socks.
‘Please pick up,’ I whispered, which she did, within seconds.
‘Hello, Gemma,’ said Lady C in a small voice.
‘You knew! All about Applebridge Food Academy!’
‘Now, calm down, dear, you see…’
‘And Abbey! How could she not tell me, at least?’
‘Abigail only found out that day in the park – her father failed to mention the details previously. He has such faith – quite rightly – in my niece’s culinary talents that he didn’t think it would be a big deal. Which, of course, it wouldn’t, if it was actually her staying at Applebridge Hall…’
‘But why didn’t she warn me?’
Lady C sighed. ‘I, um, might have persuaded her not to – played down the whole “school” bit. I said you’d no doubt have cooks doing the real work… And she was so wrapped up preparing for her African trip…’ Another sigh came down the line. ‘Frankly, dear, I didn’t want you to change your mind. I apologise. That was selfish.’
‘But how did you think I’d cope, once here?’
‘Well, surely you can cook a bit, dear. I’ll help you choose the recipes. We’ll keep them simple…’
I shook my head in disbelief. Didn’t she know that, nowadays, it wasn’t the goal of every young woman to be a domestic goddess? That plenty, like me, considered the microwave a more important invention than the wheel?
‘We’ve got tomorrow to plan the recipes, then?’ she said, more firmly. ‘Your first class is on Monday?’
I gasped. ‘What… No… I mean…You’re taking this seriously? But I can’t cook, let alone teach. We need to think up some excuse, a good reason why I can’t possibly do that job.’
‘Keep calm and carry on,’ was the answer that came down the line. ‘Don’t arouse suspicion.’
‘But I can’t—’
‘No such word as “can’t” in a lady’s vocabulary,’ she interrupted – naughty! ‘I’m sure your culinary knowledge is better than you think.’
‘Okay. Test me on a few cookery terms,’ I said, determined to prove her wrong.
‘Bake blind.’
‘With my eyes shut?’ I replied.
‘Beat eggs,’ Lady C ventured.
‘That seems mega cruel.’
‘Skin a banana?’
‘Barbaric!’ I declared.
‘Follow the recipe,’ she said, hopefully.
‘Where’s it going?’
‘Turn on the oven, Gemma?’
‘How? Call it hot stuff and flourish a whisk?’
A sigh came down the phone.
‘Look, I can scramble eggs and bake a potato,’ I said, ‘but, honestly, that’s about it.’
‘Have they suspected you’re not Abigail yet?’
‘I don’t think so…’
‘There you go,’ said Lady C, voice brighter. ‘Things are off to a jolly good start. All we need to do is talk through some simple recipes.’
Which we did, for what felt like hours. The trouble was, I’d never baked a cake and bought pastry ready-made. I got white sauce out of a jar and mistook broccoli for cauliflower. Finally, Lady C gave up and said she’d call me early the following day. Overnight, she’d study her cookery books, determined to find some impressive dishes that looked more complicated than they actually were.
My stomach gurgled loudly. I wasn’t used to missing lunch and suddenly craved a kebab with a triple chocolate milkshake. Someone rapped at the door. I smoothed down my polo shirt.
‘Enter,’ I said, my voice a bit wobbly. Perhaps they’d sussed out my fake collapse.
The door opened. Honey curls appeared and Edward walked in with my suitcase.
‘You look better,’ he said, a brief flash of relief in his eyes. He put down my luggage. ‘No doubt Kathleen will insist you have some of her Scotch Broth.’
‘Thank you, Cousin.’ My cheeks burned. ‘Um, apologies for before…’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. Health problems don’t make for good television. The Croxleys are old school. We don’t get ill—certainly not in public.’
Huh? For a second, my shame evaporated! ‘Thanks for the concern,’ I said, unable to hide a strong hint of
‘Please pick up,’ I whispered, which she did, within seconds.
‘Hello, Gemma,’ said Lady C in a small voice.
‘You knew! All about Applebridge Food Academy!’
‘Now, calm down, dear, you see…’
‘And Abbey! How could she not tell me, at least?’
‘Abigail only found out that day in the park – her father failed to mention the details previously. He has such faith – quite rightly – in my niece’s culinary talents that he didn’t think it would be a big deal. Which, of course, it wouldn’t, if it was actually her staying at Applebridge Hall…’
‘But why didn’t she warn me?’
Lady C sighed. ‘I, um, might have persuaded her not to – played down the whole “school” bit. I said you’d no doubt have cooks doing the real work… And she was so wrapped up preparing for her African trip…’ Another sigh came down the line. ‘Frankly, dear, I didn’t want you to change your mind. I apologise. That was selfish.’
‘But how did you think I’d cope, once here?’
‘Well, surely you can cook a bit, dear. I’ll help you choose the recipes. We’ll keep them simple…’
I shook my head in disbelief. Didn’t she know that, nowadays, it wasn’t the goal of every young woman to be a domestic goddess? That plenty, like me, considered the microwave a more important invention than the wheel?
‘We’ve got tomorrow to plan the recipes, then?’ she said, more firmly. ‘Your first class is on Monday?’
I gasped. ‘What… No… I mean…You’re taking this seriously? But I can’t cook, let alone teach. We need to think up some excuse, a good reason why I can’t possibly do that job.’
‘Keep calm and carry on,’ was the answer that came down the line. ‘Don’t arouse suspicion.’
‘But I can’t—’
‘No such word as “can’t” in a lady’s vocabulary,’ she interrupted – naughty! ‘I’m sure your culinary knowledge is better than you think.’
‘Okay. Test me on a few cookery terms,’ I said, determined to prove her wrong.
‘Bake blind.’
‘With my eyes shut?’ I replied.
‘Beat eggs,’ Lady C ventured.
‘That seems mega cruel.’
‘Skin a banana?’
‘Barbaric!’ I declared.
‘Follow the recipe,’ she said, hopefully.
‘Where’s it going?’
‘Turn on the oven, Gemma?’
‘How? Call it hot stuff and flourish a whisk?’
A sigh came down the phone.
‘Look, I can scramble eggs and bake a potato,’ I said, ‘but, honestly, that’s about it.’
‘Have they suspected you’re not Abigail yet?’
‘I don’t think so…’
‘There you go,’ said Lady C, voice brighter. ‘Things are off to a jolly good start. All we need to do is talk through some simple recipes.’
Which we did, for what felt like hours. The trouble was, I’d never baked a cake and bought pastry ready-made. I got white sauce out of a jar and mistook broccoli for cauliflower. Finally, Lady C gave up and said she’d call me early the following day. Overnight, she’d study her cookery books, determined to find some impressive dishes that looked more complicated than they actually were.
My stomach gurgled loudly. I wasn’t used to missing lunch and suddenly craved a kebab with a triple chocolate milkshake. Someone rapped at the door. I smoothed down my polo shirt.
‘Enter,’ I said, my voice a bit wobbly. Perhaps they’d sussed out my fake collapse.
The door opened. Honey curls appeared and Edward walked in with my suitcase.
‘You look better,’ he said, a brief flash of relief in his eyes. He put down my luggage. ‘No doubt Kathleen will insist you have some of her Scotch Broth.’
‘Thank you, Cousin.’ My cheeks burned. ‘Um, apologies for before…’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. Health problems don’t make for good television. The Croxleys are old school. We don’t get ill—certainly not in public.’
Huh? For a second, my shame evaporated! ‘Thanks for the concern,’ I said, unable to hide a strong hint of
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