The Impulse Purchase, page 19
She folded up the dress carefully when she took it off, and put her jodhpurs back on. She felt ordinary again. When she’d been on Pia, playing the role she’d been given, she felt like another person. Almost powerful.
The seconds were draining away. They would be gone, and her brief foray into another world would be a memory. It made her even more determined to find herself a future. There must be another life out there. She had seen it.
She left the stable and walked slowly to fetch Pia. There was nothing she could do to prolong their stay. She couldn’t bear the thought of the three of them piling into the car and heading back to London. But she could hardly go with them.
‘Hey,’ said Pam. ‘We don’t want to drive all the way back to London tonight. We need somewhere to stay. Do you know anywhere?’
Joy surged through her. Here was her chance. Would they jump at it, if she told them? Or would they decide to go further afield?
‘There’s The Swan,’ she said. ‘In the village. They have a couple of rooms upstairs. I expect they’re free.’ She prayed they were. ‘I work there, on a Saturday night. Behind the bar.’
Mike looked at her, and Pam looked at him, then Alouette.
‘That would do. I don’t fancy travelling far now. I just want a shandy in the beer garden and pie and chips. Me and Alouette can share. Can’t we?’
Alouette shrugged. She was still sulking. ‘I suppose so. If you don’t snore.’
Pam laughed. Cherry held her breath. Mike smiled.
‘That sounds just the thing. The shandies are on me. We’ll see you there.’
And he gave Cherry a wink.
Back at home an hour later, Cherry got ready for work. She usually didn’t make a lot of effort – a plain blouse and a skirt – because it was hot and dirty work behind the bar in the summer. If she dressed up it would be strange and she would feel awkward. In the end she settled on a white seersucker blouse and a corduroy skirt that showed off her legs. She felt grubby and sticky and felt sure she still reeked of horse, but she didn’t have time for a bath or to wash her hair so she did her best with a damp flannel, a dusting of talc and a squirt of Yardley. She brushed the dust out of her hair and put on mascara and lipstick, which again she never usually bothered with. She surveyed herself in the mirror. She didn’t look anything like as hip as Pam or Alouette, with their heavy eyeliner and dangly jewellery, but not too bad.
‘That’s your birthday blouse,’ said her mother in the hall as she left.
‘Yes,’ said Cherry.
Catherine smiled. ‘You look lovely.’
Cherry was so excited she gave her a hug. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
Alouette, Pam and Mike were the liveliest thing to hit The Swan in living memory. After a couple of drinks and some food, Alouette got over her sulks and was actually quite funny. She and Pam spent the evening pumping money into the juke box, taking requests and dancing with anyone who wanted to join them. The atmosphere was electric, and the bar stayed busy all night.
‘We’ve made more tonight than we have done in a week,’ Maurice the landlord told Cherry. ‘You can bring your friends again.’
Cherry felt proud to be associated with them. And when it was closing time, she was allowed to stay for a few drinks because they were residents.
‘I’m sorry if the rooms are awful,’ she told them. ‘I don’t think they get cleaned all that often.’
Pam waved a hand at her. ‘We don’t care. We always just collapse into bed after a long day and a few drinks. Don’t we, Mike?’
For a moment, Cherry felt her insides turn to ice. Was Pam going to bed with Mike? She didn’t think they were together but maybe they did, sometimes? That was the way these days. People didn’t ask too many questions or make too many commitments. She found she couldn’t bear the thought of them together.
‘Go and dance with Cherry, Mike.’ Alouette had noticed her crestfallen expression. ‘Poor girl’s been stuck behind the bar all night. She needs some fun.’
Mike reached over and took her hand. ‘What’s your song, Cherry? The one that makes your heart beat faster?’
She couldn’t think. All she could feel was the blood rushing to her head at his touch. She couldn’t have named a song if her life depended on it.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, feeling lame, and Alouette came to her rescue, jumping up and pressing the buttons on the juke box. ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ leapt out and soon they were all dancing, arms waving, hips swivelling, hair flying. Maurice stood in the doorway, smiling. They could dance all night as far as he was concerned. This trio from London had covered his wages for a month.
Then the mournful notes of ‘Nights in White Satin’ floated around the room. Alouette grabbed Pam, laughing, and they danced cheek to cheek, hamming it up. Mike put up his hands and took Cherry’s, drawing her closer to him, and suddenly she was in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, feeling his curls brush her cheek, smelling his warm sandalwood scent. Across the room, Alouette gave her a wink. Cherry realised the model had been her champion all evening, and thought better of her. It was a lesson, she thought, in not judging people too quickly.
Then she saw Maurice watching her, and he raised his eyebrows towards the clock, then with a rueful expression jerked his thumb towards the door to indicate she should leave. She knew why. He was afraid of her father’s disapproval if things got out of hand. Dr Nicholson might go on the warpath if he thought his daughter had been sullied on Maurice’s premises. It was a bit late for that, thought Cherry, remembering her encounter on the riverbank a few weeks ago one moonlit night. She’d wanted to know what it was like, and now she did, and next time she would know what to expect.
But Maurice was right, she realised, looking at the clock behind the bar. It was half past one. She was usually home by eleven o’clock. Her parents would be wondering where on earth she was. Granted, they were usually already in bed by the time she got home, so they might not have noticed her absence, but she couldn’t leave it any later. She was torn between the thought of worrying them and her longing to stay.
‘I have to go,’ she whispered to Mike.
He pulled her in tight and brushed her lips with his. A fleeting kiss, but she thought she might die from the thrill of it. She felt as if her insides were filling up with the soft, sweet ice cream that was pumped into a cone from the van that came round every Friday.
‘Must you?’ he said.
‘My parents will be worried.’
He nodded, and took her hand. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He seemed enraptured, but no doubt he was inhibited by the steely gaze of Maurice on him.
‘If you ever come to London,’ he said, ‘look me up.’ And out of his pocket, he pulled a card and pushed it into her hand. ‘I think we could have a lot of fun.’
His words echoed around Cherry’s head as she walked back along the road. She had never been out this late before. The air was cool on her skin, the moon above lit her path, the air smelled sweet and pungent. She imagined hundreds of tiny eyes in the hedgerows, watching her, wondering, judging.
We could have a lot of fun . . .
She stopped just outside the house. The scent of wisteria drifted over to her on the breeze. The red-brick façade and the windows, blank with black night, gave nothing away. She could hear the river behind, but there was no judgement in its murmur. With luck, her parents were deep in slumber. She crept in, hoping the floorboards wouldn’t squeak and the door wouldn’t slam. The grandfather clock tutted reproachfully. It knew better than anyone what the time was. She pulled off her boots, leaving them by the doormat, and headed for the stairs, stepping on each one carefully.
Just as she reached the top, the landing was suddenly flooded with light. She looked up to see her mother, her hand on the light switch.
‘Darling!’ Her mother looked startled, standing there in her pink quilted dressing gown with her curlers in her hair. ‘What time is it?’
‘Sorry. I stayed to chat after work. I didn’t realise what the time was.’
Her mother looked at her. She gave a funny little smile, and Cherry wondered if she knew what had happened, somehow.
‘I couldn’t sleep. Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘OK . . .’
They sneaked back down to the kitchen, and Catherine boiled the kettle, busying herself with the teapot, while Cherry sat and realised she could still smell the faintest trace of sandalwood on her skin. Every time she breathed it in, it made her head spin.
‘So,’ said Catherine. ‘Tell me about tonight.’
She sat down, putting two mugs of tea on the table and looking Cherry straight in the eye. But the smile on her face was kind, and she had never been one to judge. She probably wouldn’t approve of everything that had happened today, but Cherry could leave out those bits.
‘Oh, Mum,’ she said, and took the card out of her skirt pocket. ‘I’ve had the most amazing day. And I’ve met this . . .’
She wasn’t sure whether to say boy or man, because she wasn’t sure how old Mike was.
‘Guy,’ she said eventually. ‘He lives in London.’
‘Oh,’ said her mum. ‘Well. What does he do?’
It was the first question any parent worth their salt asked.
‘He’s an artist. A photographer. He’s designing an album cover.’
‘Wow.’
‘He’s very nice,’ Cherry assured her.
‘Of course he is, darling.’ Catherine put a hand over hers and squeezed. ‘Just be careful, that’s all. You know your dad and I trust you, and would never stop you doing anything you wanted. But you must look out for yourself.’
Cherry looked at her. ‘Do you mean I could go to London? To visit him?’
Catherine Nicholson, despite her cosy village life, was very much a woman of the world. She saw everything through the lens of her husband’s work and had no illusion about the sort of things that could go on behind closed doors. But she also knew that to keep a young woman on a tight rein was asking for trouble. She knew that if she gave Cherry her head, she would get into less trouble. A girl had to learn by her own mistakes, not be stopped from making them.
‘If that’s what you want to do.’
‘The girl he works with – Pam – said I could go and stay with her any time.’
‘Well, that’s a very kind invitation.’
Cherry thought of all the places she had seen in magazines. The Kings Road. Chelsea. Kensington. The shops – she felt faint with longing at the thought of actually going into Biba. And perhaps a haircut. She could get rid of her waist-length mane. It had become something of a trademark, but now she had seen Pam’s crop, she wanted shot of it.
She looked outside at the moon, and it seemed to give her a nod of encouragement. Nothing will change if you don’t make a change, it told her. She knew any change she made had to be a big one. And today had happened for a reason. She would never get this opportunity again.
‘Come on,’ said her mother. ‘We really must go to bed. It’s nearly three in the morning.’
Cherry thought she would never sleep, but before long she had been plunged into dreams of pirouettes and flower garlands and spinning turntables, all to a jumbled soundtrack. And when she woke in the morning, her watch told her it was half past ten and she could hear voices in the garden. She ran to her window and looked out and there she could see Mike, sitting at the table with her father, a tray of tea in between them. She listened more closely and grinned as she heard them discussing the cricket, one of her father’s passions. Mike sounded very enthusiastic and knowledgeable and the discussion was very intense indeed.
What was he doing here? How did he know where she lived? She supposed it wouldn’t have been too difficult to find out. He only had to ask Maurice. She scrambled into a pair of jeans and the white blouse from the night before, washed her face and teeth quickly at the sink, and brushed her hair before running down the stairs barefoot and into the garden.
‘Darling,’ said her mother, who was bringing out a plate of her shortbread. ‘Look who’s here. Mike’s come to ask you out for lunch.’
He looked up and the smile he gave her was so familiar, so easy, so confident. She felt as if she had known him for ever. She couldn’t believe her luck. A man like that, so cool and with it, with his wild curls and his shades, but who had the nerve to seek her out and the common sense to charm her parents? He was her future, right there.
Something inside her told her they were going to be together for a very long time.
29
At the end of the week, Maggie headed back to Avonminster. She drove up the motorway on a bit of a high. Only days ago she’d been panicking that they wouldn’t be able to find a decent chef, but inspiration had struck and she had phoned the college in Honisham to see if they had any promising students on their catering course about to graduate. It didn’t look as if she was going to get anyone experienced, but someone with promise would be second best. And it might be easier to mould someone than do battle with a chef who had strong ideas about what to do in the kitchen. Maggie’s ideas were strong enough, she thought. But she didn’t want to be doing all the cooking. She needed someone capable and she needed them fast.
The college sent over their most able student. Winnie O’Neill was five foot nothing with a blue-black bob and a mass of tattoos over her tiny frame.
‘She’s quite a little powerhouse,’ the tutor told her. ‘You won’t keep her for long if you do get her.’
Maggie didn’t want to do a formal interview. She had a raft of things to be getting on with the morning Winnie turned up. So she sent her into the kitchen and gave her free rein.
‘Surprise me,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what you make. Just make me swoon.’
‘Okey doke,’ said Winnie, cool as a cucumber, and sauntered into the kitchen with her knife roll under her arm.
Twenty minutes later Maggie felt a tap on her arm as she sat at her laptop wrestling with the invoicing program she’d downloaded. Winnie slid a small bowl over to her, filled with warm, salty cashews and macadamias, roasted in maple syrup and a mixture of hot, sweet, mellow spices.
‘Oh my God,’ said Maggie, unable to shovel them in fast enough. Winnie disappeared, laughing.
Over the next hour, she brought out dish after dish. A delicate but crisp potato basket filled with smoked trout and crème fraiche. A perfectly cooked omelette, pale yellow with just the right amount of runniness. A bavette steak with a soy and mirin dressing, topped with seared scallions. And finally, an exquisite blueberry clafoutis, as light as a feather, with a hint of fiery ginger to stop it from being too dainty.
Maggie was blown away. The girl’s technical skills were impeccable, and she had a lightness of touch that couldn’t be taught. She knew when to stop, knew when to let the ingredients speak for themselves and which method would serve them best. She would pay double to have this girl work for them.
‘I want to travel,’ Winnie told her. ‘I don’t know if I want to be tied down.’
‘Work for me and I’ll teach you everything you need to know to take you to the next level,’ Maggie promised her. ‘You’ll get the best jobs that way.’
Winnie looked doubtful.
‘Give us six months of your time,’ Maggie persuaded her. ‘You must be secretly interested or you wouldn’t have come here.’
‘I was interested because my tutor told me about you. I liked the idea of a family team. A female team.’
‘Let me introduce you to Rose.’ Maggie led Winnie out into the garden, where Rose was digging in compost into the raised beds Ed had built for her. Maggie knew that Rose and Winnie would hit it off. They weren’t far apart in age, and they had that same wildness of spirit that meant they didn’t do things the usual way.
She was right. An hour later Winnie came back in and agreed to start work the following week.
So as she headed back home, she felt jubilant. Things were falling into place. With Winnie on board, she could feel the ethos of the kitchen taking shape, and it excited her. It added to the anticipation of her dinner with Mario. She supposed it was the novelty of actually going out for dinner with someone, one to one. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that.
She stood in the shower for at least a quarter of an hour, washing out all the grease and the grime from the week, relishing the heat and the pressure. The shower at the boathouse was an ineffective trickle that had done nothing to combat the filth from the kitchen that seemed to have ingrained itself into her skin and hair over the past week. She felt like a human fatberg, and still shuddered at the clods of grease she had found clinging to the work surfaces. At last she emerged smelling sweetly of neroli and geranium, her hair squeaky clean and treated to a nourishing mask.
She flicked through all the dresses in her wardrobe. She had quite a selection, as her job meant lots of launches, award ceremonies and corporate entertaining. She chose a black silk shirt-waister with mother of pearl buttons, and spent a long time deciding exactly how many of them to leave undone. One at the bottom, three at the top, in the end.
She blow-dried her hair. The ludicrously expensive hairdryer that she’d bought made it look a bit too immaculate, so she tousled it up with a bit of wax. She didn’t want to look overdone. Black suede kitten-heeled ankle boots finished it off. Sandals or courts would be too dressy.
She looked at herself in the mirror. This was the moment Frank would pad across the room in his pants, drop a kiss on her shoulder and tell her she looked like a fox. She realised she hadn’t had time to write in her notebook over the past few days. And there wasn’t time now – her Uber would be here any minute. She would find some time to write tomorrow.
‘So.’ Mario snapped off a piece of carta di musica and dug it into the artichoke dip on the sharing platter between them. ‘Zara’s good. You trained her well. But she’s not you. And I’m still trying to work out how to get you back.’
He sat back, popping the loaded flatbread into his mouth.
‘Oh, I think it was better that I went.’ Maggie was distracted, too busy looking at the sharing platter to see what ideas she could use at The Swan. Sharing platters were a bit of a catering cliché but people loved them and they were a gift for a busy restaurant. They could keep punters quiet for hours. ‘I used every trick in my repertoire. I was getting stale. Zara is full of energy and enthusiasm.’
