Recipe for Disaster (24 page)

Out on the terrace they were playing soft music.

'I know this. Shall we dance?'

It was amazing, how, out of the kitchen, Jake seemed to
lose all his grace, Kate thought. It was quite endearing
really. It was funny how wonderful it felt even though he
was treading on her toes and humming tunelessly in her
ear.

He leaned closer so his lips were just brushing her ears.
Right moves, wrong woman, he thought to himself wryly
and then it hit him between the eyes and he could no longer
deny it. This was most definitely the right woman for him.
This was what really being in love felt like, and everything
that he had felt before this was just practice. So this was
what all the poets were always banging on about, he mused,
in wonder. He had always thought them rather overrated
until now. But this – this was something amazing,
exhilarating and slightly scary, like diving into a deep pool.

But the sound of water wasn't just in his imagination.
Godfrey had just fallen into the Hunters' swimming pool.

'It's all right, I can swim,' he shouted and promptly
disappeared in a cloud of bubbles.

'Oh bugger,' said Jake, and jumped in after him.

Life-saving lessons at school were never like this, he
thought. Godfrey was a dead weight in the water, and it was
made worse by the fact that every time he surfaced for air
he started laughing and sank again. Eventually Jake
grabbed him by his collar and managed to drag him to the
side of the pool. The noise had brought everyone running.

'What on earth are you doing?' said Georgia, appearing
suddenly and looking down at the sodden pair of them with
distaste.

'What does it look like?' snapped Jake, detaching himself
from Godfrey, who was spread out by the side of the pool
like a big starfish, giggling and hiccupping.

'I'm sorry, but I think we should take him home.' In a
way he was grateful to Godfrey. He needed to be out of
here, to try to make sense of what was happening to him.
When he was with Kate all sense seemed to fly out of the
window. Or maybe it flew in? Either way he had to do some
sober thinking.

Between them the Cuisine crew managed to get Godfrey
in the back of the car, but Jake had to stop twice on the way
home to let him throw up.

It was well into the afternoon the following day before
Georgia got up, and a lie-in hadn't improved her
temper.

'Covering the floor with all those books isn't hiding the
fact that this carpet is disgusting,' she said acidly. Everything
about her life with Jake felt wrong, compared to the
glorious promise of a future with Harry.

'I'm not trying to cover anything up. I'm looking for the
best way to cook the venison I've ordered.'

He bent his head. Who am I kidding, he thought. I'm
desperately trying to cover up my feelings for Kate.

Georgia turned and stubbed her toe on a disgustingly
graphic description of how to dismember a deer.

'Ugh! What are those horrible pictures? And now my
manicure is ruined. This is a really bad start to the day. My
chakras must be completely out of balance!'

'My finances certainly are,' muttered Jake. What am I
going to do? I don't want to spend the rest of this afternoon
with her, let alone the rest of my life, he thought,
bleakly.

'There is nothing to do here – I'm bored, and maybe,'
she said darkly, 'maybe that is only the tip of the iceberg.
Who knows what other dark feelings are simmering away in
my subconscious? Oh God! All this stress could be giving me
lines!'

'What on earth are you talking about?' Jake snapped,
throwing the book down so hard it raised a cloud of dust.
He sneezed violently. 'You're right – this is a tip. Let's get
out of here!'

'Oh, good!' Georgia was thinking of nice hotels and
cocktails.

'Yes! Let's go for a walk!'

'A what? Why?'

'Fresh air, sunshine, glorious scenery, and all of it for free
– what would be better?'

'Well, practically anything, Jake. I've never been on a
walk. I haven't got the right sort of shoes!'

'Georgia, you have twenty-seven pairs clogging up the
wardrobe. One of them must be a pair without six-inch
heels and diamonds, surely?'

'Well, yes, but –'

'Well, go and put them on. I've heard that walking is
terribly good for one's chakras.'

'Are you making fun of me?'

'Now, why would I do that?'

Georgia gave him a long look before disappearing into
the bedroom. Jake's good intentions about lightening the
mood started to fade as the minutes went by and she didn't
return. Eventually he could take it no longer. 'For
goodness' sake! Edmund Hillary didn't take this long to get
ready for Everest!'

She emerged, with a sulky look on her face and a
beautiful pair of soft leather mules with soles about as thin
as a carrot peeling. He looked at them in disbelief.

'Is that the best you can do?' he said, trying to sound
polite.

Georgia had been fighting her own demons, the ones
telling her how wonderfully charming and understanding
Harry was in comparison to Jake. With a certain amount of
relief she gave in to them.

'You're horrible when you're like this. Dr Ko Lon says
my aura is particularly susceptible to damage when people
around me are shouting.'

'Well, mine happens to be allergic to idiots like your Dr
Colon! I'll go on this bloody walk on my own!' He stomped
down the stairs and out of the house.

I'm susceptible too – to a certain redhead, he thought,
walking fast, anywhere, to try and get his feelings under
control. Kate had got right under his defences and he
couldn't get her out. He didn't want to, either. He liked
thinking about her when she wasn't there – so he could look
forward to being with her again. He had even started
having imaginary conversations with her. This was getting
serious.

He tried to focus on something harmless, like tonight's
prep list for the kitchen, but found himself wondering
where he would take her if he was free – Italy or France?
French food spoke for itself, of course, but there was
something so seductive and romantic about a piazza in the
moonlight, a table for two and feeding someone delicious
morsels of lobster linguine . . .

Now, where the hell was he? He seemed to have climbed
a hill and walked across two . . . no, three fields. Oh well, the
views were worth it. Surely a landscape this beautiful would
put everything in perspective?

Then a gloriously red streak of fur flashed by him so
quickly it took Jake a second or two to work out it was a fox.
He was used to them, of course – they were more common
in London than stray dogs now. But city foxes were pale,
sluggish creatures compared to this vivid, taut and alert
hunter. The fox turned for a second and he could feel its
bright intelligent eyes assessing him before it jumped into a
stream and out the other side into the bushes. He stood
stock-still and realised he was holding his breath with the
wonderfulness of it all.

'Wow!' and then – 'Shit!' as he was knocked to the
ground by four baying hounds. They charged over to the
water, sniffed, confused and then darted back to jump on
his chest in a perfectly friendly way.

'Well, well, look what we have here!' said a familiar
drawling voice and Jake realised that lying in the grass with
a large dog on his stomach which was trying to lick his ear
off wasn't how he would choose to meet Harry. It obviously
suited Harry, though, because he made no attempt to call
the dogs off. To complete Jake's mortification, he was then
joined by four or five men, whom he guessed were all
friends of Harry's.

'What the hell are you doing, lying in the mud, man?'
asked one.

'Meditating, of course,' snapped Jake. He managed to
push away the hound and scrambled awkwardly to his feet,
brushing off what he hoped was just mud. Typical. He
couldn't even go for a walk on his own without bumping
into Harry. Worse still, he had been trying to woo the locals
for weeks now, and for them to find him lying flat on his
back like a prat was about the worst way they could meet.
Harry, on the other had, looked completely at home here.
I never will, Jake suddenly thought, despairingly. I'm
always going to be on the outside, looking in. Oh bugger –
once a townie, always a townie. I might as well be proud
of it.

'Mislaid a fox, have you?' he said slyly, suddenly very
much on the fox's side.

'I'll answer that when you tell me what you're doing on
private land,' said one of the men, stepping forward and
glaring at Jake.

'Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was trespassing,' said
Jake, wrong-footed.

'You're not very familiar with the country, are you?
Hope you didn't leave any gates open?' continued the man.

'I'm not stupid,' said Jake hotly and decided that attack
was the best form of defence. 'I'm a bit confused here, but
isn't hunting foxes with a pack of hounds against the law
now?'

'There's nowt in the law books about going for a walk
with your dogs on your own land, though, is there? Or are
you one of them people that move here from the city and
think you've got the right to tell us simple folk how to live
our lives?'

Oh crap. Well done, Jake, antagonising country folk, like
a typical bratty city boy. 'No, of course I don't think that,' he
began. 'I think we've –'

'You see, it's all very well giving us a lecture about the
rights of wild animals, but have you ever tried talking to a
henhouse full of murdered chickens?'

'No, of course not, but –'

'Or maybe you know what it is like to sit up all night
hand-rearing a lamb, only to see it carried off squealing, for
foxy's supper. Or maybe you don't,' said the man, coming a
little too close for Jake's comfort. He clicked his fingers and
the dogs clustered around him, so close he could feel their
hot breath and their sandpaper tongues. Now he knew
exactly how that fox had felt.

Not only was he in severe danger of being eaten by the
dogs and then buried where no one would ever find him
(Georgia wouldn't even try – but Kate, now she wouldn't
ever give up looking) but these men were all local. He
should be wooing them as potential customers, not pissing
them off. He couldn't afford to irritate anyone at the
moment, especially someone with a gun.

Harry was leaning on his rifle and trying not to smirk.
This afternoon was turning out so much more entertaining
than he expected. He practically had Georgia in
the bag, so to speak, and now here was his rival being
made to look a fool in front of a bunch of locals. He
thought how amusing it would be to carry on duping Jake.
It would make Jake doubly furious when he found out
that the person who had stood up for him had also stolen
his woman.

'Oh, come on, Briggsy,' he said to the man, 'Jake's new to
the country and doesn't completely know his way around
our customs yet. After all, you go down to London a couple
of times a year and no one expects you to know the
underground map off by heart.'

'Are you defending this fella? Is he a friend of yours?'
said Mr Briggs suspiciously. Harry flashed an awkward grin
at Jake. 'Well, to be perfectly honest with you, we are not
really friends, but we're working on it – isn't that right,
Jake?'

Jake nodded warily, and Mr Briggs laughed suddenly.
'You know, your expression reminds me a bit of that fox!
Why? Are you worried he's going to shoot you?' He nodded
over at Harry.

'That wouldn't have been out of the question in the past,'
Jake began.

'Yeah, we've got a bit of history, Jake and I,' said Harry.
'But we've recently come to a bit of an agreement – to keep
the past where it belongs.'

Jake flashed Harry a grateful glance, which was something
he never thought he would find himself doing. He
took a deep breath and prepared to stand up to Mr Briggs.
'You're right. I have no idea what it is like to be a farmer.
But I know what it's like to spend time and money
nurturing something fragile and precious. I'd do anything
I had to, to protect it. But I wouldn't make a sport out of it.
And no one's going to stop me standing up for what I
believe in!'

'And, frankly, that fox deserved to outwit the hounds.
They really are the most inept pack we've had for a long
time,' said Harry helpfully. God, he was so good at this!

Mr Briggs sucked his teeth thoughtfully, while he made
his mind up. 'I like to think that any pal of the Hunters is a
pal of mine. I don't agree with what you're saying, but I
respect the fact that you've got the bottle to say it.' He
looked at Jake thoughtfully for a moment. 'A mate of mine
was talking about you the other day – Geoff Tomlinson. He
reckons he owes you a bit of a thank you. It's his wife, see –
she's got depression. But she's so busy putting together all
the stuff you're ordering from her, she says she hasn't got
time to think about it any more. Well, I reckon you've done
quite a bit of good there. I still think you're a fool over the
foxes, mind, but what d'you say we all go back to Bill's for a
spot of whisky to cement our differences?'

'I'd say that's a bloody good way to sign a peace treaty,'
said Jake, grinning.

You are almost as easy to outwit as a fox, thought Harry.

The next day, nursing a rather bad head from more whisky
than he was used to, Jake was on his own in the kitchen
making
torte aux trois mousses
to put on the menu that
evening. It was a slightly tricky dish to get absolutely right
and he preferred to be on his own while he was doing it. For
other reasons as well, solitude was good. He wanted to look
at Kate all the time, but didn't want anyone else to notice
this, so he found himself deliberately not looking at her,
which was plainly impracticable during service.

Georgia had inexplicably taken herself off for a few days
to visit her mother, she said. This was something she hardly
ever did but Jake was too relieved to see her go to ask
questions. This seemed to annoy her.

'Aren't you going to ask why?' she'd said, her tone heavy
with meaning.

'Oh. OK – why?'

'I can't tell you – you wouldn't understand,' she'd replied
and swept out, leaving Jake furious and baffled. He had
spent some time trying to work out what was going on, but
then a letter had arrived in the post from the Lake District's
regional television station. They had just finished a very
successful series on cooking and were keen to capitalise on
it. The idea was for a sort of cook-off between the area's top
chefs, with viewers ringing in during the programme to
vote for their favourite.

Jake had no patience with the current mood for cooking
on television. It distracted chefs from their true work and
took the edge off their art. They allowed themselves to take
part in unreal situations and either tried to charm the
viewers or claim some dubious crown for being the most
unpleasant. It was all too tacky for words, and he was so
busy grumbling to himself about cooks who thought they
were film stars that he didn't hear the door open.

'Surprise!'

Jake was so taken aback he dropped his spoon.

It was Louis Challon, his old boss at Brie. He burst in
through the door, his ample arms full of wine and a huge,
toe-curlingly smelly parcel of Camembert.

He dropped his presents onto a worktop and enveloped
Jake in a crushing bear hug. '
Mon ami!
It's been too long!'

'My God, it's good to see you, old friend! But what on
earth are you doing here and why didn't you let me know
you were coming?'

'Because he pretends to forget you are no longer a
member of his staff. You must remember how he used to
like to creep up on you all to catch you out in some crime,'
said Maria, following her husband in more quietly, kissing
Jake on the cheek and looking him up and down critically.

'You have lost weight, my dear boy. Do you not eat your
own food?' she demanded.

'Of course not! He has that much sense at least,' scoffed
Louis, peering into saucepans with a professional eye.

'Ah! The mousse of little fishes – I have fond memories of
that dish.'