven’t made some awful mistake and it’s not free after all? Sweat springs from my forehead.

‘Oh yes, madam,’ she says brightly, taking my card and swiping it before handing it back. ‘Great, all done. I’ll ask Jasper to show you to your room …’ She waves to a uniformed porter across the foyer. I hover, hoping Jasper’s too busy to help me because I’d rather find my room myself and avoid some sweat-making tipping scenario (not a problem at a Day’s Inn motel).

‘I’m on the cookery course too,’ the posh car man offers.

‘Oh, are you?’

His eyes crinkle appealingly. ‘You sound surprised.’

‘No, not really – I mean, I have no idea who goes on these kind of things. I won my place in a competition …’

‘Really?’ the receptionist asks. ‘Which one?’

I sense my cheeks flushing. ‘Dinner lady of the year.’

‘Wow!’ She bares her perfect teeth. ‘That’s, er, fantastic!’

‘Dinner lady of the year?’ the man exclaims in one of those rich, rounded voices that carries across a room. ‘Gosh, you’ll be showing the rest of us a thing or two …’

‘Oh, I don’t actually cook at school—’

‘Sorry, I just assumed …’

‘Don’t worry, everyone does.’ I smile.

‘So you’re not vastly experienced in the world of classic French cuisine?’

‘Not remotely,’ I reply, laughing. ‘To be honest, I don’t exactly know what it is.’

He chuckles. ‘Can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. We can sit in the dunce corner together …’

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?’