Yours Truly (16 page)

I can feel myself getting all worked up. Who knew I was so passionate?

When I’ve finished my cruel analysis Riley runs his hands through his hair causing it to stick out at more bizarre angles than it was already at.

“
This is never going to work,
”
he says, shoulders slumping.
“
I’m starting to think this whole turning the Old Whimsy into a gastro pub is just a really dumb idea.
”

He looks distraught, the sparkle in his eyes dulled. I feel truly awful that I’ve made him feel sad. It doesn’t suit him at all.

“
Why don’t you just hire a chef to do the menu?
”
Meg says reasonably.
“
Why are you trying to do it all yourself?
”

Riley sighs long and low.
“
I would, believe me. But we can’t afford to hire anyone. Honey and I work for very little as it is. Alan helps out for free.
”
He gestures to the bar where Alan is methodically slicing lemons and limes while humming to himself.

“
There’s no way we could afford to take someone on right now.
”
He scratches the thick stubble on his jaw.
“
That dick Jasper Hobbs is circling the place like a fucking vulture.
”
His eyebrows knit together.
“
He thinks that if he throws enough cash at us we’ll give the place up and he’ll be able to turn it into more Hobbs Bread offices. Fucking offices!
”

He stops and looks up at us apologetically, as if his outburst has surprised him.

“
I’m sorry. Inappropriate language for a Saturday afternoon. Or anytime, really. Forgive me. I don’t really know why I’m telling you this,
”
he exhales sharply, looking directly at me.
“
I guess it’s easier to tell the truth with strangers.
”

My heart goes out to him. He’s obviously really stressed. I can’t help but think, however, that he is being a teensy bit dramatic.

Meg must be thinking the same thing because she brazenly says,

“
Obviously
this place means a lot to you. But…why don’t you just take the money? If
the Hobb
s fella is throwing cash your way then you could just buy a pub elsewhere.
”

“
Oh, Hobbs would love that,
”
Riley shakes his head.
“
The Old Whimsy is the oldest building in Apperdale. Hell, it was here before the village was even a village. And it’s been in my family - the Harringtons - for yonks. When you live in a place like Little Trooley, the age of a building carries status. Hobbs think that because the
y're such a big company now,
Little Trooley belongs to them. And that includes this pub. They want an age old Yorkshire build right in the centre of things to show off to their buyers. Well, I’m not going to give it to them.
”

“
But if you can’t afford to keep it open…
”
I let my voice trail off when I see his face.

“
You think I should just give up?
”
he asks, eyes flashing with frustration.

“
No,
”
I say truthfully.

We all go quiet. Riley thinking about the doomed fate of his pub. Me thinking about Brian, and Meg most probably thinking about her one night stand.

The silence is just on the verge of becoming awkward when Meg says.

“
Natty here is a chef
,
you know. Maybe she could help you…
”

Riley’s face lights up.

“
Really? Ha! Are you really a chef?
”
He looks dead impressed. I quite like him looking at me like that. So much so that part of me wants desperately to lie and tell him that I’m a super amazing chef, Le Cordon Bleu trained. But his question means I have to tell the much less impressive truth.

“
I’m not a real chef,
”
I say.
“
I did a year or so training, but never got my qualifications in the end.
”

This doesn’t deter him.

“
But you can cook? You know about food?
”

“
Yes. I suppose I can cook and I do know about food. I love food. I eat a lot of it.
”

“
She’s excellent,
”
Meg says nudging me with her elbow.
“
She used to cook all the time when we lived together. Now she barely cooks at all. I have lost weight though. I can’t cook for toffee. Well not unless you count heating up some Ambrosia rice pudding in the microwave.
”

I giggle at Meg. She’s right. I used to cook her all kinds of treats. The one time she cooked dinner for me, she served up burned jacket potato with a processed cheese slice artfully arranged on the top.

“
But…
you could help?
”
Riley asks.

“
No. I’m not sure how long I’m here for. I’ve got to go back and track down Brian. And I'm supposed to be babysitting my sister’s dog tonight.
”

I wave my mobile at them; it’s been beeping away with frantic texts from Dionne since this morning.

“
Babysitting a dog?
”
Riley asks incredulously before sniggering annoyingly.

“
Yup,
”
I say.
“
A poodle. It doesn’t like being on its own.
”

“
Cancel it
,
”
Meg says rolling her eyes
at the very thought of Dionne.
“
She can miss one night out,
”

“
No,
”
I say shaking my head.
“
I promised I’d be there. And I really need to see Olly.
”

“
Well…you’ve still got a good few hours before Dionne’s expecting you,
”
Meg says, looking at a grandfather clock standing against the back wall of the pub.

Riley grins at me.
“
If you’ve got a little time, I’d love for you to teach me just one dish. One teeny tiny little dish.
”

His face is all pleading and lovely. I puff out my cheeks. I suppose I have got a few hours. And I haven’t cooked anything in ages…

“
Ah, all right then. Just one dish.
”

I'm such a weakling.

Riley nods once as if he knew along that I was going to say yes. Cocky git.

“
Come on then.
”
He holds out his huge bear like hand to lead me to the kitchen. Blushing, I studiously ignore the hand and turn to Meg.

“
Will you be all right here on your own?
”

“
Oh yes,
”
she says cheerfully.
“
I’ll be fab, lady. I need to check my emails anyway.
”
She digs her BlackBerry out of her bag.
“
Go on then,
”
she says when she notices I’m still standing there.
“
Go cook up a storm!
”

I fold my arms and follow Riley into the pub kitchen.

TEXT FROM: MUM

Where r u? When will you be back? Why haven’t you rung?

Pub kitchen is not quite how you would describe this room. World’s Most Gorgeous, Spectacular Kitchen may be more apt.

I amble in behind Riley and do a little squeak of pleasure.

The room is large and light with three huge bay windows lined across the back wall. The units are not the expanses of cold steel you find in most service kitchens, but cream painted oak, topped with a silvery grey marble. Almost the exact same colour of Riley’s eyes, in fact.

Each cupboard is glass fronted and filled to the brim with both everyday and ou
t-of-this-
world ingredients. A huge side by side fridge i
s indiscreet in the corner and - joy of joys -
a Lacanche range cooker in Prussian Blue stands proudly on the left.

Be still my beating heart.

I stand in the centre of the room, by a gigantic Victorian pine farmhouse table, expecting a band of angels to appear and sing a rousing chorus of Hallelujah.

If I were to design a room to live in for all my days, then this room would be it. Nancy Meyer. Eat your heart out.

“
Wow…Just wowee,
”
I breathe, taking in every inch of this beautiful room.

“
It’s fantastic, isn’t it?
”
Riley smiles, running his hands over the worktops.

“
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
”

“
My mum designed it. A year before she died. She loved to cook. She was ace.
”

“
I’m sorry,
”
I say softly.
“
That must have been awful.
”

He hesitates for a moment.
“
It was. But life goes on. It must.
”

He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it with a complete stranger, so I don’t push the subject.

“
If you like this,
”
Riley is saying more brightly now,
“
then you’ll love the greenhouse.
”

Whaaaaaaat?

“
You have a greenhouse?
”

“
Yep. Just outside. Alan looks after it. Do you want to -
”

“
Yes,
”
I answer before he can even finish the sentence.

He lumbers to the faded blue back door of the kitchen and pulls it open, beckoning for me to follow.

We step lightly through a narrow bramble lined garden path, being careful not to slip on the icy trail until we reach a huge glass outbuilding.

Riley thrusts open the door and I gasp again.

The harsh winter sun streams in through the glass ceiling illuminating row upon row of fresh fruit, vegetables and herbs, all lined up in precise, even queues. The colours are wonderful. The smell is incredible. I cannot believe they have all of this here. Right here behind the pub!

Without even thinking, I grab a floppy wicker basket from a small table beside me.

“
I’m going to show you how to make a Ratatouille,
”
I say suddenly.
“
It’s a brill place to start, I think. Simple and zingy and tasty. And it won’t take long at all!
”

Riley follows me as I stride through the greenhouse. He gives a little cough before speaking.

“
I don’t mean to be rude, but, Ratatouille isn’t really the kind of dish people will travel far and wide to eat,
”
he says carefully.
“
Perhaps you can show me, I don’t know, a tartlet of quail, or a confit ravioli or something with dry ice, you know…
more impressive?
”

“
Something poncy, you mean?
”
I scoff, pausing by a plot of carrots and feeling a rush of exasperation.
“
People don’t always travel far and wide to eat food made up of fancy names and endangered species. Sometimes they just want fresh, simple produce, cooked well not fricking sun magicked pink grapes
hand peeled by baby orang
utans.
”

“
But -
”

“
And seeing as you can barely knock together a tomato and mozzarella tart, I think, no. No, I can’t show you a tartlet of quail.
”

I lift my head a little higher.

Riley is frowning, clearly not used to being told the truth. Serves him right.

“
Look,
”
I say more kindly.
“
It’s probably best for you to start with the basics. Trust me.
”

Riley reluctantly nods his assent and I continue my journey of discovery through the greenhouse.

I can feel the excitement bubbling through my body as I make my way, row by row, around the glasshouse. I pick out juicy plum tomatoes, and golden onions and smooth skinned, burgundy aubergines, plonking them haphazardly in the basket.