at the contact numbers. There’s an office number, and a mobile. I shouldn’t call on a Sunday but what the hell? I tap out the number on my mobile, my heart rattling away as it rings.
‘Hello?’
I clear my throat. ‘Hello Shirley, it’s Audrey Pepper. I’m so sorry to call you at the weekend …’
‘Audrey Pepper? I’m sorry, I don’t think I know—’
‘We, um, spoke a few days ago about the Dinner Lady of the Year award …’
‘Oh, yes, of course. If you’re calling about the transfer, I have all your bank details and was planning to put through payment first thing on Monday …’
‘Um, actually, I just wondered,’ I cut in, ‘could I change my mind? I mean, if it’s at all possible?’
Small pause. ‘You mean you’d like to do the cookery course instead?’
‘Er … yes. Yes, I would.’ Another pause as she clears her throat.
‘Umm … I think it’s pretty booked up, and I’m not sure if I can get hold of anyone today … could you hold for a moment please?’
‘Sure,’ I say, licking my parched lips.
I wait and wait and wait. I glance up at the mottled ceiling; it needs a coat of emulsion, the whole place does. I’ve suggested to Morgan that he might paint it for me, thus acquiring some decorating skills – there’s a line of work that’s always in demand – but he flatly refused to do it without pay. How would he react, I wonder, if I presented him with an invoice for meals cooked, laundry serviced and cleaning undertaken?
‘Audrey? Sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘That’s okay, that’s fine …’
‘Now, I’m afraid the week where we had a place reserved for you is all fully booked …’
‘Oh, I see.’ My heart seems to slump.
‘… But,’ she goes on, ‘the course starting tomorrow has one place free. There are no single or twin rooms free, I’m afraid …’
It’s okay, I’ll camp in the ruddy garden …
‘But there is the honeymoon suite, and seeing as you’ve won your place they’re happy for you to have that.’
‘Oh!’ I gasp. Honeymoon suite? Vince and I didn’t have one of those. We stayed in his aunt’s guesthouse in Whitby.
‘It starts at midday with a welcome reception,’ she goes on. ‘I know you’re in Yorkshire, and it’s an awfully long way to travel down to Buckinghamshire, but do you possibly think …’
Yes, I do. I do possibly think. ‘Er, can I check something and get straight back to you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says.
I finish the call and phone Julie who, as ever, is delighted to take on my shifts.
‘So did Stevie come up with something after all?’ she asks.
‘Sorry?’
Julie laughs. ‘For your birthday. I assume he’s taking you away?’
‘No,’ I say, with a dry chuckle, ‘but I am going away – by myself. I’ll explain when I see you, okay?’ Then I call Shirley again, trying to sound level and calm, as if visiting luxury hotels to learn to make tarte au citron is a pretty regular occurrence for me. ‘I can start the course tomorrow,’ I say firmly.
‘Really? Well, that’s great!’ She sounds genuinely happy for me. ‘I know the cash prize was tempting but this is an unforgettable experience, isn’t it? Possibly even life-changing.’
Of course I plan to tell Morgan. I’ll do it when I’ve calmed down and feel more kindly disposed towards him. In the meantime, I pull out my wheeled suitcase from beneath my bed, wondering how it’ll feel to be there, on my own – with no Morgan or Stevie or Mrs B making any demands upon me whatsoever. Freedom! That’s what Wilton Grange represents. I’m not even that fussed about the cookery aspect. What is classic French cookery anyway? Steak and frites? Or things slathered in rich sauces? I have no idea. I have never even been to France. We weren’t the going-abroad kind of family but then, hardly anyone was in 1970s Yorkshire.
Plus, I’m not the fancy cooking type. Before having Morgan I pretty much survived on things on toast, and as a mother I’ve been a distinctly workaday cook, intent on providing the kind of meals my ever-ravenous child would approve of. This has tended to involve an awful lot of crumb-coated things to shove in the oven.
I glance at the hotel’s website again. My mild panic about grappling with unfamiliar ingredients is offset by visions of me lying in a huge, claw-footed bath. As for Morgan, it’ll be good for him to fend for himself for a week: a sort of intensive training week in preparation for independent adult life. So in some ways, I’m doing him a favour.
I haven’t told Stevie yet either. As I try to play down the dinner lady aspect of my life, he doesn’t even know about my award; anyway, we haven’t spoken since we said goodbye in the Charnock Richard car park. ‘Crazy busy the next few days,’ was his parting shot. Perhaps, I muse, a little break will do us good. Absence, heart fonder and all that.
As per their custom, Morgan and Jenna spend all morning in his room and, when lunchtime rolls around, they amble downstairs and head out without giving any clue as to where they might be going. I’ll tell him as soon as they come back. I wonder how best to put it? I know you had high hopes for that money, darling, but I’m going to learn to do clever things with mussels instead. Christ, better just get it over with, as soon as he comes home.
I fetch my suitcase and carry it through to my former bedroom, where most of my clothes are stored. So, what to pack for Wilton Grange? Shirley has sent me an email:
Casual, comfy clothes are required in the kitchen (aprons provided)
Flat shoes only
No jewellery please
Long hair must be tied back
Mine needs a cut urgently but unless I hack at it myself there’s no time for that. I dig out trousers and tops, plus a couple of dresses, all found in the PDSA shop: so much more satisfying than shopping in a regular high street chain and just selecting your size off the rail. I mean, where’s the challenge in that?
Not bad, I decide, dropping in my utilitarian navy swimsuit for the spa and surveying my neatly folded clothes. I add underwear and pyjamas and gather together my toiletries. Silly, I know, as the hotel will provide them, but just in case …
And that’s me, all
