The Impulse Purchase, page 15
‘I can get us a table at Ottantadue.’
He named her favourite restaurant. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Not least because she was going to need him as a supplier. For 00 pasta flour, for olive oil, for cheeses, for cans of ripe Italian tomatoes – she was not going to cut off her nose to spite her face. More to the point, she was going to use his guilt to nail him down on price.
‘How about dinner on Friday?’ She was going to go back to Avonminster at the weekend to get the rest of her kitchen equipment.
‘OK then. Friday at eight o’clock.’
He rang off and Maggie couldn’t help smiling. She liked how Mario went about getting his own way. She pulled her gloves on, plunged her hands back into the water and started to think about her plans for resurrecting the food.
It went without saying that they would use local produce as much as they could. Everyone did these days. It was almost a given. But Maggie wanted the pub to represent the true heart of Rushbrook, and reflect that in its dishes and ingredients. After all, the fare on their doorstep was mouth-watering and more-ish: there were producers doing amazing things with cheese and charcuterie and cider. And further down, along the coast, there were Porlock oysters. Maybe crab and mussels too. And there was game – venison and pigeon – and of course trout from the river. Simple, unmucked about with, unpretentious country cooking.
She would bring back the pies, too. The pub had once been famous for them, made by a local girl, Tabitha Melchior, but somehow when she left, no one had her light hand with pastry. Maggie remembered them vividly, the crust golden and glistening, the insides moist with sauce or gravy. Who didn’t love a pie? She made a note to track down Tabitha and persuade her to part with her recipes.
The door opened and Cherry stuck her head round.
‘There’s someone here to see you. Russell, from Pepper Wood Farm? He saw the ad in the village shop.’
Maggie headed out into the bar. There was a tall bloke in blue overalls and wellingtons, a beanie pulled over his head. He’d obviously come straight from the farm. Mind you, she thought, she didn’t look much better, in her boiler suit, her hair stuffed into a catering hat and rubber gloves on. Not a good look.
‘Hi – Russell?’ she said. ‘I’m Maggie.’
‘Hi,’ he said, looking a bit awkward. ‘Um – Alan used to buy pork from me and I wondered if you’d like me to supply you again?’
‘Oh my goodness – absolutely! If those were your sausages, they were amazing.’
‘Still are, I hope.’
‘Why don’t you send us down some samples? We could trial some dishes then set up a regular order.’
‘Great,’ said Russell. ‘I was thinking too – I’m going to be doing hog roasts this summer. Maybe they’d be good for bank holidays?’
Maggie’s mouth watered at the very thought. ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘Could you do us a hog roast for the opening night? It’s on Friday week. It would take the pressure right off us. And it would be a perfect way to get everyone in the village up here. Who doesn’t love a hot pork roll?’
‘Well, vegetarians, I guess,’ said Russell.
Maggie looked at him. He was very dry, very deadpan, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s my sense of humour. Or lack of.’
They both laughed then, slightly nervous.
‘Let’s give it a go,’ said Maggie. ‘If it goes well, maybe we can do one every Friday.’
‘Deal.’
Maggie held out her hand, then pulled it away, remembering she had been elbow-deep in grease. ‘I’d shake on it, but you don’t want to touch my hands.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re as good as your word. I’ll come along on the Friday morning to set up.’
They nodded at each other, then he raised a hand in farewell and strode out of the pub. Maggie watched him go, admiring his broad shoulders for a moment, then headed back into the kitchen.
As she scrubbed and scrubbed, she went through menus in her head: of West Country chicken bubbling in cider and tarragon, of butternut squash and fragrant sage melting into Arborio rice, of trout stuffed with orange and dill baked in butter. The customers would be back, she told herself. They would be back.
Russell walked back over to his truck feeling pleased. He was pretty sure that supplying The Swan would be a done deal and it would be something to tell Jen when they next spoke. He knew his pork won people over as soon as they tasted it. It was persuading them to try it that he hated. He wasn’t a salesman; hustling made him feel awkward. That transaction hadn’t been so bad, but he’d been halfway to success given that he used to supply Alan.
As he reversed out of the car park, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror. Jen was right. He had let himself go and he needed to sort himself out. He’d felt an absolute shambles talking to . . . what was her name? Maggie? He almost felt ashamed. She hadn’t even wanted to shake his hand, he was so unappetising.
He’d go home, have a shower and drive into Honisham. Get himself a haircut and a new pair of jeans. Spend the hog-roast money on making himself look like a decent human being. He used to take pride in his appearance. When had that changed? OK, so he didn’t need to dress up to look after the pigs, but there was no excuse for going out in public looking like Worzel Gummidge. He needed to get a grip.
22
Rose took Gertie’s hand and wandered out into the pub garden. She was a little bit daunted. After all, her hands-on gardening experience wasn’t that extensive. She had spent most of her childhood trotting around after her great-grandmother, helping her with potting, planting, weeding. She’d learned the names of all the plants in the garden and how they needed to be treated. As a teenager, she’d lost interest a little, but the year before, she’d done up their courtyard garden in Avonminster for Maggie’s birthday, because she’d had no idea what else to get her. She’d made her a herb garden for cocktails, upcycled loads of pots she’d scavenged from various sources and planted them up, repainted all the woodwork in chalky paint and thrown around loads of chippings. It had reignited her childhood fascination, and then she’d volunteered to look after the garden at the Soul Bowl, and that had cemented her interest.
But the garden at The Swan was much bigger than anything she’d dealt with. Bigger, even, than the extensive garden at Wisteria House. The grass had run away with itself, so the first thing she needed to do was to mow it. There was nothing more pleasing than an English lawn, perfectly cut, with immaculate velvety stripes. Alan said there was a ride-on mower in one of the sheds.
She looked at the rest of her surroundings with a critical eye. A large brick patio ran along the back of the pub, then the lawn, dotted with trestle tables, ran down to the riverbank. There were nobbly apple trees and weeping willows, which added a softness, and with the water burbling in the background, the rustling of the trees and the clouds scudding past the sun overhead, it felt like a lovely place to be. But Rose knew that with a little imagination and hard work, it could be transformed into something truly magical. At the moment, it was a little stark and a bit bland – you could be in any riverside pub in England. And it was somewhat neglected. The half barrels were empty, waiting to be filled with bedding plants, and there were weeds starting to poke through the patio.
She imagined it at dusk, lit up with twinkling lights and candles in storm lanterns, the sweet scent of nicotiana drifting across the grass. Striped cushions and parasols; dolly tubs planted up with fragrant lavender. A sundial, perhaps. A swing! A herringbone path made of old brick. Some pergolas or arches to break it all up, and lots of trailing honeysuckle and clematis in a tangle. It didn’t have to cost a fortune, and Cherry had taught her well. They had often scoured the charity shops together, Cherry picking up vases and soup tureens and cocktail glasses, while Rose plundered the clothes rails for vintage treasures: tea dresses in crepe de chine, cashmere cardigans, tweed coats. She had learned a lot from her grandmother, about getting a good eye, about spotting quality. And how to look after things properly and give them a new lease of life.
Now she was here in Rushbrook, she felt herself starting to relax, her shoulders dropping downwards and her jaw less clenched. It had been a while since the incident with Gaz, and it was only now that she could remember it without feeling sick. She had emailed Aaron the day after and given in her notice. He didn’t need her, not when she couldn’t even follow his most basic rules and had put one of the clients in jeopardy.
Aaron had phoned her the minute he got it. She’d been tempted not to answer his call, but she didn’t want to be rude.
‘Rose. I’m not accepting this. You can’t abandon us.’
‘It’s a family thing,’ she told him. ‘We’re moving to Somerset for the summer.’
‘Oh.’
‘We’re all going. Me and my mum and my grandmother. So I won’t be able to help any more.’
‘But you’re my right hand – I can’t do without you.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘I don’t think you know how special you are, Rose.’
She wasn’t special at all. She had let him down. She wasn’t even brave enough to tell him what she had done.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know the rest of the team will step up.’
‘Somerset’s not that far. You could still come—’
‘Sorry,’ she repeated. ‘My family need me. Sorry to let you down.’
She hung up, riddled with guilt for letting him down, but he was better off without her.
And this was what she had needed. A change of scene. An escape from the city which, much as she loved it, fed her anxiety. The cars, the people, the pollution, the queues: they all rolled off her when she was on top of things, but as soon as she went under, she became almost agoraphobic.
Here, the air was sweet, apple blossom replacing the choking fumes; the drone of bees replaced the distant hum of a city traffic jam. A breeze caressed her cheek and ruffled her hair, playful, affectionate. She lay down on the moss of the bank and shut her eyes for a moment, the sunlight trickling through the branches of the willow. It was her favourite time of year. Her and her dad’s favourite. It was nearly festival time. Glastonbury. It was four years since she’d been. She couldn’t believe it, but there was the evidence: little Gertie, bounding around with the dogs, having the time of her life.
‘Goosey duck!’ Gertie was pointing across the lawn, down to the river. Rose laughed, for there was a swan, gliding silently past.
‘It’s not a goosey duck, darling. It’s a swan.’
And not just one swan, but two. No, three! Three elegant, graceful creatures as dazzlingly white as Alpine snow. Rose and Gertie lay on the riverbank and watched, transfixed, as they reached the bend in the river.
‘Oh!’ said Rose, as an idea came to her. ‘Come on, Gertie. Let’s go and find the others.’
The two of them scrambled to their feet, raced back up the lawn, through the back entrance and into the main bar where Maggie and Cherry were surveying the bar and deciding if it needed remodelling or if, as it had been the same for decades, they should just paint it. They looked up as she rushed over.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Rose. ‘Let’s change the name. Let’s change it from The Swan to The Three Swans. For the three of us.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Maggie. ‘And perfect for a relaunch. It gives us a story. A hook.’
‘What do you think, Cherry?’ asked Rose.
‘The Three Swans,’ said Cherry. ‘Like the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all. I love it!’
23
Chloe set to work at the Safari Lodges, determined to do a good job so Dash would overlook Nicole’s absence. Her mum couldn’t afford to lose this job. She’d already lost her driving licence so it was hard for her to get anywhere else to work. She could see Dash was at the end of his tether with her. The thing was, everyone loved Nicole – until she let them down. And these days, she seemed to be letting everyone down.
If Dash did give Nicole the sack, maybe Chloe could take over as soon as her exams were over? She only had another week to go and it didn’t really matter who did the work as long as they had money coming into the house. And Pearl and Otis were old enough to leave during the day. Weren’t they? She’d never forgive herself if something happened to one of them while she was out, but what else could she do? There was, after all, only one of her. She couldn’t bring in the money and do the childcare.
It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps that was why her mum found it so hard to cope? Knowing, as a single parent, that you were responsible for absolutely everything and there wasn’t enough time. But turning your back on your responsibilities and getting drunk hardly helped matters. She’d been over and over it all in her head. Why was her mum so useless? She hadn’t always been. With a sigh, Chloe thought back to the days when her mum and dad were happy, when they were all happy. What had gone wrong?
She buried herself in her surroundings to try and forget. The lodges were all cosy inside, with lots of sheepskin and fairy lights and low beds covered in velvet bedspreads. Outside each one was a cedarwood hot tub with a view overlooking the valley. And Dash kept the land beautifully, with everything rewilded: new trees planted, and meadow flowers, and the hedges re-laid. He’d even built a natural swimming pool. There were fishing lessons, and yoga, and stargazing. Any cocktail your heart desired delivered on a silver tray. A therapist to come and give you a massage or pedicure or even a tarot reading. It was back-to-nature with every luxury you could think of. A chance for hard-working city types to kick back and relax.
Chloe stripped the bed, put the duvet outside to air, and bundled up the linen. Everything was given a thorough scrub, clean, wipe and polish until the surfaces gleamed – every tap, every window, every table top. Then she replenished the scented candles, the eco-friendly soap and shampoo and stocked the fridge up with cider from Dragonfly Farm – Dash’s girlfriend Tabitha lived there – and local cheese, jam, chutney, yoghurt, milk and butter. Last of all she made up the bed – hospital corners and the pillows as plump as a sleeping honey bear – and folded the freshly laundered towels. She left the packet of wildflower seeds and the welcome card on the bedside table – These seeds are for you to scatter during your stay. Please let us know what we can do to make your time here even more magical – and locked the door.
There were three more lodges to do. She checked on Beyoncé – she’d left her cage outside on the deck. The little hamster seemed to have perked up no end, so she lugged the cage to the next lodge. She stood looking out at the view for a moment, the long grass studded with wildflowers swishing in the breeze, and tried to imagine having the kind of life where it was possible to book a week away in paradise, to not have to lift a finger, to have your every whim attended to.
What did you have to do to deserve that?
When she’d finished, she took all the linen back up to the main house and set it going in the washing machine in the laundry. Dash came out of his office just as she was about to make her escape.
‘Chloe.’
She stopped and turned. He had a grave look on his face.
‘Thanks for today. But you shouldn’t have to cover for her, you know.’
Chloe tried to keep her face expressionless but inside she was starting to panic. She didn’t know what to say.
‘It’s not fair on you,’ he went on.
‘She’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s one of her migraines.’
‘So you said. Only I’m not sure it is.’ Dash’s voice was gentle, but Chloe wasn’t sure who she could trust. ‘Is everything OK, Chloe?’
It was so tempting. He was so kind and solid and reassuring. But once she’d told him, that would be it. She couldn’t un-tell him, and there was no way he would do nothing about the situation because that’s the sort of person he was: responsible, law-abiding. And Mum would probably lose her job and all hell would break loose and she would drink even more. God forbid they might have to go and live with Dad and horrible Elizabeth.
So she pushed back her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Honestly. It is. She’s had them ever since she was my age. Sometimes it’s cheese that sets it off, and sometimes it’s chocolate and sometimes we don’t know, it just happens. She has to stay in a dark room for a day and then she’s fine.’
Detail. People liked detail. Dash smiled and nodded at her, understanding that she didn’t want the conversation to go any further for now. He pointed at the hamster cage.
‘Do you and . . . Beyoncé want a lift home?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
As she walked away, she could sense him watching after her, wondering. Should she turn and give him a little smile and a wave, to convince him everything was fine? No, she thought. Just keep walking. She felt awful lying to him. Dash was so lovely. Why couldn’t her mum find a man like him? She was pretty enough. And clever enough. Her mum was really clever.
But Dash had Tabitha Melchior. Chloe had seen a photo of her in Somerset People, sitting on top of a mountain of apples, in a scruffy jumper and jeans and wellies, her blonde hair tumbling in a wild mess. There was an interview with her, about how she was turning Dragonfly Farm around, which she and her cousins had inherited from her great uncle. Melchior Cider was winning medals after just two years in production.
Chloe sighed. Some people had uncles who left them farms. Just as some people had mums who got out of bed in the morning and made them breakfast. You had to make the most of what you were given. She was just grateful they were in Rushbrook, when they could have ended up somewhere dreary on the outskirts of Honisham. It was the summer holidays soon. Life should get easier.
She was nearly at the village shop. She’d go and buy some sweets for Pearl and Otis and meet them off the bus. She stopped outside to read the notice board, out of habit. Her mum always combed through the flyers because you never knew what you might find for sale, or what opportunities might come up. When she was on it, Nicole could be shrewd. She was great at upcycling people’s unwanted possessions and flogging them on eBay.
