About the Book
About the Author
Also by Katie Fforde
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Extract from A Summer at Sea
Copyright
Take one aspiring cook, one judge, and a spoonful of romance…
When Zoe Harper wins a coveted place in a televised cookery competition she’s thrilled. It’s a chance to cook her way to fame and fortune and the little delicatessen she’s set her heart on.
The first task has hardly begun when she finds herself with rather too much on her plate. Not only has she got to contend with the fiercely competitive and downright devious Cher, but she’s fast developing an inconvenient crush on one of the judges – the truly delicious Gideon Irving.
All too soon there’s more than canapés, cupcakes and cordon bleu at stake. Will Zoe win the competition or is Gideon one temptation too far? And is Zoe really prepared to risk it all for love?
Katie Fforde was born and brought up in London but has lived in Gloucestershire with her family for the last thirty years. Her first novel, Living Dangerously, went on to be chosen as part of the WHSmith Fresh Talent promotion. There have been over seventeen novels since, as well as some grandchildren. Her hobbies, when she has time for them, are singing in a choir and flamenco dancing. Katie Fforde is President of the Romantic Novelists’ Association.
To find out more about Katie Fforde visit her website at www.katiefforde.com and follow her on Twitter @KatieFforde.
Living Dangerously
The Rose Revived
Wild Designs
Stately Pursuits
Life Skills
Thyme Out
Artistic Licence
Highland Fling
Paradise Fields
Restoring Grace
Flora’s Lot
Practically Perfect
Going Dutch
Wedding Season
Love Letters
A Perfect Proposal
Summer of Love
To Frank Fforde and Heidi Cawley with
much love and gratitude.
Also to Téo Fforde just because he’s there.
Writers are like snowballs, they go through life picking up bits of knowledge – often without knowing they’re doing it. But there are several people who I know made real contributions to this book. In no particular order:
Elizabether Garret for Cliff Cottage which really helped to prevent deadline panic.
Judy Astley and Kate Lace, who helped Cliff Cottage with the deadline assistance.
Edd Kimber @theboywhobakes who was jolly helpful about cookery competitions.
Liz Godsell for telling me about cheese.
Heidi Cawley for telling me about delis, for making her own pancetta and for taking me shopping, also for learning about cupcakes with me.
Frank Fforde who helped with professional kitchen advice and for telling me you can make a quick custard with white chocolate.
Helen Child Villiers – Chepstow Cupcakes – who taught me how to make them and mocked my efforts
Molly Haynes, who, when I appealed on Twitter for a canapé recipe, responded with something truly delicious.
Karin Cawley, for producing bread pudding so delicious I had to put it in the book. She also produced Heidi, which was even more clever.
As always my wonderful husband and research assistant, Desmond Fforde, who continues to put up with me.
And not forgetting Briony Fforde who keeps me in order and makes me laugh. Nothing runs smoothly without laughter.
ZOE HARPER LAY ON the bank in the sun with her eyes closed, listening to a lark high above her. Nearer her ear she could hear the crackling of the grass and the buzzing of insects. The weather had been changeable recently in typical British-weather fashion, but today it was a perfect early summer’s day.
Warned that Sat Nav didn’t work in the area she’d allowed far too much getting-lost time and arrived far too early at the venue. She’d wondered if she was in the right place as the huge old mansion seemed to be undergoing some fairly major restoration, going by large sections of scaffolding and several contractors’ vans parked in the drive. Fenella Gainsborough, heavily pregnant, confirmed that she was, and, obviously not ready for her guests yet, had thrust a map into Zoe’s hands and sent her out for a walk. Zoe, relieved that she had reached her destination, was happy to leave her car and explore on foot. As none of the other contestants had arrived yet – they were not expected till the early evening – she’d set off alone.
Now she tried to relax but in spite of the sun on her eyelids she was finding it hard. Her walk from Somerby House had used up some of her nervous energy but she was still full of adrenalin. Excited about the impending cookery competition she’d been so thrilled to win a place on, she was also a bundle of nerves. It didn’t help that it was also being filmed, prior to being televised later in the year. Zoe consoled herself with the thought that at least it wasn’t going out live. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d made it through the rigorous selection process. She’d only entered on the insistence of her mother and her best friend, Jenny, but now, here she was in a field in the middle of nowhere feeling as if she was about to go to her execution. She sighed and stretched. She’d do better to breathe deeply and try and doze.
Just as the peace of the English meadow was finally beginning to work its magic she heard a car in the lane below her and was suddenly fully awake.
The car went past and then stopped. It had obviously reached the gate blocking the lane. Zoe had reached it herself about half an hour ago and had decided against climbing over it. A large notice saying ‘Trespassers keep out’ had helped her in her decision.
Zoe waited and then heard the car reverse throatily. It would have to reverse all the way back down the lane unless it was small, and it didn’t sound small. It stopped and she heard the gear change. Just as she realised what it intended, she sat up and started down the bank. There was a ditch, hidden by long grasses. She wouldn’t have found it herself if she hadn’t nearly stumbled into it.
Too late. By the time she had reached the lane, brushing bits of vegetation off her jeans, the car’s back wheel was hovering over the ditch. The front end was nearly in the ditch on the other side of the lane. The driver got out of the car and slammed the door.
‘Bloody stupid place to put a ditch,’ he growled.
He was a fairly impressive figure. Tall and broad with dark hair, he had the air of a person who was not accustomed to being thwarted by civil engineering.
Zoe wanted to laugh but managed to shrug instead. ‘A fairly usual place I’d have thought, by the side of the road, draining the water away.’
The man glared at her. ‘Don’t try and baffle me with logic. What am I going to do?’
It was probably a rhetorical question but Zoe, who was very literal-minded, said, ‘Call the AA, RAC, something like that?’
He scowled. ‘Do I look like the sort of man who’s a member of the AA?’
Zoe considered. She hadn’t thought there was a typical look to a member of a roadside rescue service but as she studied him more closely she noticed his curly, slightly too long hair was actually a very dark red. He had green eyes and curving mouth and a large, slightly hooked nose. She couldn’t decide if he was very handsome or really quite ugly, but she did have to admit he was extremely sexy. He looked like the kind of man who assumed he’d never break down.
‘What am I do to?’ he said, again rhetorically.
He triggered the devil in Zoe. She knew he was expecting her not to answer, or just to offer to go for help, but she decided to tease him. She felt slightly light-headed.
‘Well, there’re quite a lot of branches by the gate. Maybe we could pile them up under the wheel and you could reverse enough to turn.’ In spite of her desire to provoke him, it was a genuine suggestion.
‘You are a practical little thing, aren’t you?’ he said, making it seem as if it was bad to be practical, but he set off down the lane in the direction she’d pointed and then called imperiously over his shoulder. ‘Come on. I’ll need you.’
Infuriated at his manner – ‘little thing’? – yet pleased to be doing something active so her nerves about the upcoming competition could be worked off, Zoe followed him. But as she went she chided herself; this could get her into serious trouble.
She’d worked out who he was by now – who else would be so close to Somerby who wasn’t going there? And this man – arrogant and argumentative – had to be one of the judges. He could never be a mere contestant in a cookery competition. And as she knew the other judges by sight from their television appearances, this could only be Gideon Irving. He was a well-known name in the world of food, as a critic, food writer and entrepreneur. His writing style was acerbic and often cruel, but he loved to discover new chefs and had brought a lot of young talent to the notice of the restaurant-going public.
She hadn’t been exactly rude but she had leant a bit in that direction. She wouldn’t win the competition now. And wouldn’t being alone with one of the judges – however innocently – be against the rules? Why oh why hadn’t she just stayed lying in the grass, listening to the larks? She ran to catch him up.
They found some biggish logs as well as the branches. Some clearing had been done nearby, most of the tree trunks had been removed but quite a lot remained.
‘I’ll take some of the larger bits of timber and you bring what you can carry,’ he said.
She nodded and began gathering up the bits of birch, fir and beech that lay about.
‘If this doesn’t work,’ she said, finding it hard to keep up with him even though his arms were full of logs, ‘we could go to the house and ask them to send a tractor or something.’
‘We could,’ Gideon Irving agreed, ‘but we’ll try this first.’ He didn’t quite smile at her but the speculative look he shot her indicated he liked what he saw.
Zoe wasn’t her own biggest fan but her short, curly brown hair, small frame, pale skin and freckles hadn’t given her any complexes. She knew she could scrub up fairly well, only today she wasn’t scrubbed up at all. She was wearing her jeans, plimmies and a striped Breton top. She never wore much make-up but currently wasn’t wearing any. She had blue eyes and dark lashes, and knew her size made her look younger than twenty-seven.
‘OK.’
Together they piled the wood into the ditch, building a platform for the overhanging wheel. They didn’t speak much but Zoe was enjoying herself. She liked problem-solving and when she spotted some stones that had fallen out of a wall, went to get them.
Her thanks was a glance and a grunt but somehow she felt rewarded. He did have amazing eyes. She felt a flutter of excitement.
‘The question is, do we have to do this all over again in the other ditch?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. She had been considering this while she worked. ‘But now we’ve got the stones it won’t take so long.’
Zoe was filthy and fairly sweaty by the time they’d finished. He’d long since thrown off his jacket and his white T-shirt was covered in mud.
‘Can you drive?’ he demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘Follow simple instructions?’
‘Yes.’ Yet again, Zoe decided not to take offence. It was easier to just get in the car. Really, she wanted to laugh but sensed that would not be a good move. Men really didn’t like being laughed at when they were in trouble with their cars. She was no expert on men, but even she knew that.
The car smelt slightly of rather delicious cologne and leather upholstery. It had a dashboard which took a moment to understand.
He loomed over her as he spoke through the open window. ‘You accelerate – gently – and we’ll see what happens.’
Some moments and a fair amount of mud later, he came back to the window and scowled at her.
She smiled back sympathetically. ‘I can still walk back to the house and get help.’ Zoe looked up at him. He was sweating too now and a lock of hair was caught on his forehead.
He shook his head. ‘I’ll walk back if it comes to that.’ He paused, inspecting her, his gaze inscrutable. ‘Try reversing.’
It took quite a lot of backing and edging forward and ditch-filling but at last the car was turned round. Zoe felt she’d run a marathon. She got out and found she was trembling although she’d only been driving.
‘Well done,’ he said, and then smiled. She felt as if she’d just won Gold in the hundred metres.
‘Like a lift back to the house?’ He was still smiling.
‘Oh … yes,’ she said, unsure if her legs were shaking because of what she’d just been through or something else.
‘So get in then,’ he said when she didn’t move.
Somehow she made her body function and got in the car. Now the sharp smell of man overlaid the cologne and the leather. Zoe moistened her dry lips and looked firmly out of the passenger window. Being so close to him seemed almost too much although she wasn’t entirely sure why. He had a very unsettling effect on her. She wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not.
At the bottom of the long drive, he stopped the car. ‘Are you a contestant?’
She nodded. ‘Are you a judge?’ she asked although she knew the answer.
He nodded. ‘Better get out here then,’ he said.
‘Yup.’ She paused. ‘Maybe we’d better pretend we haven’t met before.’
‘If you like,’ he said, ‘but it won’t make any difference to how I judge you.’
‘Oh.’ She blushed. ‘Not that I thought it would. I just wanted to help.’
‘And you did.’ He almost smiled. ‘But it won’t make you win.’
‘I’ll get out now,’ said Zoe.
‘And I’ll have a drive around the lanes.’
Zoe walked up the hill to the house, her legs stiff after their exertion. Somerby was a big house, but not imposing. It was as friendly-looking as its owner had seemed on first meeting.
Brushing off flecks of mud and grass, she knocked on the front door and waited a little while for Fenella to answer. When she did, she didn’t seem very pleased to see her. Several dogs streamed out of the door and on to the grass in front of the house.
‘Oh! You’re back already!’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Zoe. ‘You said four o’clock before you wanted to see me again. And it’s four o’clock now.’
Fenella sighed and brushed her hair back from her face. ‘I would really like it to go on being two o’clock for a lot longer.’
Zoe laughed. ‘One of those days?’
Fenella nodded. ‘However hard you try to plan and prepare and make lists, some days just go wrong anyway.’
Zoe hovered on the doorstep. ‘Has anything in particular gone wrong?’
‘No, just nothing has gone particularly right.’ She sighed again. ‘It’s because Rupert – that’s my husband – is away.’
‘Bad timing!’
‘Yes! And I’ve got the judges’ tea to do and my careful plans for there to be a cake have gone wrong. I haven’t even got time to buy one now.’
‘Oh.’
Fenella held the door wider. ‘Do come in. None of this is your problem. I’m sure soggy digestive biscuits are just what snobby foody people like with their afternoon tea.’
‘Absolutely!’ Zoe agreed diplomatically.
‘We’re hoping to have a “restaurant with rooms” type thing in the barn. We might need the snobby foody people on our side.’ She paused for breath and looked at Zoe properly. ‘What happened to you? You look like you’ve been mud-wrestling!’
‘I know. I have. Well, sort of.’
Possibly sensing Zoe didn’t want to go into details Fenella went on, ‘Let me show you to your room so you can get cleaned up. Of course you know you have to share, but at least you’re in the grounds. Dogs!’
The small pack came lolloping into the house and Fenella led Zoe through the back and out across the courtyard to the converted cowshed where Zoe and another contestant were to be billeted. Not all of them could be accommodated at Somerby: some were in local B and Bs. The cowshed was charming and had a wood-burning stove, a little cooker, a dinky sofa and a double bed. A single bed had been squeezed in, presumably for the sake of the contestants. ‘You’re here first,’ said Fenella, ‘so you get the double bed!’
‘Fab! But a shower first, I think.’
Fenella said, ‘It’s through there. Do you mind if I don’t show you? I’ve got this bloody tea to sort out.’
Zoe sensed that Fenella didn’t usually swear about small things – she must be really panicking. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘why don’t I shower and change and then come and make you some scones or something? What time are they coming?’
Fenella looked at her watch. ‘In three-quarters of an hour. No time to make anything.’ She sighed. ‘A girlfriend from the village was coming up with a cake. I had it all organised but one of her children is ill and she can’t leave him.’
‘I’ll just wash my hands and come. Scones don’t take that long.’
Fenella made a face that was intended to be firm and denying but ended up pleading. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that!’
‘You didn’t and I’d rather be active. It was only when I got here – the first time – that I realised how absolutely terrified I am of this whole competition thing.’ She meant it: she’d always hated exams but at least exams didn’t involve television cameras. ‘I’ll be better if I’m doing something.’
‘So I’d be doing you a favour letting you help?’
Zoe chuckled. ‘Sort of. Although I suppose I’d better find something clean to put on.’
‘I’ll lend you one of Rupert’s shirts. I’ve been living in them. They’ll cover you better than operating theatre scrubs.’
After dumping her rucksack Zoe followed Fenella back to the main house. She noted a few ladders leaning up against random walls and that quite a bit of work still needed to be done on some of the outhouses, but it was all very picturesque. Somerby itself would be a beautiful backdrop to the competition and it was a very photogenic time of year.
‘This is probably horribly against the rules,’ said Fenella after she’d found flour, butter and eggs for Zoe. ‘We’d better not tell anyone. I mean if the judges found out that they were eating your scones and they were delicious—’
‘Which they will be. Baking is my speciality.’
‘—it would look like we were trying to give you an advantage or something.’
Zoe nodded. ‘I agree. I just won’t let anyone see me.’
Fenella suddenly looked doubtful again. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Oh yes! Doing something practical is so much better than sitting around chewing my nails.’ Or helping stranded motorists, however attractive, she thought. ‘I know what I’m doing in a kitchen with a bit of flour and a half-decent oven.’
The scones were too hot to fill with jam and cream so they were in separate bowls on the laden tray. Fenella had wanted to do this but Zoe – her knowledge of pregnancy sketchy – felt she knew enough to insist carrying heavy trays up flights of stairs wasn’t a good idea. She’d carry them up and then retreat to the kitchen and let Fenella face the judges. That way she should avoid being seen.
She was just setting things out before going back down for extra hot water when she heard voices and knew she was about to get caught.
She had a moment of panic but then she calmed down. Unless it was Gideon Irving she’d be fine. She wouldn’t make eye contact, she’d whisk out of the room before anyone took in what she looked like.
As the voices got nearer she realised it wouldn’t be quite that simple.
‘Got stuck in a bloody ditch,’ said a gravelly voice she knew quite well now. ‘Luckily a passing rambler helped me out.’
She turned her head away and carried on putting out plates, setting cups on their saucers on the little table in the window. She was swathed in white poplin, courtesy of Rupert, and doubted if she would be recognised. People didn’t recognise others if they didn’t expect to see then.
‘Yes,’ Gideon went on, ‘she was only a slip of a thing but could drive a car and heft logs like a weightlifter.’
Zoe felt herself blush at the back-handed compliment. She doubted Gideon would say that to her face.
‘So who was she again?’ The other male judge, an amiable chef who went into housewives’ kitchens and taught them how to make gravy, moved towards the table.
‘Just someone on a walk. I don’t see the point of walking myself, if you don’t need to get anywhere.’
Thankfully, Fenella then appeared and said, ‘Help yourselves to tea, gentlemen.’
Zoe scuttled away, muttering, ‘I’ll just get some hot water.’
Zoe had had a Saturday job in a café for years and was quite happy dealing with customers. What she wasn’t so happy about was trying not to be seen. She didn’t do subterfuge and now she had two secrets – both because she couldn’t help being helpful. Her mother had said she’d been born with a helpful gene. It was a virtue really, but just now it seemed like a vice.
Just as Zoe was about to return with the hot water, Fenella reappeared. ‘Oh thank you,’ she said. ‘Would you mind taking it up? I don’t think anyone noticed you, did they?’
She was about to say that Gideon might but then remembered Fenella wasn’t to know that she and Gideon had already met – and Fenella was pregnant. She didn’t have a choice. She took the jug. ‘I’ll be back.’
‘Now what do you have to do, Fen?’ she asked when she got back again. (Fenella had insisted Zoe call her Fen, saying no one called her Fenella unless they were cross with her.) Luckily Gideon and the other judge had been too deep in conversation to notice her. She was enjoying herself. She knew the nerves she’d been keeping at bay would come flooding back the moment she returned to her room. This had been just the distraction she’d needed.
Fenella sighed. ‘Oh, nothing much at all. Put some spuds into the Aga for supper. You’re all going to the pub to eat and the judges and telly people are eating here. Then there’s the official meeting afterwards? Or before.’ She frowned. ‘Honestly, the production company is dreadfully bossy. I gave them some names of lovely local taxi drivers but no, they had to get people down from London to do it. Mad!’
She pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead, making Zoe long to lend her a hair slide. ‘Anyway, I’m now cooking for the scary judges and the local pub, who is quite used to doing this, is cooking for you lot.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s Rupert’s fault. He told the TV people it’s easier to cook for six than twelve, but it’s become more than six with all the producers and things.’ She paused. ‘And he should be back to help with it. The stew’s done already. I just have to do the veg really.’ She leant against the kitchen table. ‘You can imagine how nerve-racking it is, cooking for famous chefs and a food critic.’
‘I can imagine it only too well, considering that’s what this competition is all about.’ Zoe thought Fenella looked really tired and, seeing her put her hand on her stomach, wondered if she was all right. ‘Supposing Rupert isn’t back in time?’
‘I’m sure he will be.’ She didn’t sound very sure.
Zoe made a decision. Fenella – whom she’d liked from the start – needed her. ‘I’ll prep the potatoes for you. What veg are you having?’
‘Things out of the garden: baby broad beans, some cabbage – and some asparagus from down the road. It’s all local stuff.’
‘Are you doing a starter?’
‘Soup. Rupert has made it all as easy as possible.’
‘So, do you want me to help?’
Fen chewed her lip and sighed. She fiddled with a pen out of a pot on the kitchen table. Indecision was written all over her. ‘Only if Rupert doesn’t turn up. You do have to be at your dinner. I’ve seen your schedule. It’s for briefing, getting to know each other, vital stuff.’ She paused. ‘But if Rupert isn’t here it would be wonderful if you could just help in the beginning.’ Fenella smiled. ‘The minibus isn’t collecting you until eight. My dinner is at seven thirty.’
‘So in theory I could get the stuff upstairs for you and then dash down in time to get on the bus.’
Fenella nodded. ‘When we’ve got the dining room restored we’ll have a dumb waiter for me to put things on but as it’s not such a nice room we haven’t done it yet.’
‘Well, I don’t mind being the dumb waiter.’
Fenella gave a half-smile and lowered herself into a chair. ‘I know I shouldn’t say yes,’ she said, ‘but I can’t seem to help myself.’ She put on a fierce expression. ‘And I know perfectly well you’re putting off thinking about the competition by rushing round being helpful.’
Zoe sat down next to her. ‘I know.’
‘I wouldn’t normally beat myself up about accepting help but if you’re breaking some rule or other you could ruin your chances of winning it. You might even be thrown out before you start!’
‘But we don’t know it’s against any rule, and no one will notice, I’m sure. I got away with it at the tea, didn’t I?’ She giggled. ‘I could wear an apron and a little mob cap, as disguise.’
‘Don’t joke about it!’ said Fenella. ‘I happen to have those very items! We did an Edwardian Tea last year and we all dressed up as maids.’
Zoe laughed. ‘I’ll do the spuds now and clean the other veg and then I suppose I’d better settle in over the road.’
‘Your room-mate is there. She came while you were upstairs.’
‘Oh, what’s she like?’
‘Very glam. I hope you put your bag on the double bed!’
WHEN ZOE GOT back to the cowshed she found it occupied by a very lovely blonde woman of about her own age who looked more like a model than a cook. Apart from the age, Zoe couldn’t discern any other similarities between them. The other girl was tall, with long straight subtly highlighted hair, a lot of make-up including false eyelashes, a tiny skirt and a strappy top, although it wasn’t all that warm. Her shoes, kicked off now because she was lying on the double bed, were high strappy sandals.
Zoe smiled, determined that the superficial differences between the two of them shouldn’t mean that they couldn’t co-habit happily.
‘Hi! I’m Zoe,’ she said.
‘Cher,’ said the model-alike. ‘I hope you don’t mind me having the double bed. I can’t sleep in single beds.’
‘Oh? But you’re so thin, it can’t be that they’re not big enough.’
Cher had a silver laugh, a little too high-pitched for Zoe’s taste. ‘No! Not that, but I need to spread out. It’s having such long legs.’
‘You’re not expecting me to be sorry for you because you’ve got long legs, surely?’
‘No,’ said Cher sharply, ‘but I do expect you to let me have the double bed.’
Zoe blinked at Cher’s sudden change of tone but decided against having an argument along the lines of ‘I was here first’ as they weren’t schoolgirls and if they had to share it would be better if they at least got on superficially. She could see she’d have to pick her battles with Cher and this was one she didn’t feel was worth a fight.
‘OK.’ She went to her rucksack, dumped unceremoniously on the single bed. She opened it and began taking out her things. There wasn’t very much and she didn’t usually bother to unpack, but some deeply hidden territorial instinct made her want to spread her spoor.
The wardrobe was full of Cher’s clothes. Tiny skirts, a couple of pairs of shorts (in case of a heat wave, obviously) and some skinny jeans. Many pairs of strappy sandals and handbags littered the floor of the cupboard.
Zoe hung up her one dress, a couple of pairs of jeans and some shirts and tops, then she took out her wash bag. ‘I must have a shower and wash my hair.’ She went into the bathroom, hoping her room-mate hadn’t used all the towels.
She was just drying her hair with her fingers, her normal method, when Cher, who was lying on the bed watching, said, ‘I’ve got a hair dryer if you want to borrow it.’
Zoe turned round. ‘Thanks, but I never bother to dry it. It doesn’t take long if I just scrunch it.’
Cher got up. ‘You’d look much better if you blow-dried it. Quite different. I’ll do it for you if you like.’
‘It’s OK, thanks. I decided years ago not to have a style that depended on electrical appliances, in case I don’t have access to them.’
Cher shrugged as if Zoe were mad. ‘I did hairdressing for a bit,’ she said.
Zoe tried to decide if she liked her or not. She seemed like a WAG, only interested in her looks and people thinking she was pretty. But the offer to help with her hair had been kind. Maybe she just couldn’t bear to see Zoe’s hair all tousled and unkempt, which might mean she was a control freak.
‘So what made you enter the competition?’ asked Zoe, deciding it was time to find out something about her room-mate.
‘Oh, I want to be on television. I really want to be famous and I think if I can get seen, I’ll get other offers.’
Zoe looked at her in surprise. ‘Don’t you like cooking?’
Cher shrugged. ‘Not much.’
‘But you passed the audition?’
‘Oh yes. I’m good, I just don’t enjoy it that much. I don’t like getting my fingers mucky.’ She paused and looked at Zoe as if somehow connecting her with the word mucky. ‘At least put on a bit of make-up and a dress. I don’t want to be associated with a munter.’
Zoe could hardly believe her ears, and had to bite back a retort, remembering her resolve to try and get on with Cher. She pulled on her dress, grudgingly admitting to herself that Cher, although unbelievably rude, could be right: it might be a good idea for first impressions. She looked at her watch. It was now nearly seven o’clock and she wanted an excuse to leave so she could help Fenella. She might have started being helpful to work off her nerves but now she was enjoying feeling part of it. ‘I might go for a wander. It’s very pretty round here.’
As Zoe had predicted, Cher didn’t suggest coming with her. ‘I don’t do walking. Wrong sort of shoes.’
Zoe glanced at Cher’s feet. ‘I’m surprised you can cook in those. How do you cope with all the standing?’ She couldn’t quite imagine Cher in the sort of clogs a lot of cooks wore; her own pair were in her rucksack. She hadn’t noticed any in the wardrobe amongst all the heels. Nor could she imagine Cher in check trousers. But then again Zoe didn’t wear those either.
‘I wear trainers to cook in. Not that I do a lot of it.’
That made Zoe even more curious. ‘But how did you get into a cookery competition if you don’t do much cooking?’
Cher got up from the bed and flicked her hair behind her shoulder. ‘I just make sure that what I do do is very good.’ She gave Zoe a smile. ‘I intend to win, you know.’ She went to the mirror and inspected herself closely. ‘I always achieve what I set out to do – get a job, get a man, whatever. This time I’m going to be famous, which means I have to win the competition.’
Cher’s dedication was scary. ‘So why a cookery competition if you don’t like it? Why not – I don’t know – The X Factor, or Britain’s Next Top Model?’
‘I thought of them, of course, but there’ll be far less competition if I do cookery.’
‘What on earth makes you think that? There could be some really great cooks in this! Me for a start!’
‘It’s not all about the cooking. I’ve seen how contestants flirt with the judges.’ She regarded Zoe with something resembling pity. ‘I told you, I can cook well if I put my mind to it. I might not be the best cook here, but I will be the prettiest, the sexiest, so I’ll win. Although you look loads better now than you did before, don’t think you’re in with a chance.’
Zoe regarded her. After what Cher had said before, her bluntness was no longer a surprise. ‘That’s me told!’ she said with forced cheerfulness.
‘So why did you enter?’ Cher asked, turning away from the mirror, having obviously decided you couldn’t perfect perfection.
‘Oh, I want to win too. I want the money to set up a little deli or bistro or something where I can cook the food I love. What do you want to do with the money?’
‘The money’s not remotely important. My father’s really rich. I just want the fame and the opportunities that’ll bring me.’
‘Well, may the best cook win,’ said Zoe, her flippant manner disguising her ever-increasing determination to beat this woman at the competition even if it killed her. And not just because she wanted the double bed.
‘So did you give up a good job and a lovely boyfriend to come on this?’ asked Cher. ‘I do a bit of events management, by the way, although Daddy gives me an allowance I can just about live off.’
‘I had an OK job in an estate agent’s, but someone was promoted over me even though I’d been there for ages so I didn’t mind giving it up.’ She was still slightly sore about the whole episode but she wasn’t one for regrets and anyway, she really did want to run her own business.
‘And the boyfriend? I can see you going out with the same boy from school before settling down and having kids.’ She yawned. ‘So not for me!’
‘Not me either,’ said Zoe, infuriated by this assumption although still determined not to show it. ‘I decided a while ago not to pin my chance of happiness on a man. If someone wonderful comes along and sweeps me off my feet, I guess I’d go along with it, but they’d have to be really special.’
Zoe thought back to her rather uneventful relationship history: a short list of very nice, decent young men. She’d been fond of them all but there hadn’t been one she had felt she really couldn’t live without. A picture of Gideon all mud-splattered and sweaty sprang into her mind at this point but she dismissed it as quickly as it had appeared.
Cher was nodding. ‘Respec’, sista! I feel that way myself. No point in signing one’s life away for someone who turns out to be a no-hoper.’ She walked over to the little fridge. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine. Fancy a glass?’
‘No thanks. I’ll keep my head clear for tomorrow. I’ll have that walk now.’ Zoe suddenly felt she needed some air. She also wanted to check on Fenella.
As she walked over to the house she chuckled to herself. Cher was extraordinary but there was no point in being indignant at her wild pronouncements and steely determination to win. She and Cher had to share a room together, which would be impossible if she got upset and made trouble.
Slightly apprehensive about being seen by the crew and judges, Zoe was relieved to spot a large man in the kitchen, which meant Fenella wasn’t on her own. The large man – rather to her surprise – gave her a bear hug and kissed her fondly.
‘Thank you so much for helping my pregnant wife!’ he said. ‘For that you deserve rubies, coffers of gold but failing those, what about a glass of red? Or would you rather have a gin?’
‘Rupert! said Fenella, looking far less stressed than when Zoe had last seen her. ‘Zoe – you look lovely by the way – this, as you’ve probably gathered, is my husband, Rupert.’
‘Hello, Rupert,’ said Zoe, accepting the glass of wine he handed her and feeling a bit of a hypocrite for refusing Cher’s offer with such a priggish excuse.
‘Do sit down. Because you helped earlier there’s no great rush and anyway, Rupert will do it.’
Zoe pulled out a chair and looked around the kitchen properly; there didn’t seem to have been time before. She decided it was perfect. Huge, with an Aga the size of a car, an old dresser, a sofa, a refectory table long enough for a small school and a stone-flagged floor. There were pictures on the walls, a large bookcase full of an assortment of what looked like cookery, gardening, flower and bird books, and a lot of clutter. It felt like a proper home.
‘I’d love a kitchen like this,’ she said.
‘I’d like it better if it didn’t have a money pit to go with it,’ said Rupert, having just tasted the stew and tossed the teaspoon into the sink. ‘Although, of course, we do love the house too.’
‘Why wouldn’t you? It’s wonderful!’
‘It is,’ agreed Fenella, ‘but it’s so expensive to renovate and keep up. We keep having to think up ways of earning money from it, which is why we were so thrilled to get this cookery competition gig.’
‘We nearly didn’t,’ said Rupert, ‘as we’ve got a wedding right in the middle of the competition.’
‘Rupert! I don’t think you were supposed to say that. It’s a surprise. I mean, all the tasks are a surprise – the contestants aren’t to be told about them till the night before.’
Zoe chuckled. ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Fortunately, the wedding planner for it is a mate of ours, Sarah, and she managed to convince the couple that the enormous amount of money they’ll be saving by having you lot do the catering was well worth a bit of inconvenience.’ Rupert, apparently deciding he had a bit of spare time, had joined the two women at the table.
‘Darling, it won’t be inconvenient – we’ve made sure of that.’
‘The food is a bit of a risk,’ said Rupert. ‘But it often is at weddings.’
‘Not at Somerby,’ said Fenella primly.
Rupert laughed and Zoe basked in the warmth of the easy banter between them. How wonderful to be secure in the knowledge that you loved and were loved in return.
When Zoe got up to go, Fenella said, ‘Now do help yourself to anything from here you might need. Milk, for example. There is some in your fridge, but if you run out you can come back and get some. And there are packets of biscuits in this box here. Rupert brought in fresh supplies.’
‘I wouldn’t want to take anything you might have plans for.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rupert. ‘We have specially designated biscuits for clients. I’m not allowed near them.’
Zoe hurried back to the room and brushed her teeth so no one would smell red wine on her breath.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Cher curiously.
‘Oh, just round and about,’ said Zoe through the toothpaste, feeling unaccountably guilty.
‘Well, if you don’t hurry we’ll miss the bus.’
A couple of hours later they were back from the pub, being ushered up the stairs to the committee room at Somerby by a slightly harried Rupert. ‘Here we are!’ he said, opening the door to a big room with a huge table in it. He paused as they all filed in. ‘The judges are still eating I’m afraid but some of the production team are here to talk to you. I must go and serve the pud.’ He left the room as fast as he decently could.
Zoe and the others sat at the chairs arranged round the table.
‘Good evening, everyone!’ A good-looking blonde woman with a very faint American accent, hair like Marilyn Monroe and eyes like sapphires walked into the room. The steel beneath her beauty shone through. ‘My name is Miranda Marlyn. You probably all know I’m the head of the production company that is making this programme. And we are all sure that it will be a huge success – for us and for you.’ She paused. ‘It’s going to be very intense. As you probably know by now you’ll be doing a challenge roughly every two or three days.’ The tension in the room went up a notch as her gaze slid over every contestant, making Zoe, at least, feel she’d already been judged – and she hadn’t won.
‘We would expect you to be preparing on the other days but there will be a break somewhere in the middle. Anyway, Mike will go into more detail. I hope you’ve all had a chance to get to know each other during the meal. The thing to remember is that although you are competing, a lot of the tasks will involve teamwork. There’ll be marks for leading a team and being a team player as well as for excellent cooking.’
Another steely stare. By now almost everyone (except Cher) was looking twitchy. Zoe enjoyed teamwork but always thought of herself as a second in command rather than a leader. Would she have the force of personality required to make a plan and get her team to follow it?
‘Now I’m going to pass you over to Mike.’
Everyone clapped as she sat down.
‘Hi, guys,’ said Mike, who, after their pub meal, seemed like an old friend, helpful and unthreatening. ‘Now, unlike some cookery competitions, you haven’t yet met your judges …’
‘We knew that,’ whispered Cher, emboldened by several glasses of wine over dinner.
‘… because the auditions were done by other people.’
‘For God’s sake! We were there! We know the bloody judges were too “busy”’ – Cher made the movement with her fingers to indicate inverted commas – ‘to turn up!’ Her sotto voce was getting less sotto by the minute.
Mike’s tone was consoling. ‘But you are going to meet them tomorrow, and I’m sure you’re all very excited about that.’
‘I’m wetting myself with joy,’ said Cher, no longer bothering to keep her voice down.
Fortunately for Zoe’s embarrassment threshold, the rest of Mike’s talk gave Cher no excuse to mutter and Zoe listened with half an ear. The rest of her thoughts lingered on the other contestants, some of whom she’d spoken to in the pub, and others just observed from a distance.
There was the wild young man with a shock of hair that stood almost upright. She’d chatted to him and found out his name was Shadrach. He was passionate about food and seemed to suit his name. Then there was motherly Muriel who had escaped her family with glee, describing herself as ‘only a good home cook’ but who looked to Zoe like strong competition.
Previously, Cher had sashayed her way round to where two young men sat, legs apart, feet tapping, the testosterone almost visible as if it were steam coming off sweating horses. They – Zoe knew them to be Dwaine and Daniel – practically had ‘Competition’ tattooed on their foreheads. Cher had done a lot of hair-flicking and lip-moistening and had allowed both of them a peek down her cleavage. That was apparently her version of team-building. And it could work, Zoe thought. But supposing they both fell in love with her? There could be a horribly noisy scrap, with blood on the carpet. Now, in her seat at the front row, Cher sent messages saying ‘look at me’ with her eyes, hands and hair.
Sitting just behind Zoe and Cher there was a rather serious girl whom Zoe hadn’t spoken to yet. She could be a potential winner. She was shy, with mousy hair held back by an unbecoming slide but she had a determination that was evident even from a distance. She was Becca. Next to her were two older-looking men, one of whom was called Bill, and Shona, who’d informed Zoe over dinner that she was a ‘bag of nerves’.
‘OK, people,’ said Miranda Marlyn, standing up again, ‘that’s all you’ll hear from me until the end of the competition. As Mike says, tomorrow you’ll meet the judges and find out what your first task is. I should warn you all, though, that our judges will make Lord Sugar look like a teddy bear. It’s a very tough business and you need to be equally tough to succeed.’ She swept out, a young man with a clipboard, who was obviously her right-hand-man, in tow.
Everyone was now milling round, chatting, sizing up the opposition, as if they finally realised the competition was about to start. There were an awful lot of people to take in, thought Zoe, but with ten contestants and several people from the television company, there was bound to be.
Someone came up behind Zoe. ‘Well, that was all pretty much as expected, don’t you think? I’m Alan, by the way. We didn’t get a chance to speak over dinner.’
Alan was medium height with thick greying hair with a hint of a tan. He seemed faintly familiar and she wondered if they’d actually met or if he was an actor or something.
‘Zoe.’ She put her hand into his outstretched one. ‘Do I know you from somewhere? Television, perhaps?’
He inclined his head. ‘It’s possible. I was a jobbing actor for years, but not recently. Cooking is what I’m into now. Hence the competition.’
‘So what do you hope to get from it?’ Zoe was always curious about people but having asked her question wondered if she’d been a bit abrupt and so confessed her own motives. ‘I’m in it for the money myself but my room-mate, Cher – over there? The beautiful blonde wowing those young men? – she’s looking for fame.’ She paused. ‘What about you?’
Alan didn’t seem to mind her asking. ‘I suppose I want them both: fame and fortune. I fancy a riverside pub, with food. You know the sort of thing: boats moored up outside, summer food, chilled white wine, beautiful young people with platinum credit cards, who come because it’s the new hot place to go.’ He laughed. ‘But I also want families. Somewhere granny and all the kids have a good meal in relaxed surroundings.’
Zoe smiled back at him. ‘It sounds as if you’ve written the brochure already.’
‘I admit I am being a little bit previous, but that’s what I’ll do if I win the competition. You?’
‘I fancy a little deli with pre-cooked meals so people have the convenience of a takeaway but with really good food.’
‘Oh! Lovely idea. You should get to know Gideon Irving. He’s a big importer of olive oil, olives, stuff like that. You’d need that if you had a deli.’
‘Oh? I thought he was a food writer.’
‘He is, but he’s also part of a big co-operative that sources delicatessen-type foods from all over the world. The food writing is a sort of hobby – although it is his passion.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Zoe was gripped.
‘A cousin of mine was on some committee or other with him. Apparently he had to be bullied into being a judge.’
‘Really?’
Alan nodded. ‘Yes! According to my cousin he said he didn’t want to eat a lot of grim recipes handed down from grannies who’d learned to cook during rationing in the War.’
‘Goodness! Was your cousin actually present when he said this?’ It could easily be just a rumour.
‘Yup. He told the committee about how he’d been forced to say yes.’ He frowned slightly. ‘He does sound appallingly arrogant.’
‘He does,’ Zoe agreed. She knew this much herself.
‘And he can be a bit bad-tempered. Doesn’t suffer fools.’
She’d picked up this much too. ‘Oh.’
Alan nodded wisely. ‘So better go carefully with him. Your friend Cher might find she’s up against a man she can’t charm.’
Zoe laughed. ‘Yes, but you know what men are like – always susceptible to a leggy blonde.’
‘Not all men.’ Alan was giving her a look that could have just been friendly but might be significant.
Zoe thought about him. He was nice but a little old for her. Then her mind flicked to Gideon Irving. He wasn’t much younger than Alan and yet she’d definitely found him attractive. Just as well she’d been warned. Although had she been told anything she didn’t know? Not really, apart from about the food empire.
Gradually everyone dispersed, some to local B and Bs, and the rest to converted outbuildings.
Back in their room, Cher took so long in the bathroom that Zoe had to resort to brushing her teeth by her bed and spitting down a handy drain outside. But in the morning, after Zoe had silently condemned her as a selfish cow, Cher had chatted in a friendly way and lent Zoe a hair product that definitely helped her curls look more meant and less randomly natural. She was a tricky one, Zoe decided, as Cher stood behind her, looking into the mirror at Zoe and adjusting a last curl so every hair was perfect.
The meeting with the judges was to be held in the large marquee in the field just by the house. They found the others inside swapping notes about accommodation and wondering what the judges would be like. Almost everyone was nervous. The night before had been like a party. Now, in the marquee, slightly chilly in the early morning, it felt like a competition.
‘It’s like when the school hall turned into an exam room, isn’t it?’ Zoe whispered to Cher as they found their name badges.
Cher regarded her questioningly. ‘Is it? I didn’t take exams much.’
Zoe, who considered herself a fairly calm person, couldn’t help being impressed by Cher’s coolness. She could have been going to the movies, judging by how she behaved.
‘Come on,’ said Cher. ‘Let’s go to the front row. We won’t get noticed if we sit at the back.’
Zoe, feeling there was plenty of time to be noticed, meekly followed her.
As they sat, waiting for the judges, Zoe’s stomach churned with nerves and excitement. She’d already met one of them but of course she couldn’t admit this to anyone. She wondered if he’d acknowledge her at all. Cher, poised and beautiful, seemingly oblivious to the tension around her, checked her French manicure for flaws, but didn’t find any.